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Drusilla with a Million

by Elizabeth Cooper · English · Gutenberg #6734 · 370,717 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Drusilla with a Million

Author: Elizabeth Cooper


        
Release date: October 1, 2004 [eBook #6734]
                Most recently updated: March 12, 2014

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6734

Credits: Produced by Avinash Kothare, Tom Allen, Charles Aldarondo,
        Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading
        Team. HTML version by Al Haines.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DRUSILLA WITH A MILLION ***




Produced by Avinash Kothare, Tom Allen, Charles Aldarondo,
Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team. HTML version by Al Haines.










DRUSILLA WITH A MILLION


By ELIZABETH COOPER




DRUSILLA WITH A MILLION




CHAPTER I


"Drusilla Doane, O Drusilla Doane!" came waveringly around the corner;
and the quavering voice was followed by a little old woman who peered
at the line of old ladies sitting in the sun. "Is Drusilla Doane here?"
she inquired, darting quick birdlike glances from her old eyes at the
curious faces that looked up at her approach.

A little white-haired woman stopped the darning of the tablecloth in
her hands and looked up expectantly.

"Yes, I'm here, Barbara. What do you want of me?"

"There's two men in the parlor to see you, an' Mis' Smith told me to
tell you to hurry. I been lookin' for you everywhere."

Drusilla Doane let the cloth fall into her lap, and all the other women
stopped their work to stare at the announcer of such wonderful news.

"To see _me_, are you sure?"

"Yes, they asked to see Miss Drusilla Doane. You're the only one of
that name here, ain't you?"

Drusilla folded her work and placed it in the basket of linen by the
side of her chair.

"Yes, I guess it must mean me," she said, and rose to go.

As she passed around the house all the old ladies moved as if by a
common impulse.

"Come right here, Barbara Field, and tell us all about it. Who are the
men?"

"What did they look like?" questioned another.

"Take this chair and tell us all about it," said Miss Harris, the
youngest of the ladies; and a place was made in their midst and the
line closed around her.

"Put your teeth in, so's we can understand you."

Barbara groped around in the pocket of her apron; then, holding the end
of the apron up to her face, adroitly slipped her teeth into her mouth,
and sat down to become for once the center of interest to her little
world.

"Now tell us all about it--what you waiting for?" said one of the
ladies impatiently.

"What'll I tell?" said Barbara. "I was passin' by the door and Mis'
Smith called me in and said, 'Barbara, will you find Drusilla Doane and
send her here? Tell her that there are two gentlemen who wish to see
her.'"

"Two men--_two_ men to see Drusilla Doane!" cackled one old lady. "She
ain't never had _one_ to call to see her before, as I knows on."

"No," chimed in another. "She's been here five years and there ain't a
livin' soul before asked to see Drusilla Doane. What'd they look like,
Barbara?"

"One was tall and thin and sour-lookin'--looked like a director of a
institution; and the other was short and fat and pussy and was dressed
real elegant. One had a silk hat and he wore one gray glove and carried
another in his hand with a cane. That was the skinny one. The pussy one
wore a gray vest--that's all I had time to see--and his eyes kind o'
twinkled at me."

"Did you hear what they wanted Drusilla for?"

"No, I didn't hear nothin'."

"You mean you didn't hear anything, Barbara," interrupted a querulous,
refined voice. "Your grammar is dreadful!"

"I don't mean no such thing. I mean I didn't hear _nothin'_ and nothin'
it is." And Barbara's meek, faded old eyes glared at the little old
lady in the corner, if meek, faded blue eyes could glare.

"Never mind her grammar, Lodema Ann. Why didn't you hear what they
said? What was you doin' in the hall if you wasn't listenin'?"

"I told you I was just passin' through and Mis' Smith called me in."

"Don't you know nothin' about it--_nothin'!"_

"Nothin'. I've told you all I know. Can I take my teeth out now?"

"No, Barbara; keep your teeth in till we've finished with you. A person
can't understand a word you say with your teeth out, you gum your words
so."

"But they hurt me; they don't fit. I ain't had a new pair for twenty
years and my jaws've shrunk."

"Well, keep 'em in fer a while. They won't shrink any more fer a minit.
Did they look like relations?"

"Relations!" said a big, placid-looking woman who was knitting quietly.
"Drusilla ain't got no relations. She ain't never had none."

"She must have had some at one time. Everybody has relations--although
_some_ people I know, had rather be without them than recognize the
kind they got." The sour voiced old lady directed her tones toward the
seat next to her.

"If you're a meanin' me, Caroline, I want to tell you my relations is
just as good as your'n, though we don't throw 'em down everybody's
throat as some folks I know."

"No," said another; "Drusilla has no family; she told me so herself.
One day I was telling her about my family, about my father who was so
well known in the State, and my brother who became the great--"

"Now don't begin on your family, Maria. We know all about it. We ain't
heard nothin' else fer the last three years. It's a good thing that
some of the women in this home has something else to talk about except
the greatness of their family, or we'd all be dead."

The little old lady twisted her ball of yarn viciously, causing it to
roll upon the floor, and when she had stiffly followed it and picked it
from the corner her face was very red, either from the exertion of
stooping or from the insult she felt she had received.

"You're jealous--that's what's the matter with you! People who've no
folks are always jealous of them who's had 'em; but old age has its
liberties, I suppose, and we must pardon a great deal on account of it."

"Are you speakin' of me, I'd like to know? I ain't but four years
older'n you. I'm only seventy-nine and you was seventy-five last May,
though you didn't want us to know it was your birthday. But I seen the
date in the book some one sent you, and you can't deny it."

"Never mind," broke in the placid-looking lady again, trying to pour
oil on the troubled waters; "don't fight. Barbara, did they look rich?
Put your teeth in again--why can't you leave 'em alone! Teeth are fer
your mouth and not fer your pocket. You do beat me and rile me
dreadfully, Barbara."

"I tell you they hurt," whimpered Barbara. "I can't even enjoy the sun
with my teeth in."

"Never mind. Did they?"

"Did they what?"

"Did they look rich?"

"Oh, awful. I told you they looked like directors."

"Perhaps Drusilla has friends she ain't told us about."

"No, she ain't. She told me one day she didn't have a friend or a
relation in the world, and if she'd a had 'em they'd a been to see her."

"Oh, I don't know. That ain't no sign. Your friends ferget you when
you're in an old ladies' home," said a voice bitterly.

"Well, I wonder who it can be! I wish she'd hurry, so's we could ask
her."

"Poor Drusilla!" said a sweet-voiced little woman. "I hope some one's
found her. It's awful to have no one in all the world."

"How long's Drusilla been here?"

"Let me see"--and an old lady put down her sewing. "I been here seven
years, I was here not quite two years when Drusilla come. She's been
the linen woman ever since."

"Yes," said a woman who showed signs of having seen better days. Her
clothes still had a look of by-gone elegance and her wrinkled hands
were still dainty and beautifully kept. "Drusilla's our only _charity_
inmate."

The stout old lady in the corner emitted a sound between a snort and a
groan.

"Charity inmate! What are we all but charity inmates!"

The first old lady drew herself up stiffly.

"You may speak for yourself, Mis' Graham, but _I_ am no charity inmate."

"You're just as much of one as I am."

"What do you mean? I pay each year a hundred and twenty dollars, and I
paid when I entered an entrance fee of a hundred dollars."

"So'd we all; but still this is an old ladies' charitable home."

"Mis' Graham, how can you say such things!" spoke up a voice that had
not been heard before. "I consider that we _pay_ our way; and my
grand-nephew who was here last week considers it ample!"

"Oh, so do most of our relations who'd rather pay our way in a home
than be bothered with us around."

"You may speak for yourself, Mis' Graham. I pay my way myself."

"Yes, you was a dressmaker or something and saved a little money. Well,
I never worked for my livin'. It wasn't considered ladylike in my day."

"Huh! You're trying to say I'm no lady. Well, I consider that if I'm no
lady and worked fer my livin', I didn't sponge off my relations and
don't now."

"Cat!" hissed Mrs. Graham, and sat back trying to think of some
suitable answer.

"But don't Drusilla pay nothin' at _all?"_ queried another woman.

"Not a cent. I tell you, she's charity. She's a sort of servant. Ain't
you seen the way Mis' Smith treats her and orders her around? She takes
care of the linen to pay her way and does odd jobs fer Mis' Smith and
the family."

"How did she get in if she didn't have no money at all?"

"She's a Doane, and this home was give by a Doane most sixty years ago.
And the Committee felt they couldn't let Drusilla die in the poor house
because of her name. It might reflect on the home, and they'd lose some
subscriptions. So they took her in."

"What'd she do before she was took in?"

"She sewed for folks and nursed and done odd jobs for the people in the
village. Everything she could git to do, I guess. And then she got old
and folks wanted stylisher dresses, and she wa'n't strong enough to
nurse much, so she had to be took in somewhere. First they thought of
sending her to the county house, and then as I told you they was afraid
it would look bad to have the Doane home for old ladies right here and
a Doane in the county house, so she was brought here. It most broke her
heart, but they've worked her well. She's paid fer her keep and more,
which is more than many I know of, what with their appetite."

"You're talkin' at me now, Frances Smith, don't you make no remarks
about my appetite. I'm not strong and must eat well to keep up."

"Humph, it makes you feeble to carry round. I don't know what would
happen to you if you had a chance to set down once to a square meal of
vittles. I guess you'd bust."

"I want you to understand, Mis' Frances Smith, that I've et better
vittles than you've ever seen. When I had my home my table was the talk
of the countryside."

"Yes, and if you hadn't et up everything, perhaps you wouldn't now be
where you are, havin' beans on Monday and cabbage on Tuesday and soup
on Wednesday and--"

The wrangling went on amongst these old derelicts sitting on the sunny
side of the Doane home for old ladies. Their lives were filled with
little jealousies and quarrels over petty details. They lived in the
past and exalted it until they themselves had grown to believe that
they had always trodden flowery pathways, until by some unfortunate
chance, for which they were not to be blamed, these paths had led them,
when old age and helplessness came upon them, into this home for the
poor and lonely.

       *       *       *       *       *

Drusilla slowly made her way to the parlor, which she entered with the
wondering, surprised look still on her face--surprised that any one
should ask for her, and wondering who it could be.

Two gentlemen rose as she entered, and Mrs. Smith, the Director of the
home, said:

"This is Drusilla Doane. Drusilla, this is Mr. Thornton and Mr. Gale,
who wish to speak with you."

They bowed over Miss Drusilla's hand, which was falteringly extended.

"We are very glad to meet you, Miss Doane. Won't you please sit down,
as our business will take quite a little time to transact." Turning to
Mrs. Smith: "May we speak with her alone?"

Mrs. Smith plainly showed that she shared in the curiosity of her
charges in regard to the meaning of the visit to Drusilla, but she rose
from her place and said:

"Oh, of course I will leave if you must see her alone."

"Thank you," said the taller of the men dryly. "Our business is with
Miss Doane."

He accompanied Mrs. Smith politely to the door and closed it, then,
returning, drew a chair near to Drusilla.

"We are the bearer of news to you, Miss Doane."

Drusilla clasped her hands a little tighter.

"Has anything happened?" she said. "But nothing could happen that would
matter to me, unless--" a panic stricken look came into her old eyes
"unless--the Committee hain't decided that I can't live here, has it?
They ain't goin' to send me to the county house, be they? I work real
well, Mr. Thornton; I work as hard as I can. I'm sure I pay fer my
keep."

The tall man cleared his throat and said stiffly: "No, Miss Doane, we
are the bearer of _good_ news."

The short fat man bent over and impulsively patted the hands that were
so tightly clenched in her lap.

"No, Miss Doane, you don't need to worry about the county house. You're
not going to it yet."

Drusilla drew a deep breath of relief, and the frightened look died
from her eyes. She leaned back in her chair.

"Then I don't know what you've got to tell me. It can't be that some
one I know is dead, because all of my friends died long ago."

Mr. Gale said, "Tell her, so she'll understand. You're worrying the
poor soul."

Mr. Thornton took a legal looking document from his pocket and a letter.

"Miss Doane," he said, "did you ever hear of Elias Doane?"

"Elias Doane? No, I don't believe I ever did."

"Well, he was a distant relation of yours; another branch of the
family. He thought he was the last one of the Doane name, as he never
married. A few weeks before his death, hearing about this home he sent
me up here to learn the particulars regarding it, and I found you here.
I reported that there was an inmate by the name of Doane still living,
and we investigated and found that you belonged to the family that we
thought was represented by only one man, the late Elias Doane."

"He's dead, then. Was he a relation of mine, did you say?"

"Yes, very distantly related."

"Well, I'm glad I've had _some_ relations, even if I didn't know it."

"Now, we will come to the business, Miss Doane. Our client, the late
Elias Doane, was a very wealthy man, very wealthy indeed. His estate
amounts to many millions, and he has left a very curious will."

The lawyer opened a paper in his hand and commenced to read, but Mr.
Gale interrupted.

"Don't bother her with the will, Robert; she won't understand. Tell her
about it and give her the letter."

"Perhaps that is better, as the legal terms might be confusing. The
gist of the matter is this, Miss Doane. Our client, the late Elias
Doane, left the bulk of his money to the many charities in which he is
interested, but he left you his home at Brookvale, near New York City,
to be kept up fittingly out of the estate, and he gave you outright, to
use as you may see fit, one million dollars."

Drusilla stared at him. Then her faded old face turned as white as the
soft hair above it, and without a word she fell forward. For the first
time in her life Drusilla Doane had fainted.

Mr. Thornton caught her in his arms and Mr. Gale sprang for the bell.
Water and restoratives were brought, and within a few moments Drusilla
opened her eyes--and soon she remembered. She brushed back her
disarranged hair and laughed a soft, sweet little laugh.

"Well, I'm beginnin' well. All real ladies in story books faint when
they hear good news."

When she was again seated in her chair and curious Mrs. Smith had been
politely expelled from the room, Mr. Thornton cleared his throat and
was again the precise man of business.

"As I was saying, Miss Doane, when you interrupted me, our late client,
Mr. Elias Doane, left this very remarkable will and also a letter which
we were to deliver to you." He handed her the letter.

Drusilla looked at it a moment as she held it in her hand. She seemed
unwilling to break its seal. But the watching men opposite her caused
her at last carefully, if not a little tremblingly, to tear the
covering which was to reveal to her the wishes of a man, who evidently
had thought of her and her happiness in his last hours. She unfolded
the two pages covered with scrawling handwriting, but her faded eyes
could make nothing of the strange hieroglyphics traced upon them, and
she handed the letter to Mr. Thornton, saying:

"I guess it can't be nothin' private. You read it; I left my glasses in
my work-basket."

Mr. Thornton adjusted his pince-nez and read:

MY DEAR DRUSILLA:

You will allow me to call you that, as it is the first and will be the
last time that I will so address you; consequently you will pardon the
seeming undue familiarity.

I first want to say that I regret that I did not know of your existence
earlier, when perhaps I could have made life easier for you--although
quite likely I would have added to its perplexities. We are the last of
a good family: you, Drusilla Doane, an inmate of a charitable
institution, and I, Elias Doane, millionaire, philanthropist, and rare
old humbug. You have passed your life in toil, trying to earn your
daily bread, and have found yourself nearing the end of this footless
journey that we call life, alone and friendless. I have passed my days
in toil also, and find myself, at the end, as much alone and friendless
as is the loneliest inmate of the Doane home. I have had bread, yes;
and often eaten it in bitterness. I have had friends, yes; and doubted
their sincerity. Love, wife, children, home, all have been sacrificed
to pride of wealth, of power, and things--just mere things, that cannot
touch the hand in times of sorrow, nor rejoice in times of joy. But I
do not complain; I made my god a thing of gilt and tinsel, and he
repaid me for my worship. And now I go to meet another God.

But before I go I want to give another a chance to do what I have never
done--enjoy my money--if such a thing can give enjoyment. A great share
of my hard-earned dollars will go in salaries to fat officials and
well-fed directors of the institutions I have endowed, but the little I
have given you I want you to spend as you see fit. Throw it to the
winds, if you so desire, or feed it to the squirrels in Central Park.

I am looking forward to enjoyment in seeing the way you spend the
money. They say when we have passed over the river that the things of
this world will no longer interest us; but, Drusilla, that is not true.
I know my days will be spent leaning over the battlements watching the
fools striving here below; and the biggest telescope in Heaven--or
perhaps the other place--will be trained upon Drusilla Doane.

I give you a few words of advice. Better allow Thornton to act as your
business manager. He is an old fool but honest. But follow your own
wishes in all things except in actual business. I have directed that
all the expenses of the place at Brookvale shall be met from a trust
that I have created, as you are far too old to be worried with the
details of the new life which you now will enter. Thornton is a nosy
man and it will delight his soul to boss your servants and see that
cheating tradesmen are kept in check.

Another thing I wish to say--you can act upon it as you see fit--it is
simply the advice of an old man who has known his world. _Don't_
subscribe to public charities; they're mostly grafts, and besides they
have more of the Doane millions now than is good for them. And _don't_
help the needy poor upon another man's advice; _see your poor--know
your poor_.

And now, Drusilla Doane, good-by. Enjoy my million! Don't make too big
a fool of yourself, nor marry your tango teacher, but spend my million,
Drusilla, _spend it_--and may God rest your soul!

There was quiet for a few moments after Mr. Thornton had finished
reading the letter. He folded the paper and then said dryly:

"I'm glad to know that my client appreciated and recognized my
abilities, at least along some lines."

He turned to Drusilla, who seemed hardly to realize or understand the
contents of the letter.

"Shall I file the letter along with the other papers, or do you wish to
keep it?" he asked.

Drusilla took the letter, and folded it and refolded it, looking down
at it as if it were a thing alive.

"If you don't mind, Mr. Thornton, I should like to keep it," she said.
"He meant well by me, and his letter is kind though he said it in a
queer way; but it is the first letter I've had from any one for a long
time, and I should like to keep it. It makes it all seem more real."

The lawyer rose.

"Now we will leave you. When will you be ready to come with us to New
York?"

Drusilla smiled her soft sweet smile.

"I haven't much to get ready, Mr. Thornton. It won't take me long to
pack my things."

"Then shall we say that I may come for you to-morrow?"

"Yes, to-morrow will be as well as any other day. Unless--unless Mis'
Smith needs me--"

Mr. Thornton said with a dry smile: "I do not think it will be
necessary to consult Mrs. Smith."

The men started for the door, and then extended their hands.

"We want to congratulate you, Miss Doane. We sincerely hope that this
will be the beginning of a very happy life for you. You may command me
in all things. By the way, may we see the Director?"

Drusilla started to the door, but the lawyer intercepted her.

"No; do not go yourself. Ring for her."

Drusilla sat down again, rather aghast at the idea of asking any one
else to do a service for her, who all her life had been at the beck and
call of other people. One of the old ladies came and was asked to bring
Mrs. Smith. The Director came quickly, showing that she had not been
far away.

"Mrs. Smith," Mr. Thornton said, "we will come to-morrow afternoon to
take Miss Doane with us. She has been left a legacy and will no longer
be an inmate of the Doane home."

Mrs. Smith's expression changed instantly.

"Why, I'm real glad. Drusilla, you know I will be the first to rejoice
in your good fortune."

Drusilla's face was a study for a moment as she remembered the many
shrill orders and the thousand and one ways that the Director had
employed to make her lonely life harder than was really necessary; but
kindliness triumphed and the hard look left her eyes.

"I'm sure, Mis' Smith, you will be glad with me," she said; and she
thought in her kindly old heart, "Perhaps she didn't mean to be mean;
she was just too busy to think."

The men left and Drusilla was alone with the Director, whose curiosity
was nearly consuming her.

"What has happened, Drusilla? Has some one left you money?"

"Yes," said Drusilla.

"Who?"

"A relation I didn't know."

"Did he leave you much?"

Drusilla said quietly: "A million dollars."

Mrs. Smith nearly fell from her chair.

"What did you say?"

"A million dollars."

"Are you sure?"

"That's what the lawyer, Mr. Thornton, said."

Mrs. Smith was speechless.

"I can't believe my ears. There must be some mistake. I'll--I'll--go
and talk it over with some one. Do you want to go to your room, or will
you go out to the women, Drusilla?"

"I think I'll go to my room fer a while, if I may--that is, if you
don't need me, Mis' Smith."

Mrs. Smith shook her head. Need her, need a woman who had just been
left a million dollars! No, indeed; not in the way that Drusilla meant.

Drusilla went slowly up to her room and sat down in the little rocker
by the bed. She tried to think it all over; but it did not seem real.
She felt the letter in her pocket and, finding her second-best pair of
glasses, moved her chair close to the window and read it through
slowly. Then, holding the letter in her hands, she sat back in her
chair and the tears welled slowly from her faded eyes, rolling down the
wrinkled cheeks and falling, drop by drop, on to her dress unnoticed.
She was not thinking of the money but of the kindly old man who had
thought of her in his last hours, and planned for her happiness. She
had never had any one plan for her happiness before, nor care for her
for so many years that she had forgotten what care meant, and her heart
seemed full to bursting. She said softly to herself, "He must 'a' cared
something fer me or he wouldn't 'a' thought of it all. He _must_ 'a'
cared."




CHAPTER II


The next morning there was a buzz of excitement in the Doane home for
old ladies. Word had got around that Drusilla had been left a fortune
and was going away. Some of the ladies were plainly envious and said
spiteful, catty things, while others were glad that at least one of
their number would be able to leave behind the "home"--the living on
charity--that nightmare of the old. Drusilla had endeared most of them
to her by her many kindly acts, prompted by a loving heart that even
years of poverty and unappreciated labor for others had not hardened.

