SHOE***


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[Illustration]

[Illustration]


THE OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A SHOE

Or

There's No Place Like Home

by

AMANDA M. DOUGLAS

Author of "In Trust," "The Kathie Stories," etc.







Boston
Lee and Shepard, 47 Franklin Street
New York
Charles T. Dillingham. 678 Broadway

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
William F. Gill & Co.,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.




                             In Remembrance

                                   OF

                _MANY PLEASANT HOURS SPENT AT WOODSIDE_,

                               This Story

         OF LOVE AND FAITH, OF WORK AND WAITING, AND THE GENTLE
               VIRTUES THAT ARE NONE THE LESS HEROIC FOR
                     BLOOMING IN THE CENTRE OF THE
                              HOME CIRCLE,

                 _IS DEDICATED TO THE HAPPY HOUSEHOLD_

                                   OF

                      MR. and MRS. A. C. NEUMANN.



      *      *      *      *      *      *


THE DOUGLAS NOVELS.

BY MISS AMANDA M. DOUGLAS.

_Uniform Volumes. Price $1.50 Each._


  FLOYD GRANDON'S HONOR.

"Fascinating throughout, and worthy of the reputation of the
author."--_Philadelphia Methodist._


  WHOM KATHIE MARRIED.

Kathie was the heroine of the popular series of Kathie Stories for
young people, the readers of which were very anxious to know with whom
Kathie settled down in life. Hence this story, charmingly written.


  LOST IN A GREAT CITY.

"There is the power of delineation and robustness of expression that
would credit a masculine hand in the present volume, and the reader
will at no stage of the reading regret having commenced its perusal. In
some parts it is pathetic, even to eloquence."--_San Francisco Post._


  THE OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A SHOE.

"The romances of Miss Douglas's creation are all thrillingly
interesting."--_Cambridge Tribune._


  HOPE MILLS; or, Between Friend and Sweetheart.

"Amanda Douglas is one of the favorite authors of American
novel-readers."--_Manchester Mirror._


  FROM HAND TO MOUTH.

"There is real satisfaction in reading this book, from the fact that we
can so readily 'take it home' to ourselves."--_Portland Argus._


  NELLY KINNARD'S KINGDOM.

"The Hartford Religious Herald" says, "This story is so fascinating,
that one can hardly lay it down after taking it up."


  IN TRUST; or, Dr. Bertrand's Household.

"She writes in a free, fresh, and natural way; and her characters are
never overdrawn."--_Manchester Mirror._


  CLAUDIA.

"The plot is very dramatic, and the _denoument_ startling. Claudia, the
heroine, is one of those self-sacrificing characters which it is the
glory of the female sex to produce."--_Boston Journal._


  STEPHEN DANE.

"This is one of this author's happiest and most successful attempts at
novel-writing, for which a grateful public will applaud her."--_Herald._


  HOME NOOK: or, the Crown of Duty.

"An interesting story of home-life, not wanting in incident, and
written in forcible and attractive style."--_New York Graphic._


  SYDNIE ADRIANCE; or, Trying the World.

"The works of Miss Douglas have stood the test of popular judgment, and
become the fashion. They are true, natural in delineation, pure and
elevating in their tone."--_Express, Easton, Penn._


  SEVEN DAUGHTERS.

The charm of the story is the perfectly natural and home-like air which
pervades it.

_Sold by all booksellers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of
price._


LEE & SHEPARD, Publishers, Boston.

      *      *      *      *      *      *



CONTENTS.


  CHAPTER I.                                                       PAGE.
  JOE'S GRAND DISCOVERY                                                7

  CHAPTER II.
  PLANNING IN THE TWILIGHT                                            22

  CHAPTER III.
  A CHANCE FOR FLOSSY                                                 36

  CHAPTER IV.
  THE IDENTICAL SHOE                                                  52

  CHAPTER V.
  GOOD LUCK FOR JOE                                                   68

  CHAPTER VI.
  FORTUNES AND MISFORTUNES                                            84

  CHAPTER VII.
  THE OLD TUMBLER, AFTER ALL                                         103

  CHAPTER VIII.
  FLORENCE IN STATE                                                  120

  CHAPTER IX.
  FOURTH OF JULY                                                     137

  CHAPTER X.
  WHICH SHOULD SHE CHOOSE?                                           154

  CHAPTER XI.
  OUT OF THE OLD HOME-NEST                                           172

  CHAPTER XII.
  JOE'S FORTUNE                                                      191

  CHAPTER XIII.
  FROM GRAY SKIES TO BLUE                                            209

  CHAPTER XIV.
  A FLOWER-GARDEN INDOORS                                            225

  CHAPTER XV.
  HOW CHARLIE RAN AWAY                                               244

  CHAPTER XVI.
  ALMOST DISCOURAGED                                                 262

  CHAPTER XVII.
  LOST AT SEA                                                        282

  CHAPTER XVIII.
  A SONG IN THE NIGHT                                                299

  CHAPTER XIX.
  IN THE OLD HOME-NEST AGAIN                                         317

  CHAPTER XX.
  WHEREIN THE OLD SHOE BECOMES CROWDED                               337

  CHAPTER XXI.
  HOW THE DREAMS CAME TRUE                                           352

  CHAPTER XXII.
  CHRISTMASTIDE                                                      366




                      THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME.




CHAPTER I.

  JOE'S GRAND DISCOVERY.


Hal sat trotting Dot on his knee,--poor little weazen-faced Dot, who
was just getting over the dregs of the measles, and cross accordingly.
By way of accompaniment he sang all the Mother Goose melodies that he
could remember. At last he came to,--

    "There was an old woman who lived in a shoe:
    She had so many children she didn't know what to do;
    To some she gave broth without any bread,"--

and Harry stopped to catch his breath, for the trotting was of the
vigorous order.

    "And a thrashing all round, and sent them to bed!"

finished Joe, thrusting his shaggy head in at the window after the
fashion of a great Newfoundland dog.

Dot answered with a piteous cry,--a sort of prolonged wail,
heart-rending indeed.

"Serve you right," said Joe, going through an imaginary performance
with remarkably forcible gestures.

"For shame, Joe! You were little once yourself, and I dare say cried
when you were sick. I always thought it very cruel, that, after being
deprived of their supper, they should be"--

"Thrashed! Give us good strong Saxon for once, Flossy!"

Flossy was of the ambitious, correct, and sentimental order. She had
lovely light curls, and soft white hands when she did not have to work
too hard, which she never did of her own free will. She thought it
dreadful to be so poor, and aspired to a rather aristocratic ladyhood.

"I am sorry you were not among them," she replied indignantly. "You're
a hard-hearted, cruel boy!"

"When the thrashings went round? You're a c-r-u-e-l girl!" with a
prodigious length of accent. "Why, I get plenty of 'em at school."

"'Trot, trot, trot. There was an old woman'--what are you laughing at,
Joe?" and Hal turned red in the face.

"I've just made a brilliant discovery. O my poor buttons! remember
Flossy's hard labor and many troubles, and do not _bust_! Why, we're
the very children!"

At this, Joe gave a sudden lurch: you saw his head, and then you saw
his heels, and the patch on the knee of his trousers, ripped partly off
by an unlucky nail, flapped in the breeze; and he was seated on the
window-sill right side up with care, drumming both bare heels into the
broken wall. He gave a prolonged whistle of satisfaction, made big eyes
at Dot, and then said again,--

"Yes, we are the _very_ children!"

"What children? Joe, you are the noisiest boy in Christendom!"

"Flossy, the old woman who lived in a shoe is Granny, and no mistake!
I can prove it logically. Look at this old tumble-down rookery: it is
just the shape of a huge shoe, sloping gradually to the toe, which is
the shed-end here. It's brown and rusty and cracked and patched: it
wants heeling and toeing, and to be half-soled, greased to keep the
water out, and blacked to make it shine. It was a famous seven-leaguer
in its day; but, when it had lost its virtue, the giant who used to
wear it kicked it off by the roadside, little dreaming that it would be
transformed into a cabin for the aforesaid old woman. And here we all
are sure enough! Sometimes we get broth, and sometimes we don't."

Dot looked up in amazement at this harangue, and thrust her thumbs
in her mouth. Hal laughed out-right,--a soft little sound like the
rippling of falling water.

"Yes, a grand discovery! Ladies and gentlemen of the nineteenth
century, I rise to get up, to speak what I am about to say; and I hope
you will treasure the words of priceless wisdom that fall from my lips.
I'm not backward about coming forward"--

Joe was balancing himself very nicely, and making tremendous
flourishes, when two brown, dimpled hands scrubbed up the shock of
curly hair, and the sudden onslaught destroyed his equilibrium, as
Flossy would have said, and down he went on the floor in crab fashion,
looking as if he were all arms and legs.

"Charlie, you <DW40>! just wait till I catch you. I haven't the broth,
but the other thing will do as well."

But Charlie was on the outside; and her little brown, bare feet were
as fleet as a deer's. Joe saw her skimming over the meadow; but the
afternoon was very warm, and a dozen yards satisfied him for a race, so
he turned about.

"Joe, you might take Dot a little while, I think," said Hal
beseechingly, as Joe braced himself against the door-post. "I've held
her all the afternoon."

"She won't come--will you, Dot?"

But Dot signified her gratification by stretching out her hands. Joe
was a good-natured fellow; and, though he might have refused Hal
easily, he couldn't resist Dot's tender appeal, so he took her on his
shoulder and began trotting off to Danbury Cross. Dot laughed out of
her sleepy eyes, highly delighted at this change in the programme.

"Oh, dear!" and Hal rubbed his tired arms. "I shouldn't think
grandmother would know what to do, sure enough! What a host of us there
are,--six children!"

"I'm sure I do my best," said Flossy with a pathetic little sniff. "But
it's very hard to be an orphan and poor."

"And when there are six of us, and we are all orphans, and all poor, it
must be six times as hard," put in Joe with a sly twinkle.

Then he changed Dot from her triumphal position on his shoulder to a
kind of cradle in his arms. Her eyelids drooped, and she began to croon
a very sleepy tune.

Hal looked out of the window, over to the woods, where the westward
sun was making a wonderful land of gold and crimson. Sometimes he
had beautiful dreams of that softened splendor, but now they were
mercenary. If one could only coin it all into money! There was poor
grandmother slaving away, over at Mrs. Kinsey's,--she should come home,
and be a princess, to say the very least.

"I guess I'll clear up a bit!" said Hal, coming down from the clouds,
and glancing round at the disorderly room. "Granny will be most tired
to death when her day's work is done. Flossy, if you wouldn't mind
going in the other room."

Flossy gathered up her skirts and her crocheting, and did not take the
invitation at all amiss.

Then Hal found the stubby broom, and swept the floor; dusted the
mantle, after removing an armful of "trash;" went at the wooden chairs,
that had once been painted a gorgeous yellow with green bars; and
cleared a motley accumulation of every thing off of the table, hanging
up two or three articles, and tucking the rest into a catch-all closet.
A quaint old pitcher, that had lost both spout and handle, was emptied
of some faded flowers, and a fresh lot cut,--nothing very choice; but
the honeysuckle scented the room, and the coxcombs gave their crimson
glow to the top of the pyramid.

"Why, Mrs. Betty," said Joe, "you've made quite a palace out of your
end of the shoe, and this miserable little Dot has gone to sleep at
last. Shall I put her in the cradle, or drop her down the well?"

Hal smiled a little, and opened the door. It was the best room, quite
large, uncarpeted, but clean; and though the bed was covered with a
homemade spread, it was as white as it could be. The cradle was not
quite as snowy; for the soiled hands that tumbled Dot in and out left
some traces.

To get her safely down was a masterpiece of strategy. Joe bumped her
head; and Hal took her in his arms, hushing her in a low, motherly
fashion, and pressing his brown cheek to hers, which looked the color
of milk that had been skimmed, and then split in two, and skimmed
again. She made a dive in Hal's hair with her little bird's claw of a
hand, but presently dropped asleep again.

"I guess she'll take a good long nap," whispered Hal, quite relieved.

"I'm sure she ought," sighed Florence.

Hal went back to his housekeeping. He was as handy as a girl, any day.
He pulled some radishes, and put them in a bowl of cold water, and
chopped some lettuce and onions together, the children were all so fond
of it. Then he gleaned the raspberries, and filled the saucer with
currants that were not salable.

Joe, in the meanwhile, had gone after Mrs. Green's cows. She gave them
a quart of milk daily for driving the cows to and from the pasture, and
doing odd chores.

"If you see the children, send them home," had been Hal's parting
injunction. "Grandmother will soon be here."

She came before Joe returned. The oddest looking little old woman that
you ever saw. Florence, at fourteen, was half a head taller. Thin and
wrinkled and sunburned; her flaxen hair turning to silver, and yet
obstinately full of little curls; her blue eyes pale and washed out,
and hosts of "crows'-feet" at the corners; and her voice cracked and
tremulous.

Poor Grandmother Kenneth! She had worked hard enough in her day, and
was still forced to keep it up, now that it was growing twilight with
her. But I don't believe there was another as merry a houseful of
children in all Madison.

Joe's discovery was not far out of the way. The old woman, whose
biography and family troubles were so graphically given by Mother
Goose, died long before our childhood; but I think Granny Kenneth must
have looked like her, though I fancy she was better natured. As for
the children, many and many a time she had not known what to do with
them,--when they were hungry, when they were bad, when their clothes
were worn out and she had nothing to make new ones with, when they had
no shoes; and yet she loved the whole six, and toiled for them without
a word of complaint.

Her only son, Joe, had left them to her,--a troublesome legacy indeed;
but at that time they had a mother and a very small sum of money.
Mrs. Joe was a pretty, helpless, inefficient body, who continually
fretted because Joe did not get rich. When the poor fellow lay on his
death-bed, his disease aggravated by working when he was not able, he
twined his arms around his mother's neck, and cried with a great gasp,--

"You'll be kind to them, mother, and look after them a little. God will
help you, I know. I should like to live for their sakes."

A month or two after this, Dot was born. Now that her dear Joe was
dead, there was no comfort in the world; so the frail, pretty little
thing grieved herself away, and went to sleep beside him in the
churchyard.

The neighbors made a great outcry when Grandmother Kenneth took the
children to her own little cottage.

"What could she do with them? Why, they will all starve in a bunch,"
said one.

"Florence and Joe might be bound out," proposed another.

A third was for sending them to the almshouse, or putting them in some
orphan asylum; but five years had come and gone, and they had not
starved yet, though once or twice granny's heart had quaked for fear.

Every one thought it would be such a blessing if Dot would only die.
She had been a sight of trouble during the five years of her life.
First, she had the whooping cough, which lasted three times as long as
with any ordinary child. Then she fell out of the window, and broke her
collar-bone; and when she was just over that, it was the water-pox. The
others had the mumps, and Dot's share was the worst of all. Kit had the
measles in the lightest possible form, and actually had to be tied in
bed to make him stay there; while it nearly killed poor Dot, who had
been suffering from March to midsummer, and was still poor as a crow,
and cross as a whole string of comparisons.

But Granny was patient with it all. The very sweetest old woman in the
world, and the children loved her in their fashion; but they seldom
realized all that she was doing for them. And though some of her
neighbors appreciated the toil and sacrifice, the greater part of them
thought it very foolish for her to be slaving herself to death for a
host of beggarly grandchildren.

"Well, Hal!" she exclaimed in her rather shrill but cheery voice,
"how's the day gone?"

"Pretty well: but you're tired to death. I suppose Mrs. Kinsey's
company came, and there was a grand feast?"

"Grand! I guess it was. Such loads of pies and puddings and kettles of
berries and tubs of cream"--

Granny paused, out of breath from not having put in any commas.

"Ice-cream, you mean? Freezers, they call 'em."

"You do know every thing, Hal!" And granny laughed. "I can't get all
the new-fangled names and notions in my head. There was Grandmother
Kinsey, neat as a new pin, and children and grandchildren, and aunts
and cousins. But it was nice, Hal."

The boy smiled, thinking of them all.

"Half of the goodies'll spile, I know. Mrs. Kinsey packed me a great
basket full; and, Hal, here's two dollars. I'm clean tuckered out."

"Then you just sit still, and let me 'tend to you. Dot's asleep; and if
I haven't worried with her this afternoon! That child ought to grow up
a wonder, she's been so much trouble to us all. Joe's gone after the
cows, and Florence is busy as a bee. Oh, what a splendid basket full!
Why, we shall feast like kings!"

With that Hal began to unpack,--a plate full of cut cake, biscuits by
the dozen, cold chicken, delicious slices of ham, and various other
delicacies.

"We'll only have a few to-night," said Hal economically. "'Tisn't every
day that we have such a windfall. I'll put these out of the children's
sight; for there they come."

The "children" were Charlie and Kit, with barely a year between; Kit
being seven, and Charlie--her real name was Charlotte, but she was such
a tomboy that they gave her the nickname--was about eight. Hal was
ten, and Joe twelve.

"Children," said Hal, "don't come in till you've washed yourselves. Be
quiet, for Dot is asleep."

Thus admonished, Charlie did nothing worse than pour a basin of water
over Kit, who sputtered and scolded and kicked until Hal rushed out to
settle them.

"If you're not quiet, you shall not have a mouthful of supper; and
we've lots of goodies."

Kit began to wash the variegated streaks from his face. Charlie
soused her head in a pail of water, and shook it like a dog, then ran
her fingers through her hair. It was not as light or silken as that
of Florence, and was cropped close to her head. Kit's was almost as
black as a coal; and one refractory lock stood up. Joe called it his
"scalp-lock waving in the breeze."

"Now, Charlie, pump another pail of water. There comes Joe, and we'll
have supper."

Charlie eyed Joe distrustfully, and hurried into the house. Hal hung up
Granny's sun-bonnet, and placed the chairs around.

"Come, Florence," he said, opening the door softly.

"My eyes!" ejaculated Joe in amaze. "Grandmother, you're a trump."

"Joe!" exclaimed Hal reproachfully.

Joe made amends by kissing Granny in the most rapturous fashion. Then
he escorted her to the table in great state.

"Have you been good children to-day?" she asked, as they assembled
round the table.

"I've run a splinter in my toe; and, oh! my trousers are torn!"
announced Kit dolefully.

"If you ever had a whole pair of trousers at one time the world would
come to an end," declared Joe sententiously.

"Would it?" And Kit puzzled his small brain over the connection.

"And Charlie preserves a discreet silence. Charlie, my dear, I advise
you to keep out of the way of the ragmen, or you will find yourself on
the road to the nearest paper-mill."

Florence couldn't help laughing at the suggestion.

"Children!" said their grandmother.

Full of fun and frolic as they were, the little heads bowed reverently
as Granny asked her simple blessing. She would as soon have gone
without eating as to omit that.

"I really don't want any thing," she declared. "I've been tasting all
day,--a bit here and a bit there, and such loads of things!"

"Tell us all about it," begged Joe. "And who was there,--the grand
Panjandrum with a button on the top. Children's children unto the third
and fourth generation."

"O Joe! if you only wouldn't," began Granny imploringly.

"No, I won't, Granny;" and Joe made a face as long as your arm, or a
piece of string.

"Of course I didn't see 'em all, nor half; but men and women and
children and babies! And Grandmother Kinsey's ninety-five years old!"

"I hope I'll live to be that old, and have lots of people to give me a
golden wedding," said Charlie, with her mouth so full that the words
were pretty badly squeezed.

"This isn't a golden wedding," said Florence with an air of dignity:
"it's a birthday party."

