Donald and Dorothy
by Mary Mapes Dodge · English · Gutenberg #28856 · 483,096 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Donald and Dorothy
Author: Mary Mapes Dodge
Release date: May 17, 2009 [eBook #28856]
Most recently updated: February 25, 2011
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DONALD AND DOROTHY ***
Produced by Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
DONALD AND DOROTHY
[Illustration: DOROTHY AT SIXTEEN.]
DONALD AND DOROTHY
BY
MARY MAPES DODGE
AUTHOR OF "HANS BRINKER; OR, THE SILVER SKATES"
WITH ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1906
_Copyright, 1883,_
BY MARY MAPES DODGE.
_All rights reserved._
THE DE VINNE PRESS.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
IN WHICH NONE OF THE CHARACTERS APPEAR 1
CHAPTER II.
FOURTEEN YEARS AFTERWARDS 3
CHAPTER III.
WHICH PARTLY EXPLAINS ITSELF 7
CHAPTER IV.
THE DRIVE 23
CHAPTER V.
SUPPER-TIME 29
CHAPTER VI.
A FAMILY CONFERENCE 31
CHAPTER VII.
THE DANBYS 47
CHAPTER VIII.
TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING 62
CHAPTER IX.
IN WHICH SOME WELL-MEANING GROWN FOLK APPEAR 71
CHAPTER X.
WHICH PRESENTS A FAITHFUL REPORT OF THE INTERVIEW
BETWEEN MR. REED AND HIS MYSTERIOUS VISITOR 80
CHAPTER XI.
JACK 93
CHAPTER XII.
A DAY IN NEW YORK 98
CHAPTER XIII.
DONALD AND DOROTHY ENTERTAIN FANDY 106
CHAPTER XIV.
IN WHICH UNCLE GEORGE PROPOSES SOMETHING DELIGHTFUL 119
CHAPTER XV.
THE HOUSE-PICNIC 124
CHAPTER XVI.
A DISCOVERY IN THE GARRET 155
CHAPTER XVII.
DORRY ASKS A QUESTION 166
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE GYMNASIUM 176
CHAPTER XIX.
THE "G. B. C." 180
CHAPTER XX.
THE SHOOTING-MATCH 194
CHAPTER XXI.
DANGER 205
CHAPTER XXII.
A FROLIC ON THE WATER 210
CHAPTER XXIII.
YANKEE AND DOODLE 224
CHAPTER XXIV.
DONALD 236
CHAPTER XXV.
THE SUNSET 243
CHAPTER XXVI.
UNCLE GEORGE TELLS DONALD 248
CHAPTER XXVII.
DELIA, OR DOROTHY? 257
CHAPTER XXVIII.
DON RESOLVES TO SETTLE MATTERS 265
CHAPTER XXIX.
AN UNEXPECTED LETTER 271
CHAPTER XXX.
A TIME OF SUSPENSE 281
CHAPTER XXXI.
ONLY A BIT OF RAG 289
CHAPTER XXXII.
DONALD MAKES A DISCOVERY 301
CHAPTER XXXIII.
AN IMPORTANT INTERVIEW 314
CHAPTER XXXIV.
MADAME RENE TELLS HER STORY 326
CHAPTER XXXV.
A DAY OF JOY 350
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
DOROTHY AT SIXTEEN _Frontispiece_
THE SPARKLING LAKE BEYOND 4
"YOU'VE HER SHINING DARK HAIR, MASTER DONALD," SAID LIDDY 15
THE END OF THE DRIVE 27
DONALD'S THOUGHTS 34
MRS. DANBY'S DREAM: THE FOUR ENGLISH BRANCHES 52
FANDY "PREACHES A SERMON" TO HIS BROTHERS AND SISTERS 55
DONALD TO THE RESCUE 67
MCSWIVER 72
"I USED TO STAND AND WONDER AT THEM WHEN I SHOULD HAVE
BEEN WORKIN'" 78
TRINITY CHURCH AND THE HEAD OF WALL STREET 101
THE GARRET BEFORE FANDY'S ARRIVAL 108
FANDY'S FIRST FENCING-MATCH 111
THE FENCING-MASTER 115
THE MAID OF ORLEANS 127
THE CANDY-PULLING 129
THE LAST VIEW OF THE PICTURE GALLERY 143
GORY'S PRIVATE TABLE 146
JOSIE MANNING WAITS FOR DORRY 163
DONALD AND ED TYLER TRY THE GYMNASIUM 178
"SO PICTURESKY!" 185
"HE'S COMPLAININ'" 187
"DON LEVELLED HIS RIFLE, AND FIRED" 208
THE CONSPIRATORS' PLOT IS CARRIED INTO EFFECT 217
BEN'S CIDER EXPERIENCE 222
OFF FOR EUROPE 269
KASSY EVIDENTLY HAD SOMETHING ON HER MIND 275
MONSIEUR BAJEAU BECOMES INTERESTED IN DONALD'S CHAIN 307
DONALD AND DOROTHY.
CHAPTER I.
IN WHICH NONE OF THE CHARACTERS APPEAR.
The door of the study was closed, and only Nero was to be seen. He, poor
dog, stood in the wide hall gazing wistfully at the knob, and pricking
up his ears whenever sounds of movement in the room aroused his hope of
being admitted. Suddenly he gave a yelp of delight. Somebody surely was
approaching the door. The steps--they were a man's--halted. There was a
soft, rolling sound, as if the master's chair were being drawn to the
table; next, a rustling of paper; a deep-voiced moan; the rapid
scratching of a quill pen; then silence--silence--and poor Nero again
stood at half-mast.
Any ordinary dog would have barked, or pawed impatiently at the door.
But Nero was not an ordinary dog. He knew that something unusual was
going on, something with which even he, the protector and pet of the
household, the frisky Master of Ceremonies, must not interfere. But when
the bell-pull within the room clicked sharply, and a faint tinkle came
up from below, he flew eagerly to the head of the basement stairs, and
wagged his bushy tail with a steady, vigorous stroke, as though it were
the crank of some unseen machine which slowly and surely would draw
Liddy, the housemaid, up the stairway.
The bell rang again. The machine put on more steam. Still no Liddy.
Could she be out? Nero ran back to take an agonized glance at the
motionless knob, leaped frantically to the stairs again--and, at that
moment, the study-door opened. There was a heavy tread; the ecstatic
Nero rushed in between a pair of dignified legs moving toward the great
hall door; he spun wildly about for an instant, and then, with a deep
sigh of satisfaction, settled down on the rug before the study fire. For
there was not a soul in the room.
CHAPTER II.
FOURTEEN YEARS AFTERWARD.
THE house is there still; so is Nero, now an honored old dog frisky only
in his memories. But old as he is in teeth and muscle, he is hardly past
middle-age in the wag of his still bushy tail, and is as young as ever
in happy devotion to his master. Liddy, too, is down stairs, promoted,
but busy as in the days gone by; and the voice of that very bell tinkled
but an hour ago.
Here is the same study; some one within, and the door closed. Opposite,
on the other side of the wide hall, is the parlor, its windows looking
across piazza, sloping lawn, road-way, and field, straight out to the
sparkling lake beyond. Back of the parlor is a sunny sitting-room, its
bay-window framing a pleasant view of flower-garden, apple-orchard, and
grape-arbor--a few straggling bunches clinging to the almost leafless
November vines. And within, throughout the house indeed, floats a
sunny-shady combination of out-door air, with a faint, delightful odor
of open wood-fires. What a quiet, homelike, beautiful place it is!
Let us look into the sitting-room.
A boy, with his back toward the door, mounted upon the end of a big
sofa, his bended knee tightly held between his arms, his head thrust
forward earnestly,--altogether, from the rear view, looking like a
remarkable torso with a modern jacket on,--that's Donald. Near him, on
the sofa, a glowing face with bright brown hair waving back from it, the
chin held in two brownish little hands, and beneath that a mass of dark
red merino, revealing in a meandering, drapery way that its wearer is
half-kneeling, half-sitting,--that's Dorothy.
[Illustration: THE SPARKLING LAKE BEYOND.]
I am obliged to confess it, these two inelegant objects on a very
elegant piece of furniture are the hero and heroine of my story.
Do not imagine, however, that Donald and Dorothy could not, if they
chose to do so, stand before you comely and fair as any girl and boy in
the land. It is merely by accident that we catch this first glimpse of
them. They have been on that sofa in just those positions for at least
five minutes, and, from present appearances, they intend to remain so
until further notice.
Dorothy is speaking, and Donald is--not exactly listening, but waiting
for his turn to put in a word, thus forming what may be called a lull in
the conversation; for up to this point both have been speaking together.
"It's too much for anything, so it is! I'm going to ask Liddy about it,
that's what I'm going to do; for she was almost ready to tell me the
other day, when Jack came in and made her mad."
"Don't you do it!" Donald's tone is severe, but still affectionate and
confidential. "Don't you do it. It's the wrong way, I tell you. What did
she get mad at?"
"Oh, nothing. Jack called her 'mess-mate' or something, and she flared
up. But, I tell you, I'm just going to ask her right out what makes him
act so."
"Nonsense," said Donald. "It's only his sailor-ways; and besides--"
"No, no. I don't mean Jack. I mean Uncle. I do believe he hates me!"
"Oh, Dorry! Dorry!"
"Well, he doesn't love me any more, anyhow! I know he's good and all
that, and I love him just as much as you do, Don, every bit, so you
needn't be so dreadfully astonished all in a minute. I love Uncle George
as much as anybody in the world does, but that is no reason why,
whenever Aunt Kate is mentioned, he--"
"Yes, it is, Dot. You ought to wait."
"I _have_ waited--why, Don" (and her manner grows tearful and tragic),
"I've waited nearly thirteen years!"
Here Don gives a quick, suddenly suppressed laugh, and asks her, "why
she didn't say fourteen," and Dorothy tells him sharply that "he needn't
talk--they're pretty even on that score" (which is true enough), and
that she really has been "longing and dying to know ever since she was a
little, little bit of a girl, and who wouldn't?"
Poor Dorothy! She will "long to know" for many a day yet. And so will
the good gentleman who now sits gazing at the fire in the study across
the wide hall, his feet on the very rug upon which Nero settled himself
on that eventful November day, exactly fourteen years ago.
And so will good, kind Lydia, the housekeeper, and so will Jack, the
sailor-coachman, at whom she is always "flaring up," as Dorothy says.
CHAPTER III.
WHICH PARTLY EXPLAINS ITSELF.
DOROTHY REED was of a somewhat livelier temperament than Donald, and
that, as she often could not but feel, gave her an advantage. Also, she
was ahead of him in history, botany, and rhetoric. Donald, though full
of boyish spirit, was steadier, more self-possessed than Dorothy, and in
algebra and physical geography he "left her nowhere," as the young lady
herself would tersely confess when in a very good humor. But never were
brother and sister better friends. "She's first-rate," Don would say,
confidentially, to some boon companion, "not a bit like a girl, you
know,--more like--well, no, there's nothing tomboyish about her, but
she's spirited and never gets tired or sickish like other girls." And
many a time Dorothy had declared to some choice confidential friend of
the twining-arms sort, that Donald was "perfectly splendid! nicer than
all the boys she ever had seen, put together."
On one point they were fully united, and that was in their love for
Uncle George, though of late it seemed that he was constantly making
rough weather for them.
This expression, "rough weather," is not original, but is borrowed from
Sailor Jack, whom you soon shall know nearly as well as the two D's did.
And "the two D's" is not original either. That is Liddy's. She called
Donald and Dorothy "the two D's" for brevity's sake, when they were not
present, just as she often spoke of the master of the house, in his
absence, as "Mr. G." There was no thought of disrespect in this. It was
a way that had come upon her after she had learned her alphabet in
middle life, and had stopped just at the point of knowing or guessing
the first letter of a word or a name. Farther than that into the paths
of learning, Liddy's patience had failed to carry her. But the use of
initials she felt was one of the short cuts that education afforded.
Besides, the good soul knew secrets which, without her master's
permission, nothing would induce her to reveal. So, to speak of "Mr. G."
or "the D's," had a confidential air of mystery about it that in some
way was a great relief to her.
Mr. George was known by his lady friends as "a confirmed bachelor, but a
most excellent man," the "but" implying that every well-to-do gentleman
ought to marry, and "the excellent man" referring to the fact that ever
since the children had been brought to him, fourteen years before, two
helpless little babies, he had given them more than a father's care. He
was nearly fifty years of age, a tall, "iron-gray" gentleman, with the
courtliest of manners and the warmest of hearts; yet he was, as Liddy
described him to her cousins, the Crumps, "an unexpected kind o' person,
Mr. G. was. Just when you made up your mind he was very stiff and
dignified, his face would light up into such a beautiful glow! And
then, when you thought how nice, and hearty, and sociable he was, he
would look so grave out of his eyes, and get so straight in the back
that he seemed like a king in an ermine robe."
When Liddy had compared a man to "a king in an ermine robe," she had
expressed her utmost pitch of admiration. She had heard this expression
long ago in a camp-meeting discourse, and it seemed to her almost too
grand a phrase for human use, unless one were speaking of Mr. George.
And a king Mr. George was, in some ways; a king who ruled himself, and
whose subjects--Mr. George's traits of character--were loyal to their
sovereign. Yet on one point he did deserve to be otherwise compared. All
difficulties that were under his power to control he would bravely meet;
but when anything troubled him which he could not remedy,--in fact, on
occasions when he was perplexed, worried, or unable to decide promptly
upon a course of action,--he often was a changed being. Quick as a flash
the beautiful, genial glow would vanish, the kingly ermine would drop
off, and he could be likened only to one of the little silver owls that
we see upon dinner-tables, quite grand and proper in bearing, but very
peppery within, and liable to scatter the pepper freely when suddenly
upset.
Poor Dorry! It had been her sad experience to call forth this
catastrophe very often of late, and in the most unexpected ways.
Sometimes a mere gesture, even the tone of her voice, seemed to annoy
her uncle. On one occasion, while he was pleasantly explaining some
public matter to Donald and herself, she laid her hand gently upon the
back of his, by way of expressing her interest in the conversation, and
his excited "Why did you do that?" made the poor girl jump from him in
terror.
Lydia, who was softly brushing the fireplace at that moment, saw it all,
and saw, too, how quickly he recovered himself and spoke kindly to the
child. But she muttered under her breath, as she went slowly down to the
basement,--
"Poor Mr. G's gettin' worse of late, he is. I don't see as he ever will
feel settled now. It's amazin' puzzlin', it is."
Yes, it was puzzling. And nobody better understood and pitied the kingly
soul's perplexity than the good woman. Even Jack, the coachman, though
he knew a good deal, had but a faint idea of what the poor gentleman
suffered.
On the day when we saw Donald and Dorothy perched on the sofa, Mr. Reed
had been remarkably changeful, and they had been puzzled and grieved by
his manner toward Dorothy. He had been kind and irritable by turns, and
finally, for some unaccountable reason, had sharply requested her to
leave him, to "go away for mercy's sake," and then she had been recalled
on some slight pretext, and treated with extra kindness, only to be
wounded the next moment by a look from her uncle that, as she afterward
declared, "made her feel as if she had struck him."
Donald, full of sympathy for Dorry, yet refusing to blame Uncle George
without a fuller understanding of the matter, had followed his sister
into the parlor, and there they had tried in vain to solve the mystery.
For a mystery there evidently was. Dot was sure of it; and Donald,
failing to banish this "foolish notion," as he called it, from Dot's
mind, had ended by secretly sharing it, and reluctantly admitting to
himself that Uncle George, kind, good Uncle George, really had not, of
late, been very kind and good to Dorry.
"He hasn't been _ugly_," thought Donald to himself, while Dorothy sat
there, eagerly watching her brother's countenance,--"Uncle couldn't be
that. But he seems to love her one minute, and be half afraid of her the
next--no, not exactly afraid of her, but afraid of his own thoughts.
Something troubles him. I wonder what in the world it is! May be--"
"Well?" exclaimed Dorry, impatiently, at last.
"Well," repeated Don, in a different tone, "the fact is, it _is_ trying
for you, Dorry, and I can't make it out."
Meanwhile Lydia, down stairs, was working herself into what she called
"a state" on this very matter. "It isn't Christian," she thought to
herself, "though if ever a man was a true, good Christian, Mr. G. is;
but he's amazin' odd. The fact is, he doesn't know his own mind in this
business from one day to the next, and he thinks, Jack and I are stone
blind--Mercy! If here don't come those precious children!"
Surely enough, the precious children were on their way down the kitchen
stairs. They did not go into that cheerful, well-scrubbed apartment,
however, but trudged directly into the adjoining room, in which Liddy,
guarded by the faithful old dog, Nero, was now seated, peeling apples.
It had been fitted up for Lydia years before when, from a simple
housemaid, she was "promoted," as she said, "to have eyes to things and
watch over the D's."
"You may think it strange," she had said, grandly, that very morning, to
Jack, looking around at the well-polished, old-fashioned furniture, and
the still bright three-ply carpet, "that I should have my sitting-room
down here, and my sleeping apartment up stairs, but so it is. The
servants need watching more than the children, as you know, Mr. Jack,
and I've had to have eyes to things ever since the D's first came.
Master Donald says I ought to call it 'having an eye,' but sakes! what
would one eye be in a house like this? No, it's eyes I want, both eyes,
and more too, with the precious D's wild as young hawks, and Mr. G. as
he is of late, and the way things are."
* * * * *
Lydia looked up when Donald and Dorothy entered, with a "Sakes! You've
not been fretting again, Miss Dorry?"
"No--not exactly fretting, Liddy; that is, not very much. We just came
down to--to-- Give me an apple?"
"Steady! St-e-a-dy!" cried Liddy, as after her hearty "help yourselves,"
the brother and sister made a simultaneous dash at the pan on her ample
lap, playfully contesting for the largest. "One would think you were
starving."
"So we are, Liddy," said Dorothy, biting her apple as she spoke; "we are
starving for a story."
"Yes!" echoed Donald, "a story. We're bound to have it!"
"Hum!" muttered Liddy, much flattered. "Do you know your lessons?"
"Per-fectly!" answered the D's, in one breath. "We studied them right
after Dr. Lane left."
"Well," began Liddy, casting a furtive look at the old mahogany clock on
the mantel; "which story do you want? You've heard 'em all a score of
times."
"Oh, not that kind," said Dorothy, playfully motioning to her brother,
for you see by this time she was quite cheerful again. "We want a
certain par-tic-ular story, don't we, Don?"
Instead of replying, Don took Dorry's outstretched hand with nonsensical
grace, and so dancing to the fireplace together, in a sort of burlesque
minuet, they brought back with them two little mahogany and hair-cloth
foot-benches, placing them at Lydia's feet.
Ignoring the fact that these well-worn seats were absurdly low and
small, the D's settled themselves upon them as comfortably as in the
days gone by, when the benches had been of exactly the right size for
them; and at the risk of upsetting the apples, pan and all, they leaned
toward Liddy with an expressive "Now!"
All this had been accomplished so quickly, that Liddy would have been
quite taken by surprise had she not been used to their ways.
"Bless your bright eyes!" she laughed, uneasily looking from one beaming
face to the other; "you take one's breath away with your quick motions.
And now what certain, special, wonderful kind of a story do you want?"
"Why, _you_ know. Tell us all about it, Lydia," spoke Dorothy, sobered
in an instant.
"Sakes! Not again? Well, where shall I begin?"
"Oh, at the very beginning," answered Donald; and Dorothy's eager,
expressive nod said the same thing.
"Well," began Lydia, "about fourteen years ago--"
"No, no, not there, please, but 'way, away back as far as you can
remember; farther back than you ever told us before."
"Well," and Lydia proceeded to select a fresh apple and peel it slowly
and deliberately; "well, I was once a young chit of a girl, and I came
to this house to live with your Aunt Kate. She wasn't any aunt then, not
a bit of it, but a sweet, pretty, perky, lady-girl as ever was; and she
had" (here Liddy looked sad, and uttered a low "Dear, dear! how strange
it seems!")--"she had two splendid brothers, Mr. George Reed and Mr.
Wolcott Reed (your papa, you know). Oh, she was the sweetest young lady
you ever set eyes on! Well, they all lived here in this very
house,--your grandpa and grandma had gone to the better world a few
years before,--and Master G. was sort of head of the family, you see, as
the oldest son ought to be."
Donald unconsciously sat more erect on his bench, and thrust his feet
farther forward on the carpet.
"Yes, Master G. was the head," Liddy went on, "but you wouldn't have
known it, they were all so united and loving-like. Miss Kate, though
kind of quick, was just too sweet and good for anything,--'the light
of the house,' as the young master called her, and--"
[Illustration: "YOU'VE HER SHINING DARK HAIR, MASTER DONALD," SAID
LIDDY]
"Oh, I do love so much to hear about Aunt Kate!" exclaimed Dorothy, her
color brightening as she drew her bench up still closer to Liddy. Both
of the apples were eaten by this time, and the D's had forgotten to ask
for more. "Do we look like her?"
Here Donald and Dorothy turned and gazed full in Lydia's face, waiting
for the answer.
"Well, yes--and no, too. You've her shining dark hair, Master Donald,
and her way of steppin' firm, but there isn't a single feature like her.
And it's so with you, Miss Dorry, not a feature just right for the
likeness; still you've a something, somehow--somewhere--and yet I can't
place it; it's what I call a vanishin' likeness."
At this the two D's lost their eager look, and burst into a hearty
laugh.
"Hello, old Vanisher!" said Donald, making a sudden dive at Dorothy.
"Hello, old Stiff-legs!" retorted Dorothy, laughing and pushing him
away.
Here old Nero roused himself, and growled a low, rumbling, distant
growl, as if protesting against some unwelcome intruder.
"There, children, that's sufficient!" said Liddy, with dignity. "Don't
get tussling. It isn't gentleman-and-lady-like. Now see how you've
tumbled your sister's hair, Master Donald, and Mr. G.'s so particular.
Hear Nero, too! Sakes! it seems sometimes like a voice from the dead to
hear him go that way when we're talking of old times."
"Be still, old fellow!" cried Donald, playfully. "Don't you see Liddy's
talking to us? Well, we look like our mamma, any way,--don't we, Liddy?"