She passed the morning in looking over her few possessions and making
little packages of the things she treasured to be given to her friends
after she left. The handkerchiefs she had embroidered before her
eye-sight was bad, she left for Barbara. A little lace cap that had
been given her years ago and which she had never worn, thinking it too
"fancy," was for the old lady who had seen better days. The heavy shawl
was for the oldest inmate, Grandma Perkins, who always suffered with
the cold. The warm bed-stockings were neatly folded and left with a
little word of love to Mary, who had rheumatism; and to Mrs. Childs,
the beauty of the place, she left her lace fichu.

There was ample room within the tiny trunk for her clothing. The plain
black cashmere that had been turned and returned until it had nearly
forgotten its original texture, but which was her Sunday best, the two
black dresses for every-day wear, the two night-dresses of Canton
flannel, the woolen underskirt and the lighter one for summer, the
heavy stockings, the Sunday shoes, a life of John Calvin that a
director had given her, her Bible--and the packing was completed.

When Mrs. Smith came herself to tell her that Mr. Thornton had arrived,
and in a motor car, she trembled so that she feared she would not be
able to go down to meet him. But finally she put on the little bonnet
that she had worn for many years, and her "mantle"--an antiquated wrap
that had been given her by some kindly patron of former years--and went
down the stairs. Mr. Thornton looked at the little old lady as she came
into the room--this little, kindly-faced, white-haired old woman, who
showed so plainly that life had sent her sorrow but not bitterness--and
offered her his hand, saying:

"I am glad you are ready, Miss Doane. We will have a nice ride to the
city."

Drusilla looked up at him like a pitiful child.

"I--I--may I set down a minute--I--I'm rather trembly. I--I didn't
sleep last night a-thinkin' of it all."

She sat down and tried to still the trembling of her lips and keep the
tears from her eyes. Then, after a few moments, she said:

"Will you wait here or somewhere, Mr. Thornton? I want to say good-by.
Mis' Smith thought I hadn't better see the ladies until I was ready to
leave, as it might upset them."

"I will wait in the car for you, Miss Doane. Don't hurry; take all the
time you want."

Drusilla went to the sunny veranda where she knew she would find the
women in their accustomed places, and immediately she was the center of
the curious old ladies, who welcomed any excitement that would relieve
the monotony of their lives.

"It's true, Drusilla--then it's true, you're-a-goin' to leave us! It's
true what Mis' Graham heard Mis' Smith tell Mr. Smith last night."

"What did she hear her say?"

"She heard her say, 'What do you think, James! Drusilla Doane has been
left a million dollars!'"

"That's what the man told me," Drusilla said quietly; "and he's come to
take me away. I come to say good-by."

The women sat forward in their chairs and stopped their knitting or
darning, so that they would not miss a word.

"Well, I swan! A million dollars! A _million dollars_!"

"Is it true, Drusilla? Do you think it can be so _much_?"

"I don't know--that's what he said. He's waitin' for me and I must be
goin'. Good-by, dear Harriet. Good-by, Caroline. Good-by, Mis' Graham;
you always been good to me. Good-by, Mis' Fisher; I ain't never goin'
to fer-get how good you was to me when I was sick. Good-by all,
good-by. I'm comin' often to see you. Good-by."

She looked slowly around on her friends, then walked down the veranda
to the waiting motor. Just as she reached it old Barbara came shuffling
up to her. "Oh, Drusilla," she mumbled, taking her hand, "I'm so glad
for you, I'm so glad. I hope it is a million dollars."

The loving touch was too much for tired Drusilla. The tears sprang to
her eyes and she clasped Barbara's hands in both of her own.

"Oh, Barbara," she said, "it gives me a hurt inside my heart to leave
you all behind! Listen, Barbara! Whether it's a million dollars or only
a hundred, you shall have new store teeth. Good-by!"

To Drusilla's embarrassment both Mr. and Mrs. Smith were waiting for
her beside the motor to say good-by, and were effusive in their
farewells.

"You will come to see us, won't you, Miss Doane, and you won't forget
us"--and Drusilla was tucked into the luxurious motor, a footstool
found for her feet, a soft rug wrapped around her and they drove away.

She was quiet for the greater part of the journey, and Mr. Thornton
left her to her own thoughts. Finally she sat more upright and began to
take an interest in the fittings of the car. Mr. Thornton watched her.

"Do you like the car?" he asked

"It's beautiful. You know it's the first time I been in one."

"Why, is it possible? I thought every one had been in a motor."

"No, not every one, Mr. Thornton; I don't think that more'n two of the
ladies in the home have been in one. This is fixed up real nice."

"I am glad you like it," Mr. Thornton said. "It is yours."

Drusilla sat back suddenly in her seat.

"This--this--_mine_?"

"Yes, this is yours, and you have two more at your home."

Drusilla gasped.

"Two more like this?"

"No, not exactly the same. One is an open car and one is a small town
car."

"Why--why--what'll I do with three? I can't ride in 'em all at once."

"No, but you will find that you can use them all."

"Can I use them whenever I want to?"

"Certainly; they are yours. All you have to do is to send word to one
of the chauffeurs and they will be ready for you."

"Send word to who?"

"The chauffeur, the man who is driving."

"Is he mine, too?"

"Yes; you have two men."

"What'll I do with two?"

"One will be on duty a certain number of hours, and then the other
takes his place."

"Oh--" She was quiet for a time. "Can I take them anywhere I want to?"

"Certainly. They are yours."

"Then, I know what I'll do! I'll take the old ladies for a ride!
Wouldn't Mis' Graham love it, and old Grandma Perkins--we could bundle
her up; and Barbara might even ferget her teeth."

Drusilla settled back among the cushions and mused upon the joy she
could give with this new wonder machine that was hers to do with as she
wished, and the frightened look died from her face and a happy smile
seemed trying to crowd the wrinkles from the corners of her mouth. She
said nothing more for a long time; then:

"Are we goin' very fast, Mr. Thornton?"

"No; not so very fast. Are you nervous? I will have the chauffeur drive
slower. I forgot you were not used to it."

Drusilla stopped him as he started to speak to the chauffeur.

"No; I wasn't thinking of that. I ain't nervous, I was just wonderin'
if he couldn't go a little faster."

Mr. Thornton looked somewhat surprised, but he gave the order.

Drusilla again sat back among the cushions, a slight flush on her face.
Soon she leaned forward once more.

"Mr. Thornton, couldn't he let her out jest a leetle more?"

Thornton laughed.

"We'll go as fast as you like; only I hope we won't be arrested."

Drusilla sighed.

"I'd be willin' to go to jail to pay fer feelin' like this. I always
thought I'd have to wait till I got to Heaven before I'd git a chance
to fly, but now they'll have to offer me something new."

She said nothing more on the journey, but showed by the bright flush on
her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes that she was enjoying every
moment of the ride. At last they turned, passed a pair of big
gate-posts and up a graveled driveway, and the car stopped before a
door.

When a man came from the house and opened the door of the car, Drusilla
came to herself with a start.

"Are we there already? I was kind of hopin' it'd never stop."

Mr. Thornton gravely helped Drusilla to the door.

"Welcome to your home, Miss Doane," he said. "I think we will find my
daughter inside."

They entered a large hall and Drusilla stood hesitatingly, not knowing
what to do. In a moment a voice was heard from above:

"Is that you, Father?" and a laughing face peered over the railing, and
was followed by a slim young figure that seemed to fly down the stairs.
"Oh, you were such a _long_ time, Father. Welcome home, Miss Doane! we
are _so_ glad to have you. We have all been waiting such a long time.
Father is always so slow;" and she flew in her pretty, impulsive way to
Drusilla and took both her hands. "I am so glad to have you come, Miss
Doane."

Drusilla looked at the pretty face before her that seemed to show such
real welcome, and her eyes filled with tears.

"I'm real glad to come, but--but--I guess I'm a little bit scared."

"No, you aren't going to be frightened at all. You come right up with
me and take off your hat in your room. Oh, here is Mrs. Perrine. She is
your housekeeper, Miss Doane. And that is James, the butler; and that
is Mary; and Jeanne is waiting for you upstairs. Come with me."

Drusilla followed as well as she could the flying feet up the broad
stairs and was taken to a room that seemed to her a palace. It was all
in soft shades of gray with a touch of blue here and there, and there
were flowers everywhere. The chairs were upholstered in gray and blue
chintz, and at the windows hung gray silk curtains with just a hint of
the blue showing beneath them. Near the fireplace was a big couch with
a soft gray silk quilt spread upon it, and pillows that invited one to
rest. Drusilla stopped in delight.

"Oh--oh--what a pretty room! What a pretty room!"

Miss Thornton dimpled all over her pretty face.

"Do you like it? Oh, please say you like it! I arranged these rooms
myself. This was a bachelor house, and there wasn't a pretty room in
the place. I made Father let me fix them for you. You do like them,
don't you?"

"I never saw nothin' like it before in my life."

"You don't think it too gay, do you? Mother said I ought not have the
blue, that they should all be done in a dark color. But I said I knew
you would love pretty things, and you should have them. You don't think
it too gay. You like the blue, don't you?"

"I love it, I _love_ it! I never had nothin' gay colored in my life,
and I love it."

"I knew you would. Come into the bedroom. Isn't this gray furniture
dear? Don't those long mirrors look lovely with the gray wood? And
aren't the toilet things pretty? See the monogram--_D. D_. I thought a
lot about it, and aren't they pretty on that dull silver? Look at this
mirror--and isn't that the _cunningest_ pin-tray? And this is for your
hatpins; and look at this pin-cushion. I had the loveliest time picking
them out."

Drusilla looked at the pretty things in amazement rather mixed with awe.

"Why, what'll I do with all them things?"

"Oh, you'll use them all. There isn't one too many, and perhaps I've
forgotten some things. If I have, we will go and pick them out
together. You will let me go with you, won't you, because I love to
shop. Oh, I forgot--here is your bathroom, and beyond that is your
maid's room. She is quite near, so if you feel ill in the night you can
call her. But let me take off your hat. Shall I ring for Jeanne? No,"
as she saw the frightened look come into the eyes, "perhaps you'd
rather be with me just at first. How pretty your hair is, so soft and
fluffy. You must blue it, it is so white. I wish my hair would fluff,
but it won't curl except in wet weather. Now come into the other room
and sit down in that soft chair. Isn't that an easy chair? I picked
that out too. I chose everything in the room, and I'm so proud of it.
See, here is the footstool that goes with it, and you sit by the big
window here when you don't want to go downstairs, and this little table
will hold your books or your sewing."

Drusilla looked up at her.

"You've been real kind, Miss Thornton; you've thought of everything."

"But I loved it. I've been working ever since Father knew about you."

"It is nice of you to be here. I was afraid a little to come, not
knowin' what it was goin' to be like."

"That's what I told Father. I said you didn't want to come into a big
cold house with only a cold lawyer like him to say, 'Welcome home.' I
made him let me come. I'm going to stay to dinner with you if you'll
invite me. We'll send Father home. I don't live far from here--only
about five minutes in the car--and Father can send back for me. Would
you like me to stay?"

Drusilla leaned forward eagerly.

"Oh, do stay, Miss Thornton. I--I--well, I wouldn't know what to do by
myself."

"Well, you sit here by this fire and I'll go down and tell Father to go
away. You don't want to hear any more business to-night and Father
_always_ talks business. Just you take a little nap while I'm gone. Are
you comfortable? There! I'll be back in five minutes."

Drusilla sat down in the comfortable chair and watched the flames
flickering in the grate; then her eyes passed lovingly around the room,
resting on each beautiful picture, on the soft draperies, the
easy-chairs and the flowers. She sat as one in a dream, until light
steps were heard and Miss Thornton again entered the room.

"Did you sleep?"

Drusilla laughed.

"No, I didn't want to shut my eyes. I was afraid it might all go away
and I'd be again in the bare little rooms I've always lived in. I don't
think I'll ever sleep again--I might miss somethin'."

"Isn't that lovely! Why, you'll always have lovely things all your
life. And now I've told James that we're going to have dinner up here.
The dining-room looks too big for us two."

Miss Thornton busied herself around the room for a few moments; then
drew a chair in front of the grate and sat down beside Drusilla while
the butler and a maid brought in a small table. Drusilla watched them
as they noiselessly arranged the china and the glass upon the beautiful
cloth, and when all was prepared the butler said in his even, "servant"
tones, "Dinner is served," and went behind the chair reserved for the
mistress of the house. Drusilla hesitated a moment, in evident awe of
the butler, who stood so erect and stiff in his evening clothes, but
here again kindly Daphne Thornton came to her aid.

"Now, you sit here, Miss Doane," and she took her to the chair which
the butler deftly slid into place. "I will be just opposite you. Isn't
this nicer than sitting at that great big table downstairs where we
would need a telephone to talk to each other?"

She chatted all through the dinner, showing in a kindly, unobtrusive
way the uses of the different things that might be an embarrassment to
the little old lady who was used to the simple service of a charity
table. After dinner the coffee was served on a small table in front of
the fire.

While they were drinking it a maid entered the room.

"The motor has come for Miss Thornton," she announced.

Daphne rose.

"Now, I am going to leave you. Get a good sleep. I will call Jeanne,
who will take care of you. She is your personal maid, Miss Doane, so
tell her anything you want."

Answering the ring of the bell a pretty maid came into the room, and
Miss Thornton said:

"Jeanne, this is Miss Doane, your mistress. She is tired and will like
to go to bed early, I am sure. See that she has a good warm bath, as it
will help her sleep. And, Miss Doane, I bought a few things for you, as
perhaps your luggage might not come in time. Jeanne will have them
ready for you. Now, good night! I am so glad you have come, and I know
you will be so happy. You will let me come often to see you, won't you?"

She came over to the chair and bent her pretty young head over the old
white one, and Drusilla reached up her arms and took the smiling face
between her hands.

"You'll never know, dear, what you've done for a lonely old woman. I
don't know how to thank you."

"Thank _me_--why, I should thank _you_. I have had _such_ a nice time,
and I'm so glad that you like the rooms--Mother said you wouldn't.
Would you like me to come in the morning and see how you are getting
on?"

"Oh, will you? I won't know what to do, you know."

"Yes, I'll love to come and I'll be here early. Good night and happy
dreams!" And she was gone.

When she was alone Drusilla sat before the fire and tried to feel that
it all was true, that it was not some beautiful dream from which she
would waken. She went in retrospect over her past life from the time
when, a little girl, her father dying, she and her mother were left
with no support except the little earned by her mother, who was the
village tailoress. Then when she became older the burden of the support
for the two shifted to her shoulders, her mother seeming to have lost
heart and with it the strength and the desire to make the grim fight
with the wolf that always seemed so near the door. For years she
struggled on, doing the country tailoring, nursing the sick, helping in
families who were too poor to hire expert labor, missing all the joys
that come to the average young girl, as all her leisure moments from
work were given to an ailing mother who seemed to become more dependent
upon her daughter each year for companionship and strength.

Yet romance did not entirely pass her by, for when she was nineteen she
loved and was loved in return by John Brierly. They were an ideal
couple, the neighbors said. He, young, handsome, although a little too
much of a dreamer to be a success; she, the prettiest girl in all the
country side. John was restless, and with youth's ambition rebelled
against the narrow restrictions of the little town. Hearing the call of
the West, he decided to go to the country of his dreams and find the
fortune that he knew was waiting him in that new land of mystery. He
tried to persuade Drusilla to marry him and go with him; but her
mother, with a sick woman's persistency, demanded that her daughter
stay with her. They offered to take her with them, and painted in
glowing colors the new life in that "far beyond"; but she wept in
terror at the thought of leaving all she knew, and clung the more
closely to Drusilla, begging her to stay with her until the end. "When
I am gone, Drusilla, you may go; but let me die here among the things I
know and love"; and Drusilla and John put off the journey from year to
year, until at last John in desperation said, "Drusilla, I can wait no
longer. I must go. I will wait for you, and some day you will come to
me."

The years rolled on. Drusilla heard from John from time to time, but
after many years the letters stopped. Her mother lived long enough to
see Drusilla becoming old and tired and worn, and then she, too, left
her for the Great Unknown. Drusilla worked on, making the clothes for
each rising generation, helping tired mothers, caring for the sick. But
at last she had to give up the fight; she was too old. Quicker feet
were wanted, younger hands, and Drusilla learned the bitter lesson that
comes often to the old. They are stumbling-blocks in the pathway of the
young. This knowledge broke her courage and her health, and her hard
saved dollars were spent in doctor's bills. When strength came slowly
back to her she was too weak to rebel against the order that she was to
pass the remainder of her days at the Doane home. Even there she tried
to keep her feeling of self-respect and independence by doing the work
that was not given the other women, who "paid their way." The Director
and his wife, busy, annoyed by a thousand petty details, were not
consciously unkind, but they found it easy to shift a few of their
burdens to the shoulders that always seemed able to carry a little
heavier load; consequently the willing hands were always occupied, the
wearied feet often made many steps on errands that should have been
relegated to one of few years.

Drusilla, sitting before the fire, saw all these bitter years pass like
shadows before her half-closed eyes; she saw the years of toil without
the reward that is woman's right--the love of children, husband, a home
to call her own. And yet those years had left no scar upon her soul, no
rancor against the world that had taken all and given nothing except
the right to live.

A log dropped into the fire and Drusilla awakened from her revery with
a start. Her eyes felt heavy and she rose to go to the bedroom; then
remembered that she was told to ring when she wished to go to bed. She
rang the bell and the maid came into the room.

"Madame desires to retire?"

Drusilla looked at her inquiringly.

"What did Miss Thornton say your name was?"

"Jeanne, Madame."

"Jeanne. That isn't Jane, is it?"

"It may be French for Jane; I am French."

"Well, then, I'll call you Jane. I can't remember the other. I think I
would like to go to bed."

"Then I will prepare the bath."

Soon she returned to the room.

"The bath is ready for Madame," she said; and Drusilla followed her
into the bedroom.

There the thoughtfulness of Miss Thornton was again shown. Over a chair
hung a warm gray dressing-gown, with slippers to match, and neatly
folded on the bed was a soft white nightdress, lace-trimmed, delicate,
dainty, the mere touch of which gave delight to the sensitive fingers
as they touched its folds.

The bathroom, with its silver fittings, was a revelation to Drusilla;
and as she stepped into the warm, slightly perfumed water, it seemed to
speak to her more eloquently than all the rest of the seeming miracles
that were now coming into her life.

When Drusilla returned to the bedroom she found a shaded light on a
table at the head of the bed, and beside the light were her Bible and
the life of John Calvin.

She stood a moment looking around the room, and then she knelt beside
the bed.

"O God," she whispered, "I hain't never had much to thank you for
except for strength to work, but now--dear God, I thank you!"




CHAPTER III


The next morning Drusilla found herself unconsciously waiting for the
rising bell that called the inmates of the Doane home from their
slumbers, and when she opened her eyes she could not realize for a
moment where she was. Instead of the plain white walls of her room, she
saw the soft gray tints of silk and the sheen of silver, and her hands
touched a silken-covered eiderdown quilt. She closed her eyes in sheer
happiness, and then opened them again to be sure that it was not all a
mirage. At last, not being used to lying in bed, she arose and, putting
on the dressing-gown, went to one of the windows and raised the shade
to look out. She stopped with her hand still on the shade, looking in
wonder at the beauty just outside her window. A great copper beach was
flaunting its gorgeous colors in the clear morning air; beyond it a
clump of blue spruce seemed a background for the riotous autumn tints.
At one side of the house was an Italian garden, with terrace after
terrace falling toward the river. Across the river, the Palisades rose
sheer and steep, their reddish-brown rocks covered with the glow of the
morning sun.

Drusilla did not know it, but she was looking at one of the most
beautiful of the many beautiful places along the Hudson, a place on
which hundreds of thousands of dollars had been spent with a lavish
hand. Drusilla drew up a chair and sat by the window, watching the
changing shades as the sun became brighter. Then she became interested
in the life of the place as it gradually awoke to its morning's work.
First a gardener crossed the lawn and began working around the plants;
then another came with a rake and commenced raking up the dying leaves;
another man wandered down toward the river. A man, evidently a house
servant, came across the lawn and, seeing her at the window, went
hastily into the house. Soon there was a light knock at the door, and
in answer to her "come in," Jeanne, the maid, entered.

"Oh, Madame," she said, "why did, you not ring? I did not know you were
up."

She bustled about the room, raising shades, and then rang for a man to
come and make the fire in the grate. The house seemed warm to Drusilla.

"Do I need a fire?" she asked. "It's warm in here."

"Just a little fire, Madame," said Jeanne; "it makes the room more
cheerful."

Drusilla laughed. It seemed to her that nothing could make that
exquisite room more cheerful.

The maid went to the bedroom and soon returned to announce: "The bath
is ready for Madame."

Drusilla wondered why she was expected to take another bath, as she had
had one the night before. But evidently it was expected of her, and she
went into the bathroom and again reveled in the warm, perfumed water.
When she returned to the bedroom her clothing of the night before was
arranged ready for her to put on, and as she dressed she felt for the
first time the coarseness of the linen and the ugliness of the plain
black dress.

"Would Madame like her breakfast here," the maid asked, "or will she go
to the breakfast room?"

Drusilla hesitated, as she did not know what to do.

"I think Madame would like to go to the breakfast room," the clever
little French woman said hastily; "it is very pretty there, with the
flowers and the birds. I will show Madame the way."