"Ho!" and Joe laughed. "You'll be,--

    'Ugly, ill-natured, and wrinkled and thin,
    Worn by your troubles to bone and to skin.'"

"She's never been much else," rejoined Flossy, looking admiringly at
her own white arm.

"I'm not as old as you!" And Charlie flared up to scarlet heat.

"Oh! you needn't get so vexed. I was only thinking of the skin and
bone," said Florence in a more conciliatory manner.

"Well, I don't want to be a 'Mother Bunch.'"

"No fear of you, Charlie. You look like the people who live on some
shore,--I've forgotten the name of the place,--and, eat so many fish
that the bones work through."

Charlie felt of her elbows. They were pretty sharp, to be sure. She was
very tall of her age, and ran so much that it was quite impossible to
keep any flesh on her bones.

"Hush, children!" said grandmother. "I was going to tell you about the
party. Hal, give me a little of your salad, first."

The Kinseys had invited all their relations to a grand family
gathering. Granny told over the pleasant and comical incidents that had
come under her notice,--the mishaps in cooking, the babies that had
fallen down stairs, and various entertaining matters.

By that time supper was ended. Florence set out to take some lace that
she had been making to a neighbor; Hal washed the dishes, and Charlie
wiped them; Joe fed the chickens, and then perched himself astride the
gate-post, whistling all the tunes he could remember; Kit and Charlie
went to bed presently; and Hal and his grandmother had a good talk
until Dot woke up, strange to say quite good-natured.

"Granny," said Hal, preparing a bowl of bread and milk for his little
sister, "some day we'll all be grown, and you won't have to work so
hard."

"Six men and women! How odd it will be!" returned Granny with a smile
shining over her tired face.

"Yes. We'll keep you like a lady. You shall have a pretty house to live
in, and Dot shall wait upon you. Won't you, Dot?"

Dot shook her head sagely at Granny.

And in the gathering twilight Hal smiled, remembering Joe's conceit.
Granny looked happy in spite of her weariness. She, foolish body, was
thinking how nice it was to have them all, even to poor little Dot.




CHAPTER II.

  PLANNING IN THE TWILIGHT.


It was a rainy August day, and the children were having a glorious
time up in the old garret. Over the house-part there were two rooms;
but this above the kitchen was kept for rubbish. A big wheel, on which
Granny used to spin in her younger days, now answered for almost any
purpose, from a coach and four, to a menagerie: they could make it into
an elephant, a camel, or a hyena, by a skilful arrangement of drapery.

There were several other pieces of dilapidated furniture, old hats,
old boots, a barrel or two of papers; in fact, a lot of useless
traps and a few trophies that Joe had brought home; to say nothing
of Charlie's endless heaps of trash, for she had a wonderful faculty
of accumulation; herbs of every kind, bundles of calamus, stacks of
"cat-tails," the fuzz of which flew in every direction with the least
whiff of wind.

The "children" had been raising bedlam generally. Joe was dressed in an
old scuttle-shaped Leghorn bonnet and a gay plaid cloak, a strait kind
of skirt plaited on a yoke. Granny had offered it to Florence for a
dress, but it had been loftily declined. Kit was attired as an Indian,
his "scalp-lock" bound up with rooster feathers; and he strutted up and
down, jabbering a most uncouth dialect, though of what tribe it would
be difficult to say. Charlie appeared in a new costume about every
half-hour, and improvised caves in every corner; though it must be
confessed Joe rather extinguished her with his style. He could draw in
his lips until he looked as if he hadn't a tooth in his head, and talk
like nearly every old lady in town.

Such whoops and yells and shouts as had rung through the old garret
would have astonished delicate nerves. In one of the bedrooms Granny
was weaving rag-carpet on a rickety loom, for she did a little of every
thing to lengthen out her scanty income; but the noise of that was as a
whiff of wind in comparison.

At last they had tried nearly every kind of transformation, and were
beginning to grow tired. It was still very cloudy, and quite twilight
in their den, when Florence came up stairs, and found them huddled
around the window listening to a wonderful story that Joe made up as
he went along. Such fortunes and adventures could only belong to the
Munchausen period.

"Dear!" exclaimed Florence, "I thought the chief of the Mohawks had
declared war upon the Narragansetts, and everybody had been scalped,
you subsided so suddenly. You've made racket enough to take off the
roof of the house!"

"It's on yet," was Joe's solemn assurance.

"O Joe!" begged Charlie: "tell us another story,--something about a
sailor who was wrecked, and lived in a cave, and found bags and bags of
money!"

"That's the kind, Charlie. Flo, come on and take a seat."

"Where's Dot?"

"Here in my arms," replied Hal; "as good as a kitten; aren't you, Dot?"

Dot answered with a contented grunt.

"Oh, let's all tell what we'd like to do!" said Charlie, veering round
on a new tack. "Flo'll want to be Cinderella at the king's ball."

Florence tumbled over the pile of legs, and found a seat beside Hal.

"Well, I'll lead off," began Joe with a flourish. "First, I'm going to
be a sailor. I mean to ship with a captain bound for China; and hurra!
we'll go out with a flowing sea or some other tip-top thing! Well, I
guess we'll go to China,--this is all suppos'n, you know; and while I'm
there I'll get such lots of things!--crape-shawls and silks for you,
Flossy; and cedarwood chests to keep out moths, and fans and beautiful
boxes, and a chest of tea, for Granny. On the way home we shall be
wrecked. You'll hear the news, and think that I'm dead, sure enough."

"But how will Flo get her shawls?" asked Charlie.

"Oh, you'll hear presently! That's way in the end. I shall be wrecked
on an island where there's a fierce native chief; and first he and his
men think they'll kill me." Joe always delighted in harrowing up the
feelings of his audience. "So I offer him the elegant shawls and some
money"--

"But I thought you lost them all in the wreck!" interposed
quick-brained Charlie.

"Oh, no! There's always something floats ashore, you must remember.
Well, he concluded not to kill me, though they have a great festival
dance in honor of their idols; and I only escape by promising to be
his obedient slave. I find some others who have been cast on that
desolate shore, and been treated in the same manner. The chief beats
us, and makes us work, and treats us dreadfully. Then we mutiny, and
have a great battle, for a good many of the natives join us. In the
scrimmage the old fellow is killed; and there's a tremendous rejoicing,
I can tell you, for they all hate him. We divide his treasure, and
it's immense, and go to live in his palace. Well, no boat ever comes
along; so we build one for ourselves, and row to the nearest port and
tell them the chief is dead. They are very glad, for he was a cruel old
fellow. Then we buy a ship, and go back for the rest of our treasures.
We take a great many of the beautiful things out of the palace, and
then we start for home, double-quick. It's been a good many years; and,
when I come back, Granny is old, and walking with a cane, Florence
married to a rich gentleman, and Dot here grown into a handsome girl.
But won't I build a stunning house! There'll be a scattering out of
this old shoe, I tell you."

"Oh, won't it be splendid!" exclaimed Charlie, with a long-drawn
breath. "It's just like a story."

"Now, Hal, it's your turn."

Hal sighed softly, and squeezed Dot a little.

"I shall not go off and be a sailor"--

"Or a jolly young oysterman," said Joe, by way of assistance.

"No. What I'd like most of all"--and Hal made a long pause.

"Even if it's murder, we'll forgive you and love you," went on
tormenting Joe.

"O Joe, don't!" besought Florence. "I want to hear what Hal will
choose, for I know just what I'd like to have happen to me."

"So do I," announced Charlie confidently.

"I don't know that I can have it," said Hal slowly; "for it costs a
good deal, though I might make a small beginning. It's raising lovely
fruit and flowers, and having a great hot-house, with roses and lilies
and dear white blossoms in the middle of the winter. I should love them
so much! They always seem like little children to me, with God for
their father, and we who take care of them for a stepmother; though
stepmothers are not always good, and the poor wicked ones would be
those who did not love flowers. Why, it would be like fairy-land,--a
great long hot-house, with glass overhead, and all the air sweet with
roses and heliotrope and mignonette. And it would be so soft and still
in there, and so very, very beautiful! It seems to me as if heaven must
be full of flowers."

"Could you sell 'em if you were poor?" asked Charlie, in a low voice.

"Not the flowers in heaven! Charlie, you're a heathen."

"I didn't mean that! Don't you suppose I know about heaven!" retorted
Charlie warmly.

"Yes," admitted Joe with a laugh: "he could sell them, and make lots of
money. And there are ever so many things: why, Mr. Green paid six cents
apiece for some choice tomato-plants."

"When I'm a man, I think I'll do that. I mean to try next summer in my
garden."

"May I tell now?" asked Charlie, who was near exploding with her secret.

"Yes. Great things," said Joe.

"I'm going to run away!" And Charlie gave her head an exultant toss,
that, owing to the darkness, was lost to her audience.

Joe laughed to his utmost capacity, which was not small. The old garret
fairly rang again.

Florence uttered a horrified exclamation; and Kit said,--

"I'll go with you!"

"Girls don't run away," remarked Hal gravely.

"But I mean to, and it'll be royal fun," was the confident reply.

"Where will you go? and will you beg from door to door?" asked Joe
quizzically.

"No: I'm going out in the woods," was the undaunted rejoinder. "I mean
to find a nice cave; and I'll bring in a lot of good dry leaves and
some straw, and make a bed. Then I'll gather berries; and I know how to
catch fish, and I can make a fire and fry them. I'll have a gay time
going off to the river and rambling round, and there'll be no lessons
to plague a body to death. It will be just splendid."

"Suppose a bear comes along and eats you up?" suggested Joe.

"As if there were any bears around here!" Charlie returned with immense
disdain.

"Well, a snake, or a wild-cat!"

"I'm not afraid of snakes."

"But you'd want a little bread."

"Oh! I'd manage about that. I do mean to run away some time, just for
fun."

"You'll be glad to run back again!"

"You see, now!" was the decisive reply.

"Florentina, it is your turn now. We have had age before beauty."

Florence tossed her soft curls, and went through with a few pretty
airs.

"I shouldn't run away," she said slowly; "but I'd like to _go_, for
all that. Sometimes, as I sit by the window sewing, and see an elegant
carriage pass by, I think, what if there should be an old gentleman in
it, who had lost his wife and all his children, and that one of his
little girls looked like--like me? And if he should stop and ask me for
a drink, I'd go to the well and draw a fresh, cool bucketful"--

"From the north side--that's the coldest," interrupted Joe.

"Hush, Joe! No one laughed at you!"

"Laugh! Why, I am sober as an owl."

"Then I'd give him a drink. I wish we could have some goblets: tumblers
look so dreadfully old-fashioned. I mean to buy _one_, at least, some
time. He would ask me about myself; and I'd tell him that we were all
orphans, and had been very unfortunate, and that our grandmother was
old"--

    "'Four score and ten of us, poor old maids,--
            Four score and ten of us,
            Without a penny in our _puss_,
                    Poor old maids,'"

sang Joe pathetically, cutting short the _purse_ on account of the
rhyme.

"O Joe, you are too bad! I won't tell any more."

"Yes, do!" entreated Hal. "And so he liked you on account of the
resemblance, and wanted to adopt you."

"Exactly! Hal, how could you guess it?" returned Florence, much
mollified. "And so he would take me to a beautiful house, where there
were plenty of servants, and get me lovely clothes to wear; and there
would be lots of china and silver and elegant furniture and a piano.
I'd go to school, and study music and drawing, and never have to sew or
do any kind of work. Then I'd send you nice presents home; and, when
you were fixed up a little, you should come and see me. And maybe, Hal,
as you grew older, he would help you about getting a hot-house. I think
when I became a woman, I would take Dot to educate."

"I've heard of fairy godmothers before, but this seems to be a
godfather. Here's luck to your old covey, Florrie, drunk in imaginary
champagne."

"Joe, I wish you wouldn't use slang phrases, nor be so disrespectful."

"I'm afraid I'll have to keep clear of the palace."

"Oh, if it only could be!" sighed Hal. "I think Flo was meant for a
lady."

Florence smiled inwardly at hearing this. It was her opinion also.

"Here, Kit, are you asleep?" And Joe pulled him out of the pile by one
leg. "Wake up, and give us your heart's desire."

Kit indulged in a vigorous kick, which Joe dodged.

"It'll be splendid," began Kit, "especially the piano. I've had my
hands over my eyes, making stars; and I was thinking"--

"That's just what we want, Chief of the Mohawk Valley. Don't keep us in
suspense."

"I'm going to save up my money, like some one Hal was reading about the
other day, and buy a fiddle."

A shout of laughter greeted this announcement, it sounded so comical.

Kit rubbed his eyes in amazement, and failed to see any thing amusing.
Then he said indignantly,--

"You needn't make such a row!"

"But what will you do with a fiddle? You might tie a string to Charlie,
and take her along for a monkey; or you might both go round singing in
a squeaky voice,--

    'Two orphan boys of Switzerland.'"

"You're real mean, Joe," said Kit, with his voice full of tears.

"Kit, I'll give you the violin myself when I get rich," Florence
exclaimed in a comforting tone, her soft hand smoothing down the
refractory scalp-lock; "but I would say violin, it sounds so much
nicer. And then you'll play."

"Play!" enunciated Kit in a tone that I cannot describe, as if that
were a weak word for the anticipated performance. "I'd make her talk!
They'd sit there and listen,--a whole houseful of people it would
be, you know; and when I first came out with my fiddle,--violin.
I mean,--they would look at me as if they thought I couldn't do
much. I'd begin with a slow sound, like the wind wailing on a winter
night,--I guess I'd have it a storm, and a little lost child, for
you can make almost any thing with a violin; and the cries should
grow fainter and fainter, for she would be chilled and worn out;
and presently it should drop down into the snow, and there'd be the
softest, strangest music you ever heard. The crowd would listen and
listen, and hold their breath; and when the storm cleared away, and the
angels came down for the child, it would be so, so sad"--and there was
an ominous falter in Kit's voice, "they couldn't help crying. There'd
be an angel's song up in heaven; and in the sweetest part of it all,
I'd go quietly away, for I wouldn't want any applause."

"But you'd have it," said Hal softly, reaching out for the small
fingers that were to evoke such wonderful melody. "It almost makes me
cry myself to think of it! and the poor little girl lost in the snow,
not bigger than Dot here!"

"Children!" called Granny from the foot of the stairs, "ain't you going
to come down and have any supper? I've made a great pot full of mush."

There was a general scrambling. Hal carried Dot in his arms, for she
was fast asleep. Two or three times in the short journey he stopped to
kiss the soft face, thinking of Kit's vision.

"Oh, we've been having such a splendid time!" announced Charlie. "All
of us telling what we'd like to do; and, Granny, Joe's going to build
you an _elegant_ house!" with a great emphasis on the word, as Charlie
was not much given to style, greatly to the sorrow and chagrin of
Florence.

Granny gave a cheerful but cracked treble laugh, and asked,--

"What'll he build it of, my dear,--corn-cobs?"

"Oh, a _real_ house! He's going to make lots of money, Joe is, and get
shipwrecked."

Granny shook her head, which made the little white curls bob around
oddly enough.

"How you do mix up things, Charlie," said Joe, giving her a poke with
his elbow. "You're a perfect harum-scarum! I don't wonder you want to
live in the woods. Go look at your head: it stands out nine ways for
Sunday!"

Charlie ran her fingers through her hair, her usual manner of arranging
it.

"Granny, here's this little lamb fast asleep. She's grown to be one of
the best babies in the world;" and Hal kissed her again.

He had such a tender, girlish heart, that any thing weak or helpless
always appealed to him. Their sleek, shining Tabby had been a poor,
forlorn, broken-legged kitten when he found her; and there was no end
to the birds and chickens that he nursed through accidents.

But for a fortnight Dot had been improving, it must be confessed,
being exempt from disease and broken bones.

"Poor childie! Just lay her in the bed, Hal."

There was a huge steaming dish of mush in the middle of the table; and
the hungry children went at it in a vigorous manner. Some had milk,
and some had molasses; and they improvised a dessert by using a little
butter, sugar, and nutmeg. They spiced their meal by recounting their
imaginary adventures; but Granny was observed to wipe away a few tears
over the shipwreck.

"It was all make believe," said Joe sturdily. "Lots of people go to
sea, and don't get wrecked."

"But I don't want you to go," Granny returned in a broken tone of voice.

"Pooh!" exclaimed Joe, with immense disdain. "Don't people meet with
accidents on the land? Wasn't Steve Holder killed in the mill. And if I
was on the cars in a smash-up, I couldn't swim out of that!"

Joe took a long breath, fancying that he had established his point
beyond a cavil.

"But sailors never make fortunes," went on Granny hesitatingly.

"Captains do, though; and it's a jolly life. Besides, we couldn't all
stay in this little shanty, unless we made nests in the chimney like
the swallows; and I don't know which would tumble down first,--we or
the chimney."

Charlie laughed at the idea.

"I shall stay with you always, Granny," said Hal tenderly. "And Dot,
you know, will be growing into a big girl and be company for us. We'll
get along nicely, never fear."

Some tears dropped unwittingly into Granny's plate, and she didn't want
any more supper. It was foolish, of course. She ought to be thankful to
have them all out of the way and doing for themselves. Here she was,
over fifty, and had worked hard from girlhood. Some day she would be
worn out.

But, in spite of all their poverty and hardship, she had been very
happy with them; and theirs were by no means a forlorn-looking set of
faces. Each one had a little beauty of its own; and, though they were
far from being pattern children, she loved them dearly in spite of
their faults and roughnesses. And in their way they loved her, though
sometimes they were great torments.

And so at bed-time they all crowded round to kiss the wrinkled face,
unconsciously softened by the thought of the parting that was to come
somewhere along their lives. But no one guessed how Granny held little
Dot in her arms that night, and prayed in her quaint, fervent fashion
that she might live to see them all grown up and happy, good and
prosperous men and women, and none of them straying far from the old
home-nest.

I think God listened with watchful love. No one else would have made
crooked paths so straight.




CHAPTER III.

  A CHANCE FOR FLOSSY.


The vacation had come to an end, and next week the children were to go
to school again. Florence counted up her small hoard; for though she
did not like to sweep, or wash dishes, she was industrious in other
ways. She crocheted edgings and tidies, made lamp-mats, toilet-sets,
and collars, and had earned sixteen dollars. Granny would not have
touched a penny of it for the world.

So Florence bought herself two pretty delaine dresses for winter wear,
and begged Granny to let Miss Brown cut and fit them. Florence had a
pretty, slender figure; and she was rather vain of it. Her two dresses
had cost seven dollars, a pair of tolerably nice boots three and a
half, a plaid shawl four, and then she had indulged in the great luxury
of a pair of kid gloves.

It had come about in this wise. Mrs. Day had purchased them in New
York, but they proved too small for her daughter Julia. She was owing
Florence a dollar; so she said,--

"Now, if you have a mind to take these gloves, Florence, I'd let you
have them for seventy-five cents. I bought them very cheap: they ask
a dollar and a quarter in some stores;" and she held them up in their
most tempting light.

Florence looked at them longingly.

"They are lovely kid, and such a beautiful color! Green is all the
fashion, and you have a new green dress."

There was a pair of nice woollen gloves at the store for fifty cents;
and although they were rather clumsy, still Florence felt they would be
warmer and more useful.

"I don't know as I can spare you the dollar now," continued Mrs. Day,
giving the dainty little gloves a most aggravating stretch.

"I'd like to have them," said Florence hesitatingly.