"That picture of your mamma in your room, Master Donald," replied Lydia,
"has certainly a good deal of your look, but I can't say from my own
knowledge that it ever was a good likeness. It was sent over afterward,
you know, and your mamma never was here except once, and then it so
happened I was off to camp-meeting with Cousin Crump. Your papa used to
go to see the young lady down at her home in New York, and after the
wedding they went to Niagara Falls, and after that to Europe. Seems to
me this going out of your own country's a bad business for young couples
who ought to settle down and begin life." (Here Nero stood up, and his
growl grew more decided.) "Well, as I was saying--Mercy on us! If there
isn't that man again!"
The last part of Lydia's sentence, almost drowned by Nero's barking, was
addressed to the empty window; at least it was empty when the D's turned
toward it.
"Who? where?" shouted Dorothy. But Donald sprang up from the bench, and,
followed by the noisy old Nero, ran out of the room, across the
basement-hall, and through the back-door, before Lydia had time to
reply.
"Who was it, Liddy?" asked Dorry, still looking toward the empty window,
while Nero came sauntering back as though the matter that had lured him
forth had not been worth the trouble of following up.
"Oh, no one, dearie," said Lydia, with assumed carelessness; "that is,
no one in particular. It's just a man. Well, as I was saying, your Aunt
Kate wasn't only the light of the house, she was the heart of the house,
too, the very heart. It was dreary enough after she went off to England,
poor darling."
"Yes, yes, go on," urged Dorry, earnestly, at the same time wondering at
her brother's hasty departure. "Go on, Liddy, that's a dear. I can
repeat it all to Donald, you know."
"There isn't any more, Miss Dorry. That's the end of the first part of
the story. You know the second well enough, poor child, and sad enough
it is."
"Yes," said Dorry, in a low tone, "but tell me the rest of the
beginning."
"Why, what _do_ you mean, Miss Dorry? There's nothing else to
tell,--that is, nothing that I got ear of. I suppose there were letters
and so on; in fact, I _know_ there were, for many a time I brought Mr.
George's mail in to him. _That_ day, I took the letters and papers to
Mr. G. in the library,--poor, lonely gentleman he looked!--and then I
went down to my kitchen fire (I was in the housework then), and some
minutes after, when I'd been putting on coal and poking it up bright, it
kind o' struck me that the master's bell had been ringing. Up I hurried,
but when I reached the library, he was gone out, and no one was there
but Nero (yes, _you_, old doggie!), lying before the fire, as if he
owned the house. And that's the end of the first part, so far as I
know."
"Yes," persisted Dorothy; "but I want to hear more about what happened
before that. I know about our poor papa dying abroad, and about the
wreck, and how our mamma and--"
She could not go on. Often she could speak of all this without crying;
but the poor girl had been strained and excited all the afternoon, and
now, added to the sorrow that surged through her heart at the sudden
thought of the parents whom she could not even remember, came the
certainty that again she was to be disappointed. It was evident, from
Lydia's resolute though kindly face, that she did not mean to tell any
more of the first half of the story.
The good woman smoothed Dorothy's soft hair gently, and spoke soothingly
to her, begging her to be a good girl and not cry, and to remember what
a bright, happy little miss she was, and what a beautiful home she had,
and how young folk ought always to be laughing and skipping about, and--
"Liddy!" said Donald, suddenly appearing at the door. "Uncle wishes to
see you."
Lydia, flushing, set down the pan, and, hurriedly smoothing her apron,
walked out of the room.
"Uncle called me from the window--that's why I stayed," explained
Donald, "and he told me to bid Jack hitch the horses to the big
carriage. We're to get ready for a drive. And then he asked me where you
were, and when I told him, he said: 'Send Lydia here, at once.'"
"Was Uncle very angry, Donald?" asked Dorry, wiping her eyes.
"Oh, no. At first he seemed sorry, and I think he got up the drive just
to give you pleasure, Dorry. He wanted to see me about something, and
then he asked more about our visit to Liddy's room, and I told him she
was only telling us a true story about him and our father, and--and
that's when he sent me for Liddy, before I could say another word. Don't
cry any more, Dot,--please don't. Go put on your things, and we'll have
a gay old drive with Uncle. I'll not take the pony this time."
"Oh, do!" coaxed Dorry, faintly, for in her heart she meant, "Oh,
don't!" It was good in Donald, she knew, to be willing to give up his
pony-ride, and take a seat in the stately carriage instead of cantering
alongside, and she disliked to rob him of the pleasure. But to-day her
heart was lonely; Uncle had been "queer," and life looked so dark to her
in consequence, that to have Donald on the same seat with her would be a
great comfort.
"No," said Don. "Some day, soon, you and I will take our ponies, and go
off together for a good run; but to-day I'd rather go with you in the
carriage, Dot,"--and that settled it.
She ran to put on her hat and bright warm woollen wrap, for it was early
November, and beginning to be chilly. The carriage rolled to the door;
Uncle George, grave but kind, met her, handed her in as though she were
a little duchess, and then said:--
"Now, Dorothy, who shall go with us, to-day? Cora Danby or Josie? You
may call for any one you choose."
"Oh, may I, Uncle? Thank you! Then we'll invite Josie, please."
Her troubles were forgotten; Uncle smiling; Donald beside her, and
Josephine Manning going with them; the afternoon bright and glowing.
Things were not so bad, after all.
"Drive to Mr. Manning's, John," said Mr. Reed, as Jack, closing the
carriage-door, climbed up to the box in a way that reminded one of a
sailor's starting to mount a ship's rigging.
"Ay, ay, Capt'n," said Jack, and they were off.
CHAPTER IV.
THE DRIVE.
JOSIE MANNING was not at home, when the carriage stopped at her door;
and so the party decided to drive on without company.
It was a beautiful autumnal day, and the modest little lakeside village,
which, in deference to its shy ways, we shall call Nestletown, did its
best to show its appreciation of the weather. Its windows lighted up
brilliantly in the slanting sunlight, and its two spires, Baptist and
Methodist, reaching up through the yellow foliage, piously rivalled each
other in raising their shining points to the sky. The roads were
remarkably fine at that time; yet it seemed that almost the only persons
who, on this special afternoon, cared to drive out and enjoy them were
our friends in the open carriage.
The fine old equipage rolled along at first without a sound beyond the
whir of its wheels and the regular quadruple beat of the horses' hoofs;
and everything appeared to be very placid and quiet. But how many
interests were represented, and how different they were!
First, the horses: while vaguely wishing Jack would loosen his hold, and
that the hard iron something in their mouths would snap in two and
relieve them, they were enjoying their own speed, taking in great
draughts of fine air, keeping their eyes open and their ears ready for
any startling thing that might leap from the rustling bushes along the
drive, or from the shadows of the road-side trees, and longing in an
elegant, well-fed way for the plentiful supper that awaited them at
home. Next was the group of little belated insects that, tempted by the
glittering sunlight, happened to go along, alighting now on the
carriage, now on Jack, and now on the horses. Not being horseflies, they
were not even noticed by the span,--yet they had business of their own,
whatever it could have been so late in the season, and were briskly
attending to it. Next, there was Jack,--good sailor Jack,--sitting
upright, soberly dressed in snug-fitting clothes, and a high black
stove-pipe hat, when at heart he longed to wear his tarpaulin and move
about on his sea-legs again. His only consolation was to feel the
carriage roll and pitch over the few uneven places along the road, to
pull at his "tiller-ropes," as he called the reins, and "guide the craft
as trim" as he could. Honest Jack, though a coachman now (for reasons
which you shall know before long), was a sailor at heart, and followed
his old ways as far as his present situation would allow. At this very
moment he was wondering at his own weakness "in turning himself into a
miserable land-lubber, all for love of the capt'n and the two little
middies." Meantime, Donald was divided between random boy-thoughts on
one side, and a real manly interest in Dorothy, whose lot seemed to him
decidedly less pleasant than his own. Dorry was quietly enjoying the
change from keen grief to its absence, and a sense of security in being
so near Uncle and Donald. And the uncle--what shall I say of him? Shall
I describe only the stately form, the iron-gray hair, the kindly face
brightened by the yellow afternoon light?--or shall I tell you of the
lately happy, but now anxious, troubled man, who within a few days had
been made to feel it possible that the dearest thing he had on earth
might soon be his no longer.
"Oh, Uncle," said Dorry, suddenly, "I forgot to tell you something!"
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Mr. George, in playful astonishment, a
quick smile rising to his lips, and his eyes full of pleasant inquiry.
"What did my little maid forget to tell me?"
"Why, about the man on the croquet-ground. I was practising a
roquet-shot, and before I knew it, he was close by me, a great, tall,
lanky man, calling me 'Sis' and--"
"The rascal!" exclaimed Uncle George, growing red and angry in a moment.
"And what business had you to--"
"I didn't, Uncle, I didn't. I'm too old to be called 'Sis,' and he acted
just as if I ought to know him, and be real pleasant. I wouldn't have a
word to say to him, but just turned around and ran to look for Donald.
Didn't I, Don?"
"Yes," said Donald, but before he said it he had scowled, and nodded to
his uncle, slyly as he thought, but his sister's eyes were keen.
"I declare, it's too bad!" broke forth Dorry, impetuously. "Everybody
gets mad at me for nothing, and makes signs and everything!" and with
this incoherent speech Dorry began to pout--yes, actually to pout, the
brave, good Dorry, who usually was sunny and glad, "the light of the
house," as her Aunt Kate had been before her! Donald stared at her in
astonishment.
At this moment, one of the horses received a cut which he certainly did
not deserve, but otherwise all was quiet on the coachman's box. No one
looking up at that placid, well-dressed back would have dreamed of the
South-Sea tempest raging under the well-padded and double-buttoned coat.
"Dorothy," said her uncle, with a strange trembling in his voice, "try
to control yourself. I do not blame you, my child. John, you may drive
toward home."
Poor Dorry stifled her rising sobs as well as she could, and, sitting
upright, drew as far from her uncle as the width of the seat would
allow. But after a while, sending a sidelong glance in his direction,
she edged slowly back again, and timidly leaned her head upon his
shoulder. In a moment his arm was about her, and she looked up saucily,
with eyes sparkling through her tears.
"April weather to-day, isn't it, Don?" said Uncle. Don laughed. The
uncle laughed, though not so cheerily as Don, and even Jack chuckled
softly to himself to think that "all was well again abaft."
"Spoiled child!" said Uncle George, patting her gently. But his heart
was full of a wild terror, and he reproached himself for many things,
chief among which was that he had made it possible for the idolized
little girl beside him to know a moment's sorrow.
"I must be more watchful after this," he said to himself, "and more
even-tempered. I have acted like a brute to-day; what wonder the little
maid is upset. But that rascal! I shall have to warn the children,
though it's an ugly business. Donald," said he aloud, and with gentle
dignity, "come into the library after supper, both you and Dorothy."
[Illustration: THE END OF THE DRIVE.]
"Yes, sir," said Donald, respectfully.
And as the dear home-road came in sight, the horses quickened their
already brisk pace, the party leaned back luxuriously and gave
themselves up to enjoyment of the clear air, the changing roadside, and
the glories of the western sky, now ablaze with the setting sun.
No one excepting Jack saw a tall, lank figure disappearing among the
shrubbery as the carriage rumbled down the avenue that led to the house.
"Look to wind'ard, Capt'n!" whispered Jack, mysteriously, to Mr. George,
while Donald was gallantly assisting Dorothy from the carriage; "there's
mischief in the air."
"What now, John?" asked Mr. George, rather patronizingly.
"A queer craft's just hove to, sir, in the evergreen bushes as we came
in," mumbled Jack, almost under his breath, while pretending to screw
the handle of his whip.
Mr. George scowled. "Is he there now?"
"Can't say, sir."
"Very well; I will soon find out." And Mr. George, with a pleasant but
decisive, "Run in, youngsters," as Liddy opened the wide hall-door,
walked briskly down the carriage-drive.
When the door closed, he turned into the shrubbery.
CHAPTER V.
SUPPER-TIME.
[Illustration]
"OH, if gentlemen only knew the nature of muffins!"
Poor Liddy! Her trig black dress and jaunty muslin cap seemed to mock
her perturbed feelings, as she hovered between the kitchen and the hall
door. Donald and Dorothy, neatly brushed,--cool and pink of cheek, and
very crisp in the matter of neck-ties,--stood at one window of the
supper-room. The flaxen-haired waitress, in a bright blue calico gown
and white apron, watched, tray in hand, at the other. A small wood-fire,
just lighted, was waking into life on the hearth. Old Nero was dozing
upon the rug, with one eye open. And all--to say nothing of the
muffins--were waiting for Mr. George, whom the D's had not seen since
their return from the drive, half an hour before.
When that gentleman came in he stepped briskly to his seat at the table,
and, though he did not speak, his manner seemed to say: "Everything is
all right. I merely came in a little late. Now for supper!" But Nero,
rising slowly from the warm rug, slipped under the table, rubbed
himself sympathetically against his master's legs, and finally settled
down at his feet, quite contented to serve as a foot-stool for Donald
and Dorothy, who soon were seated one on each side of the table, while
Lydia, carefully settling her gown, took her place at the large
tea-tray.
Mr. George, as the good housekeeper soon saw to her satisfaction, did
appreciate the nature of muffins.
So did Donald and Dorothy.
CHAPTER VI.
A FAMILY CONFERENCE.
AFTER supper, Uncle George, Donald, and Dorothy went into the library,
where they found the soft light of a shaded lamp and another cheerful
fire,--so cheerful, that Mr. George let down the windows at the top, and
the two D's were glad to go and sit on the sofa at the cooler end of the
spacious room.
"Liddy is determined that we shall not freeze before the winter sets
in," remarked Mr. George, hardly knowing how to begin the conversation.
He was not the first good man who has found himself embarrassed in the
presence of frank young listeners waiting to hear him speak and sure to
weigh and remember everything he may say.
The children smiled solemnly.
Thus began an interview which, in some respects, changed the lives of
Donald and Dorothy.
"Liddy is a good, faithful soul," said Uncle George. "She has been with
us, you know, ever since you were babies."
"And before too," put in Dorry, knowingly.
"Yes, before too," assented Mr. George. "Some years before."
Nero, lazing by the fire, snapped at an imaginary fly, at which the D's,
glad of a chance to relieve themselves, and feeling that the interview
was one of grave importance, indulged in a smothered laugh.
"And Nero, poor faithful old dog, you knew us!" continued Mr. George,
changing to a more cheerful tone, while Nero's tail contentedly beat
time to the remark (for the good creature knew well enough that Mr.
George was speaking of him); "he was hardly a year old then, the
friskiest, handsomest fellow you ever saw, and brave as a lion."
"Did he know Aunt Kate?" asked the audacious Dorothy.
Donald looked frightened; Uncle George coughed; and just as Dorothy,
wretchedly uncomfortable, made up her mind that it was too cruel for
anything, never to be able to speak of your own aunty without raising a
storm, Mr. George came out of the bright light and seated himself on the
sofa between the D's with an arm around each. Dorry, puzzled but almost
happy, drew as close as she could, but still sat upright; and Donald,
manly boy that he was, felt a dignified satisfaction in his uncle's
embrace, and met him with a frank, questioning look. It was the work of
an instant. Dorry's startling inquiry still sounded on the firelit air.
"Donald," said Uncle, without replying to Dorry's question. "Let me see.
You are now fourteen years old?"
"Fourteen and ten days,--nearly half a month over fourteen," said
Dorothy, promptly. "Aren't we, Donald? I'm so glad!"
Donald nodded, and Uncle placidly asked why she was glad.
"Because twins can't boss--I mean domineer--each other. If Don was the
least bit older than me--I--me, it wouldn't be half so nice as starting
fair and square."
Here she gave a satisfied little cough, and to her great surprise felt
her uncle's arm immediately withdrawn.
"Stop your nonsense, Dorothy," said he, almost sternly, "and don't
interrupt."
"Now Uncle's afraid again," thought Donald, but he felt so sorry for his
sister that he said, in a tone of dignified respect: "Dorry didn't mean
to be rude, Uncle."
"No, no. Certainly not," said that very puzzling individual, suddenly
resuming his former position, and drawing the little lady toward him.
"Where were we? Oh, yes! Fourteen years and ten days, is it?"
"Yes, sir, right to a minute," replied Donald, laughing.
"Well, there is no hurry, I am glad to say. I have been thinking of
late, Donald, that a little boarding-school experience is a good thing
for a boy."
Dorothy started; but she had resolved rather sullenly that people would
have to wait a long while before they should hear another word from her.
"Yes, sir," assented Donald, quickly. It would be glorious to go, he
thought, and actually be a boarding-school boy, belonging to a crack
base-ball club, a debating society, perhaps even a secret society; to
get boxes of fruit and cake from home, and share them with his
room-mates; maybe have a fight or two, for a fellow must hold his own,
you know;--but then how strange it would be to live without Dorry! Oh,
if she only were a boy!
[Illustration: DONALD'S THOUGHTS.]
"I'd come home on Thanksgiving and Christmas?" asked Don, following up a
rather lonesome feeling.
"Oh, yes! but you're not off yet, my boy. The fact is, I did think
seriously of sending you this autumn, and I even looked up a few good
places, intending to make a selection. But there's no special hurry.
This boarding-school business has its uncomfortable side. It breaks up a
household, and makes little sisters lonesome. Doesn't it, Dorry?"
Dorry _couldn't_ speak now, though she tried, and Mr. George
considerately went on: "Besides, there's another, a very good reason,
why we should wait awhile. You are needed here, Donald, just now."
"Needed here?" thought Dorry. "I should say so!" Uncle might as well
remark that the sunshine, or the sky, or the air was needed here as to
say that Don was needed. A big tear gathered under her lashes--"Besides,
she was no more his little sister than he was her little brother. They
were just even halves of each other--so now." And the tear went back.
Meantime, Uncle's remarks flowed slowly on, like a deep stream passing
between two banks--one with its sunny leaves and blossoms all astir in
the breeze, the other bending, casting its image in the stream, and so
going on with it in a closer companionship.
"You are needed here, Donald; but, as I said before, there is plenty of
time. And though I shall bear this boarding-school matter in mind, I
cannot well spare you just now. I shall require, perhaps, some vigilance
on your part, and coolheadedness,--not that anything very serious is
likely to occur; in fact, there is no reason why it should--but a
brother naturally guards his sister even when no danger threatens."
"Certainly," said Don.
"Humph!" thought Dorothy, "I don't want to be guarded, thank you." But,
for all that, she felt proud that Uncle should speak of her in this way
to Donald. Probably he was going to mention fire, and remind them of the
invariable rule that they must not, on any account, carry matches into
the barn, or light a bonfire anywhere without express permission.
Meanwhile, Donald watched his uncle's face, following every word.
"There is really nothing to be apprehended," continued Uncle George,
with some hesitation; "but it is important that you--that Dorothy--I
should say--well, my children, perhaps you have observed--indeed, you
spoke to-day, Dorothy, of having seen something of a person who has been
about here several times of late."
"Oh, yes, Uncle," responded Dorry.
But Donald waited to hear more. He had talked previously with his uncle
about this same person, whom he had seen more than once lounging about
the grounds.
"Well," said Mr. George, slowly, "this man, 'long and lank,' as Dorry
truly described him, is not a very dangerous man,--at least, we'll
believe he is not,--but he is one whom I wish you both to avoid. His
company will do you no good."
"Wouldn't it be better, Uncle," suggested Dorry, now eager to help
matters, "for Jack to order him off the place whenever he comes on?"
"Well, no," said Uncle George. "After all, he may not come again. But if
he should, I wish you to have as little to do with him as possible."
"We could set Nero on him. Nero can't bite, but he'd scare him pretty
well," insisted Dorry, with animation. "The idea of his calling me
'Sis!' the great, horrid, long--"
"There, there; that will do," said Mr. George. "All you need do is to
remember what I say. Do not fear this man. Above all, do not let him
imagine that you fear him. But avoid him. Keep within the gates for the
present."
"O-h, Uncle!" exclaimed Dorry, in consternation, while even Donald broke
forth with a plaintive "_Both_ of us, Uncle?"
"Yes, both of you,--for a few days at least, or until I direct to the
contrary. And while out of doors, keep together."
"We'll do that anyway," replied Dorry, half saucily.
"The man," continued Mr. George, "probably will not trouble either of
you. He is a ne'er-do-weel, whom I knew as a boy, but we lost sight of
him long ago. I suspect he has been steadily going down for years."
"I can't see wh--," began the irrepressible Dorry; but she was met by a
firm, "You need not see, nor try to see. Only remember what I have told
you, and say nothing to any one about it. Now we may talk of other
things. Oh, by the way, there was one pretty good reason for thinking of
making a change in schooling. Dr. Lane is going to leave us."
"Dr. Lane going to leave!" echoed Donald, in regretful surprise.
"Good! No more old algebra!" exclaimed Dorry, at the same time clapping
her hand to her mouth. Her vivid imagination had instantly pictured
relief and a grand holiday. But second thoughts made her feel vexed with
herself, especially when her uncle resumed:
"Yes, the good man told me yesterday that his cough grows steadily
worse, and his physician has ordered him to go south for the winter. He
says he must start as soon as I can find a tutor to take his place."
"Oh, don't let him wait a day, Uncle," exclaimed Dorry,
earnestly,--"please don't, if going south will cure him. We've noticed
his cough, haven't we, Don? We can study our lessons by ourselves, and
say them to each other."
Some boys would have smiled knowingly at this somewhat suspicious
outburst, but Donald knew Dorothy too well for that. She was thoroughly
sincere and full of sympathy for the kind, painstaking man who,
notwithstanding one or two peculiarities which she and her brother could
not help observing, was really a good teacher. For more than a year,
omitting only July and August, and Saturday holidays, he had been coming
to Lakewood every week-day to instruct the two young Reeds in what he
called the rudiments of learning. There were two visiting teachers
besides Dr. Lane,--the music-master, Mr. Penton, and Mademoiselle
Jouvin, the French teacher. These came only twice a week, and on
different days, but Dr. Lane and they managed to keep the D's very busy.
Mr. Reed had preferred that his nephew and niece should receive their
early education at home; and so Donald and Dorothy thus far knew nothing
of school life.