Going before her she guided Drusilla down the great staircase and
across a room that was evidently the dining-room, into what Drusilla
would have called a sun-parlor. It was a corner of the veranda enclosed
in glass and filled with flowers and plants of every description, with
birds singing among them in their gilded cages, and from it the Hudson
could be seen, flowing silently to the sea. In the center of the room
was a round table covered with a cloth which quickly caught her eye and
charmed it with its dainty embroidery and lace, used as she had been to
the coarse linen of the home. A man drew out her chair and she was
seated, a footstool found for her feet, and breakfast was served.
Drusilla felt that she could never forget that breakfast. The
grapefruit, the coffee in its silver pot, the crisp bacon, the omelet,
all served on beautiful dishes; and, to complete her joy, a great
Persian cat came lazily to her and rubbed against her, begging for a
share in the good things of the table. She stooped down and stroked its
soft fur.

"I am afraid that Nicodemus is very spoiled," the man said. "His master
always gave him a dish of cream at the table."

Drusilla laughed. It seemed the first human thing she had heard.

"Well, then, I'll spoil him too. What do you give it to him in?"

The man pointed to a silver bowl.

"That is his dish. Shall I give it to him?"

"No; let me," said Drusilla. "I want to do something for some one. Let
me give him his cream."

After that she did not feel so frightened and awed by the presence of
the man who waited upon her so deftly, and when he left she rose and
wandered around the room, looking at the flowers, wondering what were
the names of the many plants that were strange to her. Then she went
across the dining-room and up the stairs to her own rooms, where she
felt more at ease. She found them already arranged, and wondered at the
quickness and silence with which the work was done.

She did not know what to do, so she sat down again by the window to
wait for Daphne. While she was sitting there, the housekeeper came into
the room.

"Good morning, Miss Doane," she said pleasantly. "I hope you slept
well."

"Yes; thank you," replied Drusilla.

"Would you like to go over the house this morning?"

Again Drusilla was embarrassed, as she did not know what would be
expected of her if she went over the house. "Why--why--" she said, "I
think, if you don't mind, I will wait until Miss Thornton comes."

"Very well. I will be ready at any time."

When the housekeeper left the room, Drusilla sat quietly in her place
by the sunny window until at last she saw a motor turn into the
grounds, and soon Daphne appeared. Drusilla's face lighted up when she
saw the pretty girl standing before her. She seemed a part of the
morning itself, with her sparkling eyes, her dainty coloring
accentuated by her pretty suit of blue and her jaunty hat.

"Oh, you look like one of the flowers!" Drusilla exclaimed, reaching
out her hands to her.

"How nice of you to say that! I've come early; did you wait long for
me?"

"Yes; I have been settin' here just seeing the beauty of it all. I
can't believe it's real."

"Oh, but it is. And isn't it beautiful! I always loved the place. Did
you sleep well? Were you tired out? Are you rested?"

"I didn't sleep at first--I couldn't. But I'm not tired; I'm just sort
of excited--and--and--oh, I don't know what to say about it all."

"Well, if you are not tired, would you like to go over the house? It's
a lovely house. I know Mrs. Perrine wants to show it to you and let you
see what a wonderful housekeeper she is."

"Yes; she asked me to go with her, but I wanted to wait until you
come--as--as I might not know what to say."

"Well, we'll go together; and don't you worry about saying anything if
you don't want to. I talk enough for both of us. That's my trouble,
Father says--I talk too much. Come--Mrs. Perrine is downstairs."

They went from room to room, from drawingroom to library, to the
picture gallery in which, had Drusilla known it, were some of the
famous pictures of the world, and on to the great armor room, in which
the former master of the house had searched the countries of the old
world for the armor and accouterments of chivalry which were arranged
around the walls. Then she was shown that which interested her more
than the pictures or the armor--the pantries and the room in which were
kept the china and silver in daily use; and the kitchen, with its array
of cooking utensils, brought a look of delight into her old eyes,
because these she could understand.

Finally she was taken upstairs again and shown the guest rooms, each
with its dressing-room and bath, and then opposite to her own suite of
rooms she was taken into a small library paneled in soft toned woods.
Daphne pulled out a leather chair for Drusilla.

"Now sit in that and tell me what you think of it all. Isn't this a
pretty room? I like it best of all except your sitting-room, and isn't
that a wonderful fireplace? It was brought from somewhere abroad. It is
cozy here at night when the curtains are drawn. I think this room looks
human; those big rooms downstairs don't. I could never curl up in a
chair and read in that great library downstairs, but here you can
really find a novel and read in comfort. I know you'll spend lots of
time in this room."

Drusilla was quiet, sitting with folded hands. Then, after a few
moments, she said:

"I was just a-thinkin' that all this great house can't be for just one
old woman. And all them dishes and the kitchen with them pots and pans
and the cook can't be there just to cook for me alone?"

"Oh, but he is, and he's a wonderful cook. Mr. Doane has had him for
years and years. And James, the butler, came with him from England. He
was in the house of a duke over there, and I assure you, Miss Doane, he
doesn't forget it."

"Is that the man who stands around as if he was afraid he'd hurt
something if he teched it? I ain't seen him do much; another man gave
me my breakfast."

"Yes, I presume William, the second man, gave you your breakfast. James
is too grand to serve breakfast."

"Do I need so many men around?"

"No, I really don't suppose you do, Miss Doane; but Mr. Doane kept a
big household and he left in his will that the house should be kept up
exactly the same as when he was here. But don't you worry about that.
That is father's business. You don't have to bother a bit about it. All
you have to do is to enjoy yourself. Now, what would you like to do? Is
there anything you want?"

Drusilla looked at her a moment and then said, half laughingly, half
apologetically:

"I'd like--I'd like--"

She stopped, and Daphne came over to her.

"What would you like, Miss Doane? I'm here to do anything you wish."

"You won't think I'm a vain old woman if I tell you?"

"Why, certainly not. Tell me."

"Well--well--I was thinkin' this mornin' when I dressed that I didn't
seem to fit in with the house. When I saw my pretty gray room, all so
light and--and--beautiful--and when I saw myself in the lookin'-glass
with my old black dress, I thought--I wished--"

"Yes, Miss Doane; what did you wish?"

Drusilla flushed as if ashamed of her wishes that seemed to her
scarcely befitting a woman of her age.

"I just wished I had pretty clothes to go with the room."

Daphne clapped her hands.

"Now, isn't that lovely! Of course you should have pretty clothes, and
you shall! We will go shopping! Father said to do anything you wanted
to do. Now, what would you like?"

"I don't know, but I'd--I'd just like pretty clothes."

Daphne jumped up and danced around the room.

"I'll tell you what we'll do," she said gaily. "We'll go to town and
shop and shop and shop. I'd love it, and we'll send all the bills to
Father. He can't frown or scold as he does when _I_ send him bills;
he'll have to pay yours without a word. Oh, we'll go right away!"

"I'd love to go, Miss Thornton. I never really shopped in my life. I
jest bought things I had to have, things I couldn't go without no
longer." Drusilla rose, as pleased with the idea as was the young girl
beside her. "Can we go right away?"

"Yes; but wait, you must eat something."

"But I jest had my breakfast."

"Yes; but you must have something now, or you'll get tired. I'll have
them bring you some chicken broth or something, and I'll have some too.
I can always eat."

She danced over to the bell, and when Jeanne answered it she said:

"Tell James to bring some chicken broth and some sandwiches; and have
the small car at the door in half an hour. And please tell my chauffeur
to return home and tell Mother that I will not be home for lunch."

When Jeanne was gone she danced back to Drusilla.

"We'll make a day of it, Miss Doane, and we'll have the _loveliest
time!_"

The lunch was served and then the ugly bonnet was tied on, the mantle
wrapped around the thin shoulders, and Drusilla and Daphne started for
that joy land of women--Fifth Avenue.

"We'll go first and get some things that are already made," Daphne said.

She took Drusilla to one of the exclusive shops on Fifth Avenue. If
Daphne had not been known, slight courtesy would have been shown the
shabbily dressed old woman, but a few words from Daphne and the
salesladies were all smiles and bows, eager to show their best. At
first they showed her black dresses; but at Drusilla's little look of
distress, quick Daphne saw there was something wrong.

"Don't you like them, Miss Doane?"

"Yes--yes--they're beautiful, Miss Thornton, but--do I _have_ to wear
black? I've worn it all my life because it wears well. I'd like--I'd
like--"

"Tell me what you would like."

"I'd like a soft gray dress like my room, if I ain't too old.
But--but--perhaps it wouldn't be fittin'."

"That's just the thing! Why didn't I think of that! Gray will be just
the color for you; and with a touch of blue, and your white hair--Oh,
you'll be lovely, Miss Doane."

Again the willing salesladies were given their instructions, and gray
dresses and gray suits were placed before her. Drusilla passed over the
suits with hardly a look, but fingered lovingly the soft crepes and
chiffons.

"I don't like the heavy things," she said. "They look as if they'd turn
well, and I don't want nothin' that can be turned. I'd like something
that'll wear out."

Daphne laughed.

"You're just like me. I hate things that wear forever. Father says
that's the cause of the high cost of living--we women don't buy
sensible clothes."

Drusilla looked pained.

"Perhaps I shouldn't look at them then--"

Daphne interrupted her.

"You just buy what you want. Don't you worry about what Father thinks.
I don't."

"But I--I--don't want to be extravagant."

"You _can't_ be extravagant. You _can't_ spend too much. Now, don't you
think about it--and don't you ask how much they cost. You don't need to
know. Just you buy the prettiest things they've got."

Finally a choice was made of two pretty soft gray dresses, fragile
enough to suit even Daphne's luxurious tastes; arrangements were made
in regard to their hurried alterations; and, after buying a wrap to
replace the now discarded mantle, they departed, Drusilla as happy as a
child, with a flush on her old cheeks and a strange happy light in her
blue eyes.

"Now we must have things to go with them."

They went into a lingerie shop, where Drusilla was dazed by the piles
of dainty underclothing that were spread before her. She caressed the
soft laces and the delicate, cobweb affairs.

"Oh, Miss Thornton, I can't decide. I didn't know there was such
beautiful things in the world! Had I ought to have 'em? Ain't they too
young for me?"

"There is no age for underclothing. Don't you want them? Isn't that the
loveliest nightgown? Don't you want it?"

"Yes, I'd like to have it, but--" Drusilla thought of her two Canton
flannel nightdresses lying in her little trunk.

"Well, you shall have them. And this fluffy gray dressing-gown--it is a
dear. We will take that too; and this pretty bed-jacket. Look at the
embroidery on it. You must have that, so if you have breakfast in
bed--and _look_ at this dear lace cap. When you sit up in bed, with the
tray in front of you, and this little jacket on, and the cap, with a
little of your hair showing beneath it, why, you'll look nice enough to
_eat_. Now we'll go and buy stockings, pretty gray silk ones, and
shoes, and slippers; and we mustn't forget about the milliner. I know
the _loveliest_ place; Madame will know just what to give you."

Drusilla enjoyed the milliner's the most of all; for there she tried on
hat after hat--not ugly bonnets but cleverly arranged creations for an
old lady that seemed to remove the lines from her face and made her
feel that perhaps, after all, she could take a part and share in the
beautiful things of this new beautiful world, instead of a mere looker
on.

At last they were taken to one of the great modistes, a creator of
gowns known on two continents, and Daphne had Miss Doane wait in a
reception-room while she interviewed the great lady herself. This
arbitrator of fashion came smilingly to Miss Doane and with her keen,
professional eye saw her "possibilities." She said to Miss Thornton:

"Will you leave it to me? I will make her the gowns and she will be
pleased."

Measurements were taken and orders given; and when they were again in
the motor, Drusilla asked shyly:

"What was that last place, Miss Thornton?"

"That is Marcelle, the great dressmaker's place. That was Marcelle
herself who came to us."

"Was that a dressmaking shop? I didn't see no dresses or fashion books."

"No, she doesn't use fashion books. She makes her own fashions."

"But--but--we jest got two new dresses."

Miss Thornton laughed.

"Oh, those are because we were in a hurry. Your dresses must be _made_.
I told her she must hurry, too; and her things are beautiful, Miss
Doane. You'll love yourself in them."

Drusilla laughed softly.

"I'm afraid I love myself already. It seems awful vain for an old woman
like me to be buying all them pretty clothes--but--" and she sighed
like a happy child--"it's nice to be vain for once in your life. It's
just _nice_."

"Of course it is. All women love pretty clothes."

"Yes; it must be something born inside of us, 'cause I don't know as
I've ever had such a feelin' even when readin' the Bible as I did when
I tried on them hats, and bought them dresses, and knowed they was
_mine_." She was quiet for a moment. "I wonder if Eve ever had the
chance to be extravagant in fig leaves?"

"Well, we've bought them, and Father's hair will certainly turn gray,
but he can't say a word. Now we'll go to lunch. It's late; you must be
hungry. I'm glad we found a coat that fitted you--that velvet is so
soft and pretty. And your hat--why, Miss Doane, you won't know
yourself!"

"Is it pretty? It ought to be. It's got ten dollars of hat and thirty
dollars of style; but I don't care. I'm so happy that I'm afraid I'll
cry and spoil it all."

But she did not cry and she enjoyed the luncheon at the big hotel, and
as she ate she stole shy glances in the mirror opposite that reflected
a transformed Drusilla from the frightened little woman who had gone
tremblingly down the steps of the Doane home the day before.




CHAPTER IV


The next few days passed in a whirl of excitement for Drusilla. Dresses
were bought for her to fit, and she went into town with Daphne on
visits to the great dressmaker, who turned and studied Drusilla as gown
after gown was fitted to her slim, yet still erect old figure. But
finally they were all finished and great boxes came to the house. They
were opened by Jeanne and their treasures spread upon the chairs and
the bed to be admired and fingered lovingly by Drusilla, who took as
much joy in her new clothes as any girl with her first trousseau.
Except for the Bible and the life of John Calvin the contents of the
little trunk were lost, so far as Drusilla was concerned. She became
another being, as, clothed in soft-toned grays, her hair dressed by the
hand of expert Jeanne, she gradually lost her feeling of loneliness, of
being a person apart from her new life, and began to move with
confidence amongst the treasured beauties of her new home.

The pretty gowns gave her a feeling of respect for herself that she had
never experienced before, and for the first time in her life she felt
within herself a _power_. Her opinions were deferred to, her wishes
carried out immediately, and it seemed to her that all the world was
trying to give her happiness. It took her many days to feel that she
might ask for service instead of waiting upon herself; but she soon
learned that the many servants were there for her especial use, and
expected to be called upon to render any service that she required.

At first she was embarrassed when the housekeeper came to her in the
mornings for orders for the day, and she confided to Daphne that she
didn't know what to tell her. Daphne interviewed the housekeeper
privately and then said to Drusilla, "I have seen Mrs. Perrine and told
her that she doesn't need to come to you in the morning, as she
understands what is to be done. If there is anything special, you will
tell her, but you are not to be bothered with the details of the house
now. After a while, perhaps, you will care to attend to some of the
things, and tell her what you would like; but don't let it worry you
until you get used to it all. I told the chef, too, that he need not
send up the menu for the day, as he did to Mr. Doane."

Miss Thornton could not know how thankful Drusilla was for this last
order, as the consideration of the menu had been a great embarrassment
to her. It was written in French--a language quite unknown to
Drusilla--and although she could not read the names of the marvelous
creations of the cook, the food delighted her and the quiet, skilful
service was always a wonder. The mechanism of the great household
seemed to move with almost a machine's precision, and she felt that she
was in a world that revolved to the order of unseen hands.

She had been in her new home but a few days when a card was brought
her, and she read on it: _Thomas Carney, The New York Times_. She went
to the library, wondering what some strange man could want with her.
She found a very quick, alert young man, with twinkling blue eyes, who
rose to greet her. She gave him her hand and asked him to be seated. He
sat down, and then question after question was asked Drusilla. What
relation she was to Elias Doane? Had she ever known him? How she had
passed her life; the details of the life in the Doane home; how many
years she had been there? Her impressions of her new home; what she
intended doing with her million dollars; if she had any relatives to
whom she would leave her money? Was she interested in charities? Did
she believe in promiscuous giving, or would she help personally the
objects of her charity?

Poor Drusilla heard the flood of questions in amazement, and answered
them quite frankly; and the keen young newspaper man read much between
the answers that showed the loneliness of her life, her bewilderment in
her new surroundings, and he congratulated himself that he would have
an article for his Sunday paper that not only would be filled with
facts but also would have "heart interest."

When he rose to go he asked her if she had a photograph of herself.

She laughed.

"No, I ain't never had my pictur' took since I was a young girl and had
it on a tintype."

Nothing daunted, the young man asked for it; but she had to tell him
that she had lost it years ago; and then he asked if he might take her
photograph as she sat there in her high-backed chair. Drusilla was a
little awed by this very confident young man, so she sat still while he
took her photograph, and then when he was ready to depart, she
hesitatingly said:

"Young man, you have asked me a lot of questions. May I ask you one?"

He laughed.

"Certainly! As many as you want."

"Well, why have you asked me so many things?"

"I represent the New York _Times_, a newspaper, and we want to tell the
people all about you."

"About _me_? Why should they want to know about _me_?"

The man laughed again, pleasantly, and said:

"You know we like to know about our neighbors, and you are the newest
neighbor."

"But are you going to write all I said?"

"Well, nearly all; but, Miss Doane, if there is anything you don't want
written, I'll cut it."

Drusilla was embarrassed.

"Have I said anything that I shouldn't? If I had known you was from a
paper, I'd 'a' waited until Mr. Thornton come."

"I'm jolly glad you didn't. Little copy could have been squeezed from
that old lawyer. But don't you worry, Miss Doane. There won't be
anything that will hurt you. It's kind of you to see me. I have been
trying for several days to get in, but couldn't get past that butler of
yours. He sure is a wonder."

"Did the butler stop you?"

"Well, yes; he stood at the door like an armored cruiser. I wouldn't
have made it to-day if I hadn't waited until I saw him go out. I knew
the second man was at his home and only a maid in charge of you."

Drusilla was unhappy.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have seen you. It must have been Mr. Thornton's
orders, and he knows what is best for me."

She crossed over to the young man and looked rather pitifully up into
his face.

"You look like a nice young man," she said; "I like your eyes. You
won't say nothing that'll make Mr. Thornton unhappy?"

The reporter took the half-outstretched hand and smiled down into the
kindly, wrinkled face. When he spoke there was almost a touch of
tenderness in his voice.

"I don't care about making Mr. Thornton unhappy, Miss Doane, but I
wouldn't do anything to make _you_ unhappy for the world; and if you
ever want anything of the papers, here is my card. Just you send for me
and I'll do anything for you that I can."

And so ended Drusilla's first interview.

To her amazement the next Sunday there was spread before her the paper
with great headlines: MISS DRUSILLA DOANE, OUR NEWEST MILLIONAIRE.
There was the picture of the Doane home for old ladies; there were
pictures of the home at Brookvale taken from many angles, pictures of
the garden, the conservatories; and in the middle of the page there was
Drusilla herself, sitting in the high-backed chair. The article was
well written, filled with "heart interest." It told of her early
struggles, her years of work, and her later life in the charity home.
Evidently the young man had visited the village where she had lived and
talked with all who knew her; and Mrs. Smith's hand could plainly be
seen in the account of the life of the inmates of the institution over
which she had charge. Even poor old Barbara had been called upon to
tell about Drusilla, the many little acts of kindness which she had
done for the poor and lonely. As Drusilla read it she laughed and said,
"Well, I guess Barbara had her teeth in that day." The article ended
with the account of the million dollar bequest, and suggested that
quite likely the charities of New York would benefit by the newest
acquisition to the ranks of its millionaires, as Miss Doane was alone
in the world, and had no one on whom to lavish her enormous income or
to leave the money when she was called to the other world.

Drusilla did not know it, but this last addition of the facile
reporter's pen set many heads of institutions to thinking, and caused
many a person to wonder how they could gain the affections or the pity
of this old lady, and separate her from at least a part of her
new-found inheritance.

Drusilla passed many hours among the flowers in the conservatories,
where she won the heart of the gardener by the keen interest she took
in his work. He would walk around with her and tell her the names of
the plants strange to her, pointing out their beauties and their
peculiarities. He soon saw that the orchids and the rare blooms from
foreign lands did not appeal to her as did the old-fashioned flowers
she knew, and they made a little bargain that in the spring she should
have some beds of mignonette, phlox, verbenas, and moss rose. One
morning she watched him giving directions to one of the under-gardeners
for the potting of small plants for the spring.

"Mr. Donald," she said, "I wish I could plant somethin'. It's been
years since I dug around in the earth, and I want to plant somethin'
and see it grow."

"That's easy, ma'am," said Scotch Mr. Donald. "I'll fix a part of the
house here and you can plant what you want in it"; and after that many
mornings found Drusilla pottering happily around the conservatory with
a trowel, planting seeds or "slipping" plants as she called it. It gave
her something to do, and that was the one thing she needed. She missed
the active life, the "doing something." Everything was done for
her--she had no duties. She, who had passed her life in service for
others, here had only to mention a wish and it was immediately carried
out. She was not allowed even to look after her clothing. As soon as an
article was removed it was whisked out of the room and when returned
was brushed, mended, and ready for use again.

One afternoon Drusilla sat down by the window to mend a tear on the
bottom of her skirt. Jeanne, coming into the room, quickly took the
garment from her.

"Madame, she must not do that. _Quelle horreur!_ I will attend to it at
once."

Drusilla laughed.

"Can't I even patch my dress?" she said. "Jane, where are my stockin's?
I am sure there must be some darnin'."

Jeanne looked at her reproachfully.

"Madame does not wear darned stockings."

"Stuff and nonsense!" said Drusilla. "Why shouldn't I wear darned
stockin's?"

"Yes, but it would not be _au fait_ for Madame to wear darned
stockings."

Drusilla became a little angry.