"I suppose your grandmother won't mind? Your money is your own."

Now, Mrs. Day knew that it was wrong to tempt Florence; but the gloves
were useless to her, and she felt anxious to dispose of them.

"Grandmother said I might spend all my money for clothes," was the
rather proud reply.

"Kid gloves always look so genteel, and are so durable. You have such a
pretty hand too."

"I guess I will take them," Florence said faintly.

So Mrs. Day gave her the gloves and twenty-five cents. Florence
carried them home in secret triumph, and put them in _her_ drawer in
Granny's big bureau. She had not told about them yet; and sometimes
they were a heavier burden than you would imagine so small a pair of
gloves could possibly be.

Joe had earned a little odd change from the farmers round, and bought
himself a pair of new trousers and a new pair of boots; while Hal had
been maid-of-all-work in doors, and head gardener out of doors.

"Just look at these potatoes!" he said in triumph to Granny. "There's
a splendid binful, and it'll last all winter. And there'll be cabbage
and pumpkins and marrow-squash and Lima beans, and lots of corn for the
chickens. The garden has been a success this summer."

"And you've worked early and late," returned Granny in tender triumph.
"There isn't such another boy in the State, I'll be bound!" And she
gave him the fondest of smiles.

"But the best of all is Dot. She's actually getting fat, Granny; and
she has a dimple in her cheek. Why, she'll be almost as pretty as
Flossy!"

Granny gave the little one a kiss.

"She's as good as a kitten when she is well," was the rejoinder, in a
loving tone.

Kit and Charlie still romped like wild deers. They had made a cave in
the wood, and spent whole days there; but Charlie burned her fingers
roasting a bird, and went back to potatoes and corn, that could be put
in the ashes without so much risk.

The old plaid cloak had been made over for a school-dress, and Charlie
thought it quite grand. Kit and Hal had to do the best they could about
clothes.

"Never mind me, Granny," Hal said cheerfully; though he couldn't help
thinking of his patched Sunday jacket, which was growing short in the
sleeves for him.

So on Saturday the children scrubbed and scoured and swept, and made
the place quite shine again. Hal arranged the flowers, and then they
all drew a restful breath before the supper preparations began.

"There's Mrs. Van Wyck coming!" and Charlie flew up the lane, dashing
headlong into the house, to the imminent peril of her best dress, which
she had been allowed to put on for an hour or two.

"Mrs. Van Wyck!"

Granny brushed back her bobbing flaxen curls, washed Dot's face over
again with the nearest white cloth, which happened to be Flossy's best
handkerchief that she had been doing up for Sunday.

"Oh!" the young lady cried in dismay, and then turned to make her
prettiest courtesy. Mrs. Van Wyck was very well off indeed, and lived
in quite a pretentious cottage,--villa she called it; but, as she had a
habit of confusing her V's and W's, Joe re-christened it the Van Wyck
Willow.

"Good-afternoon, Mrs. Kenneth. How d'y do, Florence?"

Florence brought out a chair, and, with the most polite air possible,
invited her to be seated.

Mrs. Van Wyck eyed her sharply.

"'Pears to me you look quite fine," she said.

Florence wore a white dress that was pretty well outgrown, and had
been made from one of her mother's in the beginning. It had a good many
little darns here and there, and she was wearing it for the last time.
She had tied a blue ribbon in her curls, and pinned a tiny bouquet on
her bosom. She looked very much dressed, but that was pretty Flossy's
misfortune.

Mrs. Van Wyck gathered up her silk gown,--a great staring brocade in
blue and gold, that might have been her grandmother's, it looked so
ancient in style.

"I've come over on some business," she began, with an important air and
a mysterious shake of the head.

Granny sat down, and took Dot upon her lap. Kit and Charlie peered out
of their hiding-places, and Joe perched himself upon the window-sill.

"How do you ever manage with all this tribe?" And Mrs. Van Wyck gave
each of them a scowl.

"There's a houseful," returned Granny, "but we _do_ get along."

"Tough scratching, I should say."

"And poor pickings the chickens might add, if they had _such_ an old
hen," commented Joe _soto voce_. "There'd be something worse than
clucking."

Hal couldn't help laughing. Mrs. Van Wyck was so ruffled and frilled,
so full of ends of ribbon about the head and neck, that she did look
like a setting hen disturbed in the midst of her devotions.

"Them children haven't a bit of manners," declared Mrs. Van Wyck, in
sublime disregard of syntax. "Trot off, all of you but Florence: I have
something to say to your grandmother."

Joe made a somerset out of the window, and placed himself in a good
listening position; Hal went out and sat on the doorstep; and Charlie
crawled under the table.

"I don't see how you manage to get along with such a houseful. I always
did wonder at your taking 'em."

"Oh! we do pretty well," returned Granny cheerily.

"They're growing big enough to help themselves a little. Why don't you
bind Joe out to some of the farmers. Such a great fellow ought to be
doing something besides racing round and getting into mischief."

Joe made a series of such polite evolutions, that Hal ran to the gate
to have a good laugh without being heard.

"He's going to school," said Granny innocently. "They all begin on
Monday."

"Going to school?" And Mrs. Van Wyck elevated her voice as if she
thought them all deaf. "Why, _I_ never went to school a day after I
was twelve year old, and my father was a well-to-do farmer. There's no
sense in children having so much book-larnin'. It makes 'em proud and
stuck up, and good for nothing.

"Oh! where's that dog? Put him out! Put him out! I can't bear dogs. And
the poorer people are, the more dogs they'll keep."

Joe, the incorrigible, was quite a ventriloquist for his years and
size. He had just made a tremendous ki-yi, after the fashion of the
most snarling terrier dog, and a kind of scrabbling as if the animal
might be under Mrs. Van Wyck's feet.

"Oh, my! Take the nasty brute away. Maybe he's full of fleas or has the
mange"--

"It is only Joe," explained Florence, as soon as she could put in a
word.

"I'd Joe him, if I had him here! You're a ruining of these children
as I've always said; and you may thank your stars if Joe escapes the
gallows. I've positively come on an errand of mercy."

"Not for Joe," declared the owner of the name with a sagacious shake of
the head, while Mrs. Van Wyck paused for breath.

"Yes. Not one of them'll be worth a penny if they go on this way. Now,
here's Florence, growing up in idleness"--

"She keeps pretty busy," said Granny stoutly.

"Busy! Why, you've nothing for her to do. When I was a little girl,
my mother made me sit beside her, and sew patchwork; and before I was
twelve year old I had finished four quilts. And she taught me the
hymn,--

    'Satan finds some mischief still
    For idle hands to do.'"

"They always learn a verse for Sunday," said Granny deprecatingly.

"But you let 'em run wild. I've seen it all along. I was a talkin' to
Miss Porter about it; and says I, 'Now, I'll do one good deed;' and the
Lord knows it's needed."

Everybody listened. Joe from the outside made a pretence of picking his
ears open with the handle of a broken saucepan.

"Florence is getting to be a big girl, and it's high time she learned
something. As I was a sayin' to Miss Porter, 'I want just such a girl;
and it will be the making of Florence Kenneth to fall into good hands.'"

"But you don't mean"--and Granny paused, aghast.

"I mean to make the child useful in her day and generation. It'll be a
good place for her."

Mrs. Van Wyck nodded her head until the bows and streamers flew in
every direction.

Granny opened her eyes wide in surprise.

"What do you want of her, Mrs. Van Wyck?"

Charlie peeped out from between the legs of the table to hear, her
mouth wide open lest she should lose a word.

"Want of her?" screamed the visitor. "Why, to work, of course! I don't
keep idle people about me, I can tell you. I want a girl to make beds,
and sweep, and dust, and wash dishes, and scour knives, and scrub, and
run errands, and do little chores around. It'll be the making of her;
and I'm willing to do the fair thing."

Granny was struck dumb with amazement. Florence could hardly credit her
ears. Hal sprang up indignantly, and Joe doubled his fists as if he
were about to demolish the old house along with Mrs. Van Wyck.

"Yes. I've considered the subject well. I always sleep on a thing
before I tell a single soul. And, if Florence is a good smart girl,
I'll give her seventy-five cents a week and her board. For six dollars
a month I could get a grown girl, who could do all my work."

Granny looked at Florence in helpless consternation; and Florence
looked at Granny with overwhelming disdain.

"Well! why don't you answer?" said the visitor. She had supposed they
would jump at the offer.

"I don't expect to go out doing housework, Mrs. Van Wyck," said
Florence loftily.

"Hoity-toity! how grand we are! I've never been above doing my own
housework; and I could buy and sell the whole bunch of you, a dozen
times over."

"Florence wouldn't like it, I'm afraid," said Granny mildly.

"A fine way to bring up children, truly! You may see the day when
you'll be thankful to have a home as good as my kitchen."

There was a bright red spot in Florence's cheeks.

"Mrs. Van Wyck," Florence began in a quiet, ladylike manner, although
she felt inclined to be angry, "grandmother is right: I should not like
it. I have no taste for housework; and I can earn more than you offer
to give by doing embroidering and crocheting. Through the six weeks of
vacation I earned sixteen dollars."

"Fancy work! What is the world coming to? Children brought up to
despise good, honest employment."

"No, I don't despise it," amended Florence; "but I do not like it, and
I think it a hard way of earning a little money. If I can do better, of
course I have the right."

Granny was amazed at the spirit Florence displayed.

"You'll all be paupers on the town yet, mark my words. Flaunting round
in white dresses and ribbons, and"--

She glanced around for some further vanity to include in her inventory.

"I am sure we are obliged to you," said Granny mildly. "But Florence"--

"Yes, Florence is too good to work. There's no sense in such high-flown
names. I'd have called her plain Peggy. She must curl her hair, and
dress herself--oh my lady, if I had you, you'd see!"

And Mrs. Van Wyck arose in great wrath, her streamers flying wildly.

"You'll remember this when you come to beggary,--refusing a good home
and plenty. Your grandmother is a foolish old woman; and you're a lazy,
shiftless, impudent set! I wash my hands of the whole lot."

"I'm sorry," began Granny.

"There's no use talking. I wouldn't have the girl on any account. I can
get her betters any day. You'll come to no good end, I can tell you!"

With that, Mrs. Van Wyck flounced out; but at the first turn tumbled
over Kit, who had rolled himself in a ball on the doorstep.

Down she went, and Joe set up a shout. Hal couldn't help laughing, and
Charlie ran to pull out Kit.

"You good-for-nothing, beggarly wretches!"

While she was sputtering and scrambling about, Joe began a hideous
caterwauling.

"Drat that cat! Pity I hadn't broken his neck! And my second-best
bonnet!"

Kit hid himself in his grandmother's gown, sorely frightened, and a
little bruised.

[Illustration]

"It's the last time I'll ever step inside of this place. Such an awful
set of children I never did see!"

To use Joe's expressive phraseology, she "slathered" right and left,
her shrill voice adding to the confusion.

Granny watched the retreating figure with the utmost bewilderment.

"The mean old thing!" began Florence, half crying. "Why, I couldn't
stand her temper and her scolding, and to be a common kitchen-girl!"

"She meant well, dear. In my day girls thought it no disgrace to live
out."

"Wasn't it gay and festive, Granny? I believe I've burst every button,
laughing; and you'll have to put a mustard plaster on my side to draw
out the soreness. And oh, Kit, what a horrible yell you gave! How could
you be the ruin of that second best bonnet?"

"'Twasn't me," said Kit, rubbing his eyes. "But she most squeezed the
breath out of me."

"Flossy, here is your fortune, and your coach-and-four. My dear child,
I hope you will not be too much elated, for you must remember"--

    "'Satan finds some mischief still,' &c."

Joe whisked around, holding Dot's apron at full length in imitation of
a streamer.

"I wonder if she really thought I would go. Scouring and scrubbing, and
washing dishes. I'd do with one meal a day first."

"She is a coarse, ill-bred woman," said Hal; "not a bit like Mrs.
Kinsey."

"We will not be separated just yet," exclaimed Granny, with a sigh for
the time that must come.

"And I don't mean to live out," was the emphatic rejoinder of Florence.

"My dear, you mustn't be too proud," cautioned Granny.

"It isn't altogether pride. Why should I wash dishes when I can do
something better?"

"That's the grit, Flossy. I'll bet on you!"

"O Joe! don't. I wish you would learn to be refined. Now, you see all
Mrs. Van Wyck's money cannot make her a lady."

Joe put on a solemn face; but the next moment declared that he must
keep a sharp look out, or some old sea-captain would snap him up, and
set him to scrubbing decks, and holystoning the cable.

And yet they felt quite grave when the fun was over. Their merry
vacation had ended, and there was no telling what a year might bring
forth.

"I think I should like most of all to be a school-teacher," Florence
declared.

"You'll have to wait till you're forty. Who do you s'pose is going to
mind a little gal?"

"Not you; for you never mind anybody," was the severe reply.

Florence felt quite grand on the following day, attired in her new
green delaine, and her "lovely" gloves. Granny was so busy with the
others that she never noticed them; and Florence quieted her conscience
by thinking that the money was her own, and she could do what she liked
with it. She kept self generally in view, it must be admitted.

Mrs. Van Wyck's overture was destined to make quite a stir. She
repeated it to her neighbors in such glowing terms that it really
looked like an offer to adopt Florence; and she declaimed bitterly
against the pride and the ingratitude of the whole Kenneth family.

Florence held her head loftily, and took great pains to contradict the
story; and Joe became the stoutest of champions, though he teased her
at home.

"But it's too bad to have her tell everybody such falsehoods; and,
after all, three dollars a month would be very low wages. Why, Mary
Connor gets a dollar a week for tending Mrs. Hall's baby; and she never
scrubs or scours a thing!"

Truth to tell, Florence felt a good deal insulted.

But the whole five went to school pretty regularly. Hal was very
studious, and Florence also, in spite of her small vanities; but Joe
was incorrigible everywhere.

Florence gained courage one day to ask Mr. Fielder about the prospect
of becoming a teacher. She was ambitious, and desired some kind of a
position that would be ladylike.

"It's pretty hard work at first," he answered with a smile.

"But how long would I have to study?"

"Let me see--you are fourteen now: in three years you might be able
to take a situation. Public schools in the city are always better for
girls, for they can begin earlier in the primary department. A country
school, you see, may have some troublesome urchins in it."

Florence sighed. Three years would be a long while to wait.

"I will give you all the assistance in my power," Mr. Fielder said
kindly. "And I may be able to hear of something that will be to your
advantage."

Florence thanked him, but somehow the prospect did not look brilliant.

Then she thought of dressmaking. Miss Brown had a pretty cottage,
furnished very nicely indeed; and it was her boast that she did it all
with her own hands. She kept a servant, and dressed quite elegantly;
and all the ladies round went to her in their carriages. Then she had
such beautiful pieces for cushions and wonderful bedquilts,--"Though
I never take but the least snip of a dress," she would say with a
virtuous sniff. "I have heard of people who kept a yard or two, but to
my mind it's downright stealing."

There was a drawback to this picture of serene contentment. Miss Brown
was an old maid, and Florence hoped devoutly that would never be her
fate. And then Miss Skinner, who went out by the day, was single also.
Was it the natural result of the employment?




CHAPTER IV.

  THE IDENTICAL SHOE.


They did pretty well through the fall. Joe came across odd jobs,
gathered stores of hickory-nuts and chestnuts; and now and then of an
evening they had what he called a rousing good boil; and certainly
chestnuts never tasted better. They sat round the fire, and told
riddles or stories, and laughed as only healthy, happy children can.
What if they were poor, and had to live in a little tumble-down shanty!

Sometimes Joe would surprise them with a somerset in the middle of the
floor, or a good stand on his head in one corner.

"Joe," Granny would say solemnly, "I once knowed a man who fell that
way on his head off a load of hay, and broke his back."

"Granny dear, 'knowed' is bad grammar. When you go to see Florence in
her palace, you must say knew, to rhyme with blew. But your old man's
back must have grown cranky with rheumatism, while mine is limber as an
eel."

"He wasn't old, Joe. And in my day they never learned grammar."

"Oh, tell us about the good old times!" and Hal's head was laid in
Granny's lap.

The children were never tired of hearing these tales. Days when
Granny was young were like enchantment. She remembered some real
witch stories, that she was sure were true; and weddings, quiltings,
husking-bees, and apple-parings were full of interest. How they went
out sleigh-riding, and had a dance; and how once Granny and her lover,
sitting on the back seat, were jolted out, seat and all, while the
horses went skimming along at a pace equal to Tam O'Shanter's. And how
they had to go to a neighboring cottage, and stay ever so long before
they were missed.

"There'll never be such times again," Joe would declare solemnly.

Florence would breath a little sigh, and wonder if she could ever
attain to beaux and merriment, and if any one would ever quarrel about
dancing with her. How happy Granny must have been!

Dot had a dreadful cold, and Granny an attack of rheumatism; but they
both recovered before Christmas. Every one counted so much on this
holiday. All were making mysterious preparations. Joe and Hal and
Florence had their heads together; and then it was Granny and Florence,
or Granny and Hal.

"I don't dare to stir out," said Joe lugubriously, "lest you may say
something that I shall not hear."

Hal killed three fine young geese. Two were disposed of for a dollar
apiece, and the third he brought to the kitchen in triumph.

"There's our Christmas dinner, and a beauty too!" he announced.

Hal had sold turkeys and chickens enough to buy himself a good warm
winter coat.

Granny had a little extra luck. In fact, it was rather a prosperous
winter with them; and there was nothing like starvation, in spite of
Mrs. Van Wyck's prediction.

They all coaxed Granny to make doughnuts. Joe dropped them in the
kettle, and Hal took them out with the skimmer. How good they did smell!

Kit and Charlie tumbled about on the floor, and were under everybody's
feet; while Dot sat in her high chair, looking wondrous wise.

"How'll we get the stockings filled?" propounded Joe, when the
supper-table had been cleared away.

They all glanced at each other in consternation.

"But where'll you hang 'em?" asked Kit after a moment or two of
profound study.

"Some on the andirons, some on the door-knob, some on the kettle-spout,
and the rest up chimney."

"I say, can't we have two?" was Charlie's anxious question.

"Lucky if you get one full. What a host of youngsters! O Granny! did
you know that last summer I discovered that you were the old woman who
lived in a shoe?"

"O Joe! don't;" and Hal raised his soft eyes reproachfully.

Granny laughed, not understanding Hal's anxiety.

"Because I had so many children?"

"Exactly; but I think you are better tempered than your namesake."

Granny's eyes twinkled at this compliment.

"It was an awful hot day, and Dot was cross enough to kill a cat with
nine lives."

"But she's a little darling now," said Hal, kissing her. "I think the
sand-man has been around;" and he smiled into the little face with its
soft drooping eyes.

"Yes, she ought to be in bed, and Kit and Charlie. Come, children."

"I want to see what's going to be put in my stocking," whined Charlie
in a very sleepy tone.

"No, you can't. March off, you small snipes, or you will find a whip
there to-morrow morning."

That was Joe's peremptory order.

They had a doughnut apiece, and then went reluctantly. Charlie was very
sure that she was wider awake than ever before in her life, and could
not get asleep if she tried all night. Kit didn't believe that morning
would ever come. Hal put on Dot's nightgown, and heard her say, "Now I
lay me down to sleep;" while Joe picked up the cat, and irreverently
whispered,--

    "Now I lay me down to sleep,
    All curled up in a little heap.

    If I should wake before 'tis day,
    What do you s'pose the doctor'd say?"