What could be the matter with Uncle George? Again Dorothy's look and
tone--especially her sudden expression of kindliness for her
tutor--evidently had given her uncle pain. He looked down at her for an
instant with a piteous and (as Donald again thought) an almost
frightened expression; then quickly recovering himself, went on to tell
Donald that Dorry was right. It would be best to release Dr. Lane at
once, and take the chances of obtaining a new teacher. In fact, he would
see the doctor the very next morning, if they would let him know when
the lesson-hours were over.
"Uncle!"
"Well, sir, what is it?"
"Did you go to boarding-school, when you were a boy?"
"Oh, yes! but I was older than you are now."
"Did Aunt Kate?" asked Dorry.
"There, there; that will do," was the reply. Uncle George frequently had
to say, "There, there; that will do," to Dorry.
"Well," she insisted timidly, and almost in a whisper, "I _have_ to ask
about her, because you wasn't a girl,"--Donald, reaching behind Mr.
George, tried to pull her sleeve to check the careless grammar, but her
soul had risen above such things,--"you wasn't a girl,--and I don't
expect to go to a boys' boarding-school. Oh, Uncle, I don't, I really
don't mean to be naughty, but it's so hard, so awfully hard, to be a
girl without any mother! And when I ask about her or Aunt Kate, you
always--yes, Uncle, you really do!--you _always_ get mad. Oh, no, I
don't mean to say that; but it makes you feel so dreadfully sorry, that
you don't know how it sounds to me! You actually don't, Uncle. If I only
could remember Mamma! But, of course, I can't; and then that picture
that came to us from England looks so--so very--"
"It's lovely!" exclaimed Donald, almost indignantly.
"Yes, it's handsome, but I know Mamma wouldn't look that way now. It's
so pale and stiff. May be it's the big lace collar,--and even Liddy
can't tell me whether it was a good likeness or not. But Aunt Kate's
picture in the parlor is so different. I think it's because it was
painted when she was a little girl. Oh, it's so sweet and natural, I
want to climb up and kiss it! I really do, Uncle. That's why I want to
talk about her, and why I love her so very much. You wouldn't speak
cross to her, Uncle, if she came to life and tried to talk to you about
_us_. No, I think you'd--Oh, Uncle, Uncle! What _is_ the matter? What
makes you look so at me!"
Before Dorry fairly knew what had happened, Donald was at his uncle's
feet, looking up at him in great distress, and Uncle George was sobbing!
Only for an instant. His face was hidden in his hands, and when he
lifted it, he again had control of himself, and Dorry almost felt that
she had been mistaken. She never had seen her uncle cry, or dreamed that
he _could_ cry; and now, as she stood with her arms clasped about his
neck, crying because he had cried, she could only think, with an awed
feeling, of his tenderness, his goodness, and inwardly blame herself for
being "the hatefullest, foolishest girl in all the world." Glancing at
Donald, sure of his sympathy, she whispered, "I'm sorry, Uncle, if I did
wrong. I'll try never, never to be so--so--" She was going to say "so
wicked again," but the words would not come. She knew that she had not
been wicked, and yet she could not at first hit upon the right term.
Just as it flashed upon her to say "impetuous," and not to care a fig if
Donald _did_ secretly laugh at her using so grand an expression, Mr.
George said, gently, but with much seriousness:
"You need not reproach yourself, my child. I can see very clearly just
what you wish to say. Don and I can rough it together, but you, poor
darling," stroking her hair softly, "need just what we cannot give
you,--a woman's, a mother's tenderness."
"Oh, yes, you do! Yes, you do, Uncle!" cried Dorothy, in sudden
generosity.
"And it is only natural, my little maid, that you should long--as Donald
must, too--to hear more of the mother whom I scarcely knew, whom, in
fact, I saw only a few times. Wolcott, I should say, your Papa, and she
sailed for Europe soon after their marriage, and from that day we
never--"
He checked himself, and Dorry took advantage of the pause to say,
timidly:
"But it wasn't so with Aunt Kate. You knew _her_, Uncle, all her life.
Wasn't she sweet, and lovely, and--"
"Yes, yes! Sweet, lovely, everything that was noble and good, dear. You
cannot love her too well."
"And Papa," spoke up Donald, sturdily, "he was perfect. You've often
told us so,--a true, upright, Christian gentleman." The boy knew this
phrase by heart. He had so often heard his uncle use it, in speaking of
the lost brother, that it seemed almost like a part of his father's
name. "And Mamma we _know_ was good, Dorry. Liddy says every one liked
her ever so much. Uncle George says so too. Only, how can he talk to us
about our mother if he hardly knew her? She didn't ever live in this
house. She lived in New York; and that made a great difference--don't
you see?"
"Yes," admitted Dorry, only half satisfied; "but you _would_ have known
her, Uncle George,--yes, known Mamma, and Aunty, and our Uncle Robertson
[they had never learned to call that uncle by his first name]--we would
have known them all--no, not all, not poor dear Papa, because he never
lived to set sail from England, but all the rest, even our dear little
cousin, Delia,--oh, wouldn't she be sweet, if we had her now to love and
take care of! We should all have known each other ever so well--of
course we should--if the ship had landed safe."
"Yes, my darlings, if the ship had not gone down, all would have been
very, very different. There would have been a happy household indeed. We
should have had more joy than I dare to think of."
"But we have each other now, Uncle," said Dorothy, soothingly and yet
with spirit. "It can't be so very miserable and dreadful with you and
Donald and me left!"
"Bless you, my little comforter!--No. God be praised, we still have a
great deal to be thankful for."
"Yes, and there are Liddy and Jack, and dear old Nero," said Donald,
partly because he wished to add his mite toward this more cheerful view
of things, but mainly because he felt choked, and it would be as well to
say something, if only to prove to himself that he was not giving way to
unmanly emotion.
"Oh, yes--Jack!" added Dorry. "If it were not for Jack where should we
twins be, I'd like to know!"
Said in an ordinary tone of voice, this would have sounded rather
flippant, but Dorry uttered the words with true solemnity.
"I think of that often," said Donald, in the same spirit. "It seems so
wonderful, too, that we didn't get drowned, or at least die of exposure,
and--"
Dorothy interrupted him with an animated "Yes, indeed! Such little
teenty bits of babies!"
"It does seem like a miracle," Uncle George said.
"But Jack," continued Donald, warmly, "was such a wonderful swimmer."
"Yes, and wonderful catcher!" said Dorothy. "Just think how he caught
us--Ugh! It makes me shiver to think of being tossed in the air over
those black, raging waves. We must have looked like little bundles
flying from the ship. Wasn't Jack just _wonderful_, to hold on to us as
he did, and work so hard looking for--for the others, too. Mercy! if we
only get our feet wet now, Liddy seems to think it's all over with
us,--and yet, look what we stood then! Little mites of babies, soaked to
the skin, out in an open boat on the ocean all that terrible time."
"Much we cared for that," was Don's comment. "Probably we laughed, or
played pat-a-cake, or--"
"Played pat-a-cake!" interrupted Dorry, with intense scorn of Donald's
ignorance of baby ways--"babies only six weeks old playing pat-a-cake! I
guess not. It's most likely we kicked and screamed like anything; isn't
it, Uncle?"
Uncle nodded, with a strange mixture of gravity and amusement, and
Donald added, earnestly:
"Whether we cried or not, Jack was a trump. A real hero, wasn't he,
Uncle? I can see him now--catching us; then, when the other boat
capsized, chucking us into the arms of some one in our boat, and
plunging into the sea to save all he could, but able to get back alone,
after all." (The children had talked about the shipwreck so often that
they felt as if they remembered the awful scene.) "He was nearly dead by
that time, you know."
"Yes, and nearly dead or not, if he hadn't come back," chirped Dorothy,
who was growing tired of the tragic side of Donald's picture,--"if he
hadn't come back to take charge of us, and take us on board the big
ship--"
"The _Cumberland_," said Don.
"Yes, the _Cumberland_, or whatever she was called; if the _Cumberland_
had not come along the next day, and Jack hadn't climbed on board with
us, and wrapped us in blankets, and fed us and so on, it wouldn't have
been quite so gay!"
Now, nothing could have been in worse taste than the conclusion of this
speech, and Dorothy knew it; but she had spoken in pure defiance of
solemnity. There had been quite enough of that for one evening.
Uncle George, dazed, troubled, and yet in some vague way inexpressibly
comforted, was quietly looking first at one speaker, then at the other,
when Liddy opened the door with a significant, "Mr. Reed, sir, did you
ring?"
Oh, that artful Liddy! Uncle read "bed-time" in her countenance. It was
his edict that half-past nine should be the hour; and the D's knew that
their fate was sealed.
"Good-night, Uncle!" said Donald, kissing his uncle in good, hearty
fashion.
"Good-night, Uncle!" said Dorothy, clinging to his neck just an instant
longer than usual.
"Good-night, my blessings!" said Uncle George, reluctantly. And as he
closed the library door behind them, Nero, shut up in Liddy's room, was
barking furiously.
* * * * *
Two more orderly, well-behaved young persons never left an apartment.
But I must tell the truth: when they were fairly in the hall, Donald
started to go up stairs on the outside, holding on to the balusters, and
Dorry ran to the front door, in spite of Liddy's remonstrances, with a
frisky, "Oh, do let me have just one breath of fresh air!"
She came back instantly, rushed past Lydia, who was slowly puffing her
way up the stairs, met Donald at the first landing (he had condescended
by this time to leap over to the regulation side of the balusters), and
whispered:
"Upon my sacred word, I saw him! He's out there standing at the front
steps!"
"Uncle ought to know it!" exclaimed Donald, turning to run down again.
But he stopped on the next step, for Mr. George came out from the
library, opened the front door, and disappeared.
* * * * *
The two D's stole from their rooms, after Liddy bade them good-night,
and sat on the top stair, whispering.
"Why did you open your window just now, Donald?"
"Why, because I wanted to look out, of course."
"Now, Don, I know better. You coughed, just to let Uncle know that you
were around, if there should be any trouble. You know you did."
"Well, what if I did?" admitted Donald, unwillingly. "Hark!" and he
sprang up, ready for action. "No, he's back. It's Uncle. I say, Dorry,
it will come hard on us to stay on this side of the hedge, like sheep. I
wonder how long it will last."
"Goodness knows! But he didn't say we couldn't go to the Danbys'. I
suppose that's because we can get there by going round the back way."
"I suppose so," assented Donald. "So long as we keep off the public
road, it's all right."
"How queer!"
"Yes, it _is_ queer," said Donald. "However, Uncle knows best."
"Dear me, how good we are, all of a sudden!" laughed Dorry; but she
kissed Donald soberly for good-night, and after going to bed lay awake
for at least fifteen minutes,--a great while for her,--thinking over the
events of the day and evening.
CHAPTER VII.
THE DANBYS.
WHO were the Danbys?
They were the Reeds' nearest neighbors, and no two households could be
more different. In the first place, the Reeds were a small family of
three, with four servants; the Danbys were a large family of twelve,
with no servants. The Reeds had a spacious country mansion, rich old
furniture, pretty row-boats, fine horses, carriages, and abundant
wealth; the Danbys had a little house, poor old furniture, one cow, five
pigs, one home-made scow, one wheelbarrow, and no money, excepting the
very moderate income earned by the father of the family and his eldest
boy. There the great contrast ended. The Danbys were thoroughly
respectable, worthy and cleanly; the parents, kind and loving souls,
could read and write, and the children were happy, obedient and
respectful. To be sure, it would have been very hard for the best
schoolmaster of the county to parse some of Mrs. Danby's fluent
sentences, or to read at a glance Mr. Danby's remarkable penmanship. But
that same learned instructor would have delighted in the cleverness of
the sons and daughters, had he been so fortunate as to direct their
studies. True, the poor little Danbys had enjoyed but a scant and broken
schooling; but they were sharp little things, and native wit served them
whenever reading, writing, and arithmetic failed. Indeed, the very fact
of their intercourse with Donald and Dorothy had done much for their
language and deportment. Yet each individual, from the big brother Ben
down to the latest baby, had his or her own peculiar character and
style, which not twenty Dons and Dorothys could alter.
It was not very difficult, after all, to remember the names of the young
Danbys; for Mr. Danby, being a methodical man, had insisted on their
being named in alphabetical order and that they each should have two
names, so as to give them their choice in after life. Therefore, the
first was Amanda Arabella,--at the present stage of our story, a girl of
seventeen, with poetical gifts of her own; the second was Benjamin
Buster, aged fifteen; the third, Charity Cora, dark-eyed, thoughtful,
nearly thirteen, and, the neighbors declared, never seen without a baby
in her arms; the fourth, Daniel David, a robust young person of eleven;
the fifth, Ella Elizabeth, red-haired, and just half-past nine, as she
said; next came Francis Ferdinand, or "Fandy," as he was called for
short, who, though only eight, was a very important member of the
family; next, Gregory George, who was six. And here the stock of double
names seems to have given out; for after Master Gregory came plain
little Helen, aged four; Isabella, a wee toddler "going on three;" and
last of all, little Jamie, "the sweetest, cunningest little baby that
ever lived." So now you have them all: Amanda Arabella, Benjamin Buster,
Charity Cora, Daniel David, Ella Elizabeth, Francis Ferdinand, Gregory
George, Helen, Isabella, and roly-poly Jamie. If you cannot quite
remember all the children, who can blame you? Even Mrs. Danby herself,
with the alphabet to help her, always had to name them upon her fingers,
allowing a child to a finger, and giving Elizabeth and Fandy the thumbs.
The stars of the family, in Donald's and Dorothy's estimation, were
Benjamin Buster, who had seen the world already, had enjoyed adventures
and hair-breadth escapes, and was now at home for the first time in four
years; Charity Cora, whose eager, dark eyes told their own story of
patient aspiration; and little Fandy. Mr. Danby was proud of all his
children, though perhaps proudest of Baby Jamie because there was no
knowing what the child might come to; but Mrs. Danby looked with
absolute reverence upon her eldest--Amanda Arabella. "Such a mind as
that girl has, Mr. Danby," she would say to her husband, "it isn't for
us to comprehend. She might have come just so out of a book, Amanda
might." And Mr. Danby would nod a pleased and puzzled assent, vaguely
wondering how long he could manage to hold his high parental state over
so gifted a creature.
Amanda Arabella's strong points were poetry and sentiment. To be sure,
she scrubbed the floor and washed the dishes, but she did these menial
duties "with her head in the clouds," as she herself had confessed to
her mother. Her soul was above it, and as soon as she could, she
intended to "go somewhere and perfect herself." This idea of going
somewhere to perfect herself was one which she had entertained in secret
for some time, though she had not the slightest idea of where she could
go, and in just what way she was to be perfected. She only knew that, at
present, housework and the nine brothers and sisters were quite as much
as she could attend to, excepting at odd moments when "the poetry fit
was on her," as her mother expressed it--"and then wild horses couldn't
stop her!"
"I can't deny, Mr. Reed," said that proud mother to her kind
neighbor,--who, on the morning after the interview with Donald and
Dorothy in his study, had halted at Mrs. Danby's whitewashed gate, to
wish her a stately "Good-morning, madam!" and to ask after her
family,--"I can't deny, and be honest, that I'm uncommon blest in my
children, though the Lord has seen fit to give us more than a extra lot
of 'em. They're peart and sound as heart could wish, and so knowin'!
Why," she continued, lowering her voice and drawing closer to the gate,
"there's my Fandy now, only eight years old, can preach 'most like a
parson! It'd rise your hair with surprise to hear him. An' Ben, my
oldest boy, has had such adventures, an' haps an' mishaps, as ought to
be writ out in a birogrophy. An' there's Amanda Arabella, my
daughter--well, if I only could set down the workin's o' my brain as
that girl can, I'd do! She has got a most uncommon lively brain. Why,
the other day--but all this time you're standin', Mr. Reed. Won't you
walk in, sir? Well, certainly, sir, it ain't to be 'xpected you _could_
take time goin' by so, as you are--Well, my 'Mandy, sir, only the other
day was a-comin' out into the shed with a pan o' dish-water, and she
sees a rainbow. 'Ma!' says she, a-callin' me, 'take this 'ere
dish-water!' and before I knowed it, she was a writin' down with her
lead-pencil the beautifullest ideas that ever was,--all about that
rainbow. In the evening, when her Pa come, I just up and showed it to
him, an' he says, says he, 'Them's the grandest thoughts I ever see put
to paper!'"
"Ah!" said Mr. Reed, with an expression of hearty interest and amusement
on his honest face, yet evidently ready to take advantage of the first
opportunity to go on his way.
"Yes, indeed," promptly assented Mrs. Danby, "and she ain't all. Our
children, if I _do_ say it, seem to have more brains than they've a fair
right to--bein' poor folks' children, as you may say. It don't tire 'em
one bit to learn: their Pa says every study they tackle gets the worst
of it,--they use it up, so to speak. I dreamed th' other night I see the
four English branches, 'rithmetic, writin', readin', and hist'ry,
standin' exhausted, waiting for them children to get through with them.
But I see you're shifting yourself, sir, for going, and I ought to be
ashamed to detain you this way clacking about my own flesh and blood.
I've been poorly lately, I didn't tell you, Mr. Reed" (looking at him
plaintively).
"No; indeed, I'm very sorry to hear it," said Mr. Reed, sympathetically.
"Nothing serious, I hope?"
"Oh, no. One o' my billerous attacks; the spine o' my back seemed to
give out somehow, and I was dreadful bad for a couple o' days. But my
Thomas an' the children--bless their hearts!--got me up again. _You're_
looking well, Mr. Reed. Good-morning, sir--good-morning!--(Sakes! he
went off so sudden I forgot)."
And thus exclaiming to herself, the dear old talker went back into the
house.
[Illustration: MRS. DANBY'S DREAM: THE FOUR ENGLISH BRANCHES.]
"Forgot what, Ma?" asked Amanda, who stood in the doorway trying to
think of a rhyme for olives.
"Why, to tell Mr. Reed about that queer kind of a man, who's just
engaged to lodge with us. I don't feel like trustin' him somehow, and
yet it isn't for plain folks to be refusing a real boarder who wants a
plain family-table, and don't put on any airs. I told him," she
continued, going farther into the house, and raising her voice as she
increased the distance between herself and Amanda, "that if ours wasn't
a family table (with ten children setting 'round it, includin' the baby,
and Mr. Danby at the head), I didn't know what was. But he's to come
back in an hour or two. Where in the world to tuck him is the question.
Anyhow, you'd better go up, dear, and ready brother's room for him.
Ben's got two rabbit-skins tacked outside the window which'll have to
come down. Ben'll have to go in with Dan and Fandy to sleep.--Mercy!
Here come the twins, 'cross-lots!--an' Fandy a preachin' there in the
pump-shed!"
True enough, the twins were coming around by the back way. They
approached softly, and made a motion of warning to Mrs. Danby, as they
drew nearer, for they could hear Fandy Danby's voice, and wished to
enjoy the fun. Mrs. Danby, smiling and nodding, pointed to a place where
they could stand unobserved and hear the sermon.
It was the hour for the afternoon "cleaning-up." Eight of the little
Danbys, including Charity with Baby Jamie in her arms, had assembled to
wash their hands and faces at the battered green pump under the shed,
where, on a long, low bench, were two yellow earthenware basins, and a
saucer containing a few fragments of brown soap, while on the wall hung
a roller-towel that already was on very familiar terms with Danby faces
and hands. The general toilet had been rather a noisy one, owing partly
to the baby objecting to having soap in its eyes, and partly to the fact
that too many required the services of the Danby roller at the same
instant, to say nothing of Miss Helen insisting upon slapping the water
in a most unladylike way, and so splashing Master Gregory.
This combination having brought matters to a crisis, Fandy had been
inspired to mount a small step-ladder, and, with many original gestures,
address the crowd in the following fashion:--
"CHIL'REN! I'm ashamed of you! I don't know when
I've been so--so umpressed with the badness of
this family. How often, my hearers, do you 'spect
me to stop my dressing to extort you! I didn't
mean to preach no more sermons this week, but you
do behave so awful bad, I must.
"Now, first, don't you know speakin' saucy is a
sin? _Don't_ you know it? It makes us hateful, an'
it makes us cross, an' it makes people tell Ma. It
ain't right for Chrisshen chil'ren to do such
things. It don't never say in our Bible-lesson
that folks can call peoples 'mean uglies' just for
wantin' the roller. An' it don't say that a good
Chrisshen child can say 'Pshaw for you!' for
havin' not to make quite so much noise, which you,
my beloved 'Gory, said just now to Charity.
"Now, we must be good an' perlite, if we want to
do right and have things Chrissmas, an' if we want
to be loved on earth and in heaven. (No, sir, that
ain't talkin' big, and I _do_ know what I mean,
too.) I say, we must be perlite. We mussent get
mad unless we can't help it. It's natural for big
folks to rub our noses the wrong way when they
wash our faces, an' to comb hair hard--they're
born so. An' all we can do is to be patient, an'
wait till we get big an' have chil'ren of our own.
[Illustration: FANDY "PREACHES A SERMON" TO HIS BROTHERS AND SISTERS.]
"But what I say--what I mean, what I--what I--(Now
you, Gregory, give Helen back her dolly right
away, or I'll come down to you!)--what I mean is,
that we all ought to be good and perlite. It's
wicked to be saucy. We ought to be able to stand
one another. An' nudgin' is wicked, an' shovin' is
wicked, an' makin' faces ain't the way to do. No
more ain't bullyin', nor mockin', nor any of
those things. I go in for bein' pleasant and
kind, an' havin' fun fair; only, my beloved
hearers, I can't do it all alone. If we'd all be
good Chrisshen chil'ren, things would go better,
an' there wouldn't be such a racket.
"Can't you cleanse your sinful hearts, my
hearers?--cleanse 'em, anyhow, enough to behave?
Can't you? (Stop your answerin', David; it puts me
out, and, besides, you oughtn't to say that. You
ought to say 'I'll try.') I notice you ain't none
of you real quiet and peaceful, unless I'm
preachin', or you're eatin' something good. I also
can see two people lookin' through the crack,
which I think they'd better come in, as I wouldn't
mind it. Now I can't extort you no more this
time."