"How foolish you are, Jane! I've wore darned stockin's all my life. A
few darns don't hurt one way or another. What becomes of my stockin's?
I saw a hole in one the other day."

Jeanne looked a little embarrassed.

"Why--why--when they become not _convenable_ for Madame, I--I take
them."

"Oh," said shrewd Drusilla, looking at Jeanne over her glasses. "And I
presume you are the judge of when they become '_convenable_'--whatever
that means. But you'd better let me tell you when I think they're ready
to be passed on."

Drusilla sat back in the chair with folded hands for a few moments;
then she looked down at them as they lay idly in her lap.

"I don't see what I'm goin' to do with my hands. I've always had a
work-basket by my side whenever I set down, and now you just expect me
to set. Well, I'm tired of it; I want to _do_ something."

A few of the neighbors, headed by Mrs. Thornton, the typical New York
woman devoted to "society," made calls upon Drusilla; and when the
first caller's card was brought to Drusilla, she went into the
drawing-room and greeted the stylishly dressed lady who rose to meet
her, wondering why she had come. The lady sat down and talked to
Drusilla about the weather, asked how she liked Brookvale, spoke of the
opera season and of a new singer, asked her if she cared for
symphonies, which Drusilla thought at first was something to eat,
mentioned a ball that was being given at Sherry's that night for
charity; and then departed, leaving Drusilla still wondering why she
came. Evidently she told her friends of her visit, as many came, some
from curiosity and others from real kindliness and desire to be
friendly with their newest neighbor.

One day Daphne saw the cards.

"Oh," she said, "has Mrs. Druer called, and Mrs. Cairns, and Mrs.
Freeman. I am so glad. You must return the call."

"Is that a call? What did they come for? I been wondering about it ever
since they come."

"They are your neighbors."

"Oh, is that the way they are neighborly in the city? Set down and talk
about nothing for ten minutes and then go home. Well, I don't see as
it's very fillin'."

"They want to get acquainted."

"Well, why don't they stay a while and git acquainted? We jest git
started to talkin' when they go away. Where I lived when a neighbor
come to see you, they brought their sewin' and spent the afternoon. You
can't git acquainted settin' opposite each other and wonderin' what to
say. Why, they all look when they git ready to go, 'Well, I've done my
duty; thank goodness it's over!'"

Daphne laughed.

"You must go and return the calls."

"You mean that I must go to their houses and do what they done--set ten
minutes and ask them about the weather and the opera and symphonies? I
don't know nothin' about them things at all."

"You needn't ask them about the opera, but you must return their calls."

Drusilla shook her head.

"No, I won't do it."

"Oh, but you must."

"But I won't, Miss Thornton," said Drusilla obstinately. "I don't know
what to say."

"I'll go with you, Miss Doane."

"Well--" and Drusilla was a little pacified--"well, I'll go once and
see what it's like. I'll do anything once, but I won't promise to do it
much."

"Never mind; you must return the first calls. I'll come for you
to-morrow and we'll go. You have cards--I had them made for you; and
I'll bring my new cardcase. No, I'll get you the dearest bag I saw
downtown. Gray suede with a cardcase and mirror in it, and a pencil and
everything you need."

"What do I want a mirror in my hand satchel for?"

"Why to powder your nose if it gets shiny, Miss Doane. You're not up to
date. You must have a vanity box in your bag or you won't be in it at
all now."

Drusilla laughed.

"You ain't forgot how vain I was that first day when I peeked in all
the mirrors at the hotel. But now I can pass one without lookin' in, if
I ain't got a new dress on."

"Speaking of dresses, Miss Doane, put on that dark gray velvet that
Marcelle made you and the hat with the mauve. Oh, I wish it were cold,
so you could wear your new furs. But--well--they'll see them all after
a while. We mustn't astonish them _too_ much at first."

"Do I have to fix up so much?"

"But I want them to see how pretty you are."

Drusilla blushed like a girl.

"Pshaw, Miss Thornton, don't you know I'm past seventy years old? You
shouldn't say such things."

"Oh, but I mean it. Margaret Fairchild, who was here with her mother,
told the girls the other night at the dance that she couldn't keep her
eyes off of you, as you sat with the light on your hair, and your
pretty dress that was so half old-fashioned and half the latest style.
She said you looked as if you had just stepped out of a picture."

"It's my clothes, I guess."

"Yes, it's partly the clothes, and that's where Marcelle is clever. She
makes the clothes suit _you_, and doesn't try to make a fashionable
middle-aged woman out of you. She spoke of your hands too, said they
looked so--so--sort of feminine as they lay on the arms of the chair.
You are clever, Miss Doane, to always sit on one of those high-backed
chairs when callers come; it makes a lovely background."

"Does it? I hadn't thought of that. I generally set in the chair that's
nearest the door; and I like one with arms that I can take hold of,
'cause it makes me nervous to have the women stare at me, and sometimes
when there is such a long time between talks, I hold on to the arm
tight so's I won't show I'm nervous and wonderin' what to say to fill
in. But I didn't think any one noticed my hands." She looked down at
them rather sadly. "They've always worked hard and I guess they show
the marks."

"Oh, your hands are beautiful, Miss Doane. I can't ever believe you
have worked with them."

"Can't you? I never had my hands idle in my lap in all my life till I
come here. But--well, they ought to have something happen to 'em the
way Jane works with 'em. Whenever I let her she's fussin' with my hands
with little sticks and knives, until sometimes I'd like to box her
ears. How any one can spend so much time just settin' still and lettin'
some one fuss with their hands, I don't see. But I let her do it, as I
don't have much else to do here but just set still, and she'd better
fool with my hands than spend her time talkin' with William, which she
does enough as it is."

"Oh, is Jeanne flirting?"

"Now, I shouldn't say anything. But I can't help seein' things, even if
they do think I'm an old woman with my eyes half shut."

"I'll speak to Father about it."

"No, you won't, Miss Thornton. Leave her alone. It ain't much company
for a young girl like her just to wait on an old woman like me; and
William seems a nice young man. I like him, Miss Thornton, but I jest
can't bear the sight of James."

Daphne turned quickly.

"Has James been impertinent to you?"

Drusilla shook her head.

"No, not at all. I wish he would be impudent or _anything_ except jest
stand around and look grand. He don't approve of me, Miss
Thornton--even his back when he leaves the dining-room says he don't
approve of me. I never seen a back that can say so much as his'n."

"Well, if you don't like him I will speak to Father and he will get
another butler."

"No, don't do that. He don't do nothin' to lose his place for; and I'd
hate to have to git used to another back. He never says a word, but he
jest _looks_; but perhaps he'll git over it, or I'll git used to it, or
maybe when I git more used to things I'll talk to him and ask him if he
can't be a little more human, instead of lookin' like the chief mourner
at a funeral. It sometimes makes me feel that I'm dead and he's takin'
the last look."

Daphne laughed.

"Oh, that's his way. He's English, you know, and English servants are
trained to look like mummies."

"Well, he certainly had good trainin'. What time do we go callin'
to-morrow? I want to git it over."

"I'll come for you at four, and I'll tell them to have the small car
ready. Good-by. I'm going to a great big tea where I am to pour. I love
to give tea, although I always give the wrong person lemon."

The next day Jeanne, being told that Drusilla was going to call upon
the ladies of the neighborhood, took extra care in dressing her; and
when Daphne came, Drusilla was a very richly, exquisitely dressed old
lady waiting for her car. The bag delighted Drusilla and she examined
the fittings, and looked at the little vanity case with its tiny powder
puff and mirror. Daphne laughed as she saw her peep into the mirror.

"Oh, Miss Doane, you're just like us all. We can't pass a mirror
without a peep."

Drusilla said: "I wonder if we ever git too old not to want to see
ourselves. As long as I can have hats like this one, I won't. Ain't it
funny what clothes can do for you. Now with my velvet dress I ain't a
bit afraid to go in that big house, in the front door and set down in
the parlor, while if I had on my old black dress, I'd feel that I
belonged in the kitchen. Yet it's the same Drusilla Doane inside."

Drusilla made many calls that afternoon. At some of the places, being
told that the lady was not at home, a card was left.

"Pshaw now," she said to Daphne, "will I have to come again, now she
ain't at home?"

"No," said Daphne; "she'll find your cards and know you have called.
That's all you have to do."

"Well, that's one good thing"--and Drusilla was relieved to find that
the disagreeable duty was so quickly done. "If I'd a knowed that, I'd a
sent William to tell me when they was out and then I'd a come."

"Oh, but you'll like your neighbors when you know them. Here--Mrs.
Crane is at home, I know"--and Drusilla spent a most miserable half
hour sitting on the edge of a hard chair, wishing Daphne would rise as
a signal to leave. Tea was served by a maid, and Drusilla held the cup
awkwardly, while she ate the little wafer and infinitesimal sandwich
which was passed with it.

"Why didn't they have a table?" she asked when they were outside. "I
was in mortal fear that I'd spill the tea on my new dress--and I don't
eat well with my gloves on."

Two more calls of the same kind were made and as they were turning into
another gate, Drusilla leaned forward and said to the chauffeur:
"Joseph, go straight ahead." Then, turning to Daphne, Drusilla said:
"We're goin' for a ride now; we ain't goin' to spoil this lovely day
with no more calls."

Drusilla would not listen to Daphne's remonstrances, and the motor flew
along the beautiful drive overlooking the Hudson. Drusilla did not
speak for a time, simply enjoying the ride. Then she turned to the girl.

"Daphne, what does subsidize mean."

Daphne frowned for a moment.

"I wonder if I can tell. I know what it means but it is hard to say it.
It means to pay a certain sum of money to some one or some thing. For
instance, the ships that carry the mails for some governments are
subsidized; or if the government wants to aid some project, to enable
it to start, it subsidizes it--that is, gives it a certain sum per year
like a salary. Have I made myself clear? Father could tell you better
than I can."

"I guess I see what it is," Drusilla said.

"Why do you want to know?" queried Daphne.

"Well, I got a little mixed up in what it meant. I got a letter this
morning from some man--some poet I guess he is--who said that I should
leave my money to subsidize struggling poets, who had a great message
to give the world, but who had to work so hard making a livin' that
they didn't git no chance to give the message. I'm afraid I got kind of
mixed up--I could think of nothin' but etherize. I guess it was the
strugglin' that confused my mind, and I been wondering why I could
etherize a lot of struggling young poets. But now I understand."

"Well, of all the impertinence--"

"I don't know, Daphne; there's some truth in what he said. He said that
nations needed great thoughts as well as they needed great
inventions--them's his words not mine--and often rich men subsidized a
poor inventor or a poor scientist so's they could have time to make
their inventions and not have to worry over their daily bread; so why
shouldn't it be done for the poets who would then have time to give
great thoughts to the people, thoughts that would inspire them to noble
deeds and works. There's a lot of sense in what he says."

"But you would never _think_ of doing such a thing--"

"No, of course not; but I like to hear about it. And I been a studyin'
a lot about that young man,--I am sure he was young or he wouldn't have
had the courage to write me; it's only the young who have the courage
to _try_."

"I call it _nerve_," said Daphne scornfully; "plain _nerve_."

"Yes, perhaps it is. But I was thinkin' about this young man who has
got a feelin' inside of him that he could say somethin' that would make
the world better, and he tries, then he's got to go to an office or
somewhere and perhaps count rolls of cloth, or he may be a newspaper
man who has to write stories of murders and divorces and--and--things
like that, when beautiful things is just a chokin' him."

She was silent for a moment.

"It's an awful thing to be poor, Daphne--real poor. Yet--" she said
musingly, "even when you're real poor you can always find somethin' to
give. Like Mis' Sweet. Did I ever tell you about Mis' Sweet? She lived
in our village and she was mortal poor all her life. When her husband
lived he didn't do no more work than he had to and she had to git along
as best she could, and then when he died she lived with her son, who
was so mean and stingy that he made her go to bed at dark so's she
wouldn't burn kerosene. She was so poor that she never had cookies or
cakes to send her neighbors, and it kind o' cut her, because in the
country we was always sendin' some little thing we'd been bakin' to
each other, because that's about the only kind of presents country
women can make to each other, somethin' they make themselves.

"So Mis' Sweet felt kind o' bad that she couldn't make no return. But,
as I says, one ain't never too poor but that they kin give something.
Now Mis' Sweet and nothin' pretty in her house, and never saw much that
was beautiful, but she had beautiful thoughts inside, and she loved the
flowers and things that grew around her.

"Mis' Sweet made paper flowers trying to say the beautiful things she
felt inside, jest like that poet. She couldn't buy none of the pretty
crinkled papers that we see nowadays; she never saw none of those; but
she saved all the little pieces of tissue paper, and any scrap of silk,
and the neighbors saved 'em for her too, and they saved their broom
wire; and no one ever thought of throwin' away an old green window
shade--it was sent to Mis' Sweet for her leaves. She twisted the broom
wires with any piece of green paper that she could git hold of, and she
cut the papers into flowers, the white ones into daisies and the little
pieces of silk was colored with dyes that the neighbors give her that
they had left over, and she made roses and apple blossoms and begonias
and geraniums, and all the flowers that she knowed. If some were
peculiar and didn't look like much o' anything she called them jest
wild flowers. She made them all into bouquets. And there wasn't a new
baby born in the village but that the mother found by her bedside a
bouquet of Mis' Sweet's, and no bride went to the altar but she had a
little piece o' orange blossom on her that had been lovingly pinned on
by Mis' Sweet, and before the lid was closed over our dead--they had
slipped in their fingers a little flower from their old neighbor. And
do you think that we laughed at her stiff little bouquets? No! We all
loved 'em and we understood, 'cause with each leaf made out of our old
window shades and from each wire from our wore out brooms, there was a
little love mixed in with the coverin'."

She was silent for a few moments; then she added:

"And I think that this young poet will find a way to give something to
the world, if he really loves it and wants to give, same as Mis' Sweet
did."

They were returning home along the drive.

"We haven't made half the calls that we should," Daphne said. "We must
go another day."

Drusilla shook her head decisively.

"No; I won't make no more calls."

"Oh, but, Miss Doane, you _must_. You must return your calls."

"Oh, but I mustn't, and I won't," said Drusilla, shaking her head
obstinately. "I most froze at some of them places, and I won't risk it
again. I won't make calls. They can come to me, Miss Thornton, but I
won't go back."

"But they won't come to see you if you don't return the calls."

"Well, they can stay at home then--it ain't much loss on either side."

"But what will you do?"

"I'll send William to know when they are out, and he can leave my cards
jest as well as I can. I won't go into them rooms and drink tea out of
my lap and eat with my gloves on, and talk about things I don't know
nothin' about and don't care even if I did. I'm too old to begin such
foolishness."

"But what will I tell them when they ask why you don't return their
calls?"

"You can tell them anything you want to. I _won't_ go."

Daphne said mischievously: "I'll say you are a _very_ old lady, and
_feeble_, and cannot take the exertion of making calls."

Drusilla sat up very straight and a slight flush appeared on her cheeks.

"You'll say _no_ such thing, Daphne Thornton. You say the truth, that I
don't see no sense in it. Old indeed! I'm not so old; and as to being
feeble--"

Daphne snuggled her face against the arm near her.

"Oh, you are a dear, Miss Doane. I love to see you get angry. But _you_
say you are old!"

"That's different. I say it with my own meanin', and generally to pet
out of doin' somethin' I don't want to do. But I'm growin' younger each
minute. Perhaps"--she chuckled softly to herself--"it's my second
childhood."

They came to the door, and it was opened by James--stiff, correct,
funereal.

"No," almost groaned Drusilla; "there's James. Now I know I'm dead and
only waitin' for the buryin'."




CHAPTER V


Drusilla grew more and more to feel that she was a part of her little
world, where everything revolved around her and her wishes were law. It
was only natural that she gained confidence in herself. She lost her
awe of the servants, and even found courage to speak shortly to James,
who, she learned from Jeanne, was relegating most of his duties to
William, thinking Miss Doane would not know the difference.

But after the excitement of the first few weeks was past she found the
time heavy on her hands. She had no duties, she did not read, there was
no sewing nor mending for her, and she could not always work in the
conservatories among the flowers; consequently she began to long for
something with which to occupy her thoughts and, above all, her hands.

One morning when she was wandering aimlessly around the house she went
into the pastry room. There she looked in delight at all the shining
pans and the bowls arranged in graduated sizes on their shelves.

"My, ain't it nice, and everything so handy!"

She looked around for a minute; then a thought began to take shape in
Drusilla's mind. She looked at the chef thoughtfully; then, evidently
deciding, she gave her head a little toss and with a light laugh left
the room, soon to return with a big gingham apron covering her pretty
dress. The chef looked at her inquiringly.

"Cook," Drusilla said, "I'm hungry for some home cookin' and I want to
do it myself. I ain't cooked none fer a good many years, and my fingers
is jest itchin' to git into the flour. Where's your flour and things to
make cake?"

The chef was shocked.

"_Mais_, Madame."

"Yes, Madame may, and she's goin' to; so show me where the things is."
She rolled up her sleeves. "Now you git me that big yellow bowl, and
give me the lard. I'm goin' to make doughnuts--fried cakes I used to
call 'em, tho' it's more stylish to say doughnuts these days. I don't
like them that's bought in the store with sugar sprinkled on top; sugar
don't belong on fried cakes. It takes away their crispiness and you
might jest as well be eatin' cake."

Drusilla kept the chef busy waiting on her until she had all the
articles needed. Then she turned upon him.

"Now, you go away. Go up to your room, or down to James. I don't want
you standin' round lookin' as if you was goin' to bust every minute.
You got to git used to this. I'm goin' to have a bakin' day once a
week, same as I did for forty year."

Drusilla spent a happy morning. The "fried cakes" finished, she decided
to make some cookies--the "old-fashioned kind that my mother's sister
Jane give me the receipt of; I kind o' want to see if I have lost my
hand."

But the hand had not lost its cunning if the great dish of brown, crisp
doughnuts, and the cookies and the gingerbread were a test. After they
were baked and in a row on the table, she stepped back and surveyed her
handiwork, with a proud expression on her kindly old face.

"Now if I only had some one to come in and say, 'Drusilla, is them
fresh fried cakes?' and I'd laugh and say, 'Yes; do try 'em,' and
they'd eat three or four. Or if I only had some neighbors--"

Drusilla stopped suddenly.

"Now, why _shouldn't_ I! I've got neighbors that's all been tryin' to
be neighborly to me in their way; why shouldn't I be neighborly in _my_
way? I can't be neighborly jest leavin' a card, or drinkin' tea with my
gloves on--Yes, I will! Drusilla'll be neighborly in _Drusilla's_ way."

She was as delighted as a child at the thought. She hurried into the
pantry and returned with some plates and napkins. She piled a few of
her confections upon each plate, carefully covered it with a napkin,
then called William.

"William," she said, "you take that plate o' cookies over to Mis'
Gale's, and tell her that I sent 'em, bein' it was my bakin' day. See
she gets 'em and they don't stop in the kitchen. And take that plate o'
gingerbread to Mis' Cairns; and them fried cakes to Mis' Freeman; and
tell 'em all I sent 'em with my love. Tell 'em I made 'em myself."

William looked at her but did not move.

"What you lookin' at me fer? Take 'em as I said. Put 'em in a basket if
you can't carry 'em, or have one of the girls help you."

"But, ma'am, but--"

"But what? Ain't you never took cookies to one before?"

"Why--why--no, ma'am. Never in the houses where I've served--"

"Now that'll do, William. Don't begin that. That's what James always
says when he specially wants to be disagreeable. If you haven't ever
took a neighbor a plate o' cookies or some gingerbread, right hot out
of the oven, you've missed a lot. So do as I say!"

"But--ma'am--I'm sure they have all the cakes they need. Mr. Cairns is
a--very--very rich man, and they have a cook, a French cook. Why, he
has an income of more than a million dollars a year, and--and--"

Drusilla looked at him over her glasses.

"Land o' Goshen, has he? That's a heap o' money; but I'm sure that if
he has a French cook like mine, he'll be mighty glad to have an
old-fashioned fried cake; so take that plate to him too, and I'll fix
another for Mis' Freeman. He ain't never sence he was a boy set his
teeth in better fried cakes. Perhaps the cookies won't be so much to
his taste; but you tell 'em they're nice fer the children to slip in
their apron pockets to eat at recess."

William executed his errand, although with a feeling that the dignity
of the place was not being upheld. There was a luncheon party at the
Cairns mansion, and when the butler brought in the plate of cookies and
the doughnuts and delivered the message, trying his best not to smile,
Mrs. Cairns looked at them in dismay.

"What did you say, John?"

"Miss Doane sent them to you with her love. She said that it was her
baking day, and that she had made them herself. The cookies are for the
children to slip in their apron pockets and eat at recess," recited the
butler with an immobile face.

Mrs. Cairns raised the napkins and surveyed the cakes; then she looked
at her husband and her guests. They laughed; that is, the guests did,
but not Mr. Cairns.

"Take them to the kitchen, John," Mrs. Cairns ordered. "The servants
may have them."

"No; bring them here, John," Mr. Cairns said sharply. "You may go and
say that Mrs. Cairns thanks Miss Doane very much for her thoughtfulness
in remembering her on her baking day, and that she is sure she will
enjoy the doughnuts--and the cookies will be given to the children."

The servant left the room, and Mr. Cairns sat very quietly looking at
the plates before him. He took up one of the doughnuts, studied it,
then finally took a bite of it.

"Hot," he said, "and crispy."