"O Joe!" remonstrated Granny.

"That's Tabby's prayers. Tabby is a high principled, moral, and
intellectual cat. Now go to sleep, and dream of a mouse."

Tabby winked her eyes solemnly, as if she understood every word; and
it's my firm belief that she did.

Then Granny, Florence, Joe, and Hal sat in profound thought until the
old high clock in the corner struck nine.

"Well," said Joe, "what are we waiting for?"

Hal laughed and answered,--

"For some one to go to bed."

"What is to be done about it?"

Florence looked wise, and said presently,--

"We'll all have to go in the other room except the one who is to put
something in the stockings."

"That's it. Who will begin?"

"Not I," rejoined Joe. "I don't want to be poked down into the toe."

"And I can't have my gifts crushed," declared Florence.

"Hal, you begin."

Hal was very cheerful and obliging. Granny lighted another candle, and
the three retired. He disposed of his gifts, and then called Joe.

Joe made a great scrambling around. One would think he had Santa Claus
himself, and was squeezing him into the small stocking, sleigh, ponies,
and all.

"Now, Granny, it's your turn."

Granny fumbled about a long while, until the children grew impatient.
Afterward Florence found herself sorely straitened for room; but she
had a bright brain, and what she could not put inside she did up
in papers and pinned to the outside, giving the stockings a rather
grotesque appearance, it must be confessed. There they hung in a row,
swelled to dropsical proportions, and looking not unlike stumpy little
Dutchmen who had been beheaded at the knees.

"Now, Granny, you must go to bed," said Joe with an air of importance.
"And you must promise to lie there until you are called to-morrow
morning,--honor bright!"

Granny smiled, and bobbed her flaxen curls.

"Now," exclaimed Florence, bolting the middle door so they would be
sure of no interruption.

Joe went out to the wood-shed, and dragged in a huge shoe. The toe was
painted red, and around the top a strip of bright yellow, ending with
an immense buckle cut out of wood.

"Oh, isn't it splendid!" exclaimed Florence, holding her breath.

"That was Hal's idea, and it's too funny for any thing. Granny could
crawl into it head first. If we haven't worked and conjured to keep Kit
and Charlie out of the secret, then no one ever had a bit of trouble
in this world."

Joe laughed until he held his sides. It was a sort of safety
escape-valve with him.

"H-u-s-h!" whispered Hal. "Now, Flossy."

Florence brought a large bundle out of the closet. There were some
suppressed titters, and "O's," and "Isn't it jolly?"

"Now you must tie your garters round the bedpost, put the toe of your
shoes toward the door, and go to bed backward. That'll make every thing
come out just right," declared Joe.

"Oh, dear! I wish it was morning!" said Hal. "I want to see the fun."

"So don't this child. I must put in some tall snoring between this and
daylight."

They said good-night softly to each other, and went off to bed. Joe was
so full of mischief, that he kept digging his elbows into Hal's ribs,
and rolling himself in the bedclothes, until it was a relief to have
him commence the promised snoring.

With the first gray streak of dawn there was a stir.

"Merry Christmas!" sang out Joe with a shout that might have been heard
a mile. "Hal and Kit"--

"Can't you let a body sleep in peace?" asked Kit in an injured tone,
the sound coming from vasty deeps of bedclothes.

Joe declared they always had to fish him out of bed, and that buckwheat
cakes was the best bait that could be used.

"Why, it's Christmas. Hurrah! We're going to have a jolly time. What do
you suppose is in your stocking?"

That roused Kit. He came out of bed on his head, and commenced putting
his foot through his jacket sleeve.

"I can't find my stockings! Who's got 'em?"

"The fellow who gets up first always takes the best clothes," said Joe
solemnly.

With that he made a dive into his. It was the funniest thing in the
world to see Joe dress. His clothes always seemed joined together in
some curious fashion; for he flung his arms and legs into them at one
bound.

"Oh, dear! Don't look in my stocking, Joe. You might wait. I know
you've hidden away my shoe on purpose."

With this Kit sat in the middle of the floor like a heap of rains, and
began to cry.

Hal came to the rescue, and helped his little brother dress. But Joe
was down long before them. He gave a whoop at the door.

"Merry Christmas!" exclaimed Florence with a laugh, glad to think she
had distanced him.

"Merry Christmas! The top o' the mornin' to you, Granny! Long life and
plenty of 'praties and pint.' Santa Claus has been here. My eyes!"

Hal and Kit came tumbling along; but the younger stood at the door in
amaze, his mouth wide open.

"Hush for your life!"

But Kit had to make a tour regardless of his own stocking, while Joe
brandished the tongs above his head as if to enforce silence.

Hal began to kindle the fire. Charlie crept out in her nightgown, with
an old shawl about her, and stood transfixed with astonishment.

"Oh, my! Isn't that jolly? Doesn't Granny know a bit?"

"Not a word."

"Mrs. McFinnegan," said Joe through the chink of the door, "I have to
announce that the highly esteemed and venerable Mr. Santa Claus, a
great traveller and a remarkably generous man, has made a call upon you
during the night. As he feared to disturb your slumbers, he left a ball
of cord, a paper of pins, and a good warm night-cap."

Florence was laughing so that she could hardly use buttons or hooks.
Dot gave a neglected whine from the cradle.

"Is Granny ready?" Hal asked as she came out.

"She's just putting on her cap."

Hal went in for a Christmas kiss. Granny held him to her heart in a
fond embrace, and wished the best of every thing over him.

"Merry Christmas to you all!" she said as Hal escorted her out to the
middle of the room.

Joe went over on his head, and then perched himself on the back of a
chair. The rest all looked at Granny.

"Is this really for me?" she asked in surprise, though the great
placard stared her in the face.

The children set up a shout. Kit and Charlie paused, open-mouthed, in
the act of demolishing something.

"Why, I never"--

"Tumble it out," said Joe.

"This great shoe full"--

Florence handed the first package to Granny. She opened it in amaze, as
if she really could not decide whether it belonged to her or not.

There was a paper pinned on it, "A Merry Christmas from Mrs. Kinsey."

A nice dark calico dress-pattern, at which Granny was so overcome that
she dropped into the nearest chair.

Next a pair of gloves from Joe; a pretty, warm hood from Mrs. Howard,
the clergyman's wife; a bowl of elegant cranberry sauce from another
neighbor; a crocheted collar from Florence, and then with a big tug--

"Oh!" exclaimed Granny, "is it a comfortable, or what?"

A good thick plaid shawl. Just bright enough to be handsome and not
too gay, and as soft as the back of a lamb.

"Where did it come from?"

Granny's voice trembled in her excitement.

"From all of us," said Florence. "I mean, Joe and Hal and me. We've
been saving our money this ever so long, and Mrs. Kinsey bought it for
us. O Granny!"--

But Granny had her arms around them, and was crying over heads golden
and brown and black; and Hal, little chicken-heart, was sobbing and
smiling together. Joe picked a big tear or two out of his eye, and
began with some nonsense.

"And to keep it a secret all this time! and to make this great shoe!
There never was such a Christmas before. Oh, children, I'm happier than
a queen!"

"What makes you cry then, Granny?" asked Charlie.
"But oh! wasn't it funny? And if it only had runners
it would make a sleigh. Look at the red toe."

They kissed dozens of times, and inspected each other's gifts. Florence
had made each of the boys two dainty little neckties, having begged
the silk from Miss Brown. Charlie and Kit had a pair of new mittens,
Joe and Hal a new shirt with a real plaited bosom, and a host of small
articles devised by love, with a scarce purse. But I doubt if there was
a happier household in richer homes.

It was a long while before they had tried every thing,

[Illustration]

tasted of all their "goodies," and expressed sufficient delight and
surprise. Dot was taken up and dressed, and Kit found that she fitted
into the shoe exact. Her tiny stocking was not empty. They all laughed
and talked; and it was nine o'clock before their simple breakfast was
ready.

Joe had to take a turn out to see some of the boys; Florence made the
beds, and put the room in order; and Hal kept a roaring fire to warm
it up, so that they might have a parlor. Kit and Charlie were deeply
interested in the shoe; and Granny had to break out every now and then
in surprise and thankfulness.

"A shawl and hood and gloves and a dress! Why, I never had so many
things at once, I believe; and how hard you must all have worked! I
don't see how you could save so much money!"

"It's better than living with Mrs. Van Wyck," returned Florence with
pardonable pride. "Embroidering is real pretty work, and it pays well.
Mrs. Howard has asked me to do some for a friend of hers."

"You're a wonder, Florence, to be sure. I can't see how you do 'em all
so nice. But my fingers are old and clumsy."

"They know how to make pies and doughnuts," said Kit, as if that was
the main thing, after all.

They went to work at the dinner. It was to be a grand feast. Joe kept
the fire brisk; while Hal waited upon Granny, and remembered the
ingredients that went to make "tip-top" dressing.

"It is a pity you were not a Frenchman," said Florence. "You would
make such a handy cook."

Hal laughed, his cheeks as red as roses.

"I couldn't keep house without him," appended Granny.

There was a savory smell of roasting goose, the flavor of thyme and
onions, which the children loved dearly. Charlie and Kit went out to
have a good run, and came back hungry as bears, they declared. Joe went
off to see some of the boys, and compare gifts. Though more than one
new sled or nice warm overcoat gave his heart a little twinge, he was
too gay and happy to feel sad very long; and, when he had a royal ride
down hill on the bright sleds that flashed along like reindeers, he
returned very well content.

Florence sighed a little as she arranged the table. Three kinds of
dishes, and some of them showing their age considerably. If they were
all white it wouldn't be so bad. She did so love beauty!

But when the goose, browned in the most delicious manner, graced the
middle dish, the golden squash and snowy mound of potatoes, and the
deep wine color of the cranberries lent their contrast, it was quite
a picture, after all. And when the host of eager faces had clustered
round it, one would hardly have noticed any lack. They were all in the
gayest possible mood.

Hal did the carving. The goose was young and tender, and he disappeared
with marvellous celerity.

Wings, drumsticks, great juicy slices with crisp skin, dressing in
abundance; and how they did eat! For a second helping they had to
demolish the rack; and Charlie wasn't sure but picking bones was the
most fun of all.

"Hal, you had better go into the poultry business," said Joe, stopping
in the midst of a spoonful of cranberry.

"I've been thinking of it," was the reply.

"I should think he was in it," said Charlie slyly.

Joe laughed.

"Good for you, Charlie. They must feed you on knives at your house,
you're so sharp. But I have heard of people being too smart to live
long, so take warning."

Charlie gave her head a toss.

"Why wouldn't it be good?" pursued Joe. "People do make money by it;
and I suppose, before very long, we must begin to think about money."

"Don't to-day" said Granny.

"No, we will not worry ourselves," rejoined Hal.

One after another drew long breaths, as if their appetites were
diminishing. Dot sat back in her high chair, her hands and face showing
signs of the vigorous contest, but wonderfully content.

"Now the pie!" exclaimed Joe.

Florence gathered up the bones and the plates, giving Tabby, who sat in
the corner washing her face, a nice feast. Then came on the Christmas
pie, which was pronounced as great a success as the goose.

"Oh, dear!" sighed Joe. "One unfortunate thing about eating is, that it
takes away your appetite."

"It is high time!" added Florence.

They wouldn't allow Granny to wash a dish, but made her sit in state
while they brought about order and cleanliness once more. A laughable
time they had; for Joe wiped some dishes, and Charlie scoured one knife.

Afterward they had a game at blind-man's-buff. Such scampering and such
screams would have half frightened any passer-by. They coaxed Granny to
get up and join; and at last, to please Hal, she consented.

If Joe fancied he could catch her easily, he was much mistaken. She had
played blind-man's-buff too many times in her young days. Such turning
and doubling and slipping away was fine to see; and Charlie laughed so,
that Joe, much chagrined, took her prisoner instead.

"Granny, you beat every thing!" he said. "Now, Charlie."

Charlie made a dive at the cupboard, and then started for the window,
spinning round in such a fashion that they all had to run; but even she
was not fleet enough.

After that, Kit and Florence essayed; and Joe, manoeuvring in their
behalf, fell into the trap himself, at which they all set up a shout.

"I'm bound to have Granny this time," he declared.

Sure enough, though he confessed afterwards that he peeped a little;
but Granny was tired with so much running: and, as the short afternoon
drew to a close, they gathered round the fire, and cracked nuts,
washing them down with apples, as they had no cider.

"It's been a splendid Christmas!" said Charlie, with such a yawn that
she nearly made the top of her head an island.

"I wonder if we'll all be here next year?" said Joe, rather more
solemnly than his wont.

"I hope so," responded Granny, glancing over the clustering faces. Dot
sat on Hal's knee, looking bright as a new penny. She, too, had enjoyed
herself amazingly.

But presently the spirit of fun seemed to die out, and they began to
sing some hymns and carols. The tears came into Granny's eyes, as the
sweet, untrained voices blended so musically. Ah, if they could always
stay children! Foolish wish; and yet Granny would have toiled for them
to her latest breath.

"Here's long life and happiness!" exclaimed Joe, with a flourish of the
old cocoanut dipper. "A merry Christmas next year, and may we all be
there to see!"

Ah, Joe, it will be many a Christmas before you are all there again.




CHAPTER V.

  GOOD LUCK FOR JOE.


"Hooray!" said Joe, swinging the molasses jug over his head as if it
had been a feather, or the stars and stripes on Fourth of July morning.

"O Joe!"

"Flossy, my darling, you are a poet sure; only poetry, like an
alligator, must have feet, or it will lose its reputation. Here's your
'lasses, Granny; and what do you think? Something has actually happened
to me! Oh, my! do guess quick!"

"You've been taken with the 'lirium"--and there Charlie paused, having
been wrecked on a big word.

"Delirium tremen_jous_. Remember to say it right hereafter, Charlie."

Charlie looked very uncertain.

"Maybe it's the small-pox," said Kit, glancing up in amazement.

"Good for you!" and Joe applauded with two rather blue thumb-nails.
"But it's a fact. Guess, Granny. I'm on the high road to fortune.
Hooray!"

With that, Joe executed his usual double-shuffle, and a revolution on
his axis hardly laid down in the planetary system. He would have said
that it was because he was not a heavenly body.

"O Joe, if you were like any other boy!"

"Jim Fisher, for instance,--red-headed, squint-eyed, and freckled."

"He can't help it," said Hal mildly. "He is real nice too."

"You're not going"--began Granny with a gasp.

"Yes, I'm going"--was the solemn rejoinder.

"Not to sea!" and there came a quick blur in Hal's eyes.

"Oh, bother, no! You're all splendid at guessing, and ought to have
a prize leather medal. It's in Mr. Terry's store; and I shall have a
dollar and a half a week! Good by, Mr. Fielder. Adieu, beloved grammar;
and farewell, most fragrant extract of cube-root, as well as birch-oil.
O Granny! I'm happy as a big sunflower. On the high road to fame and
fortune,--think of it!"

"Is it really true?" asked Florence.

"Then, I won't need to go for any thing," appended Charlie.

"No; but you'll have to draw water, and split kindlings, and hunt up
Mrs. Green's cows."

"In Mr. Terry's store! What wonderful luck, Joe!"

Granny's delight was overwhelming. All along she had experienced a sad
misgiving, lest Joe should take a fancy to the sea in real earnest.

"Yes. It's just splendid. Steve Anthony's going to the city to learn
a trade. He had a letter from his uncle to-day, saying that he might
start right away. I thought a minute: then said I, 'Steve, who's coming
here?' 'I don't know,' said he. 'Mr. Terry'll have to look round.' 'I'm
your boy,' said I, 'and no mistake.' And with that I rushed in to Mr.
Terry, and asked him. He gave me some columns of figures to add up,
and questioned me a little, and finally told me that I might come on
Monday, and we'd try for a week."

"There's Joe's fortune," said Hal, "and a good one too. You will not
need to go to sea."

There was an odd and knowing twinkle in Joe's merry hazel eye, which
showed to an observing person that he was not quite sound on the
question.

"Tate Dotty;" and two little hands were outstretched.

"O Dot! you're a fraud, and more trouble to me than all my money."

With that, Joe sat her up on his shoulder, and she laughed gleefully.

Granny lighted a candle, and began to prepare for supper. While Charlie
set the table, Granny brought out the griddle, and commenced frying
some Indian cakes in a most tempting manner. Joe dropped on an old
stool, and delighted Dot with a vigorous ride to Banbury Cross.

Kit stood beside him, inhaling the fragrance of the cakes, and
wondering at the dexterity with which Granny turned them on a slender
knife.

"I don't see how you do it. Suppose you should let 'em fall?"

"Ho!" said Charlie, with a sniff of disdain. "Women always know how."

"But they can't come up to the miners," suggested Joe. "They keep house
for themselves; and their flapjacks are turned,--as big as Granny's
griddle here."

"One cake?"

"Yes. That's where the art comes in."

"They must take a shovel," said Charlie.

"No, nor a knife, nor any thing."

With that Joe shook his head mysteriously.

"With their fingers," announced Kit triumphantly.

"My mother used to bake them in a frying-pan," said Granny. "Then she'd
twirl it round and round, and suddenly throw the cake over."

"There!"

Kit gave a nod as much as to say, "Beat that if you can."

"That isn't a circumstance," was Joe's solemn comment.

"But how then?" asked Charlie, who was wound up to a pitch of
curiosity.

"Why, _they_ bake them in a pan too, and twirl it round and round, and
then throw it up and run out of doors. The cake goes up chimney, and
comes down on the raw side, all right, you see, and drops into the pan
before you can count six black beans."

"Oh, I don't believe it!" declared Charlie. "Do you, Granny?"

"They'd have to be pretty quick," was the response.

"You see, a woman never could do it, Charlie," Joe continued in a
tormenting manner.

"But, Charlie, a miner's cabin is not very high; and the chimney is
just a great hole in the roof," explained Hal.

"'Tory, 'tory," said Dot, who was not interested in the culinary art.

"O Dotty! you'll have a piece worn off the end of my tongue, some day.
It's high time you were storing your mind with useful facts; so, if you
please, we will have a little English history."

"What nonsense, Joe! As if she could understand;" and Florence looked
up from her pretty worsted crocheting.

"To be sure she can. Dot comes of a smart family. Now, <DW40>;" and
with that he perched her up on his knee.

Charlie and Kit began to listen.

    "'When good King Arthur ruled the land,
        He was a goodly king:
     He stole three pecks of barley-meal
      To make a bag pudding.'"

"I don't believe it," burst out Charlie. "I was reading about King
Arthur"--

"And he was a splendid cook. Hear his experience,--

    'A bag pudding the king did make,
      And stuffed it well with plums;
    And in it put great lumps of fat,
      As big as my two thumbs.'"

Dot thought the laugh came in here, and threw back her head, showing
her little white teeth.

"It really wasn't King Arthur," persisted Charlie.

"It is a fact handed down to posterity. No wonder England became great
under so wise and economical a rule; for listen--

    'The king and queen did eat thereof,
      And noblemen beside;
    And what they could not eat that night,
      The queen next morning fried,'--

as we do sometimes. Isn't it wonderful?"

"Hunnerful," ejaculated Dot, wide-eyed.

"I hope you'll take a lesson, and"--

"Come to supper," said Granny.

Irrepressible Charlie giggled at the ending.

They did not need a second invitation, but clustered around eagerly.

"I'm afraid there won't be any left to fry up in the morning," said Joe
solemnly.

After the youngsters were off to bed that evening, Joe began to talk
about his good fortune again.