To Fandy's great disgust, the audience applauded the conclusion of his
sermon, and were about to become more uproarious than ever, when the
sudden appearance of Donald and Dorothy put them upon their good
behavior.
"Is Ben here?" asked Donald, after the usual "How-d'ye-do's" were over,
and as Fandy was taking a hasty turn at the roller-towel.
"Don't know," said Fandy; "he was mendin' a trap, over there,"--pointing
to an enclosed corner close by the house, that had been roughly boarded
over and fitted up with bench and table by Master Ben, so as to make a
sort of workshop.
They all went over, accompanied by Charity Cora, and were received in
Ben's usual style, which consisted in simply ceasing to whistle aloud,
though he still held his lips in whistling position while he proceeded
with his work.
They watched him in silence for a moment (the young Danbys, at least,
knowing that they would be firmly, but not unkindly, ordered off, if
they interfered with the business in hand), and then, to their relief,
Ben drove in the last nail and laid down the hammer.
"What's that for?--to catch yab-bits?" asked Gregory George, nicknamed
'Gory by his brothers, for the fun of the thing, he was so fair-haired
and gentle.
"No; it's to catch little boys," answered Ben, whereat 'Gory grinned,
and looked at Don and Dorry to see if they were foolish enough to
believe it.
"Well, why don't you act perlite to your comp'ny?" asked Fandy, much
shocked at Ben's unconscious want of ceremony.
"Ha, ha!" laughed Ben. "Hallo, Donald!"
Dorry was softly talking to Cora, and at the same time coaxing the baby
from its sister's arms.
"Hallo yourself!" was Donald's quick response to Ben. "Did you have any
luck last night?"
"Yes, two! Got the skins out drying. Beauties! I say, Donald, can you
spare me your gun again, if you're not going to use it Thanksgiving
Day?"
"Certainly," answered Don; "you can have it, and welcome. Tyler and I
are going to fire at a mark in the afternoon, with Uncle and the girls.
But we'll use the rifle for that."
"What girls?" asked Charity Cora, eagerly, hoping, from Donald's plural
way of putting it, that she and Ella Elizabeth possibly were to have a
share in the sport; whereat Daniel David, guessing her thoughts,
answered for Donald, with a cutting, "Why, Queen Victoria and the royal
princess, to be sure. Who else could it be?"
Cora made no reply, but, feeling rather ashamed, rubbed her arms (a
habit of hers whenever the baby for the moment happened to be out of
them), and looked at Donald.
"Josie Manning and Ed Tyler are coming over after dinner," said Donald.
"I should think they'd rather come to dinner," spoke up Ella Elizabeth,
with hungry eyes. "Turkeys and things--Oh, my! Punkin pie!"
This called forth two exclamations in a breath:
_Dan. David:_ "'Punkin pie! Oh, my!' We're getting poetical. Call
'Mandy, quick. Punkin pie--sky high."
_Fandy:_ "Don't be so unproper. It's pumpkun pie. Dorothy said so. And,
besides, we ought to let the comp'ny do the talking."
"Humph! By this time, we've made them forget what they were talkin'
about."
"Not I, Charity," laughed Donald, turning to the latest speaker. "In the
first place, Josie and Ed didn't feel like leaving home on Thanksgiving
Day till after dinner, and we two fellows are going to teach Josie and
Dorry to shoot straight. And" (now addressing Ben, who by this time was
wedging the handle of a hammer) "as for the gun, Ben, you're always
welcome to it, so long as you return it in as good order as you did last
time. You cleaned it better than I do."
"I found the rags," said Helen, slyly,--"ever so many. Didn't I, Ben?"
Ben nodded at her, and Helen, made happy for the whole day, ran off
hugging a broken dolly in exact imitation of Charity and Baby Jamie;
meanwhile her big brother, pleased at Don's compliments, remarked, "It's
a prime gun, and never fails."
"Never fails _you_, Ben, you may as well say. It often fails me, never
mind how carefully I aim."
"That's just it, Donald," said Ben. "There's no good in aiming so
particular."
"Well, what's a fellow to do?" replied Donald. "You must take aim, and
by the time you get a bird well sighted, he's gone."
"Sight? I never sight," said Ben. "I just fire ahead."
"You don't mean to say you shoot a bird without aiming at him?"
"Oh, well, I aim, of course; but I don't look through the sight, or any
such nonsense."
"I don't understand," said Donald, doubtingly.
"Don't you? Why, it's just this: if the bird's flying he'll go ahead,
won't he? Well, you fire ahead and meet him,--that's the whole of it.
You know how an Indian shoots an arrow. He doesn't look along the line
of the arrow for ten minutes, like a city archer; he decides, in a
flash, what he's going to do, and lets fly. Practice is the thing. Now,
when you're after a wild duck, you can aim exactly at him and he's safe
as a turnip; but see a strip of water ahead betwixt the muzzle of your
gun and him, and he's a gone bird, if you fire straight. You have to
allow for diving--but practice is the thing. Learn by missing."
"Oh, that's good!" shouted Daniel David; "'learn by missing.' I'm going
to try that plan in school after this. Don't you say so, Fandy?"
"No, I don't," said the inflexible Fandy, while he gazed in great
admiration at the two big boys.
At this point, the mother appeared at the door with an empty pail in
each hand, and before she had time to call, David and Fandy rushed
toward her, seized the pails, and would have been off together for the
well, if Mrs. Danby had not said, "Let David get the water, Fandy, and
you bring me some light wood for boiling the kettle."
"You can't boil the kettle, Ma," called out one of the children. "You
boil the water."
"No more you can't," assented Mrs. Danby, with an admiring laugh.
All this time, Dorry had been tossing the struggling baby, and finally
winning it to smiles, though every fibre in its plump little body was
squirming in the direction of Charity Cora. Meanwhile, that
much-enduring sister had made several pungent remarks, in a low tone, to
her visitor, concerning babies in general and Jamie in particular.
"Now you see how nice it is! He keeps up that wriggling all day. Now
it's to come to me; but when I have him, it's wriggling for the
chickens, and for Mother, and for everything. And if you set him down
out-of-doors he sneezes; and if you set him down in the house he
screams; and Ma calls out to know 'if I can't amuse that baby!' I tote
him round from morning to night--so I do!"
Here the baby's struggles became so violent and noisy that Charity Cora
savagely took him from Dorry; whereat he threw his plump little arms
about his sister's neck with such a satisfied baby-sigh that she kissed
him over and over, and looked in placid triumph at Dorothy, apparently
forgetting that she ever had made the slightest complaint against him.
"Have you begun with your new teacher yet?" she asked, hugging Jamie,
and looking radiantly at Dorothy.
"Oh, no!" answered Dorry. "How did you know Dr. Lane was going?"
"Ma heard it somewhere! My, don't I wish I had a teacher to come every
day and put me through! I'm just dying to learn things. But something
always interferes with my getting to school. There's so much to do in
the house; and now that we're to have a boarder there'll be more to do
than ever. It's nice to be useful, I s'pose, but I'm really as ignorant,
Dorothy Reed, as a--as a baby" (this simile was suggested by little
Jamie's busy efforts to pull off her linen collar); "why, do you know, I
can't even--"
And here the girls sauntered off together to sit down on a tree-stump,
and have a good long talk, if the baby would allow it.
CHAPTER VIII.
TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING.
JUST as Donald and Dorothy were about to end the outdoor visit to the
Danbys described in our last chapter, Coachman Jack was seen in a
neighboring field, trying to catch Mr. Reed's spirited mare, "Lady,"
that had been let out to have a run. He already had approached her
without difficulty and slipped a bridle over her head, but she had
started away from him, and he, feeling that she had been allowed
playtime enough, was now bent on recapturing her.
Instantly a dozen Danby eyes were watching them with intense interest.
Then Donald and Ben, not being able to resist the impulse, scampered
over to join in the race, closely followed by Dan and Tandy. Gregory,
too, would have gone, but Charity called him back.
It was a superb sight to see the spirited animal, one moment standing
motionless at a safe distance from Jack, and the next, leaping about the
field, mane and tail flying, and every action telling of a defiant
enjoyment of freedom. Soon, two grazing horses in the same field caught
her spirit; even Don's pony, at first looking soberly over a hedge in
the adjoining lot, began frisking and capering about on his own account,
dashing past an opening in the hedge as though it were as solid a
barrier as the rest. Nor were Jack and the boys less frisky. Coaxing and
shouting had failed, and now it was an open chase, in which, for a time,
the mare certainly had the advantage. But what animal is proof against
its appetite? Clever little Fandy had rushed to Mr. Reed's barn, and
brought back in his hat a light lunch of oats for the mare, which he at
once bore into her presence, shaking it temptingly, at the same time
slowly backing away from her. The little midget and his hatful
succeeded, where big man and boys had failed. The mare came cautiously
up and was about to put her nose into the cap, when Jack's stealthy and
sudden effort to seize the bridle made her start sidewise away from him.
But here Donald leaped forward at the other side, and caught her before
she had time to escape again.
Jack was too proud of Don's quickness to appear surprised; so,
disregarding the hilarious shout of the Danby boys, he took the bridle
from the young master with an off-hand air, and led the now gentle
animal quietly towards the stable.
But Dorothy was there before him. Out of breath after her brisk run, she
was panting and tugging at a dusty side-saddle hanging in the
harness-room, when Jack and the mare drew near.
"Oh, Jack!" she cried, "help me to get this down! I mean to have some
fun. I'm going to ride that mare back to the field!"
"Not you, Miss Dorry!" exclaimed Jack. "Take your own pony, an' your own
saddle, an' it's a go; but this 'ere mare'd be on her beam ends with you
in no time."
"Oh, no, she wouldn't, Jack! She knows me perfectly. Don't you, Lady?
Oh, do, Jack! That's a good Jack. _Please_ let me! Don's there, you
know."
Dorry said this as if Don were a regiment. By this time, the
side-saddle, yielding to her vigorous efforts, had clattered down from
its peg, with a peculiar buckle-and-leathery noise of its own.
"Won't you, Jack? Ah, _won't_ you?"
"No, miss, I won't!" said Jack, resolutely.
"Why, Jack, I've been on her before. Don't you know? There isn't a horse
on the place that could throw me. Uncle said so. Don't you remember?"
"So he did!" said Jack, his eyes sparkling proudly. "The Capt'n said
them very words. An'," glancing weakly at the mare, "she's standin' now
like a skiff in a calm. Not a breath in her sails--"
"Oh, do--_do_, Jack!" coaxed Dorry, seizing her advantage, "quick!
They're all in the lot yet. Here, put it on her!"
"I'm an old fool," muttered Jack to himself, as, hindered by Dorry's
busy touches, he proceeded to saddle the subdued animal; "but I can't
never refuse her nothin'--that's where it is. Easy now, miss!" as Dorry,
climbing up on the feed-box in laughing excitement, begged him to hurry
and let her mount. "Easy now. There! You're on, high and dry. Here"
(tugging at the girth), "let me tauten up a bit! Steady now! Don't try
no capers with her, Miss Dorry, and come back in a minute. Get up,
Lady!--get up!"
The mare left the stable so slowly and unwillingly, that Jack slapped
her flank gently as she moved off.
Jog, jog went Lady out through the wide stable doorway, across the yard
into the open field. Dorry, hastily arranging her skirts and settling
herself comfortably upon the grand but dingy saddle (it had been Aunt
Kate's in the days gone by), laughed to herself, thinking how astonished
they all must be to see her riding Lady back to them. For a moment she
playfully pretended to be unconscious of their gaze. Then she looked up.
Poor Dorry! Not a boy, not even Donald, had remained in the field! He
and the little Danbys were listening to one of Ben's stories of
adventure. Even the two horses and Don's pony were quietly nosing the
dry grass in search of green tufts.
"I don't care," she murmured gayly, overcoming her disappointment. "I
mean to have a ride, any way. Get up, Lady!"
Lady _did_ get up. She shook her head, pricked up her ears, and started
off at a beautiful canter across the fields.
"How lovely!" thought Dorry, especially pleased at that moment to see
several figures coming toward her from the Danby yard; "it's just like
flying!"
Whether Lady missed her master's firm grip upon the rein, or whether she
guessed her rider's thought, and was inspired by the sudden shouts and
hurrahs of the approaching boys, can never be known. Certain it is that
by the next moment Dorry, on Lady's back, was flying in
earnest,--flying at great speed round and round the field, but with
never an idea of falling off. Her first feeling was that her uncle and
Jack wouldn't be pleased if they knew the exact character of the ride.
Next came a sense of triumph, because she felt that Don and the rest
were seeing it all, and then a wild consciousness that her hat was off,
her hair streaming to the wind, and that she was keeping her seat for
dear life.
Lady's canter had become a run, and the run soon grew into a series of
leaps. Still Dorry kept her seat. Young as she was, she was a fearless
rider, and at first, as we have seen, rather enjoyed the prospect of a
tussle with Lady. But as the speed increased, Dorry found herself
growing deaf, dumb and blind in the breathless race. Still, if she could
only hold on, all would be well; she certainly could not consent to be
conquered before "those boys."
Lady seemed to go twenty feet in the air at every leap. There was no
merry shouting now. The little boys stood pale and breathless. Ben,
trying to hold Don back, was wondering what was to be done, and Charity
was wringing her hands.
"Oh, oh! She'll be thrown!" cried the girls.
[Illustration: DONALD TO THE RESCUE.]
"Not a bit of it!" insisted Donald. "I've seen Dot on a horse before."
But his looks betrayed his anxiety. "See! the mare's trying to throw her
now! But she can't do it--she can't do it! Dot understands herself, I
tell you,--Whoa-o!--Let me go!" and, breaking from Ben, he tore across
the field, through the opening in the hedge, and was on his pony's back
in a twinkling. How he did it, he never knew. He had heard Dorry
scream, and somehow that scream made him and his pony one. Together,
they flew over the field; with a steady, calm purpose, they cut across
Lady's course, and soon were at her side. Donald's "Hold on, Dot!" was
followed by his quick plunge toward the mare. It seemed that she
certainly would ride over him, but he never faltered. Grasping his
pony's mane with one hand, he clutched Lady's bridle with the other. The
mare plunged, but the boy's grip was as firm as iron. Though almost
dragged from his seat, he held on, and the more she struggled, the
harder he tugged,--the pony bearing itself nobly, and quivering in eager
sympathy with Donald's every movement. Jack and Ben were now tearing
across the field, bent on rescue; but they were not needed. Don was
master of the situation. The mare, her frolic over, had yielded with
superb grace, almost as if with a bow, and the pony was rubbing its nose
against her steaming side.
"Good for you, Dot!" was Donald's first word. "You held on
magnificently."
Dorothy stroked Lady's hot neck, and for a moment could not trust
herself to look up. But when Jack half-pulled, half-lifted her from the
saddle, and she felt the firm earth beneath her, she tottered and would
have fallen, had not Donald, frightened at her white face, sprung to the
ground just in time to support her.
"Shiver my timbers!" growled Jack, "if ever I let youngsters have their
way again!" But his eyes shone with a strange mixture of self-reproach
and satisfaction as he looked at Dorry.
"Oh, is she hurt?" cried Charity, who, having stumbled with the baby in
her rush across the field, was gathering up the screaming little fellow,
catching her balance, and scrambling onward at the same time--"Is she
hurt?"
"Is she hurt?" echoed the others, pressing forward in breathless
excitement.
"Not hurt at all," spoke up Donald, stoutly, as, still supporting his
sister, he saw the color coming back to her cheek,--"not hurt one bit!
It's only been a splendid ride for her, and a jolly scare for us; but it
is high time we were in the house. All's right, Jack. Good-by,
everybody! We'll skip along home, now."
CHAPTER IX.
IN WHICH SOME WELL-MEANING GROWN FOLK APPEAR.
MCSWIVER--better known as "Michael" by the Manning family, or, more
descriptively, as "Mr. Manning's Mike," at the village store, but always
as "old Mr. McSwiver," by our Liddy--was about to enjoy an evening out.
This was a rare occurrence; for Mr. McSwiver, though he had advertised
himself as having "no incumbrance," was by no means an ease-taking man.
He united in his august person the duties of coachman, butler, waiter,
useful man, and body-servant to Mr. Manning. Seeing him at early dawn,
blacking his employer's boots, or, later, attending to the lighter
duties of the coachhouse (he had a stable-boy to help him), one could
never imagine the grandeur of that same useful individual when dressed
in his best.
"A hall-door-and-waitin' suit brings out a man's fine points if he has
any, so it does; and it's nowise surprisin' that parties callin' after
nightfall should be secretly mistakin' me for the boss himself," thought
Mr. McSwiver, critically regarding his well-scrubbed countenance in the
hall mirror, before starting to make a formal call on his much-admired
friend, Liddy.
Half an hour afterward he was stalking from Mr. Reed's garden-gate
toward the village store, talking to himself, as usual, for lack of
better company:
[Illustration: McSWIVER.]
"Humph! Queen Victorior herself couldn't be more high and mighty! and
all because her young lady's gone an' had a runaway on horseback! 'Is
she kilt?' says I. 'Mercy, no,' says she; 'but I shall be special
engaged all the ev'nin', Mr. McSwiver,' says she; and with that she
fastens her eyes on me (mighty pooty ones they are, too!) a-noddin'
good-by, till I was forced, like, to take meself off. Miss Josephine
herself couldn't 'a' been grander to one of them young city swells at
the 'cademy! Och, but it beat all!"
Meantime, Liddy had quite forgotten his sudden nipped-in-the-bud visit.
Old Mr. McSwiver was well enough in his own way, and at a fitting time,
for he knew her cousins the Crumps; but she could not think of society
matters so soon after her darling Miss Dorry had been in danger.
"Did you ever know it turn out any other way?" said she confidentially
to Donald, on that same evening,--after Dorothy, somewhat subdued by
dreadful remarks on the subject of nervous shocks and internal injuries,
had retired earlier than usual,--"now, did you, Master Donald? There Mr.
G. had been taking extra precautions to keep her safe, and, under a
merciful Providence, it was only by the skin of that dear child's teeth
that she wasn't sent to a better world! And, do you know, Master Donald,
there's been serious goings on here too?"
"Goings on? What _do_ you mean, Liddy?"
"Why, that horrid man came--the very same that looked in at my
sitting-room window--and Mr. George opened the door his own self, and
spoke very severe to him, and 'I cannot see you to-night,' says he.
'Come on next Monday evening, at half-past nine, and not before.' I
heard him say those very words."
Donald looked at her anxiously, but made no reply.
"There's no harm in my telling you," continued Liddy, softly, "because
you and Mr. G. and me know about him."
"No, I don't, Liddy. I haven't heard half, and you know it!" was
Donald's puzzled and indignant rejoinder. "This being let half-way into
a secret doesn't suit me. If Uncle were not busy this evening, I'd go in
and speak to him about that fellow at once."
"Oh, hush! please do," whispered Liddy, hurriedly. "Miss Dorry'll hear
you. I only meant that you and I both know that he's been hanging about
these parts for a week or more, and that his presence doesn't bode any
good. Why, you noticed it before anybody else. Besides, I want her to
sleep. The darling child! She's feeling worse than she lets on, I'm
afraid, though I rubbed her back with liniment to make sure. Please
don't talk any more about things now. To-morrow I'll ask your uncle
if--"
"No, you needn't, thank you, Liddy," interrupted Don, "I'll speak to him
myself."
"Oh my! When?"
"I don't know. When I get ready," he replied, laughing in spite of
himself at Lydia's hopeless way of putting the question. "It is sure to
come soon. I've had pulls at this tangle from time to time without
getting a fair hold of it. But I intend to straighten it out before
long, or know the reason why."
"Sakes! What an air he has, to be sure!" thought Liddy, as Donald moved
away. "The fact is, that boy's getting big. We older folks'll think of
them as children to the end of our days; but it's true as sky and water.
And it's even more so with Miss Dorry. Those twins are getting older, as
sure as I live!"
* * * * *
Monday evening came, and with it the "long, lank man." He did not come
before half-past nine; and then, to Lydia's great disappointment (for
she had rather enjoyed the luxury of dreading this mysterious visit), he
rang the door-bell like any other visitor, and asked, familiarly, for
Mr. Reed.
"Mr. Reed is at home, sir," responded Liddy, in a tone of cold
disapprobation.
"All right. You're the housekeeper, I s'pose?"
Trembling within, but outwardly calm, silent, and majestic, Liddy threw
open the study-door, and saw Mr. Reed rise to receive his guest.
The good woman's sitting-room was directly under the study.
Consequently, the continuous sound of voices overhead soon became
somewhat exasperating. But she calmed herself with the thought that Mr.
George knew his own business. It was evident that he had something very
important to talk over with "that person;" and if, in her desire to know
more, a wild thought of carrying in glasses and a pitcher of water _did_
enter her head, it met with such a chilling reception from Liddy's
better self that it was glad to creep away again.
This, then, was why Lydia, busily engaged at her little sewing-table,
was right glad, late as it was, to see Mr. Jack's shining face and
newly-combed locks appear at the sitting-room door.
"Hullo, messmate! My service to you," was that worthy's salutation.
"Good evening, sir," said Lydia, severely. "My name is Blum--Miss Lydia
Blum, though you've known it these twelve years, and been told of it
twenty times as often."
"Miss Blum, then, at your service," growled Jack, bowing very low, and
still remaining near the door. "It struck me, Mistress Blum, that a chap
from the fo'castle might drop into your pretty cabin for a friendly chat
this fine evening."
"Yes, indeed, and welcome," responded the pacified Miss Blum. "Take a
seat, Mr. Jack."
He always was "Mr. Jack," evenings, and she, "Miss Blum," each enjoying
the other's society all the more because of the mutual conviction that
he was no ordinary coachman, and she was far from being an every-day
servant. Kassy, the red-cheeked housemaid, and Norah, the cook, felt
this; and though treated kindly by both dignitaries, they accepted their
position, knowing well that they were not important members of the
family, as Jack and Lydia Blum felt themselves to be.
"Mr. Jack," spoke Lydia, suddenly, "do you know who is up stairs?"
"Ay, ay, ma'am."
"Did you come on that account?"
Here Jack looked knowing, and said she must not question the man on the
look-out.