He was quiet a moment, with a far away look in his eye; then, as if
noticing the silence of his guests, he said with a quiet laugh:

"It takes me back--back--. Bless her old soul! I understand. And it
takes me back--and--well, I'm a boy again and I can see Mother standing
over the stove, and I can smell the hot cakes when I come in from
school, and hear her say, 'Jimmie, take your hands out of that crock!
No, you can't have but one. Well, two, but no more. Now take that plate
over to Mis' Fisher and that one to Miss Corbin--'"

He was quiet again for a few moments; then, as if coming back to the
world beside him, he said in his usual even tones:

"Shall we go into the library?"

And the guests did not laugh again.

Drusilla was neighborly in other ways besides that of sending cakes and
cookies on her baking day. One day she heard that Mrs. Beaumont, who
lived in the first house below her, was ill. "She has a bad cold," Miss
Lee told her, "and they are afraid it might develop into pneumonia.
But, between you and me, she's just bored to death and doesn't have
enough to interest her."

As soon as her visitor left, Drusilla went upstairs, and came down with
a little package in her hand and an old-fashioned sunbonnet on her
head. She went out of the gate and down the road until she came to the
great gates that guarded the home of the multi-millionaire who lived
there.

She was told at the door that Mrs. Beaumont was not receiving, but she
told the man to tell his mistress that she had something special for
her and would not detain her but a moment. The man rather unwillingly
took her message, and returning in a few moments conducted Drusilla
into a luxurious bedroom, where a very beautiful woman was lying upon a
chaise lounge, dressed in an elaborate peignoir, her hair covered by a
marvelous creation that went by the name of boudoir cap. She languidly
gave her hand to Drusilla.

"You want to see me?" she murmured in a low, languid voice. "Won't you
please sit down? And excuse my appearance. I am not
receiving--but--but--I thought I would see _you_."

Drusilla sat down.

"Now that's real nice of you to see me. I heard you was sick--had a bad
cold; and I thought I'd come in and see if I couldn't help you. I brung
some boneset. I nursed a lot when I was younger, and I found that
boneset is the best thing in the world fer a cold. Jest make a tea of
it and drink it hot. It's kind of bitter, but you can put milk and
sugar in it if you want to--though, to my notion, that makes it worse.
Then git right into bed and cover up and sweat. It's the best thing in
the world fer a cold--jest sweat it out of you. If you should put a hot
brick or a hot flatiron at your back and another at your feet, it'd
help. By to-morrow you won't know you got a cold."

The woman's face was a study; but the doctor entered at that moment and
saved her. She said:

"Dr. Hodman, this is Miss Doane, my nearest neighbor."

Drusilla shook his hand heartily.

"I'm real glad to see you. I've brung Mis' Beaumont some herbs. A
little boneset. I told her to make a good strong cup o' tea of it, and
drink it hot, then git into bed and cover up warm, and sweat, and by
to-morrow she wouldn't know she had a cold."

The doctor looked from Drusilla to Mrs. Beaumont, hardly knowing what
to say. This little old lady, with her sunbonnet and her boneset tea,
was not the usual visitor he encountered in the homes of his
fashionable patients.

"Yes," said Mrs. Beaumont, "and--and--Miss Doane was telling me that a
hot brick--what was it you said, Miss Doane?"

"I was a tellin' her that a hot brick or a flatiron at her feet and
another at the small of her back would help. It ain't comfortable jest
at first, but she can have the hired girl wrap it in a piece o flannel,
and after a while it feels real comfortin'. But I must be goin'. I see
you're a lookin' at my bunnet, Mis' Beaumont. It don't look much like
what you got on your head, but I work a lot in the garden, and if I
don't have somethin' on my head my hair gets all frouzy. A hat don't
seem to be the right thing to work in the garden with, and if I do wear
one the sun burns the back of my neck when I stoop down; so I got me a
bunnet, like I used to wear, and it makes me feel real to home.
Good-by, good-by, doctor."

She turned to Mrs. Beaumont:

"Now, if the boneset tea don't do you no good, let me know. Perhaps
your liver is teched a little and it makes you feel bad all over. I got
some camomile leaves that's real good fer that. If you want any, I'll
be real glad to bring 'em over."

She was gone.

The doctor looked at his patient and the patient looked at the doctor.
Then Mrs. Beaumont put back her head and burst into a gale of laughter,
in which the dignified doctor soon joined. They laughed and laughed,
the woman wiping her tear-filled eyes. Finally, when she could stop
long enough to talk, she said:

"Did you ever hear of anything so funny in all your life--a hot
brick--or a hot flatiron"--a peal of laugher--"at my feet--another one
at the small of my back--Oh, I shall die, I shall surely die!" And she
went off into another paroxysm of laughter.

When the laughter ceased and the doctor returned to his professional
manner, asking her how she felt and starting to feel her pulse, she
said:

"Doctor, she's cured me. I haven't had a laugh like that for years.
It's better than all your medicine. Boneset tea--" and again she was
off.

Finally, when she had quieted, the doctor said:

"I don't know but that her boneset tea is as good as anything else. All
you need is a little quiet. You seem better than you were yesterday."

"I tell you that I am well! All my system needed was a little shaking
up, and Miss Doane has done it for me."

The doctor rose to go.

"I think that I shall take Miss Doane as a partner. Her herbs or her
prescriptions seem to have a better effect than my medicines. Shall I
come to-morrow?"

"Yes; this may not last. Come to-morrow if you are near, though I am
sure I won't need you."

As the doctor's hand was on the door he turned:

"If I were you, Mrs. Beaumont, I'd send for those camomile leaves."

But with all her little acts of neighborliness, and her "baking day"
and her attempts to find duties to fill the hours, time began to hang
heavily upon the hands of active Drusilla. If she had been of a higher
station in life she would have said that she was bored or was suffering
from that general complaint of the rich--"enuyee."

Here Providence stepped in. One morning when she was dressing she heard
a peculiar little wailing cry. She listened. The cry was repeated. She
listened again, but could not locate the sound. Then, thinking she
might be mistaken, she continued with her dressing; but again that
piercing wail was borne to her ears. She opened her window and then she
heard it distinctly--a baby's cry. She listened in amazement. There was
no baby on the place except the gardener's, and his cottage was too far
from the big house to have his children's wails heard in that place
given over to aristocratic quiet. Drusilla tried to see around the
comer of the house, but she could not; so she rang for Jeanne.

"Jane, I heard a baby cry. Go and find out where it is," she said.

Jeanne was gone a long time, it seemed to Drusilla; and then she
returned, with big frightened eyes, followed by the butler carrying a
large basket. He stopped at the door.

"Come in, James. What you standing there for? What you got?"

Just then the wailing cry came from the basket, and Drusilla dropped
the brush in her hand.

"For the land's sake, what's in the basket? Come here!"

James gingerly deposited the basket upon a chair.

"It's a baby, ma'am--a live baby."

"Well, upon my soul! Of course it is! You wouldn't expect it to not be
alive. Let's see it."

She went over to the basket and looked down at the lively little bundle
that seemed to be protesting in its feeble way against the injustice of
the world in leaving it at a chance doorstep. Drusilla looked at it
admiringly.

"Why, ain't it cunning, the pore little thing! It's done up warm. How'd
it get here?"

"I don't know, ma'am. It must 'a' been left early this morning after
the gates was opened. I'll ask the gardeners if they saw any one come
in."

"Never mind now, James. Here's a letter. It'll tell us all about it.
Where are my glasses, Jane?"

Drusilla put on her glasses and read the inscription on the letter.

"_Miss Drusilla Doane_. Well, they know my name."

She tore open the envelope and read aloud:

"I read in the paper that you have no one and are alone and rich. My
baby has no one but me, and I can't get work. Won't you take him? His
name is John--that's all."

"JOHN'S MOTHER."

Drusilla pushed the glasses up on her forehead and used a slang
expression that almost drew a smile from solemn James.

"Now _what_ do you know about that!"

She looked at James as if he should have an answer, and he said:

"I'm sure, Miss Doane, I don't know anything about it at all."

Drusilla looked down at the baby in the basket, and again at the
letter, not knowing what to do; but, the little wail again rising, she
reached down to take the baby into her arms, and found it securely
pinned into the basket.

"Poor little mother!" she said. "She didn't want you to get cold."

As she took out the safety-pins and lifted the baby into her arms, she
dislodged a bottle of milk.

"Why, she thought of everything! She must 'a' loved you, little John,
even though she left you on my doorstep."

The baby, a healthy little youngster about eight months old, blinked up
at Drusilla in a friendly manner, then clutched her hair. Drusilla
laughed, as she drew her head away.

"That's the first thing all babies make for, my hair. Bless his little
heart, he's gettin' familiar already."

James interrupted.

"What'll I do with it, Miss Doane?"

Drusilla looked up from the baby.

"Do with what? The basket? Take it away."

"No, ma'am; I meant _it_"--pointing to the baby.

"James, it is not an _it_. It's a _he_. But you're right, James;
what'll we do with it?" And she looked down at the little body in her
arms.

"Why--why--" stammered James, who plainly showed that disposing of
babies left by chance at doorsteps was entirely out of the usual line
of a well trained butler's duties, "I don't know, ma'am. It never
happened before where I've served." Here he had an inspiration and his
face cleared. "Perhaps we'd better send for Mr. Thornton."

Drusilla looked up at him in a relieved way.

"That's the first glimmer of sense you've ever showed, James; though
what he knows about babies I don't see. I'm sure he never was one
himself. Now I'll set down--this baby's heavy--and you go and
telephone."

"What'll I tell him, ma'am?"

"Tell him? Why, tell him we've got a baby unexpected and we don't know
what to do with it."

James almost smiled again.

"I'll break the news to him careful, ma'am," he said.

When he was gone Drusilla scrutinized the baby's hood and coat.

"Jane," she said, "his clothes is pretty---his mother must 'a' made
'em; and his socks is knit, not bought ones."

She examined each article of his clothing as carefully as would a
mother inspecting her firstborn's wardrobe.

"He's dressed real nice.... Did you get him?" as James entered the
room. "What did he say?"

"I did not speak to him, Miss Doane, but to Miss Daphne. She acted
rather--well--rather excited, and said she would be over immediately
with her father."

"We'll wait in patience, I suppose. I'll lay this young man down. My
arms must be a gettin' old because I feel him."

She laid the baby on the couch and he protested with legs and arms and
voice against being again laid upon his back. Drusilla took him up and
he was happy again.

"Well," laughed Drusilla, "I guess I've found somethin' to do with my
hands."

The baby stared at Drusilla for a few moments; then his wails commenced
again. Drusilla trotted him, but that did not stop his cries.

"Perhaps he is hungry, Miss Doane," Jeanne suggested.

"Give me that bottle."

Drusilla felt the bottle and found it cold.

"It's cold, James. Go warm some milk and scald the bottle."

James went away, his head held high, disapproval expressed in every
line of his back. Within a few moments a motor was heard at the door
and Daphne's young voice was calling:

"Can we come in, Miss Doane? Where is the baby?"

Daphne entered, interested and excited, followed by her father, stiff,
erect, the correct lawyer troubled by unnecessary and petty affairs of
the women world.

Daphne came to the baby, who stopped his wails long enough to stare at
the new visitor with round, wondering eyes.

"Oh, _isn't_ he a dear! How did you find him?"

Drusilla handed her the letter. "Read that, and then you'll know as
much as me."

Daphne read the note out loud.

"Isn't it romantic, Father!" she exclaimed. "Just like you read about
in books. Oh, look at James with the bottle!"

James looked neither to the right nor to the left but handed the bottle
to Drusilla. She felt it to test its warmth and gave it to the
squirming baby, who settled down into the hollow of her arm with a
little gurgle of content. The four stood around the baby and watched it
for a few moments in silence. Soon its lids began to droop and it was
off to slumberland.

"What are you going to do with it, Miss Doane?" whispered Daphne.

"I'm sure I don't know. That's why I sent for your father."

"It's clearly a case for the police," Mr. Thornton said dryly. "I will
telephone them."

Drusilla looked at him inquiringly.

"What did you say? Telephone the police? Why?"

"I will ask them to call and take the child in charge."

"Why, what's the baby done?"

"Nothing, of course; but they will understand how to dispose of it."

"What'll they do with it?"

"They will get into connection with the proper authorities, and if the
mother cannot be found, they will have the child committed to some
institution."

"Some institution. What kind of an institution?"

"An orphan asylum--a home for waifs of this kind."

Drusilla caught the word "home" and she sat up so suddenly that the
bottle fell to the floor and the blue eyes opened and looked into
Drusilla's face appealingly and the little wail arose again. Drusilla
bent over and picked up the bottle, and when she arose her eyes were
hard and two bright spots colored her wrinkled cheeks.

"You said 'home.' What do you mean? I don't like the word."

Mr. Thornton was plainly irritated.

"A home for foundlings, where the proper care will be given it."

"Yes, but how?" queried Drusilla. "What kind of care?"

Daphne interrupted her father, who was plainly trying to find words to
explain the exact meaning of an orphan asylum.

"Oh, Father, that's horrid. It'll be put in with hundreds of other
babies, all dressed alike, and all brought up on rules and bells and
things--"

"I know now what your father means--an orphan asylum. Just the same
thing as an old ladies' home, only backwards. No, I lived in one o'
them and I know what it is and," she settled back in her chair, "my
baby ain't goin' there."

"But," objected Mr. Thornton, looking helplessly at the obstinate face
before him, "that is the only possible way to dispose of him."

"But think of his poor mother, how she'd feel if she read in the paper
that he'd been put in a home. She could 'a' done that herself."

"She should have thought of that before leaving him," Mr. Thornton said
dryly. "She should not have deserted the child, and does not deserve
any consideration."

"Well, we all do things we oughtn't to do. Even you do, 'cause I can
see, lookin' closely at you, that you oughtn't to drink so much coffee,
but you _do_; and the mother hadn't ought to have _had_ the baby in the
first place, which she did, and she oughtn't 'a' left it on my stoop,
but it's done. Now can't you think of something else to do with it
except send it to a home? Ugh, that word makes a pizen in my blood!"

Mr. Thornton clearly was exasperated that his very sensible advice was
not acted upon immediately.

"I have told you the only thing to do, and we are wasting time. I must
go into the city. James, telephone the police."

Drusilla sat up very erect.

"James, you'll do nothing of the kind! I've decided. _I'll_ take the
baby."

_"What!"_ said Mr. Thornton, his exasperated look changing to one of
consternation. "_What_!" said Daphne in delight. _"Quoi!"_ said Jeanne.
James did not speak, but he stopped on his way to the telephone and
expressed his astonishment as well as a well trained servant may
express astonishment at the actions of an employer.

Drusilla settled back in the chair and rocked back and forth with the
sleeping baby in her arms, showing that she was enjoying the little
explosive she had dropped in the midst of her family circle. There was
silence for a few moments; then Mr. Thornton cleared his throat.

"I really don't believe I understood you, Miss Doane," he said.

Drusilla looked up at him with a twinkle in her eyes.

"I said in plain English that I'd take the baby."

Mr. Thornton looked at her, evidently at a loss for words to express
his disapproval. Drusilla watched him, waiting for him to speak; and
then, finding that he was silent, she said.

"Now you take that chair, and set down in front of me. Jane, go away.
James, go downstairs. Now, Mr. Thornton, fix yourself real comfortable
and we'll talk."

"But Miss Doane--"

"Now don't _but_ me, Mr. Thornton, 'cause I'm goin' to _talk_. I ain't
used my voice much sence I been here, and it's gettin' tired o' doin'
nothin', jest like I am. Now I've done everything you told me to. I've
made visits I didn't like, I've talked with women who come here who
didn't like me, and I've tried hard to live up to this house and be a
lady and do nothin', and have nothin' to look after and no one to do
for and worry about, and nothin' to think of; and I'm tired of it. I've
done somethin' all my life, and took care of some one. I nussed my
mother for most forty years, then I took care of the sick in all our
county, and I looked after the old ladies in the home who wasn't able
to look after themselves and now I can't jest _set_. I'm too old to
learn new ways, and I got to have something or some one to do for, and
the good Lord knowed I was gettin' restless and sent this here baby.
Now--no, wait a minute--I ain't through yet," as Mr. Thornton tried to
interrupt her. "I'm goin' to have my say, then your turn'll come,
though it won't do you much good, as my mind is made up, and when a
woman's mind is made up it's jest as foolish to try to change it as it
is to try to set a hen before she begins to cluck."

She stopped a moment and looked down at the sleeping baby in her arms.

"I ain't a-thinkin' of myself alone and jest how good it'll be for me,
but I'm a-thinkin' of the baby and I want to give him a chance like
other babies."

"But," said Mr. Thornton, "it's quite impossible! A home for such as he
is the proper place for him."

"Don't say that word _home_ to me. Mr. Thornton, I hate the word. I've
et charity bread and it's bitter, and charity milk'd be the same."

Mr. Thornton threw out his hands with an exasperated gesture.

"But it is impossible, I tell you, quite impossible!"

"Why impossible?" asked Drusilla. "Why, ain't the house big enough?"

"But my late client, Mr. Elias Doane--"

"Have you forgot the letter he wrote me: 'Spend the money your own way,
Drusilla.'"

"But he certainly did not mean--"

"How do you know what he meant? He said spend it, and I ain't spent
nothin' yet except on some foolish clothes. First thing I know I might
die, then it wouldn't be spent, and I know I'd pass my days worryin'
St. Peter to find out what had become of it."

Mr. Thornton threw up his hands again.

"Well, I don't know what to say more than I have said," he declared.
"Have you decided on its disposition?"

Drusilla, seeing that the lawyer was surrendering, said quite meekly:

"I ain't figured out what is to be done jest now--"

Here Daphne came to her rescue.

"Why don't you give him to the gardener's wife until you find out what
to do?"

Drusilla reached over and patted Daphne's hand.

"Daphne, there's some sense under them curls. Your father ought to take
you in business with him. That's what we'll do. She has four already,
but there's always room in a house where there's babies for one more.
Send for her."

"Should it not be medically examined before being placed with other
children?" Mr. Thornton suggested.

"Medically examined, stuff and nonsense! Why?"

"A child left in the manner in which this infant was left may come from
extremely unsanitary surroundings, and may carry disease with it. It is
more than probable."

"Disease nothin'!" said Drusilla, looking down at the baby. "I never
saw a healthier child."

At the word medical Daphne rose and went to a part of the room where
she could be seen by Drusilla and not by her father, and when Drusilla
looked up from inspecting the baby she caught sight of Daphne, who
seemed to be staring at her fixedly with a meaning in her eye.

Mr. Thornton, still intent upon the one subject where he saw a chance
of having his advice acted upon, and consequently of retaining at least
a semblance of authority, said: "I think a doctor should be sent for
and the child medically examined."

Drusilla commenced: "It's nonsense. There ain't--" but here she again
caught Daphne's eye and saw a slight movement of the head which seemed
to mean, "Say yes." Drusilla looked at her a moment uncomprehendingly;
then, the nod being repeated more vigorously, she said:

"Well--well--yes, if you believe it should be done, though for the life
of me I don't see no sense in it. Who'll I send for?"

"I would suggest Dr. Rathman. He is--"

"Oh, Father!" interrupted Daphne. "He is so old and slow. He'd _never_
get here. Why don't you ask Dr. Eaton? He lives near here."

Mr. Thornton pursed up his lips.

"He is far too young. He has not the experience of Dr. Rathman."

"But, Father, the baby isn't dying."

Drusilla's shrewd old eyes looked keenly at Daphne's flushed face, and
she laughed.

"I think Daphne is right. A young doctor's better. I don't think old
doctors have a hand with babies."

"But Dr. Eaton is very young," remonstrated Mr. Thornton.

"The younger the better, then perhaps he ain't forgot how the
stomach-ache feels himself. You telephone him, Daphne."

"No," said Daphne, a little embarrassed. "I think James had better do
that. Oh, here's Mrs. Donald."

The baby was given into the motherly arms of Mrs. Donald; and Mr.
Thornton drew on his gloves and said very coldly, feeling that he had
lost ground on every point, "Come, Daphne; we will go. When you have
decided upon the final disposition of the child, you may, as always,
command my services, Miss Doane. Come, Daphne."

"But, Father, I'll stay a while with Miss Doane."

"No, Daphne; you will go with me. Your mother needs you."

Daphne cast an imploring glance at Drusilla.

"Can't Daphne stay a while? I'd like to talk with her," Drusilla said.

"No," said her father, with a finality in his tone that caused Daphne
to go with him meekly, if unwillingly; "Daphne must return with me."

Drusilla looked at the set face a moment, and then at the rebellious
face of Daphne, and her own face broke into the tiny wrinkles that
accompanied her smiles.

"Oh, I see! Well, never mind, child. There are lots of other days and
this baby may need the services of a doctor often." And she accompanied
them to the hall with a little light of understanding in her eyes as
she watched Daphne's pouting face disappear in the motor.

The young doctor came. He was a tall, broad-shouldered young athlete,
not yet thirty, and his merry blue eyes and his cheery voice won
Drusilla at once. They went to the gardener's cottage and inspected the
baby. The doctor patted it and tickled it and tossed it in his arms
until it was all gurgles of delight.

"He's as sound as a dollar, Miss Doane," he said. "Couldn't be in
better condition. He could run a Marathon this minute if his legs were
long enough."

Drusilla watched the proceedings with twinkling eyes.

"Well, that's a new way to medically examine an ailin' child," she
commented; "but it seems to work."

"Ailing! He isn't ailing, Miss Doane. If he keeps this fit Mrs. Donald
won't have to send for me often."

"That's what I told Mr. Thornton; but he said I must have you."

Dr. Eaton stopped tossing the baby and looked at Miss Doane in
astonishment.

"Are you telling me that Mr. Thornton asked you to send for me?"

"Well," and Drusilla laughed, "he didn't exactly mention your name, but
he said I should have a doctor for the baby."

"I thought Mr. Thornton wasn't recommending me. Didn't he mention Dr.
Rathman?"