"And a dollar and a half a week, regularly, is a good deal," he said.
"Why, I can get a spick and span new suit of clothes for twelve
dollars,--two months, that would be; and made at a tailor's too."

"The two months?" asked Florence.

"Oh! you know what I mean."

"You will get into worse habits than ever," she said with a wise
elder-sister air.

"I don't ever expect to be a grand gentleman."

"But you _might_ be a little careful."

"Flo acts as if she thought we were to have a great fortune left us by
and by, and wouldn't be polished enough to live in state."

"The only fortune we shall ever have will come from five-finger land,"
laughed Hal good-naturedly.

"And I'm going to make a beginning. I do think it was a streak of luck.
I am old enough to do something for myself."

"I wish I could find such a chance," said Hal, with a soft sigh.

"Your turn will come presently," Granny answered, smiling tenderly.

Joe went on with his air-castles. The sum of money looked so large in
his eyes. He bought out half of Mr. Terry's store, and they were to
live like princes,--all on a dollar and a half a week.

Granny smiled, and felt proud enough of him. If he would only keep to
business, and not go off to sea.

So on Friday Joe piled up his books, and turned a somerset over them,
and took a farewell race with the boys. They were all sorry enough to
lose him. Mr. Fielder wished him good luck.

"You will find that work is not play," he said by way of caution.

Early Monday morning Joe presented himself bright as a new button.
He had insisted upon wearing his best suit,--didn't he mean to have
another soon? for the school clothes were all patches. He had given his
hair a Sunday combing, which meant that he used a comb instead of his
fingers. Mr. Terry was much pleased with his promptness.

A regular country store, with groceries on one side and dry goods on
the other, a little sashed cubby for a post-office, and a corner for
garden and farm implements. There was no liquor kept on the premises;
for the mild ginger and root beer sold in summer could hardly be placed
in that category.

Joe was pretty quick, and by noon had mastered many of the intricacies.
Old Mr. Terry was in the store part of the time,--"father" as everybody
called him. He was growing rather childish and careless, so his son
instructed Joe to keep a little watch over him. Then he showed him how
to harness the horse, and drove off with some bulky groceries that he
was to take home.

"All things work together for good, sonny," said Father Terry with a
sleepy nod, as he sat down by the stove.

"What things?"

"All things," with a sagacious shake of the head.

This was Father Terry's favorite quotation, and he used it in season
and out of season.

The door opened, and Mrs. Van Wyck entered. She gave Joe a sharp look.

"So _you're_ here?" with a kind of indignant sniff.

"Yes. What will you have?"

There was a twinkle in Joe's eye, and an odd little pucker to his lips,
as if he were remembering something.

"You needn't be so impudent."

"I?" and Joe flushed in surprise.

"Yes. You're a saucy lot, the whole of you."

With that Mrs. Van Wyck began to saunter round.

"What's the price of these cranberries?"

"Eighteen cents," in his most respectful tone.

"They're dear, dreadful dear. Over to Windsor you can get as many as
you can carry for a shillin' a quart."

Joe was silent.

"Say sixteen."

"I couldn't," replied Joe. "If Mr. Terry were here"--

"There's Father Terry." She raised her voice a little. "Father Terry,
come and look at these cranberries. They're a poor lot, and you'll do
well to get a shillin' a quart."

Joe ran his fingers through them. Plump and crimson, very nice he
thought for so late in the season.

"I don't s'pose I'd get more'n two good quarts out of three. They'll
spile on your hands. Come now, be reasonable."

Father Terry looked undecided. Joe watched him, thinking in his heart
that he ought not fall a penny.

"Say a shillin'."

The old man shook his head.

"Well, fifteen cents. I want three quarts, and I won't give a penny
more."

The old gentleman studied Joe's face, which was full of perplexity.

"Well," he said with some reluctance.

Joe measured them. Mrs. Van Wyck gave each quart a "settle" by shaking
it pretty hard, and Joe had to put in another large handful.

"Now I want some cheese."

The pound weighed two ounces over.

"You can throw that in. Mr. Terry always does."

"How much?"

"Twenty-three cents."

"No: you can't fool me, youngster. I never pay more than twenty cents."

"I'm sure Mr. Terry told me that it was twenty-three."

Father was appealed to again, and of course went over to the
domineering enemy.

Then two pounds of butter passed through the same process of
cheapening. Joe began to lose his temper. Afterward a broom, some tape
and cotton, and finally a calico dress.

"Now, here's three dozen eggs for part pay. They're twenty-four cents a
dozen."

"Why, that's what we sell them for," said astonished Joe, mentally
calculating profit and loss.

"Oh! they've gone up. Hetty Collins was paid twenty-five over to
Windsor. I'd gone there myself if I'd had a little more time."

"I wish you had," ejaculated Joe inwardly.

She haggled until she got her price, and the settlement was made.

"She's a regular old screwer," said Joe rather crossly. "I don't
believe it was right to let her have those things in that fashion."

"All things work together for good."

"For _her_ good, it seems."

Father Terry went back to his post by the stove. Joe breathed a little
thanksgiving that Flossy was not Mrs. Van Wyck's maid-of-all-work.

Joe's next customer was Dave Downs, as the boys called him. He shuffled
up to the counter.

"Got any _reel_ good cheese?"

"Yes," said Joe briskly.

"Let's see."

Joe raised the cover. Dave took up the knife, and helped himself to a
bountiful slice.

"Got any crackers?"

"Yes," wondering what Dave meant.

"Nice and fresh?"

"I guess so."

"I'll take three or four."

"That will be a penny's worth."

When Dave had the crackers in his hand he said, raising his shaggy
brows in a careless manner,--

"Oh! you needn't be so perticelar."

Then he took a seat beside Father Terry, and munched crackers and
cheese. "Cool enough," thought Joe.

Old Mrs. Skittles came next. She was very deaf, and talked in a high,
shrill key, as if she thought all the world in the same affliction.

She looked at every thing, priced it, beat down a cent or two, and
then concluded she'd rather wait until Mr. Terry came in. At last she
purchased a penny's worth of snuff, and begged Joe to give her good
measure.

After that two customers and the mail. Father Terry bestirred himself,
and waited upon a little girl with a jug.

Joe was rather glad to see Mr. Terry enter, for he had an uncomfortable
sense of responsibility.

"Trade been pretty good, Joe?" with a smile.

"I've put it all down on the slate, as you told me."

"Hillo! What's this!"

A slow stream of something dark was running over the floor back of the
lower counter.

"Oh, molasses!" and with a spring Joe shut off the current, but there
was an ominous pool.

"I did not get that: it was"--and Joe turned crimson.

"Father. We never let him go for molasses, vinegar, oil, or burning
fluid. He is sure to deluge us. Run round in the kitchen, and get a
pail and a mop."

"It's my opinion that this doesn't work together for good," said Joe to
himself as he was cleaning up the mess.

"So you had Mrs. Skittles?" exclaimed Mr. Terry with a laugh. "And Mrs.
Van Wyck. Why, Joe!"

"She beat down awfully!" said Joe; "and she wanted every thing thrown
in. Mr. Terry"--

"She called on father, I'll be bound. But she has taken off all the
profits; and then to make you pay twenty-four cents for the eggs."

"I'd just like to have had my own way. If you'll give me leave"--

"You will have to look out a little for father. He's getting old, you
know; and these sharp customers are rather too much for him."

"I'll never fall a penny again;" and Joe shook his head defiantly.

"You will learn by degrees. But it is never necessary to indulge such
people. There's the dinner-bell."

Dave Downs had finished his crackers and cheese, and now settled
himself to a comfortable nap. Joe busied himself by clearing up
a little, giving out mail, and once weighing some flour. Then he
discovered that he had scattered it over his trousers, and that with
the molasses dabs it made a not very delightful mixture. So he took
a seat on a barrel-head and began to scrub it off; but he found it
something like Aunt Jemima's plaster.

"Run in and get some dinner, Joe," said Mr. Terry after his return to
the store.

"But I was going home," replied Joe bashfully.

"Oh! never mind. We will throw in the dinner."

So Joe ran around, but hesitated at the door of Mrs. Terry's clean
kitchen. She was motherly and cordial, however, and gave him a bright
smile.

"I told Mr. Terry that you might as well come in here for your dinner.
It is quite a long run home."

"You are very kind," stammered Joe, feeling that he must say something,
in spite of his usual readiness of speech deserting him.

"You ought to have an apron, Joe, or a pair of overalls," she said
kindly. "You will find grocery business rather dirty work sometimes."

"And my best clothes!" thought Joe with a sigh.

But the coffee was so delightful, and the cold roast beef tender as a
chicken. And Joe began to think it was possible for a few things to
work together for good, if they were only the right kind of things.

Altogether he went home at night in very good spirits.

"But my trousers will have to go in the wash-tub, Granny," he
exclaimed. "I believe I wasn't cut out for a gentleman, after all."

"O Joe, what a sight! How could you?"

"It was all easy enough. If you'd had molasses to scrub up, and flour
to get before it was dry, you would have found the sticking process not
at all difficult. And oh! Mrs. Van Wyck came in."

Florence flushed a little at this.

"Yes, wait till I show you." With that, Joe sprang up, and wrapped
Granny's old shawl about him, and began in his most comical fashion. In
a moment or two the children were in roars of laughter.

"I don't know as it is quite right, Joe dear," interposed Granny
mildly, "to make fun of any one."

"My conscience don't trouble me a bit;" for now he was in a high glee.
"I owe her a grudge for making me pay twenty-four cents for eggs. And,
Granny, when you come to the store, don't beat me down a penny on any
thing; nor ask me to throw in a spool of cotton nor a piece of tape,
nor squeeze down the measure. I wonder how people can be so mean!"

"Rich people too," added Florence in an injured tone of voice, still
thinking of Mrs. Van Wyck's overture.

"There's lots of funny folks in the world," said Joe with a grave air.
"But I like Mr. Terry, and I mean to do my very best."

"That's right;" and Granny smiled tenderly over the boy's resolve.

"And I'll put on my old clothes to-morrow. Who knows but I may fall
into the mackerel-barrel before to-morrow night?"

Kit laughed at this. "They'll have to fish you out with a harpoon,
then."

"Oh! I might swim ashore."

The next day Joe improved rapidly. To be sure, he met with a mishap or
two; but Mr. Terry excused him, and only charged him to be more careful
in future. And Father Terry administered his unfailing consolation on
every occasion.

But on Saturday night Joe came home in triumph.

"There's the beginning of my fortune," he said, displaying his dollar
and a half all in hard cash. For that was a long while ago, when the
eagle, emblem of freedom, used to perch on silver half-dollars.




CHAPTER VI.

  FORTUNES AND MISFORTUNES.


"I think I'll go into business," said Hal one evening, as he and Granny
and Florence sat together.

They missed Joe so much! He seldom came home until eight o'clock; and
there was no one to stir up the children, and keep the house in a
racket.

"What?" asked Granny.

"I am trying to decide. I wonder how chickens would do?"

"It takes a good deal to feed 'em," said Granny.

"But they could run about, you know. And buckwheat is such a splendid
thing for them. Then we can raise ever so much corn."

"But where would you get your buckwheat?" asked Florence.

"I was thinking. Mr. Peters never does any thing with his lot down
here, and the old apple-trees in it are not worth much. If he'd let me
have it ploughed up! And then we'd plant all of our ground in corn,
except the little garden that we want."

"What a master hand you are to plan, Hal!"

Granny's face was one immense beam of admiration.

"I want to do something. It's too hard, Granny, that you should have to
go out washing, and all that."

Hal's soft brown eyes were full of tender pity.

"Oh! I don't mind. I'm good for a many day's work yet, Hal."

"I hope some of us will get rich at last."

Florence sighed softly.

"I thought you were going to have a green-house," she said.

"I'm afraid I can't manage the green-house now, though I mean to try
some day. And I noticed old Speckly clucking this morning."

"But we haven't any eggs," said Granny.

"I could get some."

"How many chickens would you raise?" asked Florence.

"Well, if we should set the five hens,--out of say sixty-four eggs we
ought to raise fifty chickens; oughtn't we, Granny?"

"With good luck; but so many things happen to 'em."

"And if I could clear thirty dollars. Then there's quite a good deal of
work to do in the summer."

"I shall soon be a fine lady, and ride in my carriage," Granny
commented with a cheerful chirrup of a laugh.

"Mrs. Kinsey's chickens are splendid," said Florence.

"Yes. Shall I get some eggs, and set Speckly?"

"It's rather airly to begin."

"But I'll make a nice coop. And eggs are not twenty-four cents a dozen."

Hal finished off with a quiet smile at the thought of Mrs. Van Wyck.

So he went to Mrs. Kinsey's the next morning, and asked her for a dozen
of eggs, promising to come over the first Saturday there was any thing
to do, and work it out.

"I'll give you the eggs," she said; "but we will be glad to have you
some Saturday, all the same."

So old Speckly was allowed to indulge her motherly inclinations to
her great satisfaction. Hal watched her with the utmost solicitude.
In the course of time a tiny bill pecked against white prison walls;
and one morning Hal found the cunningest ball of soft, yellow down,
trying to balance itself on two slender legs, but finding that the
point of gravity as often centred in its head. But the little fellow
winked oddly, as much as to say, "I know what I'm about. I'll soon find
whether it is the fashion to stand on your head or your feet in this
queer world."

One by one the rest came out. Hal had a nice coop prepared, and set
Mrs. Speckly up at housekeeping. Dot caught one little "birdie," as she
called it, and, in running to show Granny, fell down. And although Dot
wasn't very heavy, it was an avalanche on poor "birdie." He gave two
or three slow kicks with his yellow legs, and then was stiff for all
time.

"Hal's boofer birdie," said Dot. "See, Danny!"

"O Dot! what have you done?"

"Him 'oont 'alk;" and Dot stood him down on the doorstep, only to see
him tumble over.

"Oh, you've killed Hal's birdie! What will he say?"

"I 'ell down. Why 'oont him run, Danny?"

What could Granny do? Scolding Dot was out of the question. And just
then Hal came flying up the road.

Granny had seen the fall, and explained the matter.

"But she mustn't catch them! You're a naughty little Dot!"

Dot began to cry.

"Poor little girl!" said Hal, taking her in his arms. "It is wrong to
catch them. See, now, the little fellow is dead, and can never run
about any more. Isn't Dot sorry? She won't ever touch Hal's birdies
again, will she?"

So Dot promised, and Hal kissed her. But she carried the dead birdie
about, petting it with softest touches, and insisting upon taking it to
bed with her.

One more of the brood met with a mishap, but the other ten throve and
grew rapidly. By the time the next hen wanted to set, Hal had a dozen
eggs saved.

He asked Farmer Peters about the lot. It was just below their house,
between that and the creek, a strip of an acre and a half perhaps.
The old trees were not worth much, to be sure; and Mr. Peters never
troubled himself to cultivate the plot, as it was accounted very poor.

"Yes, you may have it in welcome; but you won't git enough off of it to
pay for the ploughin'?"

"I'm going to raise chickens; and I thought it would be nice to sow
buckwheat, and let them run in it."

"Turnin' farmer, hey? 'Pears to me you're makin' an airly beginnin'."

Hal smiled pleasantly.

"You'll find chickens an awful sight o' bother."

"I thought I'd try them."

"Goin' to garden any?"

"A little."

"Hens and gardens are about like fox an' geese. One's death on the
other. But you kin have the lot."

So Hal asked Abel Kinsey to come over and plough. In return he helped
plant potatoes and drop corn for two Saturdays. By this time there was
a third hen setting.

House-cleaning had come on, and Granny was pretty busy. But she and
Hal were up early in the morning garden-making. The plot belonging to
the cottage was about two acres. Hal removed his chicken-coops to the
lot, and covered his young vegetables with brush to protect them from
incursions,--pease, beans, lettuce, beets, and sweet-corn; and the
rest was given over to the chickens.

"I am going to keep an account of all that is spent for them," he said;
"and we will see if we can make it pay."

When Joe had saved three dollars, he teased Granny to let him order his
clothes.

"I don't like running in debt, Joe," she said with a grave shake of the
head.

"But this is very sure. Mr. Terry likes me, and I shall go on staying.
There will be four dollars and a half to pay down by the time they are
done, and in five weeks I can earn the rest."

"How nice it seems!" said Hal. "You and Flo earn a deal of money."

Flo gave a small sniff. She wanted some new clothes also. And Kit and
Charlie were going to shreds and patches. Charlie, indeed, was shooting
up like Jack's bean-stalk, Joe declared, being nearly as tall as Hal.
She was wild as a colt, climbed trees, jumped fences, and wouldn't be
dared by any of the boys.

"I'm sure I don't know what you'll come to," Granny would say with a
sigh.

Joe carried his point, and ordered his clothes; for he insisted that
he could not think of going to Sunday school until he had them. It was
quite an era in his life to have real store clothes. He felt very grand
one day when he went to Mr. Briggs the tailor, and selected the cloth.
There were several different patterns and colors; but he had made up
his mind that it should be gray, just like Archie Palmer's.

He was so dreadfully afraid of being disappointed, that he dropped in
on Friday to see if they were progressing. There was the jacket in the
highest state of perfection.

"But the pants?" he questioned.

"Never you mind. Them pants'll be done as sure as my name's Peter
Briggs."

"All right," said Joe; and he ran on his way whistling.

"Kit," he announced that evening, "I've just found out a good business
for you."

"What?" and Kit roused himself.

"You shall be a tailor. I was thinking to-day how you would look on the
board, with your scalp-lock nodding to every stitch."

"I won't," said Kit stoutly; and he gave a kick towards Joe's leg.

"It's a good business. You will always have plenty of cabbage."

"You better stop!" declared Kit.

"It will be handy to have him in the house, Granny. He can do the
ironing by odd spells. And on the subject of mending old clothes he
will be lovely."

With that Kit made another dive.

Granny gave a sudden spring, and rescued the earthen jar that held the
cakes she had just mixed and set upon the stove-hearth.

"O Kit! Those precious pancakes! We are not anxious to have them
flavored with extract of old shoes."

"Nor to go wandering over the floor."

Kit looked sober and but half-awake.

"Never mind," said Granny cheerily. "You mustn't tease him so much,
Joe."

"Why, I was only setting before him the peculiar advantages of this
romantic and delightful employment;" and with that, Joe executed a
superior double-shuffle quickstep, accompanied by slapping a tune on
his knee.

"You'd do for a minstrel," said Kit.

Joe cleared his voice with a flourish, and sang out,--

    "I'd be a tailor,
      Jolly and free,
    With plenty of cabbage,
      And a goose on my knee.
    Monday would be blue,
      Tuesday would be shady,
    Wednesday I'd set out
      To find a pretty lady."

"Much work you would do in that case," commented Florence.

"It's time to go to bed, children," said Granny.

"Yes," Joe went on gravely. "For a rising young man, who must take
time by the fore-lock, or scalp-lock, and who longs to distinguish
himself by some great and wonderful discovery, there's nothing like,--

    'Early to bed, and early to rise,
    To make a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.'"

With that Joe was up stairs with a bound.

"Joe!" Charlie called in great earnest.

"Well?"

"You better take a mouthful of Granny's rising before you go."

"Good for you, Charlie; but smart children always die young. Granny,
won't you put a stone on Charlie's head for fear?"

Hal said his good-night in a tenderer manner.

They were all wonderfully interested in Joe's clothes; and, though it
was always later on Saturday night when he reached home, they begged to
sit up, but Kit took a nap by the chimney-corner with Tabby. Granny sat
nodding when they heard the gay whistle without.