"Not that I've had even a hint of such a thing from the Capt'n;" added
Jack, as his companion nodded approvingly; "but your good sailor looks
to the scupper before the ship fills--which doesn't apply in partic'lar,
but it has its meaning, nevertheless. Young parties turned in, yet?"
"Master Donald and Miss Dorothy have retired, Mr. Jack," corrected Miss
Blum, loftily. "That is, I presume so. At any rate, they are in their
rooms, bless them!"
"Bless 'em again!" echoed Mr. Jack, heartily, ignoring the reproof. "A
smarter, smilinger pair of beauties never came in my range on sea or
land. There's Master Donald, now, with the spirit of a man-o'-war in his
boy's hull. My, but he's a fine one! And yet so civil and biddable!
Always full set when there's fun in the air. Can't tell you, Mistress
Blum, how I dote on that 'ere boy. Then there's Miss Dorothy,--the
trimmest, neatest little craft I ever see. It seemed, t'other day, that
the deck was slippin' from under me, when I see that child scudding
'round the lot on Lady's back. You couldn't 'a' told, at first, whether
she was a-runnin' away with Lady, or Lady a-runnin' away with her. But
didn't the skeer follow mighty quick! I tell you the wind blew four
quarters to once fur a spell, but afore I could get there Master Donald
had her. Whew! It was mirac'l'us! Never see such a boy--no, nor girl
neither--as them two twins!"
"Nor I," said Liddy, fervently.
"And what babbies they were!" proceeded Jack. "I can see 'em now, as I
first saw 'em after the wreck,--poor, thin, pinched mites, 'most
sneezin' their little heads off. And then, when you took hold on 'em,
Mistress Blum, with your tender care, night an' day, day an' night,
always studyin' their babby naturs so partic'lar and insistin' upon
their havin' their grog from one tap--"
"Mr. Jack, I'm ashamed of you! How often I've requested you not to put
it that way! Milk from one cow is a common-sense rule. Every one knows
that babies brought up by hand must be treated just so particular. Well,
they throve on it, didn't they?"--her eyes kindling.
"Throve, my hearty?--ahem; beg parding! Throve! Why, they just bounded!
I never see anything like it! The brightest, liveliest little pair o'
sea-gulls I ever set eyes on; an' grow? _Grow_, Miss Blum? Well, throw
me to the sharks if ever I see anything grow like them babbies!"
"Didn't they!" exclaimed Miss Blum, so happy in recalling her success
with the "dear, darling little D's" that she quite forgot to check Mr.
Jack's inelegance "Ah, many a time I used to stand and wonder at them
when I should have been workin'! It seemed to me as if they improved
hourly. Why, do you know, Mr. Jack--"
A bell rang violently, as if some one were in trouble.
[Illustration: "I USED TO STAND AND WONDER AT THEM, WHEN I SHOULD HAVE
BEEN WORKIN'."]
"It's the master!" cried Liddy, and as she sprang up the stairs, Jack
followed her rapidly and lightly on tiptoe.
But it was not Mr. George at all. When Liddy hastily opened the library
door, with a "Did you ring, sir?" and Mr. Reed responded with a
surprised "No, thank you!" while the visitor coolly stared at her, the
good woman ran up to the second story to inquire further, and Jack went
down again, whistling softly to himself.
Lydia found Donald in tribulation. He had remained up to write a letter
to a friend at boarding-school, and somehow had managed to upset his
inkstand. His attempts to prevent serious damage had only increased the
mischief. A pale but very large ink-stain stared up at him from the wet
carpet.
"De-struction!" exclaimed Lydia, as, standing at the open door, she took
in the situation at a glance. "If you'd only rubbed it with
blotting-paper the instant it happened," she continued, kneeling upon
the floor, and rubbing vigorously with a piece that she had snatched
from the table, "there wouldn't have been a trace of it by this time.
Sakes!" glancing at the fine towel which Donald had recklessly used, "if
you haven't ruined _that_ too! Well," she sighed, slowly rising with a
hopeless air, "nothing but sour milk can help the carpet now, and I
haven't a drop in the house!"
"Never mind," said Donald; "what's a little ink-stain? You can't expect
a bachelor's apartment to look like a parlor. I'll fling the rug over
the place--so!"
"Not now, Master Donald. Do wait till it dries!" cried Lydia, checking
him in the act, and laughing at his bewildered look. She ran down stairs
with a half-reproachful "My, what a boy!"--while Donald, carefully
putting a little water into the inkstand, to make up for recent waste,
went on with his letter, which, it happened, was all about affairs not
immediately connected with this story.
CHAPTER X.
WHICH PRESENTS A FAITHFUL REPORT OF THE INTERVIEW BETWEEN MR. REED AND
HIS MYSTERIOUS VISITOR.
"HOPE the young folks are at home," remarked the "long, lank man," with
an off-hand air of familiarity, comfortably settling himself in an
arm-chair before the smouldering fire, and thrusting out his ungainly
feet as far as possible. "Would be glad to make their acquaintance."
"My nephew and niece will not be down again this evening, sir," was the
stiff reply.
"Ah? Hardly past nine, too. You hold to old-fashioned customs here, I
perceive. 'Early to bed,' etcetera, etcetera. And yet they're no
chickens. Let me see; I'm thirty-nine. According to my reckoning, they
must carry about fourteen years apiece by this time. Dorothy looks it;
but the boy seems younger, in spite of his big ways. Why not sit down,
George?"
"Dorothy!--George!" echoed Mr. Reed's thought, indignantly. But with a
stern resolve to be patient, he seated himself.
"Look here, George, as this is likely to be a long session, let's have a
little more of a blaze here. I got chilled through, waiting for that
door to open. Ah, that's something like!"
Meanwhile this cordial person, carefully selecting suitable pieces from
the wood-basket on the hearth, and rearranging the fire, had seized the
bellows and begun to blow vigorously, nearly shutting up his long
figure, like a big clasp-knife, in the act.
"Excuse my making myself at home," he continued, jauntily poking a small
log into place with the bellows, and then brushing his seedy trousers
with his hand; "it was always my style. Most men that's been knocked
about all their lives get shy and wary. But that's not Eben Slade. Well,
when are you going to begin?"
"I am ready now, Mr. Slade."
"Pshaw! Don't Mr. Slade me. Call me Eben, plain Eben. Just as Kate did."
Mr. Reed's face flushed painfully.
"See here, George," the visitor went on, suddenly changing his sportive
style to a manner that was designed to appear quite confidential and
friendly,--"see here, I don't want to quarrel with you nor any other
man. This here is just a chat between two almost relatives--sort of
left-handed brothers, you know, and for my--"
"Slade!" exclaimed Mr. Reed, savagely, rising from his chair, but at
once seating himself again, and speaking with forced calmness: "While I
have allowed you this interview, I must request you to understand, now
and for all time, as you have understood very plainly heretofore, that
there can be no connection or implied relationship between us. For
years we have been as strangers, and from this night must remain so!"
"Ex--actly!" assented Slade, cheerily--"the kind of strangers two chaps
naturally would be, having the same sister--my sister by blood, yours by
adoption."
Certainly this was a strong point with Mr. Slade, for he leaned forward
and looked boldly into the other's face, as he finished the sentence.
"Yes," said Mr. Reed, with a solemn dignity, "precisely such strangers
as the scape-grace brother of a noble girl must be to those who rescued
this girl in her earliest childhood, sheltered her, taught her, honored
and loved her as true brothers should, and to whom she clung with all a
sister's fondness and loyalty."
"Pre--cisely!" observed Mr. Slade, with a mocking air of being deeply
impressed. "Go on."
"You know the conditions under which you were adopted by Squire Hinsley,
and Kate was adopted by my father, when you were left orphans, homeless,
destitute--"
"Thank you. You are right. Quite destitute; I may say desperately
destitute; though as I was six years of age at the time, and Kate but
two, I have forgotten the painful particulars. Proceed."
"You know well," continued Mr. Reed, with quiet precision, "the
agreement signed, sealed, and delivered, in the presence of witnesses,
between my parents and John Hinsley on the one side, and your uncle and
lawful guardian, Samuel Slade, on the other. The adoption was absolute.
Kate was to have no legal claim on John Hinsley or his family; and you
were to have none upon my father and his family. She was to be to my
father, in all respects but birth, his own child,--his, Henry Reed's, to
support and educate, sharing the fortune of his own children during his
life, and receiving an equal share of his estate at his death; all of
which was literally and faithfully fulfilled. And you were adopted by
John Hinsley under similar conditions, excepting that they were, in
fact, more favorable. He and his wife were childless, and rich in
worldly goods; and they agreed to shelter and educate you--in fact, so
long as you continued to obey and honor them, to treat you in all
respects as their son and heir. You know the sequel. You had a pleasant
home, tender care, and conscientious training; but, in spite of all, you
were lazy, worthless, treacherous,--a source of constant grief and
anxiety to the good pair who had hoped to find in you a son to comfort
their old age--"
"Thank you, again!" exclaimed Eben Slade; "I always liked frankness."
"In time, and with good cause, they discarded you," continued Mr. Reed,
without noticing the interruption, "and my father, for Kate's sake, did
all in his power to win you to a decent life, but in vain. Later, in
dire want and trouble, when even your worthless companions threw you
off, you appealed to me, and I induced Mr. and Mrs. Hinsley to give you
one more trial. But you fell into bad company again and ran away,
deserting your adopted parents just when they were beginning to trust
you. Your subsequent course I do not know, nor where you have been from
that day to this. I only know that, although during your boyhood you
were free to visit your sister, you never showed the slightest interest
in her, nor seemed to care whether she were living or dead. Even when we
brought you together, you were cold and selfish in your treatment of
her, moved by a jealous bitterness which even her trustful love for you
could not dispel. These are disagreeable truths, but I intend that we
shall understand each other."
"So I see," muttered Eben.
"Meantime," continued Mr. Reed, in a different tone, and almost as if he
were talking to himself and had forgotten the presence of his visitor,
"Kate grew in sweetness, in truth and nobility of nature; grew into a
strong, beautiful girlhood, honored by all, and idolized by her new
parents and by her two brothers Wolcott and myself. Bearing our name
from her infancy, and coming with us, soon after, into this new
neighborhood as our only sister, her relationship never was
questioned--"
Eben Slade had been listening in sullen patience, but now he asked,
quickly:
"Do they, do the youngsters--"
"My brother's children?" asked Mr. Reed.
"Well, your brother's children, we'll say; do _they_ know that she was
adopted by their grandparents, that she was not their own
flesh-and-blood aunt?"
"They think of her always as the beloved sister of their father and
myself, as she virtually was," replied Mr. Reed. "From the first, the
custom of our household was to consider her purely as one of the family;
Kate herself would have resented any other view of the case.
Therefore--"
"Therefore the children have been kept in the dark about it," exclaimed
Eben Slade, exultingly, as though it were his turn now to utter plain
truths.
"The question has never been raised by them. They were hardly more than
six weeks old when they were brought to this house; and as they grew
older, they learned to know of her and love her as their Aunt Kate. If
ever they ask me the question direct, I shall answer it. Till then I
shall consider Kate Reed--I should say Mrs. Kate Robertson--as my sister
and their aunt."
"And I likewise shall continue to consider her as _my_ sister, with your
permission," remarked Eben, with a disagreeable laugh.
"Yes, and a true sister she would have been. The letters which she wrote
you during your boyhood, and which you never answered, showed her
interest in your welfare."
"If she had known enough to put money in them, now," sneered Eben Slade.
"I was kept down in the closest way, and a little offering of that kind
might-- But that's neither here nor there, and I don't see the drift of
all this talk. What _I_ want to know--what in fact I came for, and what
I intend to keep coming for, is to see her will."
"Her will?" asked Mr. Reed with surprise, and in an unconscious tone of
relief, for he had feared a much more serious demand.
"Yes, now you've hit it! Her adopted parents were dead. She had
inherited one-third of their estate. With such a fortune as that, she
must have left a will. Where is it? I want to know what became of that
money, and why you withheld--"
"Silence!" commanded Mr. Reed, sorely tempted to lay hands on the
fellow, and thrust him from the house. "No insolence, sir!"
Just then Lydia opened the door, and as we already know, vanished as
soon as she learned her presence had not been called for.
"What I want to know"--began Eben again, in a high key.
"Not so loud," said Mr. Reed, quietly.
His visitor's voice dropped, as, thrusting out his elbows and resting a
hand on each arm of his chair, he started afresh:
"So Miss Kate Reed, as she called herself, and as you called her, never
wrote me again after the old people died, eh?"
"Never" was uttered so significantly that his listener responded with a
quick, "Well! what do you mean?"
"What do _you_ mean?" echoed Slade with a darkening face. "Why didn't
she ever write to me afterward?"
This was a bit of acting designed to mislead; for Kate _had_ written
again, and at that moment a yellow, worn letter, fourteen years old, was
tucked snugly away in the visitor's pocket. And it was on the strength
of this same letter that he hoped yet to obtain heavy favors from George
Reed. Eben knew well enough what had become of the money, but, for some
cunning reason of his own, chose for the present to plead ignorance.
"I will ask you a question in return," said Mr. Reed. "Why, if you took
so keen an interest in your sister's fortune, did you not apply to me
long ago for information?"
"Because," replied Eben Slade, boldly, "I had my reasons. I knew the
money was safe; and I could bide my time."
"What!" exclaimed Mr. Reed, "do you pretend to be ignorant of the fact
that, two years after my sister Kate's marriage, she started with her
husband and baby to return to America, absolutely penniless?"
"Then, how could they pay for their passage?" asked Eben;--but meeting
Mr. Reed's eyes, he went on in an injured tone, "I know nothing but what
you choose to tell me. True, you forgot to advertise for me to put in an
appearance and hear of something to my advantage, but I supposed, very
naturally, that coming here I should learn that Kate had left me a share
of her fortune as a matter of course, and then I'd be able to go back
and settle myself respectably in the far West. I may as well tell you I
have a wife somewhere out there, and if I had means to buy up a splendid
mining property which can be had now for a mere song, I'd just buy it
clean and settle down to a steady life."
During this speech, Eben Slade's expression of face had become so very
frank and innocent that Mr. Reed's conviction began to waver. He had
felt sure that Slade remembered well enough having long ago written him
two letters--one asking for information concerning Kate's property, the
other bemoaning the fact that it was all lost, and appealing to him for
money. But now it seemed evident that these documents, still in Mr.
Reed's good keeping, had quite escaped his visitor's memory.
"I don't want to go to law about this thing," continued Slade, slowly,
as if to demand closer attention, "especially as it would stir up your
home affairs for the public benefit; and so, as I say, I hope to settle
things quietly. If I only had what ought to be coming to me, I wouldn't
be here at all. It would be lonesome for my many friends in this favored
spot, but I should be far away, making a man of myself, as they say in
the books."
"What is all this to me?" said Mr. Reed, coldly. "You have had your
answer concerning Mrs. Robertson's property. Have you any more questions
to ask? It is getting late."
"Well, yes, a few. What about the wreck? No, let's hear from the date of
the marriage." And Mr. Slade, inwardly surprised at Mr. Reed's patience,
yet unable to forego the luxury of being as familiar and pert as
possible, settled himself to listen to the story which Mr. Reed had
permitted him to come and hear.
"They sailed," began that gentleman, "early in--"
Slade, leaning back in his easy-chair, waved his hand with a sprightly,
"Beg pardon! Go back a little. This Robertson--"
"This Robertson," said Mr. Reed, as though it quite suited him to go
back, "was a stranger to me, a friend of the lady whom my brother
Wolcott afterward married. Indeed, Kate formed his acquaintance while
visiting at this lady's home in New York. He was a fascinating, handsome
man, of a visionary turn, and with extravagant tastes,--but without a
grain of business capacity."
"Like myself," interrupted the listener, with an ugly attempt at a
smile.
"From the first I opposed the marriage," continued Mr. Reed; "but the
poor girl, reasonable in everything else, would listen neither to
argument nor to appeal. She was sure that in time we would know him and
believe in him as she did. I would not even attend the wedding, which
took place at her friend's house; though, by the terms of my father's
will, and very much against our judgment, my brother Wolcott and myself,
who were her guardians up to the date of her marriage, gave up to her
unconditionally one-third of the family estate on her wedding-day. The
result was as we had feared. They sailed immediately for England, and
there, he entered into various wild speculations, and in less than two
years the little fortune was utterly gone."
"Can you prove it?" interrupted Mr. Slade, suspiciously.
"Meantime," said Mr. Reed, looking at him as though he were a vicious
spaniel, "my brother had married, and had gone with his bride to Europe,
intending to remain two years. In a twelvemonth his wife became the
mother of twins, a boy and a girl, and before two weeks had passed their
father was stricken with fever, and died. News then came to me, not only
of my brother's death, but also that my sister Kate had become
destitute, and had been too proud to let us know of her misfortunes, and
finally, that at the time the letter was written, she and her husband,
with their baby daughter, then only three weeks old, were living solely
on the bounty of Wolcott's widow.
"There was but one thing to be done. The widow was broken-hearted,
totally unable to attend to her business affairs, and Kate's husband,
Mr. Robertson, was the last man whom I could trust to do it for her. But
he at least could accompany the party to America, and I sent word for
both families to come as soon as they could safely bring the three
babies; and charged Mr. Robertson to leave nothing undone which could
tend to their comfort and safety on the voyage.
"They sailed--" Here Mr. Reed paused, bracing himself for the remainder
of the recital, which he had resolved should be complete and full. He
had at hand legal papers proving that his adopted sister Kate, at the
time of her marriage, had received her rightful third of his father's
estate; but he did not feel in any way compelled to show these to his
unpleasant visitor.
Eben Slade for an instant respected the silence. But he had a point to
gain.
"Yes," said he, "but this is sudden news as to the loss of her property.
I don't understand it. She must at some time have made a will. Show me
documents!"
"There was no will," said Mr. Reed. "As for documents,"--here he arose,
walked to a high, old-fashioned secretary, unlocked a drawer, and
produced two letters,--"you may recognize these!" and he unfolded the
yellow, time-worn sheets before Mr. Slade's astonished eyes--astonished,
not that they were his own letters, betraying his full knowledge of his
sister's loss of property, but that Mr. Reed should be able to produce
them after all these fourteen years.
"See here!" said that gentleman, showing him one of the letters, and
pointing to these heartless words in Slade's own handwriting: "_It's
terrible news; for now that Kate's money is gone, as well as herself, I
know there's nothing more to look for in that quarter._"
Slade scrutinized the passage with well-feigned curiosity. But he had
his revenge ready.
"Seeing as you've a fancy for old letters, George, may be this 'ere will
interest you."
Was it magic? Another yellow letter, very much soiled and worn, appeared
to jump from Slade's pocket and open itself upon the table before Mr.
Reed's eyes. He recognized Kate's clear, bright penmanship at a glance.
"Read it," said Eben, standing close, and still keeping hold of the
letter.
And Mr. George read:
"_In my extremity, Eben, I appeal to you. By this
time you may be yourself again, turned from all
evil ways. I married against my brother George's
consent--and he has as good as cast me off. We are
penniless; my husband seems completely broken
down. He may not live long. My brother Wolcott has
just died. I am too proud to go to his widow, or
to my brother George. Oh, Eben, if I starve, if I
die, will you take my baby-girl? Will you care for
her for our dead mother's sake?_"
"I'd have done my duty by that baby," said Eben Slade, slowly folding
the letter, and looking with hateful triumph into Mr. Reed's pale face.
"I'd have had my rights, too, and you never should have seen hide nor
hair of the child if it had lived. I wish it had; she'd 'a' been handy
about the house by this time, and my wife, whose temper is none of the
best, would have had some one to scold besides me, as well as some one
to do the chores. What have you got belonging to the child? What's hers
is mine. Where's the baby-clothes,--the things that Robertson's people
must have sent on afterward from England?"
"There was nothing sent on afterward," replied Mr. Reed, with a stunned
look; but in an instant, he turned his eyes full upon Slade, causing the
miserable creature to cringe before him:
"If you had the soul of a man, I could wish for your sake that something
belonging to the lost baby had been saved; but there was nothing. My
sister was not herself when she wrote that letter. She was frantic with
grief and trouble, else she would have known that I would forgive and
cherish her. And now, sir, if you are satisfied, I bid you good
evening!"
"I am _not_ satisfied," said Eben doggedly. "There's more to be settled
yet. Where is the man who saw the shipwreck?"
Mr. Reed opened the window. Seizing something that hung there, he blew a
shrill whistle, then lowered the sash and sat down.
Neither spoke a word. Quick steps sounded upon the stairs. The door
opened.
"Ay, ay, Capt'n!" said Jack. Nero stood beside him, growling.
CHAPTER XI.
JACK.
JACK and Nero entered the library, where Mr. Reed and Eben Slade sat
waiting.
The entrance of the sailor-coachman had a peculiar effect upon Eben
Slade. It gave him a drowsy appearance. Some men have that look when
they are specially on their guard.
"Did you want me, Capt'n?" asked Jack, after standing a few seconds and
receiving no orders.
"No; _I_ want you," spoke up Eben Slade, in a bold yet uneasy tone.
"Let's see if you can answer a few plain questions."
Jack glanced inquiringly at Mr. Reed; then, brightening, replied to
Slade as to one not at all worthy of his respect:
"Questions? P'raps. Reel 'em out."
It was plain from the start that, if the sailor-coachman could have his
own way, Eben Slade would get but little information out of him. He had
despised the fellow as a "skulker," from the moment he had seen him
sneaking about the grounds like a spy, as he truly suspected him to be.
"So," began the questioner grandly, as if to awe his man into a becoming
deference, "you are the person who, according to Mr. Reed, rescued the
twins? How--I mean in what way, by what means--did you save them?"
"Mostly by tryin', your honor," replied Jack, sullenly.
Eben Slade looked vexed, but he returned blandly:
"Undoubtedly so. But I want the details of the saving. Let us hear from
the beginning."
"There warn't any beginning," growled Jack. "The first we knew about it,
it was all over."
"Well, but you had some part in the wreck, hadn't you? What was it?"
"I didn't have no part in it, bless you," replied Jack, with grim humor,
"it did itself."