"Perhaps he did, but Miss Daphne seemed to feel that he was too old to
answer a hurry call like this, so we sort of compromised, at least
Daphne and me did, on you."

There was a slight flush on the young man's face that did not miss the
keen eyes of Drusilla.

"Oh," he said, "I see." And then, in an attempt to change the subject:
"Is this a new baby of Donald's? I haven't seen him around here before."

"No," said Drusilla; "this is _my_ baby."

Dr. Eaton looked at her, and then laughed with her.

"Now what should I say, Miss Doane--many happy returns of the day, or--"

"You jest say, Dr. Eaton, 'This _is_ a fine baby.' But come up to the
house and have breakfast with me. I clean forgot it. And we'll talk it
all over."

They went slowly up the graveled walk to the breakfast-room, and over
the coffee and the cakes Drusilla explained the unexpected arrival of
the baby.

"Now you know as much about it as I do," she ended; "and I suppose
you'll say with Mr. Thornton that I'm a foolish old woman to say I'll
take it. But it won't do you no good. I'm goin' to have my way, and
I've found out in the last few weeks that I can get it, and I'm afraid
it's spoilin' me. I'm goin' to keep the baby."

The doctor leaned back in his chair. "May I light a cigarette? Thanks.
That breakfast was corking. Now, about the baby. I think you are right.
Why shouldn't you keep the baby?"

"That's what I said--why shouldn't I?"

"No reason in the world why you shouldn't."

"I like you, Dr. Eaton. I like you more and more; and I see you
understand how I feel. Here I am, an old woman all alone in this big
house, with nothin' to do, and a lot of pesky servants that stand
around and don't earn their salt, jest a-waitin' on me. I've always
wanted babies, but never had a chance to have 'em, and I've jest spent
my heart lovin' other people's, and seein' 'em in other people's arms
and mine empty. Now I git a chance to have a baby most my own and I
ain't goin' to lose it."

The doctor looked at her face for a few moments in silence, and beneath
the lines he saw the loneliness of the heart-hungry little old woman
and he understood.

"You are perfectly right, Miss Doane. There's nothing like a baby in
all the world. It'll give you something to do and think about and it'll
bring sunshine into the house. I envy you. Every time I go down to the
'home' where I look after the health of some kiddies, I wish I could
bundle every one of them up and take them to a real home with me."

"That's what Mr. Thornton wanted me to do with it--put it in a home.
I've lived in a home, Dr. Eaton, and though I wasn't treated bad and
had all the comforts of four walls and enough to eat, such as it was,
it ain't a place to die in, and it sure ain't a place to grow up in."

"You're right again, Miss Doane. The kiddies up at our place get a bed
and clothes and plenty of food; but there's something they don't get
and that something is going to count in their life. They grow up
without love, and are turned out on the world just little machines that
have been taught that the world goes round at the tap of a bell.
They've missed something that they can never get, and if they win out
in life it's because they've got something pretty big inside of them
which they've had to fight for all by themselves. And any fight is hard
when it is made alone without a little tenderness to help over the hard
places. Why, when I see the girls all in checked aprons, hair braided
in two braids tied with a blue cord, all the boys in blue with hats
just exactly alike with blue bands on them--all going to dinner at a
regular time--all eating oatmeal out of a blue bowl, all just part of a
thing that turns babies into a lot of little jelly-molds like a hundred
other little jelly-molds--well, Miss Doane, it hurts something way deep
inside of me. Keep the baby, Miss Doane, for your own sake and for the
baby's."

"I'm glad you see it my way. I'd made up my mind already, but you make
it easier for me. I wonder that I'll do with it at first?"

"Why don't you let the gardener's wife keep it until you can find out
what you really want to do. You can pay her and she'll be glad to earn
the extra money. It won't cost much."

"I ain't thinkin' about the cost. I'm jest glad to get a chance to
spend some money. Mr. Thornton come to me the other day and talked most
an hour about the investment of my income, and when I got it through my
head what he meant, I learnt that he has to hunt up ways to put out the
money that's comin' to me all the time, so's it'll make more money. Now
I don't want to invest my income, or save it. I want to spend it, and I
don't see no better way than taking babies."

She laughed softly.

"I wouldn't mind a few more, Dr. Eaton, jest to keep that one company.
But I guess I'll git along. Most people commence with one at a time."

"Do you want more babies, Miss Doane?" asked Dr. Eaton, leaning forward
interestedly. "I can get you as many as you want. I run across them
every day--babies that lose their mothers in the hospitals, babies that
are deserted. Why, babies that need homes are as thick as fleas, in New
York."

Drusilla put up her hand.

"Now, I don't mean I want 'em all at once, Dr. Eaton. We won't be what
you might call impulsive, 'cause if there's as many as you say, they
can wait until I know about 'em. I'd rather like to pick and choose my
family. Now I'll go upstairs and think a little about this one, and
what we're goin' to do with him. It's all been rather sudden, you know,
and I ain't used to so much excitement--though I think it is good fer
me. I think it's going to keep me from dyin' of dry rot, which I've
always been afeard of. I want to _wear_ out, not rust out, like so many
old women do."

Dr. Eaton rose to go and Miss Drusilla looked up at him as he stood
straight and strong before her. She smiled, with the merry little
wrinkles playing around the corners of her mouth.

"I believe I'm rather ailin' myself, and will need to have a family
doctor. You might look in every once in a while and see if my health is
good."

The doctor laughed as he said: "Well, I hope you won't ever need me
professionally, but I'd like nothing better than to drop in and have a
chat with you. Think over the baby question, Miss Doane. You'll find it
the greatest question in the world to keep you up and coming. Good-by.
Thank you for sending for me. Good-by."

Drusilla watched him as he swung with his long stride down the drive
and out of the gate, and then she chuckled to herself.

"I can see now why Daphne is interested in the medical profession. I
don't blame her; if I was fifty years younger, I'd be myself."




CHAPTER VI


One morning when Drusilla was sitting in the small library reading the
morning paper her eyes caught the words: "Funeral of General Fairmont."
She read of his death in the little town in the Middle West, attended
by a few of the officers of his regiment and his lifelong friend, John
Brierly.

Drusilla dropped the paper with an exclamation.

"John! And he's alive!"

She spent the next few hours with folded hands, her mind far in the
past that was recalled by seeing the name of John Brierly. She lived
over again those girlhood years when the world with John in it seemed
the most beautiful place on earth. She thought of her mother's failing
health, her helplessness, her dependence. She could almost hear her
cry, "Don't leave me, Drusilla, don't leave me!" when John went to her
and asked that they might marry and meet life's battles together.
Drusilla never for a moment blamed her mother for her selfishness in
demanding all and giving nothing; and she never would admit, even to
herself, that her mother's obstinacy in refusing either to go with John
and Drusilla or to give her consent that they live with her, had ruined
her life. Those years of bitterness were past, and now she remembered
only the happy days when she and John were together and life seemed
just one flowery path on which they walked together.

At last she rose and rang for the butler and asked him to telephone Mr.
Thornton. She could never get used to the telephone herself. She wanted
Mr. Thornton to come to her on his way home.

She passed the day impatiently awaiting his arrival. She could not
occupy herself with the flowers, nor could the baby at the gardener's
cottage evoke any enthusiasm, although she carefully looked over the
clothing of one of the younger Donalds that kindly Mrs. Donald had
contributed for the baby's use.

At last the lawyer arrived. Drusilla hardly allowed him to be seated
before she broached the subject.

"Mr. Thornton, I want you to do me a great favor. I just read in the
paper that an--an old friend of mine that I thought dead long ago, is
living in a little town in southern Ohio. I want to know how he is
getting along, what he is doing, how he is living. I want you to send
some one out there and find out all about it. I want to know if he's
comfortable off, and happy. He may be poor, and he may be lonely. Find
out all about him, and let me know."

The lawyer started to say something.

"No, don't say a word, and don't talk about writin' out. That ain't
what I want. I want to _know_, and letters won't tell me nothing. Do
this for me--send some one; 'cause if you don't I'll start myself
to-morrow. I'm goin' to know how life's usin' John Brierly."

She leaned over and touched the lawyer's hand.

"Don't always be agin me, Mr. Thornton. I got my heart in this. John
Brierly meant all the world to me once, and although I'm old now I
ain't forgot. There's _some_ things, you know, we don't forget."

Mr. Thornton looked at the flushed old face before him, and a softness
came into his voice that surprised even himself.

"I'll do it at once, Miss Doane. I'm always glad to be of any service
to you."

"I'm glad to hear you say it; though sometimes you have to be backed
into the shafts. But you will send at once--to-morrow?"

"Yes, I'll--let me see--I'll send Mr. Burns."

"Send a bright young man, some one that'll nose around and find out
everything. John's proud, and he may be poor, and I want to know jest
how he's fixed; and I don't want him to feel that any one's inquiring
into his affairs, 'cause then he'd shut up like a clam and I couldn't
find out nothin'. Send some one with sense. Hadn't you better go
yourself?"

Mr. Thornton laughed.

"That's the first compliment you ever gave me, Miss Doane; but I don't
think it is necessary that I go myself. I have a very clever young man
in the office who will do better than I would."

"Well, have him go at once. Can't he start to-night?"

"I don't think that is necessary either. He'd better wait until I give
him all the details. But I'll start him off the first thing in the
morning. Now you rest happy, and in a few days you'll know all about
it."

Drusilla passed the days impatiently waiting for the return of the man
from Ohio. Finally he arrived and Mr. Thornton brought him to see her.

Drusilla sat in her high-backed chair.

"Well, begin!" she said impatiently. "I'm nigh as curious as a girl."

The young clerk drew a bundle of papers from his pocket.

"I found out as much as I could regarding the present circumstances of
John Brierly. He is--"

"What does he look like?" interrupted Drusilla. "I ain't seen him for
mor'n forty years. Is he old lookin'? Is he sick?"

The young man smiled at her impatience.

"I should call him a singularly well preserved man for his years."

"That sounds as if he was apple-sass, or somethin' to eat. What does he
look like? Is he stoop-shoulderd?"

"Not at all. He is a tall, spare man, with white hair and a gray
Vandyke beard."

"What's a Vandyke beard? You mean whiskers?"

"Yes; whiskers trimmed to a point--rather aristocratic looking."

"John always was a gentleman and looked it. Is he well lookin'?"

"Yes, he was in the best of health."

"Is he--is he--married?"

"No; he never married."

Drusilla was quiet for a moment, her eyes seeing beyond the men to the
lover who had remained true to her throughout the years.

"Does he live alone?"

"He has two rooms in the home of some people with whom he has lived for
a great many years."

"Is he in business?"

"No; he was in business until the panic of 1893, when he lost his
business."

"What does he live on? Is he poor?"

"He saved a little out of the wreck of his business and lives on that."

"How much has he?"

"I think he has about five hundred dollars a year; just enough to keep
him modestly in that little town."

"Does he seem happy? Did you talk with him?"

"Yes; I visited with him all of one afternoon. He does not seem
unhappy, but he is a lonely old man. All of his friends are gone and he
leads a lonely life."

"What does he do?"

"He has his books."

"Yes; John always loved books. They used to say that if he'd attend to
business more and books less, he'd git along better."

The clerk laughed.

"I'm afraid that's what they say out there, too. He is not a practical
man, and he seems to have paid very little attention to the making of
money, or--what is more--to the keeping of it after he had made it."

Drusilla smiled.

"That's just like John," she said softly. "Set him down somewhere with
a book and he'd forgit that there was other things he ought to be doin'
instead of readin'. He worked in Silas Graham's grocery store when he
was a boy, and Silas had to keep pryin' him out from behind the barrels
to wait on customers. Silas said when he let him go that John's
business was clerkin' in a book store and not a grocery store. Well,
well! John's just the same, I guess. He'd ought to had some one with
common sense to keep him goin'."

"Is there anything else you would like to know?"

"No--" said Drusilla hesitatingly. "I guess that's all I need to know."

She was quiet for a few moments. Then:

"Does he seem strong?"

"Yes; strong and well."

"D'ye suppose he could travel by himself?"

"Certainly; he seems perfectly able to travel by himself."

"Then I guess I'll write him a letter. That's all, and I thank you very
much, young man. I suppose you have a lot more on them papers, but I
know all I want to. Good day."

A few days after Drusilla's interview with the clerk, John Brierly
received a letter in the handwriting that, although a little feeble,
was still familiar to him. He took it home from the post-office and did
not break the seal until he was in his sitting-room. Then he read it.

DEAR JOHN:

I jest heard where you are and how you are. You are alone and I'm
alone. We are both two old ships that have sailed the seas alone and
now we're nearing port. Why can't we make the rest of the voyage
together? I have a home a great deal too big for one lone woman, and
you have no home at all. Years ago your home would have been mine if
you could a give it to me, and now I want to share mine with you. I'm
not proposing to you, John; we're too old to think of such things, but
I do want to die with my hand in some one's who cares for me and who I
care for. You're the only one in all the world that's left from out my
past, and I want you near me. Won't you come and see me? Then we can
talk it over, and if you don't like it here you can go back. Come to
me, John. Let me hear by the next mail that you're a coming.

DRUSILLA.

P. S. If you don't come to me, I'll come to you. This is a threat,
John. You see if I _am_ seventy years old, I'm still your wilful
Drusilla.

Drusilla doubtless would have passed the next few days anxiously
awaiting an answer to her letter if an unforeseen occurrence had not
driven all thoughts of it from her head. Some one had told the
newspapers about the baby left on her doorstep, and that she had
refused to send it to the police, and one morning great headlines
stared her in the face: DRUSILLA DOANE A TRUE PHILANTHROPIST. Again she
saw her picture and the picture of the house in Brookvale, and read:

I'll send no baby to a home. I've eaten charity bread and it was bitter
and charity milk would be the same.

That started for Drusilla a strenuous existence for a few days. The
next morning a baby--a weak, sickly little thing--was found beside the
locked gates, with a note pinned to its tiny jacket. "Won't you please
take my baby too?" Drusilla took it into her motherly arms, looked with
pitying eyes into its little white pinched face, and sent it to the
butler's wife until she could determine what to do with it. The next
morning there were two babies waiting; and that night at dinner the
butler was called to the door by a ring, and when he opened it, he
found a little boy about two years of age standing there with a note in
his hand. The grounds were searched for the person who had brought the
baby and left it standing there, but no one was found--and he, too, was
added to the butler's growing family. In the next week eleven children
were brought to the house in aristocratic Brookvale, and Drusilla was
frightened at the inundation of young that she had brought upon
herself. They were of all kinds and all descriptions. There were John
and Hans and Gretchen, and Frieda and Mina and Guiseppi, Rachel,
Polvana, Francois; even a little Greek was among the collection. Their
names were pinned to their clothing, along with letters--some pitiful
and some impertinent, but all asking for a home for the abandoned
child. Drusilla was dismayed and sent for the young doctor, as Mr.
Thornton's only word was the police and a "home," to both of which
Drusilla shook her old gray head vigorously. But she saw that she could
not parcel the children out indefinitely among the servants, and
consequently Dr. Eaton was asked to come and help her decide what
should be done.

When he came in, his eyes twinkled mischievously at Drusilla.

"I hear you have numerous additions to the family," he said.

"Young man," Drusilla said, "you set right there and tell me what to
do. You got me in all this trouble. Now you get me out of it."

The doctor stopped in amazement.

"_I_ got you in this trouble? How did I get you in this trouble?"

"Now, don't you look that surprised way at me," said Drusilla severely.
"Didn't you tell me all about orphan asylums and babies having to be
all dressed in the same way, and have all their hair tied with blue
cord, and eat porridge out of a blue bowl, and set down and stand up
and go to bed at the ringin' of a bell. Didn't you tell me that?"

"Certainly; I said a few things like that, but--"

"And didn't you make my foolish old eyes jest fill up at the thought of
any baby I'd ever held in my arms goin' to a place like that and bein'
turned into a little jelly-mold--them's your words, a little
jelly-mold--"

"Well--I did mention jelly-molds, but still--"

"And didn't you make me feel so bad that I couldn't let Mr. Thornton
give that blessed little John in charge and be sent to a home?"

"Why--why--you had already decided; but still--"

"That's the third time you've said, 'but still,' and I don't see as it
helps me any now."

"What'll I say, Miss Doane?"

"You jest help me out of this fix I'm in. I got eleven babies on my
hands, and what am I goin' to do with 'em?"

"Well, it is a question, isn't it?"

"No, it ain't a question; it's a whole book of questions, and the
answers ain't found. I wash my hands of it all. You got me in; now you
get me out."

And Drusilla sat back in her chair.

"Why--why--you put rather a responsibility on me. What does Mr.
Thornton say?"

"Huh!" Drusilla nearly snorted, if the sound she emitted could have
been called a snort. "He says jest what you'd suppose he'd say. Send
for the police and put them where they belong."

"I presume he is right," said Dr. Eaton a little sadly. "I don't see
what else you can do with them; unless--"

"Unless what? If that's all you can say, I needn't have sent for you.
I've heard that with every baby that's come. Now I want somethin'
different. What's your 'unless' mean?"

"Unless you keep them, Miss Doane."

"How'm I goin' to keep eleven babies and they comin' faster every day?"

"I think you had better head off the rest."

"How can I do that? They jest come and there ain't no one to give 'em
to."

"We will put a policeman on guard to watch the gates, and arrest the
next one who leaves a bundle or a basket."

"I hate to arrest any one, but--perhaps it's the only thing to do. But
that don't help none with the ones I got now. And, Dr. Eaton, they're
the cunningest lot of babies! I go round every night to see 'em
undressed. I've took more exercise trotting to the different houses
where I've put 'em just to look at 'em go to bed--well, I jest can't
send 'em to a home."

"Why should you? Now let's talk sensibly, Miss Doane. What are your
plans for your own life?"

"What do you mean?"

"What are you going to do with yourself? How occupy yourself?"

"I don't occupy myself. I'm jest settin' around waitin' to die; and,
between you and me and the gate-post, Dr. Eaton, I'm not used to jest
waitin'. I'm used to doin' somethin' if I _am_ an old woman."

"That's just it--you are used to doing something. Now here's something
that you can do that's worth while. There's a whole lot of babies in
the world that need a home, and why can't you take your share of them
and give them a chance in life?"

"How can I give them a chance?"

"Why, Miss Doane, who could give them a better chance? You have money--"

"Yes--heaps of it; and I set wonderin' what to do with it. I want to
spend it and I don't know how."

"How can you spend it better than by taking care of all these babies,
by seeing that they'll have love and care instead of being brought up
by chance or charity, which is bound to kill every decent instinct a
child may be born with."

Here Dr. Eaton got up and began walking around the room. His eyes grew
bright, his voice earnest and thrilling to the old woman who watched
him as he walked up and down.

"Miss Doane, you have a wonderful chance to do something great. I envy
you for the chance. Just think of being able to take these little waifs
and provide a place for them to grow up into the men and women that it
was intended they should be! Whenever I go down to the orphan asylum
and see all the little tads herded around in bunches by paid nurses,
and no one really caring for them, no one tucking them up at night, no
one singing them little songs, no one hearing their evening prayers, it
seems to me that I _must_ take them all away with me. It seems that we
are all wrong in a world where a Great Master whose teaching we are
supposed to follow said, 'Suffer the little children to come unto me,'
when we allow them to be turned into little machines, unloved and
uncared for. Oh, Miss Doane, you've got a great chance. _Take it!"_

Drusilla frankly wiped the tears from her eyes.

"Dr. Eaton, you almost make me cry. But where'll I put 'em?"

"How big is this house? You don't use it all, do you?"

"Use it all! Well, I should say not. I feel like a pea in a tin can
shakin' around loose. Young man, there's twelve empty bedrooms in this
place and I don't know how many other rooms that's goin' to waste."

"There you are! Why not fill them up? Of what use are they lying empty?"

"That's what I often think, and I wonder why one old woman's got so
many rooms when there's lots of people ain't got no place to go. It
don't seem jest right."

"Of course it isn't right. You've too much; a great many have nothing.
Now even up."

"Who'll I git to take care of 'em?"

"We'll have to figure that out."

"We'll have to figure it out mighty sudden. I got them young ones
pretty well passeled out among the hired help, and they ain't enjyin'
them so much as I am. First thing I know the hull cahoots of 'em'll
leave, though speakin' for a few of 'em it wouldn't cause me to go to
an early grave to be shet of some of 'em."

"I must be off. I'll think it over and let you know what I've figured
out for you."

"Well, hurry up about it. It's a lot to think of. I never thought I'd
take to raisin' children at my time of life; but you never can tell
what you'll end as. I'm pretty old to begin, I'm afraid."

"Come now, Miss Doane; don't get cold feet. One is never too old to try
something. If it doesn't work, you can always send them to the police
that Mr. Thornton tells you about. They're always there; so are the
homes."

"Yes; that's so. And they wouldn't be no worse off'n when they come.
Well--you run along and start somethin'."

"Yes, we'll start something, Miss Doane."

Dr. Eaton went away, and the next morning he got an excited telephone
call from Drusilla herself, which showed that it was of the utmost
importance to her and even overcame her dislike of talking into a
"box," as she called it.

"Come right over, Dr. Eaton; come right over at once," she said. "I've
got another baby and they've caught the mother."

Dr. Eaton lost no time in coming to Drusilla, and he found a very
excited little woman, with her hat and gloves on, waiting for him.

"Don't come in; I'll tell you on the way. I've got the car and my
bunnet's on, so we'll go along."

Drusilla did not stop to explain but stepped into the car, and gave
directions to the chauffeur.

Dr. Eaton laughed.

"Why all this hurry, Miss Doane? Is something afire?"