"Hurrah! The country's safe!" exclaimed Joe. "Get out your spectacles,
all hands."

"You act as if you never had any thing before, Joe," said Florence,
with an air of extreme dignity.

"But these are real 'boughten' clothes," said Joe, "and gilt buttons
down the jacket. I shall feel like a soldier-boy. Just look now."

The bundle came open with a flourish of the jack-knife. All the heads
crowded round, though the one candle gave a rather dim light.

Such exclamations as sounded through the little room, from every voice,
and in almost every key.

"But where are the trousers?" asked Hal.

"The trousers?--why"--

Granny held up the beautiful jacket. There was nothing else in the
paper.

"Why--he's made a mistake. He never put them in, I am sure."

"You couldn't have lost 'em?" asked Granny mildly.

"Lost them--and the bundle tied with this strong twine! Now, that's
mean! I'll have to run right back."

Off went Joe like a flash. He hardly drew a breath until his hand was
on Mr. Brigg's door-knob.

"Well, what now, Joe?" asked the astonished Mr. Briggs.

"You didn't put in the trousers!"

"Didn't? Dan done 'em up. Dan!"

Dan emerged from a pile of rags under the counter, where he was taking
a snooze.

"You didn't put in Joe's trousers."

"Yes I did."

"No you didn't," said Joe, with more promptness than politeness.

Dan began to search. A sleepy-looking, red-headed boy, to whom
Saturday night was an abomination, because his father was always in the
drag, and cross.

"I'm sure I put 'em in. Every thing's gone, and they ain't here."

"Look sharp, you young rascal!"

"He has lost 'em out."

"Lost your grandmother!" said Joe contemptuously; "or the liberty pole
out on the square! Why, the bundle was not untied until after I was in
the house."

"Dan, if you don't find them trousers, I'll larrup you!"

Poor Dan. Fairly wide awake now, he went tumbling over every thing
piled on the counter, searched the shelves, and every available nook.

"Somebody's stole 'em."

Dan made this announcement with a very blank face.

"I know better!" said his father.

"You are sure you made them, Mr. Briggs," asked Joe.

"Sure!" in a tone that almost annihilated both boys.

"If you don't find 'em!" shaking his fist at Dan.

Dan began to blubber.

Joe couldn't help laughing. "Let me help you look," he said.

Down went a box of odd buttons, scattering far and wide.

"You Dan!" shouted his father, with some buttons in his mouth, that
rendered his voice rather thick. "Just wait till I get at you. I have
only six buttons to sew on."

"They're not here, Mr. Briggs," exclaimed Joe.

"Well, I declare! If that ain't the strangest thing! Dan, you've taken
them trousers to the wrong place!"

A new and overwhelming light burst in upon Dan's benighted brain.

"That's it," said Joe. "Now, where have you taken them?"

"I swow!" ejaculated the youth, rubbing his eyes.

"None o' your swearin' in this place!" interrupted his father sternly.
"I'm a strictly moral man, and don't allow such talk in my family."

"Tain't swearin'," mumbled Dan.

Mr. Briggs jumped briskly down from the board, with a pair of
pantaloons in one hand, and a needle and thread in the other. Dan
dodged round behind Joe.

"You took 'em over to Squire Powell's, I'll be bound!"

Another light was thrown in upon Dan's mental vision.

"There! I'll bet I did."

"Of course you did, you numskull! Start this minute and see how quick
you can be gone."

"I will go with him," said Joe.

So the two boys started; and a run of ten minutes--a rather reluctant
performance on Dan's part, it must be confessed--brought them to Squire
Powell's. There was no light in the kitchen; but Joe beat a double
tattoo on the door in the most scientific manner.

"Who's there?" asked a voice from the second story window.

"Dan Briggs!" shouted Joe.

"Guess not," said the squire. The sound was so unlike Dan's sleepy,
mumbling tone.

"There was a mistake made in some clothes," began Joe, nothing daunted.

"Oh, that's it! I will be down in a minute."

Pretty soon the kitchen-door was unlocked, and the boys stepped inside.

"I didn't know but you sent these over for one of my girls," said the
squire laughingly. "They were a _leetle_ too small for me. So they
belong to you, Joe?"

"Yes, sir," said Joe emphatically, laying hold of his precious trousers.

"Look sharper next time, Dan," was the squire's good advice.

"I wish you'd go home with me, Joe," said Dan, after they had taken a
few steps. "Father'll larrup me, sure!"

"Maybe that will brighten your wits," was Joe's consoling answer.

"But, Joe--I'm sure I didn't mean to--and"--

"I'm off like a shot," appended Joe, suiting the action to the word;
and poor Dan was left alone in the middle of the road.

"Why, what _has_ happened, Joe?" said Granny as he bounced in the
kitchen-door.

"Such a time as I've had to find 'them trousers,' as Mr. Briggs calls
them! Dan had packed them off to Squire Powell's!"

"That Dan Briggs is too stupid for any thing," commented Florence.

"There's time to try them on yet," Joe exclaimed. "Just you wait a bit."

Joe made a rush into the other room.

"Don't wake up Dot," said Hal.

"Oh! I'll go as softly as a blind mouse."

"There, Granny, what do you think of that?"

"You want a collar and a necktie, and your hair brushed a little," said
Florence with critical eyes.

"But aren't they stunners!"

Granny looked at him, turned him round and looked again, and her
wrinkled face was all one bright smile. For he was so tall and manly
in this long jacket, with its narrow standing collar, and the trousers
that fitted to a charm.

"Oh," said Hal with a long breath, "it's splendid!"

"You bet! When I get 'em paid for, Hal, I'll help you out."

Florence sighed.

"O Flo! I can't help being slangy. It comes natural to boys. And then
hearing them all talk in the store."

"Wa-a!" said a small voice. "Wa-a-a Danny!"

"There!" exclaimed Hal; and he ran in to comfort Dot.

But Dot insisted upon being taken up, and brought out to candle-light.
The buttons on Joe's jacket pleased her fancy at once, and soothed her
sorrow.

"I must say, Dot, you are a young woman of some taste," laughed Joe.

"Granny," said Kit, after sitting in deep thought, and taking a good
chew out of his thumb, "when Joe wears 'em out, can you cut 'em over
for me?"

"O Kit! Prudent and economical youth! To you shall be willed the last
remaining shreds of my darling gray trousers, jacket, buttons and all."

They had a grand time admiring Joe. Charlie felt so sorry that she
wasn't a boy; and Flo declared that "he looked as nice as anybody, if
only he wouldn't"--

"No, I won't," said Joe solemnly.

Granny felt proud enough of him the next day when he went to church.
Florence was quite satisfied to walk beside him.

"I wish there was something nice for you, Hal," said Granny in a tone
of tender regret.

"My turn will come by and by," was the cheerful answer.

For Hal took the odds and ends of every thing, and was content.

"They're a nice lot of children, if I do say it myself," was Granny's
comment to Dot. "And I'm glad I never let any of them go to the
poor-house or be bound out, or any thing. We'll all get along somehow."

Dot shook her head sagely, as if that was her opinion also.

The story of Joe's Saturday night adventure leaked out; and poor Dan
Briggs was tormented a good deal, the boys giving him the nickname of
Trousers, much to his discomfort.

Joe discovered, like a good many other people, that whereas getting in
debt was very easy, getting out of debt was very hard. He went along
bravely for several weeks, and then he began to find so many wants.
A new straw hat he _must_ have, for the weather was coming warm, and
they had such beauties at the store for a dollar; and then his boots
grew too rusty, so a pair of shoes were substituted. He bought Dot a
pretty Shaker, which she insisted upon calling her "Sunny cool Shaker."
She was growing very cunning indeed, though her tongue was exceedingly
crooked. Hal laughed over her droll baby words; and Kit's endeavor to
make her say tea-kettle was always crowned with shouts of laughter.

Joe succeeded pretty well at the store, but occasionally all things
did not work together for good. His margin of fun was so wide that it
sometimes brought him into trouble. One day he inadvertently sold old
Mrs. Cummings some ground pepper, instead of allspice. That afternoon
the old lady flew back in a rage.

"I'll never buy a cent's wuth of this good-for nothin', car'less boy!"
she ejaculated. "He does nothin' but jig around the store, and sing
songs. An' now he's gone and spiled my whole batch of pies."

"Spoiled your pies?" said Mr. Terry in astonishment.

"Yes, spiled 'em! Four as good pies as anybody in Madison makes. Green
apple too!"

"Why, I never saw your pies!" declared Joe.

"I'd like to make you eat 'em all,--to the last smitch!" and she shook
her fist.

"But what did he do?" questioned Mr. Terry.

"That's what I'm tryin' to tell you. I run in this mornin' and bought
two ounces of allspice; for I hadn't a speck in the house. Seth's so
fond of it in apple-pies. Well, I was hurryin' round; an' I lost my
smell years ago, when I had the influenzy, so I put in the allspice;
an' sez I at dinner, 'Seth, here's the fust green-apple pies. I don't
believe a soul in Madison has made 'em yet! They're nice an' hot.'
With that he tasted. 'Hot!' sez he, 'hot! I guess they air, and the've
somethin' more'n fire in 'em too!' 'What's in 'em?' sez I; and sez he,
'Jest you taste!' an' so I did, an' it nigh about burnt my tongue off.
'Why,' sez I, 'it's pepper;' an' Seth sez, 'Well, if you ain't smart!'
That made me kinder huffy like; an' then I knew right away it was this
car'less fellow that's always singin' an' dancin' and a standin' on his
head!"

Mrs. Cummings had to stop because she was out of breath. Joe ducked
under the counter, experiencing a strong tendency to fly to fragments.

"I am very sorry," returned Mr. Terry. "It must have been a mistake;"
and he tried to steady the corners of his mouth to a becoming sense of
gravity.

"No mistake at all!" and she gave her head a violent jerk. "Some of his
smart tricks he thought he'd play on me. Didn't I see him a treatin'
Dave Downs to loaf-sugar one day; an' bime by he gave him a great lump
of salt!"

Mr. Terry had heard the story of the salt, and rather enjoyed it; for
Dave was always hanging round in the way.

"And he jest did it a purpose, I know. As soon as ever I tasted that
pepper, I knew 'twas one of his tricks. And my whole batch of pies
spil't!"

"No," said Joe, in his manly fashion: "I didn't do it purposely, Mrs.
Cummings. I must have misunderstood you."

"Pepper an' allspice sound so much alike!" she said wrathfully.

"Well, we will give you a quarter of allspice," Mr. Terry returned
soothingly.

"That won't make up for the apples, an' the flour, an' the lard, an'
all my hard work!"

"We might throw in a few apples."

"If you're goin' to keep that boy, you'll ruin your trade, I can tell
you!"

Still she took the allspice and the apples, though they had plenty at
home.

"You must be careful, Joe," said Mr. Terry afterward. "It will not do
to have the ill-will of all the old ladies."

Joe told the story at home with embellishments; and Hal enjoyed it
wonderfully, in his quiet way.




CHAPTER VII.

  THE OLD TUMBLER, AFTER ALL.


Hal's chickens prospered remarkably. Five motherly hens clucked to
families of black-eyed chicks; and, out of fifty-eight eggs, he only
lost seven. So there were fifty-one left. They made some incursions in
his garden, to be sure; but presently every thing grew so large that it
was out of danger.

There was plenty of work to do on Saturdays. Picking cherries and
currants for the neighbors, and the unfailing gardening. It seemed to
Hal that weeds had a hundred lives at least, even if you did pull them
up by the roots. Sometimes he managed to get a little work out of Kit
and Charlie, but they invariably ended by a rough-and-tumble frolic.

Florence succeeded admirably with her embroidering. She managed to earn
some pretty dresses for herself, and added enough to Hal's store to
enable him to purchase a suit of clothes, though they were not as grand
as Joe's.

Hal and Granny took a wonderful sight of comfort sitting on the
doorstep through the summer evenings, and talking over old times.
Granny would tell how they did when his father, her own dear Joe, was
alive, and how pretty his mother had been.

"Flo's a good deal like her," she would always say; "only Flo's
wonderful with her fingers. She can do any thing with a needle."

"Flo's a born genius," Hal would reply admiringly.

"But I'm afraid Charlie'll never learn to sew."

"I can sew better myself," was Hal's usual comment.

And it was true. Hal had a bedquilt nearly pieced, which he had done on
rainy days and by odd spells. I expect you think he was something of a
girl-boy. But then he was very sweet and nice.

Florence stood by the gate one afternoon, looking extremely lovely in
her blue and white gingham, and her curls tied back with a bit of blue
ribbon. Dot had been in the mud-pie business; and, if it had proved
profitable, she would no doubt have made a fortune for the family.

"Go in the house this minute, and get washed," commanded Florence.
"What a naughty, dirty child you are!"

Then a carriage passed by very slowly. A young man was driving, and two
ladies sat on the back seat. They looked as if they were going to halt.

Florence's heart was in her mouth. She drew herself up in her most
stately attitude.

The young man turned; and the lady nearer her beckoned.

Florence stepped out slowly. She thought, with some pride, that, if
they wanted a drink, she _had_ a goblet to offer them.

"My little girl," said the lady, in a soft, clear voice, "can you
direct us to a blacksmith's?"

"There is one on this road, rather more than a quarter of a mile
farther."

"Thank you."

The other lady leaned over, and studied Florence. She had a worn,
faded, and fretful look; but some new expression lighted up her sallow
face.

"Oh," she sighed, "what a beautiful girl! Now, if I had a daughter like
that! I wonder if she lives in that forlorn old rookery?"

"A princess in disguise;" and the young man laughed.

"She was unusually lovely. At her age I had just such hair. But ah, how
one fades!"

The straggling auburn hair, very thin on the top, hardly looked as if
it had once been "like fine spun gold."

"The trial of my life has been _not_ having a daughter."

Mrs. Duncan had heard this plaint very often from her half-sister,
who had married a widower nearly three times her age. He had made a
very liberal provision for her during her life, but at her death the
fortune reverted to his family again. She had always bewailed the fact
of having no children; but boys were her abomination. Mrs. Duncan's
house was too noisy, with its four rollicking boys; but now that George
was growing to manhood he became rather more endurable.

"I do not believe the child could have belonged there," she commenced
again.

"Because she was so pretty?" asked George.

"She doesn't look like a country girl."

"But some country girls are very handsome," said Mrs. Duncan.

"They do not possess this air of refinement generally. And did you
observe that she answered in a correct and ladylike manner?"

"Aunt Sophie is captivated. A clear case of love at first sight. Why
not adopt _her_?"

"It would be a charity to take her out of that hovel, if it is her
home."

"I shouldn't think of such a thing now, Sophie, with your poor health,"
said her sister.

There are some natures on which the least contradiction or opposition
acts instantly, rousing them to a spirit of defiance. For several
years Mrs. Duncan had urged her sister to adopt a child; but she had
never found one that answered her requirements. She was not fond
of the trouble of small children. Now that Mrs. Duncan had advised
contrarywise, Mrs. Osgood was seized with a perverse fit.

"I am sure I need a companion," she returned with martyr-like air.

"Take a young woman then, who can be a companion."

"Here is the blacksmith's," announced George. "I suppose you will have
to find some place of refuge;" and he laughed again gayly.

"Where can we go?"

George held a short conversation with the smith.

"My house is just opposite, and the ladies will be welcome," the latter
said. "It will take me about half an hour to repair your mishap."

George conducted them thither. The good woman would fain have invited
them in; but they preferred sitting on the vine-covered porch. Mrs.
Osgood asked for a glass of water. O Florence! if you had been there!

It happened after a while, that George and his mother walked down the
garden. Mrs. Green felt bound to entertain this stranger cast upon her
care, as she considered it.

Mrs. Osgood made some inquiries presently about the house they had
passed, with a small stream of water just below it.

"Why, that's Granny Kenneth's," said Mrs. Green.

"And who is the child,--almost a young lady?"

"Why, that must be Florence. Did she have long yeller curls? If she was
my gal she should braid 'em up decently. I wouldn't have 'em flyin'
about."

"And who is Florence?"

Mrs. Osgood's curiosity must have been very great to induce her to
listen to the faulty grammar and country pronunciations. But she
listened to the story from beginning to end,--Joe, and Joe's wife, and
all the children, figuring largely in it.

"And if Granny Kenneth'd had any sense, she would a bundled 'em all off
to the poor-house. One of the neighbors here did want to take Florence;
but law! what a time they made! She's a peart, stuck-up thing!"

If Florence had heard this verdict against all her small industries
and neatnesses and ladylike habits, her heart would have been almost
broken. But there are a great many narrow-minded people in this world,
who can see no good except in their own way.

Mrs. Osgood made no comments. Presently the carriage was repaired,
and the accidental guests departed. They had a long ride yet to take.
George asked if there was any nearer way of getting to Seabury.

"There's a narrer road just below Granny Kenneth's,--the little shanty
by the crick. It's ruther hard trav'lin', but it cuts off nigh on ter
three miles."

"I think we had better take it," said George. "Even that will give us a
five-miles drive."

So they passed the cottage again. This time Hal was feeding the
chickens; Kit and Charlie swinging upon an old dilapidated apple-tree;
and Florence sat by the open window, sewing.

"There's your princess!" exclaimed George with a laugh.

Florence  a little at beholding the party again.

Mrs. Duncan had come to Seabury, a rather mountainous place, remarkable
for its pure air, for the sake of her youngest son, Arthur, who had
been ill with a fever. Mrs. Osgood took an odd fancy to accompany her.
The seven years of her widowhood had not been happy years, though she
had a house like a palace. When she first laid off mourning, she tried
Newport and Saratoga; but somehow she did not succeed in making a belle
of herself, and that rather mortified her.

Then she sank into invalidism; which tried everybody's patience sorely.

Leaning back in the carriage now, she thought to herself, "Yes, if I
only _had_ some one of my own! Sister Duncan never did understand me,
or appreciate the delicacy of my constitution. Her nerves have been
blunted by those great rude boys. And that girl looks so refined and
graceful,--she would make a pleasant companion I am sure. But I should
want to take her away from her family: I never could consent to any
intimacy with them."

She ventured to broach her subject to Mrs. Duncan the next day. Perhaps
Mrs. Duncan had grown rather impatient with her sister's whims and
fancies; and she discouraged the plan on some very sensible grounds.
Mrs. Osgood felt like a martyr.

Yet the opposition roused her to attempt it. One day, a week afterward
perhaps, she hired a carriage, and was driven over to Madison. George
had gone back to the city, so there was no question of having him for
escort.

Granny Kenneth was much surprised at the appearance of so fine a lady.
She seized Dot, and scrubbed her face, her usual employment upon the
entrance of any one.

Mrs. Osgood held up her ruffled skirts as if afraid of contamination.

"Is your granddaughter at home?" was asked in the most languid of
voices.

"Flo, you mean? No: she hasn't come from school yet. Do walk in
and wait--that is--I mean--if you please," said Granny a good deal
flustered, while the little gray curls kept bobbing up and down.
"Here's a clean cheer;" and she gave one a whiff with her apron.

Poor Flossy. She had tried so hard to correct Granny's old-fashioned
words and pronunciations.

"Thank you. Miss Florence embroiders, I believe."

"Yes, she works baby-petticoats, and does 'em splendid."

And then Granny wondered if she, the fine lady, had any work for
Florence.