"Clever tar!" exclaimed Mr. Slade, in mock admiration, inwardly resolved
to conciliate the man, if possible, by letting him have his own way for
a while. "Well, I was on the wrong tack, as you sailors would say. Now,
to start fair, can you tell me what happened after the first shock of
the shipwreck was over? Which of the children did you pick up first?"
"Sorry I can't oblige you," said Jack; "but you see it was night, and,
besides, I'd forgot my specs."
"Have you any recollection whatever on that point, Jack?" asked Mr.
Reed, though he well knew what the answer must be.
"No, sir," replied Jack, respectfully; but instantly throwing a tone of
pathetic appeal into his voice: "Why, Capt'n, look a' here! It's hard
seein' any diff'rence between young babbies in broad sunlight and a
smooth sea; but down in the ragin' waves, an' in the night time, now?
It ain't in reason."
Mr. George nodded, and Slade, after thinking a moment, asked mildly:
"Did you happen to know any of the passengers, Jack?"
"When a cove hails from the fo'castle, your honor, he ain't apt to be
over intimate in the cabins; but I knew one lady aboard, if I do say
it."
"Ah," exclaimed Eben Slade, "now we have it! You knew one lady aboard.
_Which_ of the ladies was this?"
"It was the stewardess, sir, and she was drownded."
"And you knew no other lady, eh?"
"Can't say, sir. Opinions differ as to knowin'; what some might call
bein' acquainted another might call otherwise," said Jack, with a
scrape, and a light touch at his forelock.
"Right!" pursued Eben Slade. "Now did you happen to be 'acquainted, or
otherwise,' with either Mrs. Reed or Mrs. Robertson?"
"I was 'otherwise,' your honor, with every lady on the ship, exceptin'
the party I told you was drownded."
"Then you didn't know Mrs. Reed and Mrs. Robertson apart, am I to
understand?" asked Slade, sharply.
"Can't say, sir. Never saw 'em apart."
"Ah! They were always together, then; now we're getting it. Could you
tell which was the mother of the twins?"
"_Could_ I tell which was the mother of the twins? I didn't know half
the passengers from t'other half, let alone knowin' which babby
belonged to which mother. Why, man, boxin' the compass back'ard would be
nothin' compared to that. All I can tell you is we was 'most all hove
out into the sea, high and low together."
"I'd have you hove out again if you were my man, or make you keep a
civiller tongue in your head," was Eben's savage retort. "Now, sir, will
you or will you not tell me how you saved the two babies, and what
became of the other one?"
"I will not," answered Jack, doggedly; then seeing that Mr. George was
about to reprove him, he added, in an altered tone: "As for the savin',
that's my business; but the other poor little critter must'a been put
into the boat with its poor mother. I feel sartain it was."
Eben leaned forward, and asked with some gentleness:
"How did you know it was the mother?"
"Because--well, by the way the poor soul screamed for it, when they were
letting her and the rest down into the boat; and the way she quieted
after,--that's how I know. But it's all unsartain."
"And where was the other mother?"
Jack turned an imploring glance toward Mr. Reed. _Must_ he go on
humoring the fellow?--but Mr. Reed's expressive nod compelled him to
reply:
"The other mother? I don't know where she was. One instant we men was
all obeyin' orders; the next, everything was wild. It was dark night,
women screamin', men shoutin', the ship sinkin', some hollerin' she was
afire, and every one savin' himself an' others as best he could. Perhaps
you ain't aware that folks don't gen'rally go and get out the log at
such times and set down their obserwations for future ref'rence."
"Did you see Mr. Robertson?" asked Slade, loftily. "Was he with the lady
in the boat?"
"Well, if ever I met the like of land lubbers! Was he with the lady in
the boat? Did I see him? Why, man, it warn't a pleasure-party. Out of
all that shipload, barely twenty men and wimmen ever saw the sun rise
again; and Mr. Robertson,--no, nor his wife, nor the babby, nor t'other
poor lady,--warn't amongst them, as the master here can tell you; and
none on 'em couldn't make us any the wiser about who the babbies
belonged to. An' their mothers wasn't hardly ever on deck; 'most like
they was sick in their state-rooms, for they was born ladies, both of
'em; and that's all you'll learn about it, if I stand here till
daylight. Now, Capt'n, shall I pilot the gentl'man out?"
"Yes, you may," cried Eben, rising so suddenly that Jack's eyes blinked,
though, apart from that, not a muscle stirred. "I'll have a talk with
you outside."
"Jest my idee!" said Jack, with alacrity, holding wide the door. "No
place like the open sea for a collision." Again his glance questioned
Mr. Reed. He was in the habit of studying that face, very much as in
times past he had studied the sky to learn the weather. But the stern
answer he found there, this time, disappointed him, and "saved Eben
Slade from bein' stove in an' set beam-end in less than no time," as
Jack elegantly remarked to himself, while Mr. George rose and bade his
visitor a stiff "good-evening."
CHAPTER XII.
A DAY IN NEW YORK.
ON the next morning, when Donald and Dorothy, very much to their
surprise, were advised by their uncle not to go to the Danbys' for the
present, Dorry exclaimed, tragically:
"Not even to the Danbys', Uncle! Why, what have _they_ done?"
His reply was far from satisfactory to the young lady.
"Done? Nothing at all, my girl. We'll not keep you in close confinement
very long, so you must try to bear your captivity with fortitude. There
are worse things, Dot, than being obliged to stay within one's own
domain for a few days."
"I know it, Uncle!" said Dorry; then, resolving to be brave and
cheerful, she added, with a mischievous laugh: "Wouldn't it be a good
plan to tether us in the lot, with Don's pony?"
"Excellent!" replied Uncle. "But, by the way, we need not tether you
quite yet. I have business in the city to-morrow, and if you and Donald
say yes, it shall be a party of three."
"Oh, indeed we say yes," cried the now happy Dorry. "Shall you be there
all day, Uncle?"
"All day, my dear. We shall have plenty of time for sight-seeing."
"Good! good!" and off she ran to tell the glad news to Lydia. "Only
think, Liddy! Donald and I are to be all day in New York. Oh, we'll
have such a nice time! and I'll buy you the prettiest white apron you
ever wore in all your life!"
* * * * *
The new morning, skipping across the sparkling lake, climbed up to
Dorry's window and wakened her with its sunny touch.
"Get up, Don," called Dorry, at the same time tapping briskly on her
wall. "It's a glorious day!"
No answer. She tapped again.
A gruff, muffled sound was the only response. In a few moments, however,
Dorry heard Don's window-blinds fly open with spirit, and she knew that
her sisterly efforts to rouse him had not been in vain.
Uncle George was fond of giving pleasant surprises; so, when later they
all three were comfortably settled in the rail-car, he remarked
carelessly to Dorothy that he thought her idea an excellent one.
"What idea, please, Uncle?"
"Why, don't you remember expressing a wish that you and Don could make
Dr. Lane a present before his departure?"
"Oh, yes, Uncle; but I didn't know that you heard me."
Well, the three talked the matter over quite confidentially under the
friendly racket of the train, and finally it was decided to present to
the good tutor a nice watch, with his name and "From his grateful
pupils, Donald and Dorothy," engraved on the inside of the case. Donald
had proposed a seal-ring, but Mr. Reed said heartily that while they
were about it they might as well make it a watch; and Dorry, in her
delight, came near jumping up and hugging her uncle before all the
passengers. It is true, she afterwards expressed a wish that they could
give Dr. Lane the price of the watch instead; but, finally, they agreed
that a gift of money might hurt his feelings, and that after so many
months of faithful service some sort of souvenir would be a more fitting
token of respect and affection. Yes, all things considered, a watch
would be best.
"He hasn't any at all, you know," said Dorry, earnestly, looking from
one to the other, "and it must be an awful--I mean a _great_--inconvenience
to him; especially now, when he'll have to be taking medicines every two
hours or so, poor man."
Donald smiled; the remark was so like Dorry! But he looked into her
grave yet bright young face, with his heart brimful of love for her.
* * * * *
The day in town passed off pleasantly indeed. As Uncle George's business
took him to a banker's in Wall Street, the D's enjoyed a walk through
that wonderful thoroughfare, where fortunes are said to come and go in
an hour, and where every one, in every crowded room of every crowded
building, and on almost every foot of the crowded sidewalk, thinks,
speaks, and breathes, "Money, money, money!" from morning till night.
But Uncle's business was soon despatched; the anxious crowds and the
"clerks in cages," as Dorry called the busy workers in the banks, were
left behind. Then there were fresh sights to be seen, purchases to be
made, and above all, the watch to be selected,--to say nothing of a
grand luncheon at Delmonico's, where, under their busy appetites,
dainties with Italian and French names became purely American in an
incredibly short space of time.
[Illustration: TRINITY CHURCH AND THE HEAD OF WALL STREET.]
Uncle George delighted in the pleasure of the D's. The more questions
they asked, the better he liked it, and the more sure he became that his
Don and Dot were the brightest, most intelligent pair of young folk
under the sun. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the holiday as heartily as
they did, excepting when Dorothy, toward the latter part of the
afternoon, surprised him with a blank refusal to go nearly three hundred
feet above the street.
You shall hear all about it:
They were homeward bound,--that is to say, they were on their way to the
down-town ferry-boat that would carry them to the railroad
station,--when Donald suddenly proposed that they should stay over till
a later train.
"And suppose we walk on down to Wall Street, Uncle," he continued, "and
go into Trinity Church. There's a magnificent view from the spire."
"Yes," was his uncle's rather frightened comment. "But the spire is more
than two hundred and eighty feet high. What are you going to do about
that?"
"Why, climb up, sir, of course. You know there's a good stairway nearly
to the top, perhaps all the way. Anyhow, we can get up there, I know;
and Ed Tyler says the view is perfectly stupendous."
"So I've heard," said Uncle, half ready to yield; "and the climb is
stupendous too."
"Yes, but you can look down and see the city, and the harbor, and all
the shipping, and the East River, and everything. There's an hour to
spare yet. We can take it easy. What say you, Uncle?"
"Well, I say yes," said Uncle, with forced heartiness, for he dearly
loved to oblige the twins.
Then they turned to Dorry, though it seemed hardly necessary; she always
was ready for an adventure. To their surprise, she responded
emphatically:
"And _I_ say, please let me wait somewhere till Uncle and you come down
again. I don't care to go up."
"Why, Dot, are you tired?" asked her uncle, kindly.
"Oh, no, Uncle, not a bit. But whenever I stand on a high place I always
feel just as if I _must_ jump off. Of course, I wouldn't jump, you know,
but I don't wish to have the feeling. It's _so_ disagreeable."
"I should think as much," said Donald; but Mr. Reed walked on toward the
ferry, silently, with compressed lips and a flushed countenance; he did
not even mention the steeple project again.
Meantime the noble old church on Broadway stood calmly overlooking the
bustle and hurry of Wall Street, where the "money, money, money" chorus
goes on day after day, ceasing only on Sundays and holidays, and when
the clustering stars shed their light upon the spire.
"Uncle thinks I'm a goose to have such silly notions," pondered Dorry,
taking very long steps so as to keep up with her companions, who, by the
way, were taking very short steps to keep pace with Dorry. "But I can't
help my feelings. It really is true. I hate to stand on high places,
like roofs and precipices." Finally, she spoke:
"Uncle George, didn't you ever hear of other persons having that
feeling?"
"What feeling, Dorothy?"
How sternly Mr. Reed said it! Surely he could not blame the poor girl
for asking so natural a question as that? No. But the incident had
saddened him strangely, and he was unconscious of the severity of his
tone, until Dorothy's hesitating manner changed the current of his
thoughts.
"Why--why, the--" she began, adding: "Oh, it doesn't matter, Uncle. I
suppose I am foolish to ask such questions. But Don is ever so much
steadier-headed than I am--aren't you, Don? I do believe he'd like to
stand on the top of that telegraph-pole, if he could get there."
"There's no 'if' about that," said Donald, jokingly. "It's a mere
question of time. Provided a fellow can climb a pole at all, a little
more height makes no difference. Why, if I hadn't on my crack suit, I'd
ask you and Uncle to wait and let me have a try at it."
"Oho!" laughed Dorry: "'crack' suit is slang; so is 'have a try'. Five
cents apiece. That's ten cents fine for you, sir! Well, we ought to be
thankful he hasn't on his old clothes, Uncle! Ahem! The 'crack' would be
in the head then, instead of the suit, I'm afraid."
"Poor joke!" retorted Don; "ten cents fine for _you_, young lady."
Thus the party walked on, the light-hearted D's bantering each other
with many laughing sallies, feeling confident that their uncle enjoyed
it exceedingly.
And so he did; yet all the while he was thinking:
"Strange! Every day something new--something that reminds me of poor
Kate. Now it's this dread of standing on high places; what will it be
to-morrow? And yet, as the child herself intimates, many other persons
have the same feeling. Now I think upon it, it's the commonest thing in
the world."
CHAPTER XIII.
DONALD AND DOROTHY ENTERTAIN FANDY.
IN a few days after the visit to town, Mr. Reed received a letter, very
dingy on the outside and very remarkable within. It was brought by one
of the little Danby boys, and it read as follows:
"GEORGE REED ESQUIR.
"_Dear Sir_: I take my pen to say that the border
left yesterday without notis owin us fur the hole
time. He hadent a portmanter nor any luggage
except paper collars, which enabeled him to go off
without suspition. A tellygram which he forgot and
my wife afterward pikt it up said for him to go
right to Pensivania old Squir Hinson was dying. It
was from a party caling himself Janson K. The
border as I aught to enform you has told my
children inclooding Francis Ferdinand who bares
this letter a cockanbull story about bein related
to your honered self by witch we know he was an
imposture. I write insted of calling at the house
as I am laim from cuttin my foot with an ax
yesterday and it dont apear quite cuncistunt to
send you a verble message.
"Yours respecfully,
"ERASMUS DANBY.
"SATURDAY."
"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Reed, drawing a deep sigh of relief as he folded
the missive. Then, conscience-smitten at his indifference to the Danby
interests, and resolved that, in the end, Mr. Danby should be no loser
by "the boarder," he looked toward Master Danby. That young gentleman,
dressed in a made-over Sunday suit, still stood hat in hand in the
library doorway.
"Is your father badly hurt, my little man?"
"No, sir," repeated Fandy, rapidly, and with a solemn countenance. "His
thick boot saved him. The axe fell and cut through down to his skin, and
it bled a sight, and 'Mandy 'most fainted, and Ma bandaged it up so
tight he hollered a bad word."
"What?"
"Yes, sir. He said 'blazes!' And Ma said for him not to forget hisself
if he _was_ hurt, and he said he wouldn't again. And Ma devised him, as
Sunday was comin' so soon, to take Saturday, and so give his foot two
days to heal, and he's doin' it."
"But 'blazes' isn't a very, very bad word, is it?"
"No, sir, not very wicketly bad. But Pa and Ben mean it instead of
swearin' words, and Ma's breaking them of it. Ma's very partic'lar."
"That's right," said Mr. Reed. "So, Master Francis Ferdinand," referring
to the letter, "the boarder told you that he was a relation of mine, did
he?"
"Yes, sir, but we knew better. He was a bad lot, sir."
"A very bad lot," returned Mr. Reed, much amused.
"Ma said I could stay, sir, if I was asked."
"Very well," said Mr. Reed, smiling down upon the little midget. "You
probably will find Donald and Dorothy in the garret."
[Illustration: THE GARRET BEFORE FANDY'S ARRIVAL.]
"Yes, sir!" and off went Fandy with nimble dignity through the hall;
then soberly, but still lightly, up the stairs to the landing at the
first turn; then rapidly and somewhat noisily across the great square
hall on the second story, to the door of the enclosed stair-way, and,
finally, with a shrill "whoop!" leaping up two steps at a time, he found
himself in the open garret, in the presence of--the family cat!
No Donald or Dorothy was to be seen. Only the cat; and she glared at
him with green eyes. Everything up there was as still as death; grim
shadows lurked in the recesses and far corners; the window was shaded by
some limp garments hanging near it, and now stirring drearily Fandy
could chase angry cattle and frighten dogs away from his little sisters,
but lonely garrets were quite another matter. Almost any dreadful object
could stalk out from behind things in a lonely garret! The boy looked
about him in an awe-struck way for an instant, then tore, at break-neck
speed, down the stairs, into the broad hall, where Donald, armed like a
knight, or so it seemed to the child, met him with a hearty, "Ho, is
that you, Fandy Danby? Thought I heard somebody falling. Come right into
my room. Dorry and I are practising."
"Praxin' what?" panted the relieved Fandy, hurrying in as he spoke, and
looking about him with a delighted, "Oh my!"
Dorothy was a pretty girl at any time, but she certainly looked very
pretty indeed as she turned toward the visitor--her bright hair tumbled,
her face flushed with exercise, her eyes sparkling merrily. She held a
fencing-mask in one hand, and a foil, lightly upraised, in the other.
"Oh, Fandy!" she said, "you are just the one we want. Don is teaching me
to fence, and I can't half see how he does it, because I have to wear
the mask. Here, let me put it on you--that's a good boy," and she suited
the action to the word, laughing at the astonished little face which
Fandy displayed through the wire network.
"Now, take the foil!--No, no. In your right hand, so." Then, addressing
Donald, she added: "Now he's ready! Fall to, young man!"
"Yes! fall to-o!" shouted Fandy, striking an attitude and catching the
spirit of the moment, like the quick little fellow he was. "Fall to-o!"
Donald laughingly parried the small child's valiant but unscientific
thrusts, while Dorry looked on in great satisfaction, sure that she now
could "catch the idea" perfectly.
No armed chieftain at the head of his clan ever appeared more
desperately valiant than Fandy on this occasion.
Fortunately cats can tell no tales.
A very active youngster of eight, with a long foil in his strong little
hand, striking right and left regardless of consequences, and leaping
from the ground when making a thrust at his opponent's heart, or
savagely attempting to rival the hero of Chevy Chase who struck off his
enemy's legs, is no mean foe. Donald was a capital fencer; and, well
skilled in the tricks of the art, he had a parry for every known thrust.
But Fandy's thrusts were unknown. Nothing more original or unexpected
could be conceived; and every time Dorry cried "foul!" he redoubled his
strokes, taking the word as a sort of applause. For a while, Donald
laughed so much that he scarcely could defend himself; but, whenever he
found that he was growing short of breath, he would be in earnest just
long enough to astonish his belligerent foe. At the moment when that
lively young duellist flattered himself that he was doing wonders, and
pressing the enemy hard, Donald would stop laughing for a second, make a
single sudden pass toward Fandy, with a quick turn of his wrist, and,
presto! the eight-year-old's foil, much to his amazement, would leave
his hand as if by magic, and go spinning across the floor. But Fandy,
utterly unconscious that this unaccountable accident was a stroke of art
on Donald's part, was not in the least disconcerted by it.
[Illustration: Fandy's first fencing-match.]
"Hello!" he would shout, nothing daunted, "_I've dropped my soword!_
Wait a minute. Don't hit me yet!" And then, picking up his weapon, he
would renew the attack with all his little might.
At last, Donald, wearying of the sport, relieved himself of his mask and
consulted his watch, a massive but trusty silver affair, which had been
worn by his father when a boy.
Was Fandy tired? Not a bit. Practice had fired his soul. "Come on,
Dorothy!" he cried. "Pull to-o! I mean, fall to-o!"
But Dorry thanked him and declined; whereat a thought struck the young
champion. His expression grew fierce and resolute as, seizing the foil
with a sterner grip, he turned to Donald.
"There's a cat up stairs. I guess it's a wild-cat. D' YOU WANT IT
KILLED?"
"Oh, you little monster!" cried Dorry, rushing to the door and standing
with her back against it. "Would you do such a thing as that?"
"I would to d'fend myself," said Fandy, stoutly. "Don't hunters kill
tigers?"
"But this isn't a tiger, nor even a wild-cat. It's tame. It's our Nan!"
"Let him go try," spoke up Donald. "He'll get the worst of it."
"Indeed I'll not let him try, either," cried Dorry, still holding her
position.
But Fandy already was beginning to cool down. Second thoughts came to
his rescue.
"I don't believe in hurtin' tame animals," said he. "It's naughty," and
the foil and mask were laid carefully upon the table.
"Who taught you to fight with these things?" he asked Donald in an
off-hand way, as though he and Don were about equal in skill, with the
great difference that his own power came to him by nature, while
Donald's undoubtedly was the result of severe teaching.
"Professor Valerio."
"Oh, did he? I've heard 'Manda talk about _him_. She says he's
the--the--somethingest man in the village. I forget now what she called
him. What's those things?" Here the visitor pointed to Don's
boxing-gloves.
At any other time Don would have taken them from the wall and explained
their use, but it was nearly three o'clock, and this was his
fencing-lesson day. So he merely said, "They're boxing-gloves."
"Do you _wear_ 'em?" asked Fandy, looking in a puzzled way, first at the
huge things, then at Donald's hands, as if comparing the sizes.
"Yes, when I'm boxing," returned Donald.
"What will you do about your fencing-lesson, Don?" said Dorry. "Do you
think Uncle will let you go? We're prisoners, you know."
"Of course he will," replied Donald, taking his hat (he had a mask and
foil at the professor's) and preparing to start. "I'm to call for Ed
Tyler at three. We'll have rare times to-day; two fellows from town are
to be there,--prime fencers, both of them,--and we are to have a fencing
match."
[Illustration: THE FENCING-MASTER.]
"You'll win," said Dorry. "You always do. Ed Tyler says you are the
finest fencer he ever saw, excepting Professor Valerio, and he says you
beat even the professor sometimes."
"Nonsense!" said Donald, severely, though his face betrayed his
pleasure. "Ed Tyler himself's a match for any one."
"What a mutual-admiration society you two are!"
Dorry said this so good-naturedly that Donald could not resent it, and
_his_ good-nature made her add:
"Well, I don't care. You're _both_ splendid, if I do say it; and, oh,
isn't the professor handsome! He's so straight and tall. Uncle says he's
a standing argument against round shoulders."
Dorry had taken a photograph from the table, and had been talking partly
to it and partly to Donald. As she laid the picture down again, Fandy
stepped up to take a look.
"Who is it?" he asked.