"Yes; I'm afire, and I'm mad! They put a officer of some kind at the
gate last night, and this morning he caught a woman leavin' a baby. An'
how do you suppose he caught her? The man was hid and couldn't catch
the woman when the baby was left, and he waited and pinched the baby
and made it cry, and then the poor little mother who was waitin'
somewhere to see her baby took in, come to see what was the matter, and
they took her. I can jest see it all--the poor little mother in hidin',
waitin' to see her baby took in the house, and, hearin' it cry, her
mother heart drew it back to comfort it, and she was caught. Mr.
Thornton tells me she was taken to court, and that's where we're
a-goin' this minute. I want to see that mother, and find out why she
left the baby."

When they arrived at the court, Dr. Eaton and Drusilla found a seat up
near the front. They were wedged in between wives with anxious faces
wondering if their husbands would be taken away from them, or watching
them pay in fines the dollars that were so badly needed in the home.
They were all there, those hangers-on of misery--the policemen, the
plain clothes men, the probation officers, the cheap lawyers, the
reporters. Here and there was an artist or a writer looking for "copy,"
or some woman from Fifth Avenue trying to get a new sensation from the
troubles of her less fortunate sisters. Over it all there was a silence
that was heavy and dead. A silence born of fear--the fear of the law.

Several cases were called before the case for which Drusilla waited,
and then a young girl not more than eighteen years old rose and stood
before the Judge with a baby in her arms. At first she was so
frightened that she could not answer the questions; but the Judge, a
kindly man, waited for her to become more calm, and then, in a quiet
voice, he began to question her.

"Now do not be frightened; we will not hurt you. Just tell me why you
left the baby."

The scared voice spoke so low that her words could scarcely be heard.

"I didn't know it was wrong."

"If you didn't know it was wrong, why did you hide?"

"I--I--wanted to see that nothin' happened to her. I kind of--kind
of--wanted to see her as long as I could. She's my baby--and--and--I
wouldn't see her again--and I just kind of waited round--" Here the
girl started to cry. "I didn't know it was wrong. There was nothing
else to do. I--I--"

"You were willing to give her away, yet you cared enough to go to her
when she cried. I don't understand it."

"I don't know, but she cried and I thought somethin' might be hurtin'
her or she wasn't covered up warm enough--and I wanted to touch her
again--and--and--"

"But if you feel that way, how could you leave her?"

"What was I to do with her? I couldn't take her back home. I come from
the country and I couldn't go back with a baby. No one would speak to
me, and it would hurt Mother so. I jest _couldn't_. She's only two
weeks old, and you know when you leave the hospital with a baby two
weeks old in your arms, and you can't go home and you've no money, what
are you goin' to do?"

And she turned the tear-stained, questioning face of a child up to the
Judge.

"What were you going to do if the baby was taken in?"

"I'd have tried to get work somewhere, but you can't get work with a
baby."

"Have you no friends?"

"No; only some girls in the store where I worked."

"How did you come to leave the baby where you did?"

"A girl in the hospital read in a paper about an old lady who had no
children and who took a baby left on her doorstep, and so I left mine,
thinking that if she saw her once, she is so pretty that she'd _have_
to love her, and she'd have a chance to grow up like other girls. And
I'd 'a' gone to work feeling that my baby had a home which I knowed I
couldn't give her."

"But why didn't you go to some of the homes that are open to girls like
you?"

"Homes? I didn't know of any."

"There are many institutions that would have helped you. Didn't any one
tell you about them?"

"No; I wouldn't talk much with people. I was afraid that they'd send
word to Mother, and I didn't want her to know and feel bad, so I didn't
talk about myself. It's been awful hard--" and the babyish lips began
to tremble.

"Do you want to keep the baby?"

The girl's face brightened.

"Do I want to--do I _want_ to--But I can't! They tell me there's no
place for a girl with a baby."

"Will you work?"

"Oh, Judge," and she drew the baby closer to her, "jest give me a
chance! I'll work my fingers off for her. She's all I've got now,
and--I'm--I'm--_so_ lonely."

The Judge started to say something, but he was interrupted by a little
old lady rising from one of the seats.

"Judge, jest you give me that girl and the baby. I'll take her."

The Judge looked over his glasses at the excited, flushed face of the
old lady in front of him.

"What's that?"

"I said, jest you give me that girl and the baby, and I'll take her.
I'll take her right home with me."

The Judge looked at her a moment in silence; then the young man beside
the lady came forward and said:

"May I speak with you a moment, Judge Carlow?"

There was a whispered conference between the Judge, Dr. Eaton, and the
kindly-faced, white-haired probation officer, and then the Judge turned
to the young girl.

"Discharged in care of Miss Drusilla Doane," he said.

The girl and her baby came with the doctor through the gates which
separated those who were entwined in the meshes of the law from the
onlookers; then, stopping to get Drusilla, Dr. Eaton and his charge
left the court-room.

The wondering girl was placed in the motor and whirled swiftly toward
Brookvale.

Drusilla was quiet for a time. Then:

"Dr. Eaton," she said, "I believe we've found our nurses. Here's our
first one. Why can't we find the other mothers?"

"I am afraid that would be rather difficult."

"Difficulties are made to get around. If this young girl is willin' to
work to be with her baby, some of the other mothers must be the same.
Perhaps some of 'em was in just the same fix as this one. Now, look at
that letter of John's mother. It sounded as if she wouldn't 'a' left
him if she could 'a' got work to keep him. Why can't we git as many
mothers as we can and have them nurse the children? We got to have
nurses of some kind, and the mothers'd be better than jest hired girls."

"It's a good idea, Miss Doane; but how can we get them? They naturally
didn't leave their addresses."

"We'll advertise in the papers."

"But that would scare them; they would be afraid it would be a trap to
get them arrested."

"Say in the papers that we won't arrest 'em, but that we'll give 'em a
chance to support their babies and live with them while they're doin'
it. Tell 'em I give my word that nothin'll happen to 'em. Git that
young man that talked to me once. He said he'd do anything for me I
asked him. Git him to write it all up."

Dr Eaton pondered thoughtfully for a few moments.

"It might work, and again it might not."

"Well, there ain't no harm tryin'. Fix up a good advertisement and put
it in all the papers--Dutch, Italian, French and Irish. The babies are
all kinds."

By the time they arrived at the big house in Brookvale Drusilla was
very much interested in her new scheme.

"No," she said firmly to Dr. Eaton when he intimated that he must
leave; "you ain't goin' now. Jest you come with me. Jane, you take this
girl and this baby up to one of the spare rooms and see she has a bath
and the baby some milk. Have you had your dinner? No; of course not.
Jane, git her somethin' to eat--somethin' solid; not them finicky
things the cook makes. Git her all fixed up; then come to me. Dr.
Eaton, you come with me to that big room I was a lookin' at the other
day."

She led the way to the third floor, where there was a big billiard room.

"Isn't this just the right kind of a room for babies?" she exclaimed.
"Look at them windows to let the sun in! Now, how many beds can I put
here? We'll take them big tables out and we can put a lot of beds side
by side; and the nurse can sleep in this room here that opens out of
it, with the littlest babies near her."

The doctor looked at the room.

"It seems made for a nursery, doesn't it?" he commented. "Let's see.
You could put six little beds along each side, and a couple in the
other room with the nurse's bed. That would more than dispose of your
dozen already."

"And I been a-worryin' what to do with 'em all when I got this room! I
ought 'a' been ashamed of myself! Now, you run right along and order
the things we need--beds and whatever babies should have--and send them
right up. Tell the storekeepers that they must git here at once or I
won't take 'em. I can jest see James's face when I tell him his wife
won't need to keep them five babies he's got any longer. I'll go and
take my bunnet off and help move."

Within the next two days twelve little beds were established in the
billiard room, and the little mother was installed as first nurse, with
Jane and a couple of girls hired as assistants.

That evening Drusilla was sitting down to dinner--or supper, as she
called it--when Mr. Thornton was ushered in. He was more severe and
uncompromising than ever, and Drusilla said to herself, "I'm in for it.
He's heard somethin'."

But she did not show that she was a wee bit nervous. She said, as if it
were the usual thing for him to make her an evening call,

"Why, how do you do, Mr. Thornton? Won't you have some supper with me?"

"No, thank you. I came to talk with you."

"Now, that's real nice of you. I always like to talk. Set right down
and we'll have a comfortable visit. You'd better change your mind and
have some supper."

"No; my dinner is waiting for me."

"I eat my dinner in the middle of the day, though James will call it
lunch. I think a great big dinner at night makes you dream of your
grandmother, so I have mine like I used to."

"I understand that you have been to court, and brought home with you
that woman and her child."

"Well, well! How news does travel! How did you hear that?"

"It is in the evening papers."

"Is it? Well, I do declare! It seems I can't do nothin' but what I git
in the papers. I don't need to talk to git writ up; my money talks for
me. What did they say?"

The lawyer drew a paper from his pocket and handed it to Drusilla. She
took her glasses from her forehead, where they had been resting, and
read aloud: MISS DRUSILLA DOANE, THE FRIEND OF THE FRIENDLESS.

"Well, ain't that nice of 'em!" she stopped to comment; then she went
on reading.

"They seem to have it all down," she said, handing the paper back to
Mr. Thornton.

He looked at her with the air he used when trying to frighten witnesses
who opposed him.

"Of course, you will deny all this. You will make a statement that it
is all a mistake, and that you do not intend to give
these--these--wanderers a home."

"Now, that's a good word, Mr. Thornton; that's jest what they
are--wanderers. But they won't be wanderers no more; they've found a
home."

"What do you mean?"

"Jest what I said, Mr. Thornton. I mean to give that mother and her
baby a home."

"I do not understand you at all, Miss Doane; or at least I hope I am
mistaken in your meaning."

"I talk plain American."

"I have been waiting for you to send those children that have been left
here to the proper authorities."

"Well, I'm an authority--or at least I seem to be one since I got all
this money; and no one ain't ever said I wasn't proper."

"You are evading the question. I have said with the advent of each
child that it should be sent, along with the others, to the police.
They would dispose of them in the homes ordained for them."

"I ain't a Presbyterian, Mr. Thornton, and I don't believe in
predestination and foreordination. Them babies of mine was never
ordained for a home--the kind you mean; and I won't put 'em there. I
got room and I got money to feed 'em and clothe 'em; so why shouldn't I
keep 'em?"

"It is quite impossible, _quite_ impossible!"

"Why impossible?"

"Why--why--my late client, Mr. Elias Doane--"

"Now, don't throw him in my teeth again. Elias Doane don't care whether
I keep babies or poodle dogs, and I like babies best. Now, don't let's
quarrel, Mr. Thornton," as she saw him give an exasperated shake of his
head and rise as if to go. "Set still and talk it over with me calm
like. Can't you see _my_ side to it? I'm old and I'm lonesome, and I've
always wanted babies but the Lord didn't see fit to let me have 'em,
and now He's sent me these. I feel that I'd be a goin' against His
plans if I didn't keep 'em. My old heart's jest full of love that's
goin' to waste, and I want to give it to some one, and," laughing, "I
can't waste much of it on you, can I? I don't want to die with it all
shet up inside of me. I want to love these babies and learn 'em to love
me. Why, what chance will a baby brung up in a 'home' have to know
about love? How can they ever be learnt of the love of God when they
grow up, if they don't learn something about love when they're little.
They won't know the word. Don't be so set against it, Mr.
Thornton"--she looked at him pleadingly for a moment, then her eyes
twinkled--"though it won't do you much good as I'm set on this and I'm
goin' to do it. Your late client, Mr. Elias Doane, said, 'Spend my
money, Drusilla, in your own way'; and I'm takin' him at his word."

Mr. Thornton rose.

"Nothin more can be said then; but it is a disgrace to the neighborhood
to have a home for waifs come to it."

Drusilla flushed hotly.

"Don't you call it that; and don't you call it a 'home'! It's a home,
but not the kind you mean, and I won't hear it called that."

"I wash my hands of the affair. You will get into trouble, and when you
do you may call on me."

Drusilla rose and laid her hand on Mr. Thornton's arm.

"I'm sure to get into trouble," she said. "I always was a hand to do
that. But when I do you'll be the true, kind friend I know you are, and
help me out."

Mr. Thornton smiled, against his will, as he looked down into the
earnest face of the little old lady. He patted the hand on his arm.

"Miss Doane, you are causing me a lot of trouble not connected with the
business of the estate; but of course I'll always help you. Every one
will--they can't help it."

Drusilla drew a sigh of relief.

"I'm glad to know you ain't agin me, 'cause I like you, even when you
almost always come here to scold me. You ain't near so stiff inside as
you are outside. We're friends now, ain't we, babies or no babies?"

Mr. Thornton bent and kissed the withered old hand.

"Always, Miss Doane, babies or no babies; but you had better--"

"Never mind! You run along. Your dinner's cold by now. What you want to
say'll keep till next time, and I know it ain't near as nice as what
you said last. Good night."




CHAPTER VII


John Brierly came.

He first wrote Drusilla a long letter and Drusilla answered it by
telegraph--an answer that brought a reminiscent smile to John Brierly's
lips. It read:

_"I can't talk by letter. Just come."_

And John came.

He was met at the station by the young man from the lawyer's office who
had been to see him in Cliveden, and when he arrived at the house he
found Drusilla awaiting him. After the young man left, Drusilla said:

"John, come upstairs; I want to look at you, and I want to talk to you."

She took him up to the small library, which looked very cozy with its
fire in the big grate and the heavy English curtains drawn at the
windows.

"Now set down there in that chair, John. It was made for a man--no
woman could ever get out of it without help once she got in--and tell
me all about yourself, John."

John looked around the luxurious room in a hesitating manner.

"I hardly know what to say, Drusilla--I can't understand all this--I
can't understand."

"Never mind, John; it's all real. I know how you feel. I felt that way
myself for the first few weeks; but now I'm gettin' used to it."

"Is--is--this place yours, Drusilla?"

"Yes, it's mine. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow, but now I just
want to talk to you and about you. You want to smoke, don't you? Light
your pipe and be comfortable. It'll make you think better."

John laughed.

"I do want to smoke."

He drew his pipe from some pocket and filled it from a worn tobacco
pouch.

Drusilla watched him interestedly.

"Now I know what this room needed. It needs tobacco. It'll make the
curtains smell as if people lived here. You know the greatest trouble I
find with this place, John, is to have it feel human. Everything is so
sort of--sort of--dead--with just me a-creepin' round, and James and
William tip-toein', and the hired girls never speakin' except to say,
'No, ma'am' or 'Yes, ma'am.' Why, sometimes I'd like to hear somebody
drop somethin', or get mad, or stomp, or do _somethin'_ as if they was
alive. Here, help me pull up the chair closer by the fire, where I can
see you without putting on my specs. There, that is comfortable. Now
tell me all about yourself."

John looked into the fire dreamily.

"Drusilla, I am afraid I have been a failure. Your mother was right;
I've been always a dreamer and a failure."

Drusilla leaned toward him.

"Never you mind, John. So long as you haven't been a dreamer and a
democrat, I can stand it. I never could abide democrats. Why didn't you
ever marry?"

John looked at her.

"I couldn't, Drusilla."

Drusilla flushed at the look in his face and sat back in her chair.

"Oh--Oh--"

John said again, earnestly: "I just couldn't, Drusilla. When I got you
out of my heart enough to look at another woman, I was too old to care."

"What are you going to do now?" Drusilla asked, to turn the
conversation into another channel.

"What I have done for the last few years--sit quietly by and wait for
the messenger to come."

"Stuff and nonsense, John! I don't believe in waitin' for messengers.
That's meetin' them half way. I believe in bein' so busy that he'll
have a hard time to catch up to me."

"But I'm old, Drusilla, and--"

"Old, nothin' of the sort! You ain't but two years older'n me and I'm
jest beginnin' to live. Why I've jest took to raisin' children, John,
and I'm goin' to watch 'em grow up; so I can't afford to think about
being old or dyin'. I got to see these babies get started someway."

John looked at her curiously.

"Yes, you're surprised--so's everybody--and it kind of tickles me to
surprise people. I've had to do the things expected of me all my life;
I couldn't afford to surprise no one; so I feel like I'm breaking out
now, and--and--" laughing, "I like it, John--I like it. Why, when Mr.
Thornton stands up so stiff and straight and makes his mouth square and
hard to say, _'Impossible!'_ why--why--my toes kind of wiggle around in
delight like the babies do when you hold 'em to the fire. But I don't
want to talk about myself; we got lots of time to do that. I want to
know what you intend doin'."

"Nothing, Drusilla. I have enough to live on in my little town; and
with my books, and--"

"But, John, you can't live with jest _books."_

"That's all I have left, Drusilla. All my friends are gone."

"That's what I wanted to hear. You ain't got no one that draws your
heart back to that place in Ohio, have you?"

"No one in the world, Drusilla."

Drusilla settled back into her chair and gave a sigh of contentment.

"Then what I've been dreamin' of ever sence I saw your name in the
paper can come true."

"What have you been a-dreaming of, Drusilla?"

Drusilla was silent for a few moments, looking thoughtfully into the
fire. Then she said softly:

"Ever sence I knew you was alive, and after I sent that young man out
to you and he told me about you, I jest been dreamin' of seein' you
settin' there, smokin' your pipe, and me a-settin' here, talkin' to
you, and I have come into this room more the last two weeks, lookin' at
it, thinkin' how it would look with your things layin' around. You are
alone, John, and I'm alone. As I wrote you, we are both two old ships
that have sailed the seas alone for all these years, and now we're
nearin' port. Why can't we make the rest of the voyage together? I have
a home too big for one lone woman; you have no home at all. Years ago
your home would 'a' been mine, if you could 'a' give it to me; and now
I want to share mine with you. No--don't start," as she saw John make a
movement, "I ain't proposin' to you, John. We're too old to think of
such things, but I want to die with my hand in some one's who cares for
me and who I care for. You're the only one in all the world that's left
from out my past, and I want you near me."

"But, Drusilla--"

"Don't interrupt me, John. I want you to live here near me. These rooms
are a man's rooms. I want to see a man in 'em; and, John, you're the
man I want."

"But, Drusilla--"

"Now, John," raising her faded hand, "don't argue with me. I can see
it's took you by surprise. But why shouldn't you live here, and me
across the hall; and evenings, when the time is long, we can set before
the fire like this and talk of the past. It's lonely, John, with no
one."

"But, Drusilla, I couldn't--I couldn't--"

"Couldn't what, John? Couldn't you be happy here?"

"It isn't that."

"Well, what is it?"

"Drusilla, I couldn't accept even your charity."

"Now, John, I was afraid you'd say somethin' like that. When I was
young, when we were young together, I'd 'a' give you all my life. What
is a roof and the food you eat, compared to what I'd 'a' give you if
things had been different?"

"But, Drusilla--"

"Yes, I know all you'd say. But see, John. I have more'n I can ever
spend, though, goodness knows, I'm goin' to do my best; and there's
some things I can't buy, John. I can't buy companionship and friends,
John; and that's what we are, jest two old friends. We've drifted far
apart, and now the winds has brought us together again, let's anchor
side by side."

They were both silent, staring into the fire. Then Drusilla rose.

"Now we won't talk of it no more. These are your rooms. I want you to
do what you want to do. If you'd feel that you could be happy here,
send for your books and call this home, 'cause remember, John," and she
went up to him and standing back of his chair put her hand around his
head until it rested on his face, "remember, John, I always want you."

John reached up and covered the soft little hand with one of his for a
moment, then he brought it down and kissed it.

Drusilla turned and left the room.

The next few days were happy days for Drusilla. She took great pride in
showing John the place, and they spent long hours in the gallery
studying and discussing the pictures. The armor room was John's
especial delight, after the library. He found a book on armor and
learned the rules of chivalry. Drusilla said she could always tell
where to find him--"a-studyin' them tin clothes."

One sunshiny day they decided to visit the Doane home. John did not
want to go where there were so many women, but Drusilla insisted.

"I want 'em to see a man, John. They're shet up all day with nothin'
but women, and they're tired of seein' 'em."

"But I'm an old man, Drusilla."

"Never mind how old you are, you're a _man,_ and any man'll look good
to them. Even if most of the ladies is past seventy, they ain't dead
yet, and they're still women. You'll see how they'll set up and take
notice; Miss Lodema'll smooth back her hair as soon as you step on the
porch. I want to give 'em some real pleasure. Barbara'd like to talk to
you better'n gettin' new teeth even. We'll take the big car and take as
many as we can git in it out for a ride."

Drusilla had the cook make some cakes, for, as she confided to John, "I
ain't a-goin' to take 'em a thing sensible. They git that every day.
I'm goin' to have the cook make 'em as big cakes as he can, and put
lots of frostin' and chocolate on 'em; and I've sent to town for twenty
pounds of candy--the real fancy kind, that'll quite likely make 'em all
sick, but they'll love it; and I've bought 'em a lot of things they
don't need and that no one would think of givin' 'em. They're going to
have a _real_ party when I come to see 'em, John."

Drusilla was as excited as a child about her visit; but her excitement
did not equal that of the old ladies when Drusilla was seen driving
into the grounds in a big limousine with a man beside her.

The women clustered around her and chattered and talked and asked
questions, and fingered their gifts like a group of children at a visit
of Santa Claus. After lunch Drusilla announced that five of the old
ladies should go with her to the near-by city, where she was going to
take Barbara to a dentist.

"I don't want the dentist that would come here to see the 'inmates.'
He'd give charity teeth. I want Barbara to have real teeth, so's she
can chew a bone if she wants to, and I want to take Grandma Perkins.
She's never been in a motor and she's near ninety, so she'd better
hurry up or she'll be ridin' in a chariot and after that a motorcar
wouldn't be excitin'."