"How glad Flo'll be, and vacation coming so soon," she thought in the
depth of her tender old soul.

"And she's a genius at crochetin'! The laces and shawls and hoods she's
knit are a real wonder. They didn't do any thing of the kind in my
young days."

"You must find it pretty hard to get along," condescended Mrs. Osgood.

"Yes; but the Lord allers provides some way. Joe's gone in a
store,--Mr. Terry's. He's next to Florence," went on Granny in sublime
disregard of her pronoun.

Mrs. Osgood took an inventory of the little room, and waited rather
impatiently. Then she asked for a glass of water.

O Granny! how could you have been so forgetful! To take that old,
thick, greenish glass tumbler when Flossy's choice goblet stood on the
shelf above! And then to fill it in the pail, and let the water dribble!

Granny wondered whether it would be polite to entertain her or not. But
just then there was a crash and a splash; and Dot and the water-pail
were in the middle of the floor.

"Here's a chance!" exclaimed Kit, pausing in the doorway. "Give us a
hook and line, Granny: Dot's mouth is just at an angle of ten degrees,
good for a bite."

"A wail, sure enough!" said Charlie. "Wring her out, and hang her up to
dry."

"Oh, dear!" and Granny, much disconcerted, sat Dot wrong side up on a
chair, and the result was a fresh tumble.

It was Hal who picked her up tenderly,--poor wet baby, with a big red
lump on her forehead, and dismal cries issuing from the mouth that
seemed to run all round her head.

"Stay out there till I wipe up," said Granny to the others. "Then I'll
get Dot a dry dress. I never did see such an onlucky child--and company
too. What _will_ Flo say!"

For Florence came tripping up the path, knitting her delicate brows in
consternation.

"Never you mind. There's a lady in the parlor who's been waitin'. Oh,
my! what did I do with that floor-cloth?"

"A lady?"

"Yes: run right along."

Luckily the door was shut between. Florence gave her curls a twist and
a smoothing with her fingers, took off her soiled white apron, pulled
her dress out here and there, stepped over the pools of water, and
entered.

Mrs. Osgood admired her self-possession, and pitied the poor child
profoundly. The flush and partial embarrassment were very becoming to
her.

That lady did not mean to rush headlong into her proposal. She broke
the ground delicately by inquiring about the embroidering; and
Florence brought some to show her.

"Who taught you?" she asked in surprise.

"No one;" and Florence  a little. "I did not do the first as
neatly, but it is quite easy after one is fairly started."

"I really do not see how you find time, with going to school;" and this
persevering industry did touch Mrs. Osgood's heart.

"I cannot do very much," answered Florence with a sigh. "But it will
soon be vacation."

"How old are you?"

"I shall be fifteen the last of this month."

"What a family your grandmother has on her hands!"

"Yes. If my father had lived, it would have been very different."

A touching expression overspread Florence's face, and made her lovelier
than ever in Mrs. Osgood's eyes.

"She certainly _is_ very pretty," that lady thought; "and how
attractive such a daughter would be in my house! I should live my young
life over again in her."

For Mrs. Osgood had found that the days for charming young men were
over, and prosy middle-aged people were little to her taste. No woman
ever clung to youth with a greater longing.

"What do you study at school?" she asked.

"Only the English branches. I have been thinking of--of becoming a
teacher," said Florence hesitatingly.

"You would have a poor opportunity in this little town."

"I might go away;" and Florence sighed again.

"You have never studied music, I suppose."

"No: I have had no opportunity," returned Florence honestly enough.

"Do you sing?"

"Yes. And I love music so very, very much! I do mean to learn by and
by, if it is possible."

"I wish you would sing something for me,--a little school-song, or any
thing you are familiar with."

Florence glanced up in amazement; and for a few moments was awkwardly
silent.

"I should like to hear your voice. It is very pleasant in talking, and
ought to be musical in singing."

Florence was a good deal flattered; and then she had the consciousness
that she was one of the best singers in school. So she ran over the
songs in her own mind, and selected "Natalie, the Maid of the Mill,"
which she was very familiar with.

She sang it beautifully. Florence was one of the children who are
always good in an emergency. She was seldom "flustered," as Granny
expressed it, and always seemed to know how to make the best of
herself. And, as she saw the pleasure in Mrs. Osgood's face, her own
heart beat with satisfaction.

"That is really charming. A little cultivation would make your voice
very fine indeed. What a pity that you should be buried in this little
town!"

"Do you think--that I could--do any thing with it?" asked Florence in a
tremor of delight.

"I suppose your grandmother would not stand in the way of your
advancement?" questioned Mrs. Osgood.

"Oh, no! And then if I _could_ do something"--

Florence felt that she ought to add, "for the others," but somehow
she did not. She wondered if Mrs. Osgood was a music-teacher, or a
professional singer. But she did not like to ask.

"There is my carriage," said Mrs. Osgood, as a man drove slowly round.
"I am spending a few weeks at some distance from here, and wished to
have you do a little flannel embroidery for me. When will your vacation
commence?"

"In about ten days,--the first of July."

"I wish to see you when we can have a longer interview. I will come
over again then."

Mrs. Osgood rose, and shook out her elegant grenadine dress, much
trimmed and ruffled. On her wrists were beautiful bracelets, and her
watch-chain glittered with every movement. Then she really smiled very
sweetly upon the young girl; and Florence was charmed.

Some dim recollection passed over her mind.

"Oh!" she said, "were you not in a carriage that stopped here some days
ago. Another lady and a young gentleman"--

"Yes," answered Mrs. Osgood, pleased at being remembered. "And, my
dear, I took a great fancy to you that day. You are so different from
the majority of country girls, that it is a pity you should have no
better chance."

The longing and eloquent eyes of Florence said more than words.

"Yes. I will see you again; and I may, perhaps, think of something to
your advantage."

There was a mode of egress through this "best-room," though Granny had
brought her guest in by the kitchen way. Florence opened the door now.

"What a lovely, graceful child!" thought Mrs. Osgood; and she
scrutinized her from head to feet.

Florence watched the carriage out of sight in a half-dream. How long
she would have stood in a brown study is uncertain; but Granny came in
to get some dry clothes for Dot.

"What _did_ she want of you?" exclaimed Charlie, all curiosity. "And
what were you singing for? Oh, my! wasn't she splendid?"

"You sang like a bird," said Hal in wide-eyed wonder as well. "Did she
ask you?"

"Of course. You don't suppose I would offer to sing for a stranger,--a
lady too?"

"Did she like it?"

"Yes. She thought I might--that is, if I had any opportunity--oh, I
wish we _were_ a little richer!" and Florence burst into a flood of
hysterical tears.

"I wish we were;" and Hal gave her hand a soft squeeze. "If you could
learn to play on the melodeon at church, and give music-lessons"--

The vision called up a heaven of delight to poor Flossy.

"But what _did_ she want?" asked Granny in a great puzzle, putting
Dot's foot through the sleeve of her dress, and tying the neck-string
in garter fashion.

"I do believe she is a singer herself. Maybe she belongs to a company
who give concerts; but then she was dressed so elegantly."

"They make lots of money," said Kit with a sagacious nod of the head.
"It's what I'm going to be, only I shall have a fiddle."

"And a scalp-lock."

Charlie pulled this ornamentation to its fullest height, which was
considerable, as Kit's hair needed cutting.

"Oh! suppose she was," said Hal. "And suppose she wanted to take
Flossy, and teach her music,--why, it's like your plan, you know, only
it isn't an old gentleman; and I don't believe she has any little
girls,--I mean a little girl who died. Did she ask for a drink, Granny?"

"Yes; and then Dot pulled over the water-pail. Oh, my! if I haven't
put this dress on upside down, and the string's in a hard knot.
Whatever shall I do? And, Flossy, I forgot all about the gobler. I took
the first thing that came to hand."

"Not that old tumbler with a nick in the edge? And it is _goblet_. I
do wish you'd learn to call things by their right names!" exclaimed
Florence in vexation.

"It's the very same, isn't it?" began Charlie, "only, as Hal said, it
isn't an old gentleman. Oh, suppose it _should_ come true! And if Kit
_should_ have a fiddle like black Jake."

"And if you _should_ run away," laughed Hal. "I don't believe you can
find a better time than this present moment. Kit, you had better go
after the cows."

Charlie started too, upon Hal's suggestion. Florence gave a little
sniff, and betook herself to the next room.

Oh, dear! How poor and mean and tumbled about their house always was!
No, not _always_, but if any one ever came. Dot chose just that moment
to be unfortunate; and then that Granny should have used that forlorn
old tumbler. She doubted very much if the lady would ever come again.

So Flossy had a good cry from wounded vanity, and then felt better. Hal
took Dot out with him to feed the chickens, and Granny prepared the
table.

Still Florence's lady was the theme of comment and wonder for several
days, although the child insisted that she only came to get some
embroidering done. All further speculations seemed too wild for sober
brains.

"But it is so odd that she asked you to sing," said Hal. "And I do
believe something will come of it."

Florence gave a little despairing sniff.




CHAPTER VIII.

  FLORENCE IN STATE.


Mrs. Osgood leaned back in the carriage,--it was the very best that
Seabury afforded,--and, looking out on the pleasant sunshine and waving
trees, considered the subject before her. _If_ she took Florence, she
would have a governess in the house, and go on as rapidly as possible
with the finishing process. Music should be the first thing: the child
_did_ have a lovely voice, and such fair, slender hands! In a year she
would be quite presentable. How vexed all the Osgood nieces would be!
They were continually hinting at visits, and would be delighted at
having Aunt Osgood take them up. But somehow she had a grudge against
her husband's relatives, because the property reverted to them in the
end.

And then she fancied herself riding out with this beautiful daughter
by her side, or stopping at hotels where every one would wonder "who
that lovely girl could be!" And Florence would certainly be most
grateful for the change. It was a deed of charity to rescue the poor
child from the life before her, with no better prospect than that of a
school-teacher. She certainly had some ideas and ambitions beyond her
sphere.

School closed presently, and the children were wild with delight. They
had a great time on examination day, and Florence acquitted herself
finely. Mr. Fielder was very proud of her.

"If you can go to school another year, and improve as much," he said,
"I can almost promise you a very good situation."

Flossy's dream in respect to her elegant lady was fading, and she came
back to humbler prospects quite thankfully.

What Granny was to do with the children through vacation she hardly
knew.

"Oh, you needn't worry!" said Charlie consolingly. "Kit and me are
going out in the woods; and we'll build a stunning log-hut, or make a
cave"--

"O Charlie, if you would be a little more careful! Kit and I."

"I can't be always bothering! Mr. Fielder almost wears me out, so you
might let me have a little rest in vacation.

    'For spelling is vexation,
      And writing is bad:
    Geography it puzzles me,
      And grammar makes me mad.'"

With that Charlie perched herself on the gate-post, and began to
whistle.

"If Charlie only _had_ been a boy!" groaned Florence.

On Monday of the first week they washed. Florence assisted; but she
hurried to get herself dressed in the afternoon, for fear some one
_might_ come. And then she wondered a little what she ought to do.
Embroidering and fancy work appeared to be dull just now; and she would
have two months in which she _might_ earn considerable money, if it
only came. For, with all her small vanities and particular ways, she
was not indolent.

On Tuesday they began their ironing at an early hour. There were
Florence's pretty dresses and aprons, nothing very costly, but a dainty
ruffle here and there added to the general grace. These same ruffles
were a great trouble to some of the old ladies in Madison, "who didn't
see how Granny Kenneth could let Florence waste her time in such
nonsense while _she_ slaved herself to death!"

Florence had twisted her hair in a knot, and her dress was rather the
worse for wear; but she worked away cheerfully. Her pile of clothes was
decreasing very fast.

Suddenly a sound of carriage-wheels startled her; and, glancing up, she
uttered a frightened exclamation.

"O Granny! it's the lady again, and I look like a fright! What shall I
do? Won't you go and ask her in? and you look dreadful too! Put on your
other sacque. There! I'll run and tidy up a bit."

She made a snatch at the brush and comb, and hurried up in the boys'
room.

"Oh, dear! How red I am in the face! It's too bad;" and she felt
tempted to cry, but she knew that would only make matters worse. So
she let down her shining hair, brushed it out, and wound it round her
fingers in curls. Then Granny came plodding up stairs.

"I told her you were busy, but that you'd be ready in a few minutes,"
she explained.

"Why didn't you think to bring up one of my clean dresses?"

"To be sure! which one?"

"The pink calico, I guess. Oh! and the braided white apron."

Down went Granny. Ah! many a step had she taken for these children,
weary ones, and yet cheerfully done. Would they ever think of it?

Florence was not long in making herself neat and presentable, but the
flushed face still troubled her. She viewed herself critically in the
cracked glass, and then ran down, pausing to fan a few moments with the
cape of an old sun-bonnet, the nearest thing at hand.

"_Do_ I look decent, Granny?" she said apprehensively.

"To be sure you do, and nice too."

Granny's eyes expressed her admiration.

Florence ventured in timidly, and the lady inclined her head.

"I am sorry that I have kept you waiting so long, but it was
unavoidable;" and the child made a little halt to wonder if her long
word sounded well.

"I suppose I took you somewhat by surprise. Are you very busy to-day?"

"Not very," answered Florence at random, her heart beating violently.

"And quite well? but I hardly need ask the question."

"I am always well, thank you," with a touch of grace.

"How fortunate! Now, I have such wretched health, and my nerves are
weak beyond description."

Florence gave a glance of quick sympathy, not unmixed with admiration.
There was something very romantic about the languid lady.

"If you are quite at liberty," Mrs. Osgood began, "I should like to
have you drive out with me. I have a great deal to say to you, and we
shall not be interrupted."

Florence could hardly credit her hearing. To be asked to ride with so
grand a lady!

"Oh!" and then she paused and .

"Would you like to go?"

"Very, very much indeed;" and the young face was full of pleasure.

"Well, get yourself ready; and, if you will send your grandmother to
me, I will explain."

Florence felt as if she were in a dream. Then she wondered what she
ought to wear. She had a pretty light gray dress and sacque for "Sunday
best," and a new white dress; but her visitor's dress was gray, and
that decided her. So she took the articles out of the old-fashioned
wardrobe, and summoned Granny.

Granny was dazed. "Where is she going to take you?" she asked in
helpless astonishment.

"I don't know. She will tell you, I suppose."

"But, Flo, I have _heerd_ of girls being kidnapped or something;" and
Granny's face turned pale with fear.

"Nonsense!" returned Flossy with a toss of the curls. She could not
even trouble herself about Granny's mispronunciation just then.

"You don't know"--

"I guess she won't eat me up. Any how, I am going."

Florence uttered this with a touch of imperiousness. Granny felt that
she would have little influence over her, so she entered the room where
the guest was seated.

"Mrs. Kenneth," the lady began in her most impressive and gracious
manner, "when I was here a few days ago, I took a great fancy to your
granddaughter. My name is Osgood; and I am staying at Seabury with my
sister, Mrs. Duncan. And although you may hesitate to trust Florence
with a stranger, she will be quite safe, I assure you; and if you are
willing, therefore, I should like to take her out for a few hours. I
have some plans that may be greatly to the child's advantage, I think."

"You'll be sure to bring her back," asked Granny in a spasm of anxious
terror, which showed in her eyes.

"Why, certainly! My poor woman, I cannot blame you for this
carefulness;" for the worn face with its eagerness touched Mrs. Osgood.
"My brother-in-law, Mr. Duncan, is a well-known merchant in New York;
and I think you will confess when I return Florence this afternoon,
that the ride has been no injury to her."

Granny could make no further objections, and yet she did not feel quite
at ease. But Florence entered looking so bright and expectant, that she
had not the heart to disappoint her, so she kept her fears to herself.

"You must not feel troubled," Mrs. Osgood deigned to say, as she rose
rather haughtily. "You will find my promises perfectly reliable."

"You needn't finish my pieces," Florence whispered softly to Granny at
the door. "I shall be back time enough; and if the fire is out I'll
wait till to-morrow They are my ruffled aprons, and"--

Mrs. Osgood beckoned her with a smile and an inclination of the head.
Florence felt as if she were being bewitched.

Granny watched her as she stepped into the carriage.

[Illustration]

"If she'd been born a lady she couldn't act more like one. It's a great
pity"--

A few tears finished Granny's sentence. All the others were more
content with their poverty than Florence.

So she went back to her ironing with a heart into which had crept some
strange misgiving. Hal was out; Joe never came home to dinner; so
Granny gave the children a piece of bread all round, and kept going
steadily on until the last ruffled apron had been taken out of the pile.

Very long indeed the hours seemed. Oh, if any harm should befall her
beautiful, darling Flossy! Poor Joe, in his grave, had loved her so
well!

Flossy meanwhile was having a most delightful time.

"I am going to take you to Salem," Mrs. Osgood said, after Florence had
begun to feel quite at home with her. "We will have our dinner at the
hotel."

Salem was the county town,--quite a pretentious place, with some broad,
straight streets, several banks, and, indeed, a thriving business
locality. Florence had been there twice with Mrs. Kinsey.

Mrs. Osgood began to question the child about herself. Florence told
over her past life, making the best, it must be confessed, of the
poverty and discomforts. And yet she seemed to take rather hardly the
fact of such a lot having fallen upon her. Mrs. Osgood was secretly
pleased with her dissatisfaction.

"I wonder how you would like to live with me?" she questioned. "I think
I should enjoy having some one that I could make a companion of--as one
never can of a servant."

Flossy's heart beat with a sudden delight, and for the first moment she
could hardly speak.

"I live a short distance from New York, on the banks of the Hudson:
at least, my house is there, but I travel a great deal. It would be
very pleasant to have a--a friend of one's own,"--Mrs. Osgood was not
_quite_ sure that it was best or wisest to say child.

"Oh, it would be very delightful! If I could"--and the child's eyes
were aglow with delight.

"There are so many of you at home, that your grandmother would not miss
one. Besides, I could do a great many nice things for you."

"It is like a dream!" and Flossy thought of her wild day-dream. "And I
could sew as well as embroider; and oh! I _would_ try to make myself
useful," she said eagerly.

Mrs. Osgood smiled. She had taken a strange fancy to this child, and
enjoyed her look of adoration.

They talked it over at some length, and Flossy listened with delight to
the description of the beautiful house. This was altogether different
from Mrs. Van Wyck's affair.

Presently they arrived at the hotel. Mrs. Osgood ordered the horses to
be cared for, and then entered the parlor.

"Can we have a private room?" she asked with an air that Florence
thought extremely elegant. "And then our dinner"--

"Will you have it brought up to your room?"

"Oh, no! Perhaps I had better give my order now," and there was a
languid indifference in her tone.

"Yes, it would be better," replied the brisk waitress.

"Well, we will have some broiled chicken, I think--are you fond of
that, Florence? and vegetables--with some lobster salad and relishes."

Florence had a wonderful deal of adaptiveness, and she almost
insensibly copied Mrs. Osgood. They went up to the room, and refreshed
themselves with a small ablution, for the riding had been rather dusty.
Florence shook out her beautiful curls, and passed her damp fingers
over them.

"What lovely hair!" exclaimed Mrs. Osgood with a sigh: it was a habit
of hers, as if every thing called up some past regret. "When I was a
young girl, mine was the admiration of everybody. You would hardly
think it now."

"Were you ill?" asked Florence, feeling that she was expected to say
something sympathizing.

"My health has been wretched for years. Mr. Osgood was sick a long
while, and I had so much trouble! His people were not very kind to me:
they tried to make him leave the property away from me, and then they
attempted to break the will. There's so much selfishness in this world,
my dear!"