"It's Professor Valerio, Don's fencing-master."
"Whew! See his soword!" exclaimed the small boy, looking at the picture
in great admiration. "My, wouldn't I like to fight _him_!"
"There goes Don," said Dorothy, who by this time was looking out of the
window; "Uncle must have consented."
"Consented!" echoed Fandy. "Why, can't Donald go out 'thout askin'? Ben
can, and Dan David, too; so can 'Mandy and----Hello, Charity, I'm
a-comin'."
This last remark was shouted through the open window, where Dorothy
stood waving her hand at the baby.
"Can you come up, Charity?" she cried out.
"No, thank you. Mother said I must hurry back. She wants Fandy."
CHAPTER XIV.
UNCLE GEORGE'S HAPPY THOUGHT.
DR. LANE, made proud and happy by the affection of his bright young
pupils, as well as by their beautiful gift, bade farewell to Mr. Reed
and the D's, with repeated promises to write in due time and tell them
how he liked the sunny South, and how it fared with him.
"I shall like it, I know," he assured them, "and the climate will make
me strong and well. Good-by once more, for you see" (here he made a
playful show of consulting his watch as he took it proudly from his
vest-pocket) "it is precisely six and three-quarter minutes after three,
and I must catch the 4.20 train to town. Good-by." But there were more
good-byes to come; for Jack had brought the light top-wagon to the door,
and Donald and Dorothy insisted upon driving with him and Dr. Lane to
the station.
Upon their return, they found their uncle and Liddy engaged in
consultation.
The evening came on with change of wind, a dull gray sky and all the
unwelcome signs of a long storm.
"I have been thinking," remarked Mr. Reed, while he and the D's were
waiting for supper, "that it would be a good idea to have a little fun
between times. What say you, my dears?"
The dears looked at each other, and Don asked, "Between what times,
Uncle?"
"Why, between the going of our good friend Dr. Lane and the coming of
that awful, but as yet unknown personage, the new tutor."
"Oh, yes, Uncle!" cried Dorothy, clapping her hands, "I'm ready for
anything. But then," she added, half-playfully, "you forget we're
prisoners, like the princes in the Tower!"
"Not prisoners at all now," he exclaimed, "unless the storm should prove
your jailer. Circumstances have changed; and you are free as air."
"Let me see, what shall we have," he went on, taking no notice of the
D's' surprise at this happy turn of affairs, and speaking slowly and
deliberately--just as if he had not settled that matter with Liddy some
days ago!--"Let me see. What _shall_ it be? Ah, I have a happy thought!
We'll try a house-picnic!"
"What's that, Uncle?" asked Dorry, half-suspiciously.
"You don't know what a house-picnic is!" exclaimed Uncle George with
pretended astonishment. "Well, upon my word!"
It did not occur to him to mention that the idea of a house-picnic was
purely an invention of his own; nor did he suspect that it was one which
could have found favor only in the brain of a doting and rich bachelor
uncle.
"Now, Uncle, do--don't!" coaxed Dorry; and Don echoed, laughingly: "Yes,
Uncle, do--don't!" But he was as eager as she to hear more.
"Why, my dears, a house-picnic means this: It means the whole house
thrown open from ten in the morning till ten at night. It means fun in
the garret, music and games in the parlor, story-telling in odd corners,
candy-pulling in the kitchen, sliding-curtains, tinkling bells, and
funny performances in the library; it means almost any right thing
within bounds that you and about thirty other youngsters choose to make
it, with the house thrown open to you for the day."
"No out-of-doors at all?" asked Donald, doubtfully, but with sparkling
eyes.
"Oh, yes, a run or two when you wish, for fresh air's sake; but from
present appearances, there'll be drizzling days all the week, I suspect,
and that will make your house-picnic only the pleasanter."
"So it will! How splendid!" cried Dorry. "Jack can take the big covered
wagon and go for the company, rain or not, while Don and you and I plan
the fun. We'll try all sorts of queer out-of-the-way things. Good for
the house-picnic!"
"Good for the house-picnic!" shouted Donald, becoming almost as
enthusiastic as Dorry.
"Oh, Uncle," she went on, "you are too lovely! How _did_ you happen to
think of it?"
"Well, you see," said Uncle, with the glow-look, as Liddy called it,
coming to his face, "I thought my poor princes in the Tower had been
rather good and patient under the persecutions of their cruel Uncle
Gloucester, and so Liddy and I decided they should have a little frolic
by way of a change."
"Has _he_ gone from the neighborhood, I wonder?" thought Donald (strange
to say, neither he nor Dorry had known that the Danbys' boarder and the
"long, lank man" were the same), but he said aloud: "We're ever so glad
to hear it, Uncle. Now, whom shall we invite?"
"Oh, _do_ hear that 'whom'!" exclaimed Dorry, in well-feigned disgust,
while Don went on gayly:
"Let's have plenty of girls this time. Don't you say so, Dorry?"
"Oh, yes, let's have fifteen girls and fifteen boys. Let's invite all
the Danbys; may we, Uncle? It would be such a treat to them; you know
they never have an opportunity to go to a party."
"Just as you please, my girl; but will not ten of them be rather a large
proportion out of thirty?"
"Oh, no, Uncle dear. They can't _all_ come--not the very littlest ones,
any way. At any rate, if Don's willing, I'd like to ask them."
"Agreed!" assented Don.
"The ayes have it!" said Uncle George. "Now let us go to supper."
Dorry ran on ahead, so as to have a word with Liddy on the delightful
subject of house-picnics; but Don, lingering, startled his uncle with a
whispered:
"I say, Uncle, has Jack thrashed that fellow?"
"I have heard nothing to that effect," was the reply. "The man was
called away suddenly."
"Oh," said Donald, in a disappointed tone, "I hoped you had given him
his walking papers."
"I have, perhaps," returned Mr. Reed, smiling gravely, "but not in the
way you supposed."
Don looked up, eagerly, hoping to hear more, but his uncle, without
another word, led the way into the supper-room.
CHAPTER XV.
THE HOUSE-PICNIC.
THE house-picnic proved a complete success. In the first place, not only
the original thirty came, but other boys and girls whose names had been
added to the list; secondly, a lovely snow-storm, one of the bright, dry
kind, had come during the night, and evidently had come to stay;
thirdly, the guests made it a frolic from the start, and every
sleigh-load driven to the door by Jack came in singing and cheering;
fourthly, Uncle George, as Dorry said, was "splendid," Jack was "good as
gold," and Liddy was "too lovely for anything;" fifthly, the house from
top to bottom was bright, home-like, and beautiful; and lastly, hardly
anything was broken, not a single child was killed, and the house wasn't
burned to the ground,--all of which Liddy and Jack agreed was "simply
mirac'l'us!"
Such a wonderful day as that is hard to describe. Imagine the scene.
Great square halls on the first and second floors; broad stair-ways;
fine open rooms; pleasant fires; beautiful flowers; boys and girls
flitting, gathering everywhere, from garret to kitchen,--now scattered,
now crowded, now listening to stories, now running, now hiding, now
gazing at an impromptu "performance," now sitting in a demure circle,
with a napkin on every lap,--you know why,--now playing games, now
having a race on the broad freshly-swept piazza, that extended along
every side of the mansion, now giving three cheers for Uncle George, and
then beginning all over again. It lasted more than ten hours, yet nobody
was tired, (until the next day!) and all the guests declared, in one way
or another, that it was the very nicest time they ever had known in
their lives. Donald and Dorothy were delightful as host and hostess.
They enjoyed everything, were on the alert for every one's pleasure,
and by their good-humor, courtesy, and graceful manners, unconsciously
set an example to all the picnickers. Uncle George,--ah, now I know
what to say! You have known him heretofore as a man of grave
responsibility,--troubled with an anxiety which to you, perhaps, has
been uncomfortably mysterious. But Uncle George, at the house-picnic,
was quite a different man. He threw care to the winds, proposed games,
invented capital "forfeits," sprang surprises upon the guests, laughed
and played like a splendid boy, and, better yet, wore his "glow-look"
nearly all the time.
"How handsome Mr. Reed is!" thought more than one young guest. "They say
his brother Wolcott was handsomer still. No wonder Don and Dorry are so
good-looking. Ho! what are we going to do now?"
Then would follow a merry, well-ordered rush to this or that part of
the house, according to the special attraction of the moment. But,
really, it is quite impossible for any one to describe the day properly.
The only way is to give you a few notes from observations taken on the
spot.
We'll begin with the kitchen--Norah's kingdom. There she stands, a queen
in a calico gown. But Dorothy has the sceptre. It is a big wooden spoon.
She and a dozen other girls are crowding about the big cooking-stove.
All have large towels pinned over their dresses, after the fashion of
Topsy's apron--close to the throat, tight around the skirt, and the arms
left free. What in the world are they making? What but molasses candy!
It is nearly done. It ought to be, after the boiling and the stirring
that the girls in turn have given it. Finally, some one holds forward a
pan of cold water. Dorothy, carefully dipping out a spoonful of the
fragrant syrup, drops it into the water. It sizzes; it stiffens--hurrah!
the candy is ready to be taken from the fire.
Cool enough now. "Come, boys! Come, girls!" cries Uncle.
"Here, put these on,--every one of you!" cries Liddy, her arms loaded
with the coarse towel-aprons which she--knowing soul!--had specially
prepared for the occasion. "Sakes! be careful! Don't burn yourselves!"
But who hears? They are pulling the candy already. Boys and girls in
pairs, with hands daintily washed and greased, are taking soft lumps of
the cooling confection, drawing them out into long, shining ribbons,
doubling and drawing them out again until they get lighter and lighter
in color, and finally, the beautiful golden strands are declared ready
for more artistic handling. Then follow royal fun and rivalry, each
young confectioner trying to outdo the other. Some twist the soft candy
into sticks and lay them aside to cool; some braid it charmingly; others
make little walking-canes; others cut it into caramels,--one and all
indulging meantime in flavorsome morsels, and finally shouting with
delight over Donald's masterpiece, which he has placed upon the table
for inspection, and which he calls
[Illustration: THE MAID OF ORLEANS!]
"Ha! ha!" shouts Daniel Danby. "Pretty good! But supposing it hadn't
been made of Orleans! Guess there are other kinds of molasses." But that
sarcastic and well-informed young gentleman is hardly heard in the
laughing commotion.
Ah, what a washing of hands! For the fun of the thing, Uncle George has
caused warm water to be put into a great tub, which stands upon the
wash-bench, and now the candy-pullers take their turn in a close ring
about it, all frantically feeling and struggling for the soap which
repeatedly bobs to the surface, only to be dashed out of sight again by
some desperate little hand.
While this merry crowd of cooks and pullers is working and frolicking in
the kitchen, under Norah's watchful eye, a few of the company may be
found in other parts of the old mansion, amusing themselves in their own
fashion. Some of the very young guests are in the upper rooms playing
childish games; and one or two older ones, who, as it happens, see quite
enough of the kitchen in their own homes, prefer to enjoy themselves now
in the finer apartments.
[Illustration: THE CANDY-PULLING.]
We'll look into Mr. Reed's study, the door of which stands slightly
ajar. Amanda Danby is there alone. She is sitting in the master's big
chair with a volume of poems in her hand--forgetting the party,
forgetting that she has laboriously smoothed her curly hair for the
occasion, forgetting that she is wearing her precious drab merino--her
mother's wedding gown--now made over for the fourth time, forgetting the
new collar and pretty blue bow at her throat (Dorry's gifts), conscious
only that
"The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,--
'Now tread we a measure!' said young Lochinvar."
Amanda smiles to herself as she turns the leaf, feeling that, after all,
there is a great deal of life and spirit in the world, and that
dish-pans, pots, and kettles are mere phantoms of the imagination. The
verse runs on so smoothly too. She could write whole books of poetry
herself if she only had gone somewhere and improved herself. Then, as
she reads on, the great, comfortable arm-chair, the soft carpet, the
well-filled book-shelves and the subdued light, give her a vague,
delightful sense of having improved herself already.
Let us look into the other rooms. No one in the parlor; the back
sitting-room, too, is deserted; the dining-room is locked for awhile;
but high up on the garret-stairs sit three wide-eyed, open-mouthed
youngsters listening to Ben Buster.
"True?" he is saying, "of course it's true; I knew the boy myself--Joe
Gunther, smart fellow. He's on a ranch, now, out in Californy. I'll tell
you how it was; he was living with a settler named Brown, 'way off in
Utah. Brown had three men besides Joe to help him,--sort of partnership,
I b'lieve, raising cattle. It was a desolate place, and the Indians were
troublesome. Brown nor his men never went outside the door without a
loaded gun, and they kept several more in the hut, always loaded, ready
for an attack. One morning, long before daylight, Joe heard a rumpus. He
was in bed,--none of your cots, but a bunk, like a shelf, fastened to
the inside of the stockade walls."
"What do you mean by stockade walls?" asks one of the listeners.
"Why, walls made out of logs standing upright. It was only a hut, you
see; no laths, nor plaster, nor any such nonsense. Well, Joe knew by
what he heard that old man Brown was inside, firing from the door at the
Indians; didn't know where the other two were,--killed, may be,--and so
Joe gets up on his knees and looks through a crevice of the stockade
wall, and sees the chief crawling stealthily around the hut to get in at
the only window and attack the old man! A loaded gun--double barrel--was
hanging on the wall right near Joe. What did he do but take it, put the
muzzle through the chink, and let go at the fellow; discharged both
barrels clean at him. 'You will, will you?' he yelled out, as the Indian
fell; and I declare, if the other Indians weren't so scared and
mystified by the sudden voice, and the chief killed, out of the very
walls, as it seemed to them, that they turned and scampered. Joe rushed
out to old man Brown, and there he was, with his two partners, at the
door, not one of the three scratched, and the chief was lying there by
the stockade wall, just as he fell.
"Joe didn't care to go near him, for by this time he began to feel
rather weak in the joints. But the most wonderful part of all is to come
yet. That Indian chief was only wounded, after all. They thought he was
killed; and while the three men and Joe were in the hut, planning what
they should do next,--for they were sure the redskins would come back in
greater force to get the body of their chief,--I declare if that old
Indian didn't up and go about his business. Brown and Joe and all of
them searched the forest well, that day and the next, but they never
found him. Joe had made his mark though, and he was in more than one
scrimmage with the Indians after that."
"It's a shame to kill Indians!" at last exclaims one of Ben's
awe-stricken listeners. "My father says they've been imposed upon and
abused by the white folks. He says we ought to teach them instead of
killing them."
"That's so," says another of the trio, nodding emphatically. "My father
says so too."
"Oh, does he?" returns Ben Buster, in mild wrath, "who doesn't? But this
was a fair fight. What are you going to do when they're doin' the
killing, eh? Open your book and hear them a spelling lesson? Guess not.
Ask 'em questions in 'rithmetic when they're helping themselves to your
scalp? Oh, of course."
All of which would be very impressive and very convincing to the young
hearers, did not a small boy, named Jedediah Treadwell, at this moment
come suddenly rushing across the hall, shouting--
"Ho! Candy! I smell merlasses candy. They're making it. Come on."
And down they run--all but Ben, who prefers to go through the house in
search of adventures. He opens a door, sees a small ring of prettily
dressed little girls and boys, hand in hand, singing:
"Oats, pease, beans, and barley grows!
You nor I nor nobody knows
Where, oats, pease, beans, and barley grows."
He beats a hasty retreat. Signs of commotion come from Mr. Reed's room
on the other side of the hall; but Ben, hearing Fandy's familiar voice
there, turns aside and goes slowly down stairs, feeling rather bored
since there is no one to listen to his stories.
Soon he is in the kitchen, laughing with the rest at Donald's expressive
masterpiece, but secretly resolving never to go into company again until
he can have a frock-coat. The blue cloth jacket and trousers, bought
with his last year's savings, somehow do not seem to him as fine as they
did when he put them on earlier in the day; though he is an independent
youth, not easily made dissatisfied with his appearance. For the first
time in his life he rather envies Daniel David and Ellen Elizabeth, who
look remarkably well on this occasion, being dressed in clothes that
once were Donald's and Dorothy's. This is no unusual effect. For Lydia,
with Mr. Reed's hearty sanction, has long been in the habit of slyly
handing garments to Mrs. Danby, with the flattering assurance that as
the dear D's grow like weeds, it will be an act of real kindness if Mrs.
Danby will turn the clothes to good account; and Mrs. Danby always has
complied.
Talking of the Danbys, perhaps this is a fitting time to explain the
commotion that Ben heard in Mr. Reed's sleeping-room.
A moment before, and in the midst of certain lively planning, a
middle-sized boy, named Thomas Budd, had strayed from the candy-pulling
scene and appeared at the threshold of this apartment, where Charity
Danby, little Isabella Danby, Fandy, and three or four others were
assembled.
"All right!" shouted Fandy, excitedly, as Master Budd entered; "come
along, Tommy Budd, you can play too. Now Charity Cora, look out for
Is'bella! We're going to have my new game."
"Oh, please do, Cora! quick!" cried little Helen Danby. "Fandy's made it
up all hisself, and he's goin' to teach it to us."
"That's right," said Fandy, approvingly, as Charity Cora hastily lifted
her three-year-old sister from the floor; "take her 'way off. It's a
awful dang'rous game. She might get killed!"
Very naturally, Cora, with little Isabel in her arms, stood near the
door to see what was going to happen.
"Now, chil'ren," cried Fandy, "take your places all over. Pete, you're a
lion; Sammy, you're a big wolf; Helen, you're a wild cat; Gory, you're a
elephant; and Tommy, you'll have to be,--let's see, what other animal is
there? Oh! yes; you must be a kangaroo! and I'm a great big hunter-man,
with a gun an' a soword!"
So saying, the great big hunter-man took a small brass-handled shovel
and poker from the brass stand by the open fireplace, and struck an
attitude.
"Now, chil'ren, you must all go 'round, a-howling and going on like
what you all are, and I'll pounce on you fass as I can, an' kill you.
When I shoot, you must fall right down; and when I chop off your heads
with my big soword, you must roar awful."
"Hah! Where's the game in that?" cried Gory, scornfully.
"Why--let's see," said Fandy, rather puzzled. "Oh! yes; the one I kill
first is _it_--that's the game."
"All right," exclaimed Tommy Budd, "and then that one takes the gun and
sword and hunts. That's first-rate. Let's begin."
But Fandy objected to this.
"No, no," he said, "I've got to do all the killin', 'coz it's my game.
I'll tell you what! The ones that gets killed are dead animals; and all
the dead animals can go under the bed!"
"That'll do," they shouted; and the game began. Such roaring and baying,
growling and shouting, were never heard in human habitation before.
Baby Isabel, who must have been born to be a lion-tamer, looked on in
great glee; and Cora tried not to feel frightened.
Fandy made a capital hunter; he shot right and left, and sawed off the
heads of the slain like a good fellow, until at last there were four
dead animals under the bed, all lying curled up just as still as mice.
There was only one more animal to kill, and that was Tom, the kangaroo.
Bang! went Fandy's gun--the shovel end pressed in style against his
shoulder. Bang!
But the kangaroo didn't fall.
Fandy took more careful aim, and fired again.
Bang!
Still the kangaroo hopped about, as frisky as ever.
"Bang! I tell you! Don't you hear me say 'bang'? Why don't you go dead?"
"You haven't hit me yet," retorted the kangaroo, taking wonderful leaps.
"Look out! Pretty soon I'll jump on you and smash you!"
"No, you won't, neither!" cries the hunter, growing very red and taking
fresh aim.
Bang!
Unlucky shot! The kangaroo was on him in an instant.
"Now, sir," growls the kangaroo, butting the overthrown hunter with his
head, "what's the next part of this game? Who beats?"
"I do!" gasped Fandy. "Get off me."
This was too much for the dead animals under the bed. They began to
laugh.
Cora laughed as heartily as any, and so did half a dozen big boys and
girls who by this time had assembled in the open doorway.
"Stop laughin'," shouted Fandy, still struggling under the kangaroo,
"an' all you under the bed come out. Don't you know when all the animals
'cept one is killed, that's the end of the game? Let's play somethin'
else."
"Where'd you get that?" he added, as soon as he was a free man,--partly
to change the subject, and partly because a boy whom he knew suddenly
appeared eating a piece of molasses candy.
"Down stairs. We've been making loads of it," was the muffled reply.
A hint was enough. It is hardly necessary to say that in a twinkling,
lion, tiger, wild cat, wolf, elephant, and hunter and kangaroo had
joined the crowd in the kitchen, and were feasting ecstatically upon
caramels and molasses sticks.
"Whatever shall I do, Mr. George, sir," said the distressed Lydia, "to
stop the eating? They'll be sick, sir, every mother's child of them, if
they keep on."
"Tell them to wash their hands and faces and come to the parlor. We'll
have the picture-gallery game now," said Mr. Reed.
Accordingly, scouts were sent through the house to bring the company
together. Meantime, Sailor Jack, in his best clothes, was hard at work
clearing the decks for action, as he said.
All were in the parlor and seated, at last. That is, all excepting Uncle
George and eight or ten, who hardly could be missed from such a roomful.
Jack had arranged the chairs in several long rows, facing the great
sliding-doors that separated the parlor from the back sitting-room; and
on these were seated subdued and expectant boys and girls, all gazing at
the closed doors, while the youngest of the guests sat on the floor in
front of the chairs, half-frightened, half-delighted at the prospect of
"seeing something."
By this time the feathery snow-storm had ceased, and a flood of
afternoon sunlight was pouring into the large room. Whispered comments
upon the change of weather arose, coupled with remarks that there would
be coasting next day, anyhow; then came other remarks, and light
laughter, with occasional clapping of hands, when suddenly Mr. Reed
appeared at the side entrance which led into the hall:
"YOUNG LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! You are now to see a live picture-gallery,
and we ask for your criticism upon the paintings, begging you to be
merciful in your remarks, and not to be too funny while you try to make
the pictures laugh. For, you must know, if any picture in our gallery is
guilty of even a smile, it must instantly pop out of sight, leaving its
frame empty. When all the frames are thus deserted, we shall expect some
of you to fill them again. In fact, each picture in the present
exhibition is to select his or her substitute for the next time."