The old ladies were bundled up, Grandma Perkins was carried out to the
car, and they were off to the city about twenty miles away. The women
were awed at first, and rather uneasy, some of them a little
frightened. Drusilla watched Grandma Perkins, to see that she was not
nervous; but after a few miles had been passed, the old lady sat up
straighter in her shawls, and her eyes became bright.

"Drusilla," she asked, "how fast are we goin'?"

"I don't know," Drusilla said. "We'll ask the man."

Twenty-five miles an hour, the chauffeur told them.

"We'll go slower if it scares you, Grandma," Drusilla said gently.

The old lady looked at her with scorn.

"Scares me, nothin'! I was only wonderin' if we couldn't go faster!"

Drusilla laughed.

"That's jest what I said when I first rode in the car with Mr.
Thornton."

She gave the order and the car sped swiftly over the macadam road. The
old lady settled back among her shawls, a look of absolute happiness on
her wrinkled old face.

They arrived at the city all too soon. Barbara was taken to the
dentist, and Drusilla had the other ladies taken to a tea shop and
given tea while she waited for Barbara.

After tea they started home.

"I don't want to go back, Drusilla," Grandma Perkins began to whimper.
"Must we go back right away?"

Drusilla looked puzzled.

"I don't know what to do. Where'll we go if we don't go back?" She
thought a moment. "I'll ask Joseph; he always knows everything." She
turned to the waiting chauffeur. "Joseph, we don't want to go home.
Ain't there anything we can see?"

Joseph looked at the five old ladies, evidently at a loss as to what
would please them; then a suggestion occurred to him.

"You might go to a moving-picture show."

"What's that?"

"It's--it's a kind of theater."

"Well, I ain't never seen one," said Drusilla; and turned to the old
ladies, who were waiting patiently to learn of their final disposal.
"Do you want to go to a movin'-picture show?"

"What's that?" came in chorus.

"I don't know myself, but it's a sort of--sort of--"

"Never mind what it is, we want to go."

"Yes, let's go, Drusilla; let's not go home."

And the patrons of the moving-picture house had a view of six old
ladies, piloted by a smartly dressed chauffeur, who saw them seated in
a box and then left them. It was really a very good moving-picture, and
if the actors could have seen the delight of the box party they would
have felt they had not toiled in vain. They sat for two hours entranced
by the scenes that passed before them on the screen. One of the plays
was a war-time drama, and the old ladies were quite likely the only
ones in the house to whom the blue and the gray brought memories.

At the end of the reel, Drusilla decided that they should be leaving,
as supper would be ready at the home. One of the old ladies objected.

"Let's not go home, Drusilla; let's miss supper."

"It's bean night, anyway," said another. "Let's stay."

Five pairs of dim old eyes looked at Drusilla beseechingly.

"Well, we'll stay just a little while longer," she concluded.

The little while quite likely would have been the rest of the evening
if the performance had not finished for the afternoon. They rose with a
sigh and left the theater. When they started to help Grandma Perkins
into the car, she stopped with one foot on the step.

"Drusilla, I want to ride with the man," she said.

"Oh, but, Grandma, you'd catch cold," Drusilla objected.

"I wouldn't," she wailed, "and I want to. I might jest as well die fer
a sheep as a lamb, and I won't never git no chance again to feel myself
goin' through the air with nothin' in front of me."

"But, Grandma--"

The old lip quivered, and the eyes filled childishly.

"But I want to, Drusilla. I don't want to be all squshed up with a lot
of old women where I can't see nothin'. I want to see, and I want to
_feel."_

Drusilla turned helplessly to the other women, and then Joseph came to
her aid.

"She can sit here, Ma'am. I'll fix the wind shield so's she won't catch
cold, and you can put this rug around her. She'll be warm."

Grandma Perkins was lifted into the seat by the driver, bundled up in a
big fur rug so that only her bright eyes could be seen, and they were
off. Twice on the way home Grandma Perkins was seen to lean towards the
chauffeur and the car jumped forward until it seemed that they were
flying. When at last they drove into the "home" grounds, they found a
very anxious superintendent and John waiting for them, fearing
something had happened.

As Drusilla took her leave, Grandma Perkins chuckled childishly.

"I always said, Drusilla, that I didn't want to die and go to Heaven;
but I've changed my mind. I'll go any time now, 'cause I like flyin'
and am willin' to be an angel."

The superintendent was inclined to be angry with Drusilla--as angry as
she could be with a woman who possessed a million dollars. She said
stiffly:

"I'm afraid the ladies will be ill to-morrow."

One of them, hearing it, spoke up.

"Of course we'll all be sick; but, then, it was worth it!"

And Drusilla left with those words ringing in her ears.

"John," she said, "perhaps all is vanity and a strivin' after wind; but
the preacher didn't know much about women, or his wives didn't have
motorcars."




CHAPTER VIII


One morning James came to Drusilla.

"There is a man downstairs who wishes to see you," he announced.

"What does he want?" asked Drusilla.

"He does not say; just says he wants to see you personally. He says he
is from your home town or village."

Drusilla looked up, pleased.

"Is that so. Take him in one of the setting-rooms and I'll be right
down."

James hesitated.

"What is it, James?"

"He, well, he is not exactly a gentleman; he looks like a man from the
country."

"That ain't nothin' to disgrace him for life. I'm from the country too,
and I'm real glad to see any one from the place where I was raised. I
ain't seen no one from there for a long time."

When she went downstairs she found a rather florid man, about fifty
years of age, dressed as a farmer would dress when out on a holiday.
She extended her hand cordially.

"James tells me you are from Adams," she said. "I'm real glad to see
somebody from there. Set down. Won't you take off your coat?"

The man removed his overcoat and sat down.

"I am John Gleason," he said; "the brother of James Gleason, who owns
the Spring Valley Stock Farm, just out of Adams."

Drusilla thought for a moment.

"I don't seem to recall the name, but perhaps you moved there sence I
went away."

"I been there about thirty years. Of course you know William Fisher,
the editor of the county paper? He is a friend of mine."

Drusilla's face brightened.

"Yes, indeed; I know him well. I nursed his wife through all her
children and her last spell of sickness."

"Is that so! His wife was a cousin of my wife's. Her name was Jenny
Jameson before she married me."

"The daughter of old Dr. Jameson! Well, I do declare, it's like meetin'
old friends. How is she?"

"I'm sorry to say she is not very well. We lost our little girl about
two years ago, and she has been sick ever since."

Kindly Drusilla was all sympathy at once.

"Do tell me. What did she die of."

"Diphtheria. She got it in school; it run through all the children in
the county."

"How old was she?"

"She was eleven, and it near broke my wife's heart. She was our only
child. I catch her settin' by the door waitin' for Julia to come home.
It worries me very much."

"Well, I'm so sorry. Have you had a doctor?"

"Yes; we have had Dr. Friedman and another doctor from the city. But
they don't seem to be doing her no good."

"It's too bad! Now perhaps I got something that'll help her. I got some
harbs that make the best tonic. I always give it to mothers who didn't
get along well, and it made them have an appetite; and if one can eat
well, they can ginerally git enough strength to throw off sorrow. You
just set still a minute, and I'll make a package for you. I ain't got
much left, 'cause I been kind of savin' of it; but I know it'll do your
wife good, so I'm goin' to give you some."

Drusilla left to go up to her room to find the "harbs" that she had
been carefully cherishing for time of need. When she returned she
handed the package to the man.

"You have her bile them fifteen minutes and drink it like a tea," she
said.

They chatted for fifteen minutes about the families in Adams. Mr.
Gleason seemed to be very familiar with them all, and Drusilla's eyes
brightened as she heard the old names. She thoroughly enjoyed the visit.

"John Brierly is upstairs," she said finally. "I'll call him. He'd like
to hear all the news of the old neighbors, and perhaps he'll know about
your father."

The man looked embarrassed.

"Well, Miss Doane," he stammered, "I'd like to see him, but I'm in a
hurry. I want to get the eleven o'clock train home. I'm worried about
leaving my wife. She's not sick, you know, but just peculiar and I
don't like to leave her longer than I can help. I had to come down on
business--I've been seeing about some cattle over in New Jersey,
and--and--Miss Doane, I'm in trouble, and I don't know a soul in New
York, and I didn't know who I could go to but you, and I remembered you
was from Adams and might help me."

Drusilla looked at him with inquiring, sympathetic eyes.

"What can I do?" she asked.

"Well,"--and the man was most embarrassed--"I've been farmer enough to
have my pocket picked on the train. I was sleepy and went to sleep and
when I woke up my pocketbook that I always carried right here"--showing
an inside pocket in his coat--"was gone. It had all my money and my
mileage ticket."

"Well, I swan!" said Drusilla.

"Yes; I didn't know _what_ to do. I tried to tell the man in the ticket
office that I would send back my ticket money, but he wouldn't give it
to me, and I--well--I don't know _what_ to do. I feel I ought to go
home to my wife at once, and--and--"

"How much is the ticket?"

"The ticket is only about three dollars and sixty cents--"

"Pshaw, that is very little. I'll get some money from James. I never
have any."

She rang the bell; and when James returned with fifteen dollars she
handed it to the man.

"You'd better have a little extra, as somethin' might happen," she said.

He was more than thankful.

"I'll never forget your kindness, and I'll send it to you as soon as I
get home. You'll get it day after to-morrow. And I'll see my wife takes
this tea. We'll never forget you, Miss Doane."

He wrung her hand.

"Can't I get you anything from the country," he asked. "But I suppose
you have everything. I'd like to send you something to show you how I
feel."

Drusilla was touched.

"Now that's real kind of you to think of it," she said; "but I don't
need nothin'."

She followed him to the door and helped him on with his overcoat.

"Be sure and let me know how your wife gets on. Perhaps if the tea
don't do no good, my doctor will know of something that'll help her.
She might come down here for a few days; a change might take her mind
off her sorrow."

Again Mr. Gleason shook the kindly outstretched hand, and for a moment
he seemed rather overcome by his feelings of gratitude.

"I'll let you know at once, and I'll remember your offer. I must catch
my train. Thank you again, Miss Doane."

Drusilla watched him walk down the drive, and then she went up to tell
John of his visit. As they were talking, Dr. Eaton's card was brought
to her and Drusilla asked him to be shown to John's sitting-room.
Drusilla met him with a happy smile on her face.

"Come right in, Dr. Eaton. I'm always glad to see you. You're just
youth and strength and it does my old eyes good to see you. John, this
is Dr. Eaton, my family doctor. You didn't know I was an ailin' woman
and have to have a doctor by the year."

John looked at her anxiously.

"You ain't sick, are you, Drusilla?"

"Oh, money gives you lots of diseases that you didn't know you had till
you could afford 'em."

The doctor laughed.

"Miss Doane'll never be sick in her life, Mr. Brierly. She's good for
twenty-five years of hard work yet."

"Don't speak that word to me, Dr. Eaton. I don't like the word _work_.
It's stuck closer to me than a brother for too many years."

"Oh, but there's work and work. But am I interrupting your visit with
Mr. Brierly?"

"No; I just been tellin' him about a visitor I had who comes from
Adams, where we used to live when we was young. I wanted John to come
and see him, but the man couldn't wait. He had to catch a train."

"Was it an old friend? It's nice to see old friends."

"No, he wasn't exactly an old friend, but he knowed a lot of people I
knowed once. Poor man, he was in a lot of trouble. He had his pocket
picked and couldn't get home and his wife was sick--"

The doctor looked up quickly.

"Did you lend him money, Miss Doane?"

"Yes; I felt so sorry for him. He was so worried I let him have fifteen
dollars. He'll send it back to me to-morrow. He was so grateful. It
must be awful to be in a big city and know no one and have no money."

"Yes; it must," the doctor remarked dryly.

Drusilla looked at him quickly.

"What you speakin' in that tone of voice for?"

The doctor laughed rather hesitatingly.

"I'm afraid, Miss Doane, that you're what the small boys call 'stung.'"

"Stung? What do you mean?"

"I rather imagine that was a little confidence game."

"What is a confidence game?"

"Oh, a man gets money from people on false pretenses. They work a lot
of games. One of them is to go to people whom they have looked up, and
claim to be a relation or from their home town."

"But he knowed lots of names I knowed."

"Yes; he might have found them in a local paper from the place."

Drusilla sat back in her chair.

"Well, do tell!" Then, after a moment's pause, "But I don't believe
he's dishonest. He looked honest. He looked like a man from the
country."

"That's where they're clever. But don't worry; you can stand the
touch--it wasn't much. You got off easy."

"But I don't like to think I bin cheated. It makes me mad clean
through. It always did. I remember once I bought a cow when mother was
bad; paid forty dollars for her to Silas Graham. He said she was young
and would give fifteen quarts of milk a day, and I figgered out I could
give mother all the milk she'd need and sell the rest and in that way
pay for her, because forty dollars was a lot of money for me in them
days. Why, when I got that cow she never give enough milk to wet down a
salt risin', and she was as old as Methuselah. All she could do was to
eat, and she et her head off. I couldn't see her starve and I couldn't
sell her. I kept her for two years, and finally a butcher come along
and offered me eight dollars for her and I let her go. Wasn't I mad! I
never could abide any one by the name of Silas after that."

"Never mind; you're able to stand this loss. But you'd better write up
to Adams and see if what he says is true. You can find it out easy
enough."

"No; I'll wait and see. I believe he'll send it back to me. But it
makes me excited."

"But, Miss Doane," said Dr. Eaton earnestly, "I want you to promise me
one thing. You must not be annoyed. If the word gets around that you
are 'easy' you'll be bothered to death. Now the next time that any one
comes claiming to be from your home town, and asks you for money, for
anything at all, just send for the police and have them arrested."

"Oh, I'd hate to do that."

"But you must, Miss Doane. You must protect yourself. Promise me that
no matter who it is, or what kind of a con talk they give you, you'll
send at once for the police."

"Well--"

"Please promise this, Miss Doane. You must make an example, or you'll
have every confidence man in town working you. Will you do it, no
matter what or who it is? If you are asked for money, and you don't
know the man, have him locked up, and the story'll get around, and you
won't be bothered any more."

"Well, if you think it necessary--"

"It is most necessary. You will promise?"

"Yes, I'll promise. I'll do it, though I hate to."

"All right; I have your word for it. Now be sure to do it. Don't
believe a word they say, if you haven't known the person before. He's
sure to be playing the old game, and I don't want them to think they
can work you."

"Well, all right. I'll send for the police if any one ever comes again
and says he's from Adams. I guess you are right. Now let's change the
subject. What did you come for particular, beside wanting to see me, of
course."

"Well, I wanted to see you, first of all, just for the pleasure of
seeing you, and then I want to tell you about the mothers we've got by
our advertisement."

Drusilla was interested at once.

"Did you git some? I told you we would. Did you advertise in all the
papers?"

"Yes; every paper in New York City--Jewish, German, Bohemian, Russian,
everything; and I've found three mothers out of the bunch."

"Well--well, I'm glad. Where are they, and who are they?"

"One of them is little John's mother. You remember you thought she'd
come and she did. The other two, we've had their stories investigated
and found them all right. One is an American girl about twenty years of
age whose husband deserted her when he couldn't get work, and she was
practically starving, and the other is a little Jewish girl, who works
in a flower factory."

"The poor things! Did you bring them right up?"

"No; I wanted to talk with you first, and with Mr. Thornton--"

"Never mind talkin' with Mr. Thornton. This is my affair and not
connected with the estate, as he calls it. It ain't none of his
business, and you know what he'd say. I don't tell him more'n I have to
till it's done, then he can't do nothin' and he's learnt he's wastin'
his breath talkin'. You see he talks slow and I talk fast, and he don't
git much chance."

The doctor laughed.

"I'm glad I don't have to talk this over with him, as he isn't what you
might call sympathetic."

"Yes; he's cold. Sometimes I look to see him drip like an icicle
brought into a warm room, but I guess he's not so bad as he acts
sometimes. But who's the little Jew girl?"

"She is that little Jew kid's mother."

"The baby with the black eyes and the big nose? Well, he ain't pretty,
but he's clever."

"The girl couldn't make but five dollars a week and she couldn't pay
any one to keep the baby, and she had no people, so she gave it to you.
But she's a nice little thing, and willing to work and be with her boy."

"That makes four nurses, and perhaps there'll be more answer. Now you
figger what I ought to pay 'em. I want to be just, but I ain't goin' to
be extravagant. And send them up to-morrow. And, Doctor, I been a
thinkin'. These mothers ought to be learnt somethin' so's they can make
a livin' when they leave here. They can't live here forever, perhaps.
Mis' Fearn was over here the other day and said somethin' about tryin'
to get a good sewin' woman--some one who could make dresses in the
house for the children and make over her old ones, and do odds and ends
that she can't get the big dressmakers to do. She says she pays three
dollars a day but that it's hard to get good ones. Why can't we get
some one to teach our mothers to be dressmakers--real good ones--then
they can always make a livin'."

"That's an idea, Miss Doane, and a good one. We'll think it over."

"Well, you figger it out; but we got enough to think about jest now.
We've got a good start--twelve babies and four mothers. I think I'll
stop with that. Twelve is a good number."

Just then James came to the door with a disgusted look on his face. He
glanced from one to the other in perplexity. Drusilla looked up.

"What is it, James?"

James was plainly embarrassed.

"I'd--I'd--like to speak to Dr. Eaton. I think I'd better speak to him
first."

"What do you want to say to him you can't say to me? Has some one sent
for him?"

"No--no--"

"Well, is it private? What you so nervous about, James? You look
foolish."

"Well--well--"

"Say it! What is it?"

"Well, ma'am--there's another baby come."

"_What!"_ cried Drusilla, sitting erect in her chair.

"What!" exclaimed Dr. Eaton. "Where's the watchman?"

"I don't know, sir. The baby was found at the laundry door, and no one
was in sight, though we all searched the grounds and the roads."

"Well, I swan! I thought we'd stopped. What'll we do with it?"

James said impressively: "We'd better send this one to the police
station."

"James," said Drusilla severely, "I've told you I won't send a baby to
the police station. Bring it up and let me see it!"

"But, ma'am, this is different--"

Drusilla sniffed.

"It can't be much different. A baby is a baby--"

"But, ma'am--Dr. Eaton--I--"

"James, I said bring it up. Now bring it up at once, I say!"

James turned desperately and left the room. Soon he returned with a
clothes-basket and put it on the library table. Drusilla, Dr. Eaton and
John rose and went to the table and looked down in silence at the
basket's contents, with consternation plainly written on their faces.
There was a moment's silence, then Dr. Eaton burst into a roar of
laughter. He put back his head and laughed until the tears ran down his
face, and soon he was joined by John; but Drusilla was too amazed to
laugh. She looked down at the baby in the big clothes-basket, at the
round, black, wondering eyes that stared up at her from the coal-black
face of a negro baby. There it lay, the little woolly head on a clean
white pillow, a white blanket covering its little body. The baby looked
at the laughing faces above it, as if wondering why the sight of him
should cause such merriment; then, as if seeing the joke, opened his
little mouth, showing the tip of a red tongue and dazzling baby teeth.
It was too much for Drusilla. She sat down heavily in the nearest chair.

"Well, I swan--I _swan!_ A nigger baby!"

Drusilla went again to the basket, from which the squirming infant was
evidently trying to get out. She looked at him for a moment and then
turned to Dr. Eaton.

"Take him out. I ain't never seen a colored baby close."

The baby was found to be a boy about a year and a half old. He was not
at all frightened, and stood up on his sturdy legs and tried to make
friends in his baby fashion, showing his white teeth and rolling his
round black eyes in a way that started Dr. Eaton and John off into
another paroxysm of laughter.

Drusilla looked at the baby; then at the two men. Then, as she did not
know what to do, she became exasperated.

"What's the matter with you two? Ain't you never seen a nigger baby
before? What you laughing at?"

The baby was trying to toddle across the floor. His toes struck a rug
and he fell, showing above his white socks a pair of little fat legs
that seemed to be made in ebony, so clearly were they in contrast to
his white clothing. Even Drusilla sat back and joined the men in their
merriment. The baby looked at them solemnly; then put his chubby fist
into his mouth and his face puckered up and great tears came to his
eyes. Drusilla was all kindness in an instant.

"You poor little mite! They shan't laugh at you--no, they shan't! Come
right here to Grandma--No, I can't be Grandma to a colored baby, can I?
Well, never mind, come here to me."

She held out her arms to the weeping baby, and he came toddling to her.
She lifted him to her lap and cuddled him down against her breast.

"There, there!" she soothed. "Now you're all right. Well," turning to
the men, "he feels just like any other baby, black or white."

Dr. Eaton looked at the white head bent over the black one and again he
started to laugh, but Drusilla looked up with a slight flush on her
face and a sparkle in her eyes that plainly said that she had had
enough of laughter, and he stopped.

"What are you going to do with this one? _Now_ we'd better send for Mr.
Thornton."

Drusilla looked at him severely.

"Don't you be a fool, Dr. Eaton. I don't want Mr. Thornton to know
nothin' about this one. I'd never hear the last of it."

"Well, then you'd better let me take him to the police station."

"Yes--" hesitatingly; "I suppose so. But--" and she looked down at the
baby who was contentedly playing with the trimming on her dress--"I
jest hate to send a baby there."

"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Dr. Eaton. "There's a big colored
orphan asylum out on the Elpham Road. Let's telephone up there, and
I'll take it over myself."

Drusilla hesitated again.

"Another 'home.' I hate to--"

"It's the only thing to do, Miss Doane. You can't mix the colors."

"Well, perhaps you'd better."

Dr. Eaton left the room, and returned after a few moments with a shake
of his head.

"No good! They say they're full. They can't take in another child. 

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