At this, some of the boys looked troubled, and some of the girls
tittered; but one and all clapped, in hearty applause of Mr. Reed's
little speech.
Then came the tinkle of a bell to announce that all was ready; Ed Tyler
and Donald pushed back the sliding doors, and there, in the great square
doorway, was the picture-gallery. To be strictly correct, we should call
this gallery a gray wall, apparently hung from top to bottom with fine
portraits in broad gilt frames, and all looking wonderfully life-like
and _un_natural; for when a live portrait must not laugh, how can it
feel at ease?
At first the spectators were too surprised to speak. Then came a murmur
of admiration, with cries of "Good, good!" from the boys and "How
lovely!" from the girls; while Liddy, by the parlor door, clasped her
hands in silent rapture at the beautiful show.
Beautiful, indeed, it was. All the portraits were as fresh and glowing
as though they had been "painted yesterday." The drawing was perfect,
the coloring exquisite, and so well were the pictures lighted, so
cunningly provided with dark backgrounds, that they seemed really to be
paintings. Dorry, in a prim Quaker cap and muslin neckerchief, was
prettier than ever. Josie Manning, in red cloak and hood, made a
charming gypsy; little Fandy, with his brown eyes and rosy cheeks, was a
remarkably handsome portrait of himself; and a sallow, black-haired
youth in a cloak and slouched hat, with a paper-cutter in his clenched
fist, scowled admirably as a brigand. The other pictures, though content
to be simply faces trying not to smile, were really very bright and
effective, and a credit to any artist.
"Well!" exclaimed Uncle, after a moment, "what have the critics to say?
What do you think of--of the gypsy, for instance? Who will buy it?"
"I won't!" shouted a funny little fellow in knickerbockers. "It's a
chromo."
The gypsy twitched very slightly, and all the other pictures put on
increased solemnity of expression, for they felt that their time, too,
was coming.
"Do you throw in the frame?" asked some one else.
"Isn't that right eye a little out?" said a girl who was taking
drawing-lessons.
This made the picture laugh, and presto! the frame was empty.
After this, though the remarks made were not brilliant nor irresistibly
funny, the picture-gallery soon suffered severe losses. So small a thing
will make us laugh when we try to look grave. The brigand exploded at a
cutting allusion to his dagger; the Quakeress yielded to a profound
remark concerning her _chiaro-scuro_; other faces grinned the instant
they were specially alluded to, and finally, Fandy's portrait was the
only one left in its frame. That bright little countenance stared into
the room so defiantly that even Uncle George tried, with the rest, to
conquer it.
In vain critics criticised--the portrait was deaf. In vain they tried to
be as funny as they could; it was obdurate. In vain they shouted at it,
laughed at it. Not a smile. Fandy was a youth of principle, and he felt
bound in honor to do his duty. Then the boys called the picture names.
It was a monkey, a tramp, a kitten, an eel, a hop-toad. Everybody tried
to think of something too funny for him to resist. Then Donald said:
"No, it's not an animal at all. Let's see--what _does_ it look like, any
way? Ah, it's a target; don't you see the bull's-eye?"
Not a smile.
"Bring a pot of varnish," cried Ed Tyler, "the picture is so dull we'll
shine it up a little and see what that will do." Suddenly a childish
howl was heard, to everybody's surprise; for little three-year-old
Isabel had been quite forgotten.
"A-ow, a-ow! Tate Fan'-y down. What's 'e masser wis Fan'-y? Me want
Fan'-y."
The little sister unconsciously triumphed where every one else had
tried and failed. Fandy laughed with the rest, and instantly
disappeared, as though he had been blown out like a candle. He was soon
in the parlor, comforting Isabel to the best of his ability, casting
saucy glances at the rest of the company meanwhile, with a merry shake
of the head, as if to say, "You thought you could make me laugh, did
you? No, sir, you couldn't."
Now while the folding doors were closed, a new set of pictures was made;
the bell tinkled again, and the game went on as before.
There hung the same six frames in the same places upon the gray wall;
but the portraits were new, and very effective, though some of them
laughed as soon as the opened doors revealed them to the spectators.
This time, by way of variety, each frame as soon as vacated was filled
with another portrait in full view of the company. When the emptied
frame happened to be on the lower part of the gray wall, the new
"picture" had only to stand or kneel upon the carpet behind the frame,
but if it happened to be higher up, he or she was obliged to climb upon
a chair or table behind it, or even a ladder, whichever might be
necessary to enable the picture to appear at the proper place.
For this gray wall, you must know, was but a large straight curtain of
dark cotton stuff, without any fulness, stretched tightly across the
doorway behind the sliding doors, and with large square or oblong pieces
cut out of it here and there. Each open space thus left was bordered
with a strip of gilt paper, thus forming an empty picture-frame. Don and
Dorry had made the whole thing themselves the day before, and they were
therefore very happy at the success of the picture-gallery, and the fun
it created. They had ingeniously provided the highest pictures with
small, dark curtains, fastened above the back of the frames, and hanging
loosely enough to be drawn behind the living pictures, so as to form
backgrounds. A draped clothes-horse answered the same purpose for the
lower pictures. All of this explanation and more was given by Don and
Dorry at the house-picnic to eager listeners who wished to get up
exactly such a picture-gallery at their own homes some evening. But
while they were talking about it somebody at the piano struck up a
march--"Mendelssohn's Wedding March"--and almost before they knew it the
guests found themselves marching to the music two by two in a procession
across the great square hall, now lighted by a bright blaze in its open
fireplace.
[Illustration: THE LAST VIEW OF THE PICTURE-GALLERY.]
Donald and Dorry joined the merry line, wondering what was about to
happen--when to their great surprise (ah, that sly Uncle George! and
that innocent Liddy!) the double doors leading into the dining-room were
flung open, and there, sparkling in the light of a hundred wax-candles,
was a collation fit for Cinderella and all her royal court. I shall not
attempt to describe it, for fear of forgetting to name some of the good
things. Imagine what you will, and I do believe there was something just
like it, or quite as good, upon that delightful table, so beautiful with
its airy, fairy-like structures of candied fruits, frostings, and
flowers; its jagged rock of ice where chickens and turtles, made of
ice-cream, were resting on every peak and cranny; its gold-tinted
jellies, and its snowy temples. Soon, fairy-work and temple yielded to
ruthless boys, who crowded around with genteel eagerness to serve the
girls with platefuls of delicacies, quite ignoring the rolling eye-balls
of two little colored gentlemen who had been sent up from town with the
feast, and who had fully expected to do the honors. Meanwhile Liddy, in
black silk gown and the Swiss muslin apron which Dorry had bought for
her in the city, was looking after the youngest guests, resolved that
the little dears should not disgrace her motherly care by eating too
much, or by taking the wrong things.
"Not that anything on that table could hurt a chicken," she said softly
to Charity Cora, as she gave a bit of sponge-cake and a saucer of
_blanc-mange_ to little Isabel, "Mr. George and I looked out for that;
but their dear little stomachs are so risky, you know, one can't be too
careful. That's the reason we were so particular to serve out sandwiches
and substantials early in the day, you know. But sakes! there's that
molasses candy! I can't help worrying about it."
Charity Cora made no reply beyond a pleasant nod, for, in truth,
conversation had no charms for her just then. If Donald had found you,
hungry reader, modestly hidden in a corner, and with a masterly bow had
handed you that well-laden plate, would you have felt like talking to
Liddy?
But Liddy didn't mind. She was too happy with her own thoughts to notice
trifles. Besides, Sailor Jack just at that moment came to lay a fresh
log on the hall fire, and that gave her an opportunity to ask him if he
ever had seen young folks "having a delighteder time."
"_Never_, Mistress Blum! Never!" was his emphatic, all-sufficient
response.
At this very moment, Gory Danby, quite unconscious of the feast up
stairs, was having his own private table in the kitchen. Having grown
hungry for his usual supper of bread and milk, he had stolen in upon
Norah and begged for it so charmingly, that she was unable to resist
him. Imagine his surprise when, drowsily taking his last mouthful, he
saw Fandy rush into the room with a plate of white grapes.
"Gory Danby!" exclaimed that disgusted brother, "I'm 'shamed of you!
What you stuffin' yourse'f with common supper for when there's _a party_
up stairs? Splendid things, all made of sugar! Pull off that bib, now,
an' come along!"
* * * * *
Again the march struck up. Feasting was over. The boys and girls, led by
Uncle George, who seemed the happiest boy of all, went back to the
parlor, which, meanwhile, had been rearranged, and there, producing a
great plump tissue-paper bag, he hung it to the chandelier that was
suspended from the middle of the parlor ceiling. I should like to tell
you about this chandelier, how it was covered with hundreds of long,
three-sided glass danglers that swung, glittered, and flashed in a
splendid way, now that all its wax candles were lighted: but that would
interrupt the account of the paper bag. This bag was full of something,
they were sure. Uncle George blindfolded Josie Manning with a
handkerchief, and putting a stick in her hand, told her to turn around
three times and then try to strike the bag with the stick.
[Illustration: GORY'S PRIVATE TABLE.]
"Stand back, everybody," cried Donald, as she made the last turn. "Now,
hit hard, Josie! Hard enough to break it!"
Josie did hit hard. But she hit the air just where the bag didn't hang;
and then the rest laughed and shouted, and begged to be blindfolded,
sure that they could do it. Mr. Reed gave each a chance in turn, but
each failed as absurdly as Josie. Finally, by acclamation, the bandage
was put over Dorothy's dancing eyes, though she was sure she never,
never could--and lo! after revolving like a lovely Chinese top, the
blindfolded damsel, with a spring, and one long, vigorous stroke, tore
the bag open from one side to the other. Down fell the contents upon the
floor--pink mottoes, white mottoes, blue mottoes, and mottoes of gold
and silver paper, all fringed and scalloped and tied with ribbons, and
every one of them plump with sugar-almonds or some good kind of candy.
How the guests rushed and scrambled for them!--how Fandy Danby fairly
rolled over the other boys in his delight!--and how the young folks tore
open the pretty papers, put the candy into their pockets, and shyly
handed or sent the printed mottoes to each other! Fandy, in his
excitement, handed a couplet to a pretty little girl with yellow hair,
and then seeing her pout as she looked at it, ran over to her again with
a quick "Let me see't. What does it say?" She held out the little bit of
paper without letting it go, and Fandy seizing it at the other end, read
laboriously and in laughing dismay:
"You-are-the-nicest-boy-I-know,
And-this-is-just-to-tell-you-so."
He recovered himself instantly, however, and wagging his handsome little
head at her, exclaimed emphatically:
"Girl, _girl_, don't you see, I meant girl! It's pleposterous to think
I meant boy, cause you ain't one, don't you see. Mottoes is awful
foolish, anyway. Come over in the hall and see the gol'-fishes swimmin'
in the 'quarium,"--and off they ran together, as happy as birds.
Then came a dance--the Lancers. Two thirds of the young company,
including Don and Dorry, attended the village dancing-school; and one
and all "just doted on the Lancers," as Josie Manning said. Uncle
George, knowing this, had surprised the D's by secretly engaging two
players,--for piano-forte and violin,--and their well-marked time and
spirited playing put added life into even the lithe young forms that
flitted through the rooms. Charity looked on in rapt delight, the more
so as kind Sailor Jack already had carried the sleepy and warmly bundled
Isabel home to her mother.
One or two more dances brought this amusement to an end, and then, after
a few moments of rest came a startling and mysterious order to prepare
for the
"THANK-YOU" GAME!
"What in the world is that?" asked the young folk of Don and Dorry; and
their host and hostess candidly admitted that they hadn't the slightest
idea what it was; they never had heard of it before.
"Well, then, how can we play it?" insisted the little spokes-people.
"I don't know," answered Dorry, looking in a puzzled way at the door.
"All join hands and form a circle!" cried a voice.
Every one arose, and soon the circle stood expectant.
"Your dear great-great fairy godmother is coming to see you," continued
the voice. "She is slightly deaf, but you must not mind that."
"Oh, no, no!" cried the laughing circle, "not in the least."
"She brings her white gnome with her," said the invisible speaker; "and
don't let him know your names, or he will get you into trouble."
"No, no, no!" cried the circle, wildly.
A slight stirring was heard in the hall, the doors opened, and in walked
the big fairy godmother and her white gnome.
She was a tall, much bent old woman, in a ruffled cap, a peaked hat, and
a long red cloak. He, the gnome, wore red trousers and red sleeves. The
rest of his body was dressed in a white pillow-case with arm-holes cut
in it. It was gathered at his belt; gathered also by a red ribbon tied
around the throat; the corners of the pillow-case tied with narrow
ribbon formed his ears, and there was a white bandage over his eyes, and
a round opening for his mouth. The godmother dragged in a large sack,
and the gnome bore a stick with bells at the end.
"Let me into the ring, dears," squeaked the fairy godmother.
"Let me into the ring, dears," growled the white gnome.
The circle obeyed.
"Now, my dears," squeaked the fairy godmother, "I've brought you a
bagful of lovely things, but, you must know, I am under an enchantment.
All I can do is to let you each take out a gift when your turn comes,
but when you send me a 'Thank-you,' don't let my white gnome know who it
is, for if he guesses your name you must put the gift back without
opening the paper. But if he guesses the wrong name, then you may keep
the gift. So now begin, one at a time. Keep the magic circle moving
until my gnome knocks three times."
Around went the circle, eager with fun and expectation. Suddenly the
blindfolded gnome pounded three times with his stick, and then pointed
it straight in front of him, jingling the little bells. Tommy Budd was
the happy youth pointed at.
"Help yourself, my dear," squeaked the fairy godmother, as she held the
sack toward him. He plunged his arm into the opening and brought out a
neat paper parcel.
"Hey! What did you say, dear?" she squeaked. "Take hold of the stick."
Tommy seized the end of the stick, and said, in a hoarse tone, "Thank
you, ma'am."
"That's John Stevens," growled the gnome. "Put it back! put it back!"
But it wasn't John Stevens, and so Tommy kept the parcel.
The circle moved again. The gnome knocked three times, and this time the
stick pointed to Dorry. She tried to be polite, and direct her
neighbor's hand to it, but the godmother would not hear of that.
"Help yourself, child," she squeaked; and Dorry did. The paper parcel
which she drew from the sack was so tempting and pretty, all tied with
ribbon, that she really tried very hard to disguise her "Thank you," but
the blindfolded gnome was too sharp for her.
"No, no!" he growled. "That's Dorothy Reed. Put it back! put it back!"
And Dorry, with a playful air of protest, dropped the pretty parcel into
the bag again.
So the merry game went on; some escaped detection and saved their gifts;
some were detected and lost them; but the godmother would not suffer
those who had parcels to try again, and therefore, in the course of the
game, those who failed at first succeeded after a while. When all had
parcels, and the bag was nearly empty, what did that old fairy do but
straighten up, throw off her hat, cap, false face, and cloak--and if it
wasn't Uncle George himself, very red in the face, and very glad to be
out of his prison. Instantly one and all discovered that they had known
all along it was he.
"Ha! ha!" they laughed; "and now--" starting in pursuit--"let's see who
the white gnome is!"
They caught him at the foot of the stairs, and were not very much
astonished when Ed Tyler came to light.
"That is a royal game!" declared some. "Grand!" cried others. "Fine!"
"First-rate!" "Glorious!" "Capital!" "As good as Christmas!" said the
rest. Then they opened their parcels, and there was great rejoicing.
Uncle George, as Liddy declared, wasn't a gentleman to do things by
halves, and he certainly had distinguished himself in the "Thank-you"
game. Every gift was worth having. There were lovely bon-bon boxes,
pretty trinkets, penknives, silver lead-pencils, paint-boxes, puzzles,
thimbles, and scissors, and dozens of other nice things.
What delighted "Oh, oh's!" and merry "Ha, ha's!" rang through that big
parlor. The boys who had thimbles, and the girls who had balls, had
great fun displaying their prizes, and trying to "trade." After a deal
of laughter and merry bargaining, the gifts became properly distributed,
and then the piano and violin significantly played "Home, Sweet Home!"
Soon sleigh-bells were jingling outside; Jack was stamping his feet to
knock the snow off his boots. Mr. McSwiver, too, was there, driving the
Manning farm-sled, filled with straw; and several turn-outs from the
village were speeding chuck-a-ty-chuck, cling, clang, jingle-y-jing,
along the broad carriage-way.
Ah! what a bundling-up time! What scrambling for tippets, shawls, hoods,
and cloaks; what laughter and frolic; what "good-byes" and "good-byes;"
what honest "thank-you's" to Mr. Reed; and what shouting and singing and
hurrahing, as the noisy sleigh-loads glided away, and above all, what an
"Oh, you dear, dear, dear Uncle George!" from Dorry, as she and Donald,
standing by Mr. Reed's side, heard the last sleigh jingle-jingle from
the door.
* * * * *
And then the twins went straight to bed, slept sweetly, and dreamed
till morning of the house-picnic? Not so. Do you think the D's could
settle down so quietly as that? True, Uncle George soon went to his
room. Liddy and Jack hied their respective ways, after "ridding up," as
she expressed it, and fastening the windows. Norah and Kassy trudged
sleepily to bed; the musicians and colored waiters were comfortably put
away for the night. But Donald and Dorothy, wide awake as two robins,
were holding a whispered but animated conversation in Dorry's room.
"Wasn't it a wonderful success, Don?"
"Never saw anything like it," said Donald. "Every one was delighted;
Uncle's a perfect prince. He was the life of everything too. But what is
it? What did you want to show me?"
"I don't know, myself, yet," she answered. "It fell out of an old trunk
that we've never looked into or even seen before; at least, I haven't.
Some of the boys dragged the trunk out from away back under the farthest
roof-end of the garret. It upset and opened. Robby Cutler picked up the
things and tumbled them in again in a hurry; but I saw the end of a
parcel and pulled it out, and ran down here to see what it was. But my
room was full of girls (it was when nearly all of you boys were out in
the barn, you know), and so I just threw it into that drawer. Somehow, I
felt nervous about looking at it alone."
"Fetch it out," said Donald.
She did so. They opened the parcel together. It contained only two or
three old copy-books.
"They're Uncle George's when he was a little boy," exclaimed Dorry, in a
tone of interest, as she leaned over Donald, but with a shade of
disappointment in her tone; for what is an old copy-book?
"It's not copy-writing at all," said Don, peering into the first one,
"why, it's a diary!" and turning to look at the cover again, he read,
"'Kate Reed.' Why, it's Aunt Kate's!"
"Aunt Kate's diary? Oh, Don, it can't be!" cried Dorry, as, pale with
excitement, she attempted to take it from her brother's hands.
"No, Dorry," he said, firmly; "we must tie it up again. Diaries are
private; we must speak to Uncle about it before we read a word."
"So we must, I suppose," assented Dorry, reluctantly. "But I can't sleep
a wink with it in here." Her eyes filled with tears.
"Don't cry, Dot; please don't," pleaded Don, putting his arm around her.
"We've been so happy all day, and finding this ought to make you all the
happier. It will tell us so much about Aunt Kate, you know."
"No, Don, it will not. I feel morally sure Uncle will never let us read
it."
"For shame, Dorry. Just wait, and it will be all right. You found the
book, and Uncle will be delighted, and we'll all read it together."
Dorry wiped her eyes.
"I don't know about that," she said, decidedly, and much to her
brother's amazement. "I found it, and I want to think for myself what is
best to be done about it. Aunt Kate didn't write it for everybody to
read; we'll put it back in the bureau. My, how late it must be growing,"
she continued, with a shiver, as, laying the parcel in, she closed the
drawer so softly that the hanging brass handles hardly moved. "Now,
good-night, Donald."
"What a strange girl you are," he said, kissing her bright face. "Over a
thing in an instant. Well, good-night, old lady."
"Good-night, old gentleman," said Dorry, soberly, as she closed the
door.
CHAPTER XVI.
A DISCOVERY IN THE GARRET.
"IS Miss Dorothy in?"
"I think she is, Miss Josie. And yet, it seems as if she went over to
the Danbys'. Take a seat, Miss, and I'll see if she's in her room."
"Oh, no, Kassy! I'll run up myself and surprise her."
So the housemaid went down stairs to her work, for she and Liddy were
"clearin' up" after the house-picnic of the day before; and Josie
Manning started in search of Dorry.
"I'll look in her cosey corner first," said Josie to herself.
Only those friends who knew the Reeds intimately had seen Dorry's cosey
corner. Mere acquaintances hardly knew of its existence. Though a part
of the young lady's pretty bedroom, it was so shut off by a high folding
screen that it formed a complete little apartment in itself. It was
decorated with various keepsakes and fancy articles--some hanging upon
the walls, some standing on the mantelshelf, and some on the cabinet in
which she kept her "treasures." With these, and its comfortable lounge
and soft Persian rug, and, more than all, with its bright little window
over-head, that looked out upon the tree-tops and the gable-roof of the
summer-kitchen, it was indeed a most delightful place for the little
maid. And there she studied her lessons, read books, wrote letters, and
thought out, as well as she could, the plans and problems of her young
life. In very cold weather, a wood fire on the open hearth made the
corner doubly comfortable, and on mild days, a dark fire-board and a
great vase of dried grasses and red sumac branches made it seem to Dorry
the brightest place in the world.
Josie was so used to seeing her friend there that now, when she looked
in and found it empty, she turned back. The cosey corner was not itself
without Dorry.
"She's gone to the Danbys' after all," thought Josie, standing
irresolute for a moment.
"I'll run over and find her. No, I'll wait here."
So stepping into the cosey corner again, but shrugging her pretty
shoulders at its loneliness, she tossed her hood and shawl upon the
sofa, and, taking up a large book of photographic views that lay there,
seated herself just outside the screen, where she would be sure to see
Dorry if she should enter the room. Meantime, a pleasant heat came in
upon her from the warm hall, not a sound was to be heard, and she was
soon lost in the enjoyment of the book, which had carried her across the
seas, far into foreign scenes and places.
But Dorry was not at the Danbys' at all. She was over-head, in the
garret, kneeling beside a small leather trunk, which was studded with
tarnished brass nails.
How dusty it was!
"I don't believe even Liddy knew it was up here," thought Dorry, "for
the boys poked it out from away, 'way back und
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