Florence experienced a profound sympathy for Mrs. Osgood, and was quite
ready to espouse her cause against any one. Already she felt in some
way constituted her champion.

But, as Mr. Osgood left no children, he thought it quite just that his
property should go back to his own family after Mrs. Osgood's death.
And, to confess the truth, he had not found his wife quite perfection.

There were not many people in the dining-room when they entered. They
had one end of the long table, and the  waiter was most polite
and solicitous. One by one their little dishes came on, and the broiled
chicken had a most appetizing flavor.

Florence acquitted herself very creditably. She was not awkward with
her silver fork, and allowed herself to be waited upon with great
complacency. Mrs. Osgood was wonderfully pleased, for she was watching
every action. How had the child acquired so many pretty ways?

By the time they reached home again it was agreed, if grandmother made
no objection, that Florence should spend a month at Seabury with Mrs.
Osgood. This was the better arrangement the lady thought; for, if she
changed her mind, in that case she could draw back gracefully.

Granny was much relieved to see them return. Mrs. Osgood deigned to
enter the cottage again, and explained the matter to old Mrs. Kenneth.
Florence seconded the plan so earnestly, that it was quite impossible
to refuse. And somehow Granny felt very much bewildered.

"Can you be ready next week?" asked Mrs. Osgood.

Florence questioned Granny mutely with her eyes; but, seeing that her
senses were going astray, answered for herself.

"Monday, then, I will come over for you. And now, my child, good-by. I
hope you have had a pleasant day."

Florence thanked her again and again. Mrs. Osgood's heart was really
touched.

"What does she want you to do?" asked Granny, absently trying to thread
the point of her darning-needle.

"Why,--I'm sure I don't know;" and Flossy fell into a brown study. "To
wait upon her, I suppose, and sew a little, and--I like her so much! We
had an elegant dinner at Salem, and ice-cream for dessert. O Granny, if
one only _could_ be rich!"

"Yes," rejoined Granny with a sigh.

"Tell us all about it," said open-mouthed Charlie. "Mrs. Green saw you
riding by; and maybe she didn't make a time! She said you put on more
airs than all Madison."

"It is nothing to her," bridled Flossy.

"But what _did_ you have? Lots of goodies?"

"Yes, indeed. Silver forks and damask napkins and finger-bowls."

"Finger-bowls?"

That grandeur was altogether above Charlie's capacity.

"You need not look so amazed."

"What do you do with 'em."

"Why, there's a piece of lemon floating round on the top; and you dip
in the ends of your fingers, and wipe them on the napkin."

"But can't you eat the lemon? That's what I'd do."

"It would be very ill-bred."

"Hum!" and Charlie's nose was elevated. "As if I'd care!"

"You would if you were out with refined people."

"Oh, my! How aristocrockery you are getting!" and Charlie gave a
prolonged whistle, and stood on one foot.

Flossy sighed a little over the supper-table. How nice it would be to
live at a hotel, and have a servant to wait upon one! But every thing
here was so dreadfully common and poor. And, though Flossy would have
scorned the idea of living out as a servant, she fancied a position of
companion or ladies' maid would be rather agreeable than otherwise.

Hal was very much interested in her day's adventure. He seemed to
understand it better than any of the others, and she could talk to him
without the fear of being laughed at. They still sat in the moonlight,
when suddenly a sharp click was heard, and a report that made them all
scream.

Joe, the good-for-nothing, laughed.

"Wasn't that gay? Hurrah for Fourth of July!"

"Is it you?" asked Granny, who had thrown her apron over her head to
keep her from being shot. "And is it a musket, or a cannon?"

"Why don't you frighten us all to death?" said Florence indignantly.

"Oh, it's a pistol!" exclaimed Hal.

"O Joe! and you'll be shot all to pieces before to-morrow night,"
bewailed Granny. "I'm so afraid of guns and fire-crackers! I once knew
a little boy who had his hand shot off."

"If he could only have had it shot on again. I mean to try that way,
like the man who jumped into the bramble-bush. Or wouldn't it do to
shoot the pistol off instead of my fingers."

"Is it yours for good, Joe?" and Charlie's head was thrust over Hal's
shoulders. "A real pistol! Let me see it."

"Yes, it's mine. I bought it to keep Fourth of July with."

"Why, I forgot all about Fourth of July," said Charlie in an aggrieved
tone. "And I haven't a cent!"

"Bad for you, Charlie."

"Won't you let me fire off the pistol?"

"Oh, don't!" implored Granny.

"Just once more. It was splendid! I was fast asleep on the floor, and
it woke me up."

"Good for the pistol," said Joe. "I'll try it in the morning when you
are asleep."

They all had to handle the pistol, and express their opinions. Joe had
bought it of Johnny Hall, for a dollar, as Johnny, in turn, wanted to
buy a cannon. And the remaining half-dollar of his week's wages had
been invested in fireworks.

Granny sighed. But boys would be boys, and Fourth of July only came
once a year.

"There's to be an oration on the green, and the soldiers will be out,
and it'll be just jolly! Hurray! And a holiday in the middle of the
week! Mr. Terry said I needn't come to the store at all."

"There'll be some music, won't there?" asked Kit.

"A drum and a bass-viol, I guess. But it would be royal to go over to
Salem, and hear the brass band."

"What's a brass band?" was Kit's rather puzzled inquiry.

"What a goose! Why, a brass band is--horns and things."

"What kind of horns?" for Joe's explanation lacked lucidity.

"Oh, bother! Kit, you'll burn up the ocean some day with your
brightness."

"Cornets," said Hal; "and something like a flute, and cymbals, and ever
so many instruments."

"Did you ever see 'em?"

"No, but I've read about them."

Kit chewed his thumb. It was one of his old baby habits.

"Now I am going to load her again," said Joe, in a peculiarly
affectionate tone. "It's as light as day out here."

"But, Joe, if you _should_ shoot some one, or your fingers, or put your
eyes out!"

"Never you mind, Granny. Boys go ahead of cats for lives."

Granny put her apron over her head again, and then ran in to Dot.

"Bang!"

"Nobody wounded," laughed Joe, "and only two or three slightly killed.
The country is safe, Granny, this great and _gelorious_ country, over
which the eagle waves his plumes, and flaps his wings, and would crow
if he could. My soul is filled with enthusiasm,--I feel as if I should
_bust_, and fly all round! There's that miserable Dot lifting up her
voice."

The racket had broken her slumbers, and then the children were implored
to be quiet. Joe went to bed, in order to be able to get up good and
early. Charlie thought she should sleep with her clothes on, so as
to save the trouble of dressing. Kit sat in the moonlight chewing his
thumb, and wondering if he could manage to get over to Salem to-morrow.
If he could only hear that music!




CHAPTER IX.

  FOURTH OF JULY.


The children were up at the peep of dawn. Granny was awakened by
something that seemed not unlike the shock of an earthquake; but
Flossy, rubbing her eyes, said with a sigh,--

"Oh, dear! Joe has begun with his pistol the first thing! What does
possess boys to be so noisy!"

Charlie, perched astride the gate-post, her clothes considerably
tumbled, and her hair unkempt, thought it splendid. "If Joe would only
let her fire _once!_ Just as soon as she had a dollar she meant to buy
a pistol of her own. It would always be good to keep away robbers!"

Joe laughed uproariously.

"Robbers indeed! There's nothing to steal here, unless it's some of the
youngsters. You'd be sure to go first, Charlie!"

"I shall be thankful when Fourth of July is over," said Granny in a
troubled voice, while Joe was singing,--

    "But children are not pigs, you know,
    And cannot pay the rint;"

but at that remark so derogatory to patriotism, he bridled up at once.

"Fourth of July's as good as Saint Patrick, or any other man. Who
would be so base and ignoble of soul, and stingy of powder, as not to
celebrate his birthday! when the country stretches from the north pole
to the south, and is kept from bursting only by the centrifugal forces
of the equator"--

Hal's rooster finished the speech by his longest and loudest crow.

"Good for you! You've some patriotism, I see. You are not craven of
soul, if powder doesn't come in your way. Granny, when can we have
breakfast? I'm about famished with all my speech-making."

Hal fed his crowd of chickens, and amused Dot, who did not quite enjoy
being deprived of her morning nap. Presently they were summoned to
their meal.

"I'm going over to the store," announced Joe. "I want to see the
Declaration of Independence read by the American eagle, and the salute
fired by the Stars and Stripes, while the militia climb up their
muskets and give three cheers."

"Are they going to do that?" asked Charlie. "Granny, can't I go too?"

"You must put on a clean dress."

"Oh, dear! when I slept in mine too, so as to be ready," Charlie
exclaimed, broken-hearted. "Won't you wait, Joe?"

"I can't bother with girls," returned Joe.

Charlie lamented her hard fate, but emerged from the hands of Florence
quite a respectable looking child. Kit spent some time in adorning
himself, and trying to smooth his refractory scalp-lock. He had been
very quiet all the morning.

"Now that they are off we can have a little peace," said Florence.

Granny sighed. They were a great bother and torment, to be sure; but,
after all, it was good to have the merry, noisy crew, safe and sound,
and she should be glad when they returned.

Hal's tastes inclined neither to fire-crackers nor sky-rockets. So he
went into the garden, and began to look after his rather neglected
vegetables. The chickens made bad work, it must be confessed, though
the attractions of their buckwheat field were pretty strong, and Hal
ingeniously repaired the fence with brush; but now and then there would
be a raid. The Lima beans were doing beautifully, the corn looked
promising; and, altogether, he thought the prospect was fair. Then he
met with a delightful surprise.

"O Granny!" and he rushed into the house. "Just think,--three of my
grape-vines have beautiful long shoots on them. I haven't looked in
ever so long, for I thought they didn't mean to grow. Come and see."

There they were, sure enough. Hal had set out some cuttings from the
neighbors, but he had been almost discouraged with their slow progress.

"That's a Concord, and that's a Hartford Prolific. Don't they look
lovely in their soft, pinkish green! Why, I feel as if I could give
them all a hug. I'll have to put a lattice round, for fear of the
chickens."

So he went to work. Dot wanted to help, and brought him useless sticks,
while she carried off his hammer and lost his nails. But when she
looked up at him with the sweetest little face in the world, and said,
"Ain't Dotty 'mart? Dotty help 'ou," he could not scold her.

The dinner was rather quiet. None of the stray youngsters made their
appearance. Afterward Florence dressed herself, and went to see Netty
Bigelow, her dearest school-friend, and imparted to her that she was
going to Seabury next Monday, to stay a month with a very elegant lady,
and that she would live at a hotel. Then she described her ride to
Salem, and the dinner.

"Oh, how nice it must have been!" said Netty. "You are the luckiest
girl I ever did know, Florence Kenneth."

"I just wish I was as rich as Mrs. Osgood. It seems to me that poor
people cannot be very happy."

"I don't know," Netty returned thoughtfully. "The Graysons do not seem
_very_ happy."

"But I never saw such mean, disagreeable girls; and they are not
dressed a bit pretty. If there's any thing in school they always want
their share, but they never treat."

"And we are poor," continued Netty; "but I'm sure we are happy."

Florence felt that her friend could hardly understand the degree of
happiness that she meant. She was rather out-growing her youthful
companions.

About mid-afternoon Hal took a walk over to the store. The old rusty
cannon of Revolutionary memory had been fired on the green, the
speeches made, and the small crowd dispersed. Nearly everybody had gone
to Salem; but a few old stagers still congregated at the store, it
being general head-quarters.

Hal picked Charlie out of a group of children, in a very dilapidated
condition. Her once clean dress was soiled, torn, and burned; her
hands gave the strongest evidence that dust entered largely into
the composition of small people; and her face was variegated by
perspiration and dabs from these same unlucky hands.

"O Charlie! you look like a little vagabond!" exclaimed Hal in despair.
"I'm ashamed of you!"

"But I've had such fun, and cakes and candies and fire-crackers and
torpedoes! I wish Fourth of July would keep right straight along. I
burned one of my fingers, but I didn't mind," declared the patriotic
girl.

"Where's Kit?"

"I don't know. Joe was round this morning, but I guess he went to
Salem."

"You must come home with me now."

"O Hal! we haven't found all the 'cissers' yet. They're almost as good
as fire-crackers."

Several of the children were burrowing in the grass and sand for
"fusees,"--crackers that had failed to explode to the full extent of
their powder. They broke them in two and relighted them.

Hal was inexorable; so Charlie cried a little, and then bade her dirty
companions a sad farewell.

"Oh!" exclaimed Granny, as they came marching up the path, "what a
sight! And your Sunday best dress, Charlie!"

"Well," sniffed Charlie with a crooked face, though there were no tears
to give it effect, "I'm sure I didn't want to put it on. I hate to be
dressed up! Something always happens to your Sunday clothes. I couldn't
help tearing it, and Jimmy Earl set off a cracker right in my lap"--

"Well, I'm glad it wasn't your eyes," said Granny thankfully. And then
she took the forlorn pyramid of dirt and disorder up stairs, where she
had a good scrubbing, and was re-arrayed in a more decent fashion.
Anybody else would have scolded, but Granny was so glad to have her
back safe and sound.

Her heart was sorely anxious about Kit and Joe. She let the supper
stand on the table, and they all sat on the doorstep in the moonlight;
for Dot had taken a nap in the afternoon, and was bright as a new penny.

And she fancied, as many mothers and grandmothers have before now, that
shocking accidents had happened, and maybe they would be maimed and
crippled for life.

Presently they came straggling along, and Granny uttered a cry of
relief.

"Oh!" she said, "are you all here? Haven't you lost your hands, nor
your fingers, nor"--

"Nor our noses, and not even our tongues," laughed Joe. "Here we are,
pistol and all."

"O Kit! where have you been? I was a most worried to death; and you
look tuckered out."

For Kit was pale to ghostliness as he stood there in the moonlight.

"Where do you think I found him,--the small snipe? Way over to Salem!"

"O Kit! did you see the fireworks and the soldiers?" exclaimed Charlie
breathlessly.

Kit sank down on the doorstep.

"Walked all the way over there, and hadn't a penny!"

"How could you Kit, without saying a word?" exclaimed Granny in a tone
of mild reproach.

"I could have given you a little money," said Hal tenderly.

"And it's a mercy that you didn't get run over, or shot to pieces, or
trampled to death in the crowd"--

"O Granny! don't harrow up our feelings," said Joe.

"I was afraid you wouldn't let me go," began Kit, at the first
available opportunity for slipping in a word. "And I didn't walk quite
all the way there,--a man came along, and gave me a ride. I wanted to
hear the music so much! The soldiers were splendid, Charlie; some of
'em with great white feathers in their hats and swords and beautiful
horses and coats all over gold"--

"Wonderful hats," suggested Joe with a twinkle; for Kit had gone on
with small regard to commas or accent.

"They all know what I mean!" said Kit rather testily.

"Don't plague him," interposed Hal. "About the music, Kit?"

"Oh! I can't half tell you;" and Kit gave a long sigh. "There were
drums and fifes, and those clappers--I don't remember what you called
'em, but I liked it best when the men were horning with their horns"--

Joe gave a loud outburst, and went over on his head.

"Well," said Kit much aggrieved, "what are you laughing about?"

"Horning! That is good! You had better write a new dictionary, Kit.
It is a decided improvement upon 'toot,' and must commend itself to
Flossy's attention for superior elegance. There, my dear, give me a
vote of thanks;" and Joe twitched Flossy's long curls.

"I don't know what you call it, then," said Kit rather sulkily.

"They blew on the horns," Hal rejoined in his soothing tone, that
was always a comfort in times of disturbance; "and the cornets,
wind-instruments, I believe, though I don't know the names of them all.
It must have been delightful."

"Oh, it was! I shut my eyes, and it seemed as if I was floating on a
sea, and there were all the waves beating up and down, and then a long
soft sound like the wind blowing in and shaking it all to echoes. I was
so sorry when they stopped. They all went into the hotel, I guess it
was. By and by I wandered off a little ways, and sat on a stoop; and
some one was playing on a piano. That was beautiful too. I'd like to
crawl inside of something, as the fairies do, and just live there and
listen forever."

"And then I found him, hungry and tired, and bought him some cake,"
interrupted Joe. "We waited to see the fireworks, and rode home in Mr.
Terry's wagon. But for that I guess he'd been sitting on the stoop yet."

"And you haven't tasted a mouthful of supper!" exclaimed Granny; "and I
a listenin' here, and never thinkin' of it."

"I'm not much hungry," said Joe. "I was treated a time or two by the
boys."

But he thought he wouldn't tell that he had taken up his week's wages
in advance, and spent it all. Fourth of July did not come but once a
year, and a body ought to have a good time.

Poor Joe had discovered, much to his chagrin, that a dollar and a half
would not work wonders. It seemed to him at first that he never could
get his suit of clothes paid for; then it was a hat, a pair of shoes,
some cheap summer garments; and he never had a penny for Hal or any one
else. In fact, he began to think that he would make more money working
round for the farmers. But then the store was steady employment.

He gave Charlie a glowing account of the fireworks, while Kit was
eating a bowl of bread and milk; then they were glad to tumble into bed.

"I'm thankful it's all over, and their arms and legs are safe, and
their eyes not blown out," said Granny with fervent gratitude.

Kit was pretty tired the next day, and Joe found it rather hard to
make all things work together for good. Granny shed a few tears over
Charlie's "best dress," and wondered how she could patch it so as to
look decent.

Florence, in the mean while, was much occupied with her own plans. She
could hardly wait for Monday to come, and proposed to do the usual
washing on Saturday, so there wouldn't be any "muss" around when Mrs.
Osgood called.

She was neat as a new pin as she sat awaiting her visitor. Her clothes
had been looked over, and the best selected. There was nothing to
pack them in, however, except a small, moth-eaten hair trunk, or a
dilapidated bandbox; and the latter was Florence's detestation.

"I can do them up in a paper," she said; and Charlie was sent to scour
the neighborhood for the required article.

Mrs. Osgood and Mrs. Duncan came together. The latter lady had laughed
a little at her sister's plan at first; but, when she found it was
really serious, thought it would be as well for her to try it a month.

Mrs. Duncan was rather exclusive, and had a horror of crowds of poor
people's children.

"It would be so much better to take some one who had no relatives," she
said.

"I shall not adopt the whole family, you may be sure," was the response.

Some of Mrs. Duncan's prejudices were surmounted by the general order
and tidiness to which Florence had reduced matters; and she was
wonderfully well-bred, considering her disadvantages.

"I shall keep her for a month, while I remain at Seabury; and, if
I should want her afterward, we can make some new arrangements,"
Mrs. Osgood explained. "I shall see, of course, that she has ample
remuneration."

Florence . Living with such a grand lady seemed enough, without
any pay.

"What are you crying for, Granny?" she asked as she followed her into
the kitchen. "How ridiculous! Why, it is just as if I were going away
upon a visit; and you wouldn't be sorry then."

"It isn't because I'm sorry;--but--none of you have ever been away
afore"--

Florence knitted her brows. How foolish to make such a fuss!

"There are so many of us, that we're like bees in a hive. You ought to
be glad to have me go. And I dare say I shall ride over some day"--

"To be sure. But every one is missed."

Florence kissed the children all round, and was much mortified at the
bundle tied up in a newspaper.

"If I get any money, I mean to buy a travelling-bag," she commented
internally.

"Tate me too," exclaimed Dot, clinging to Florence's dress: luckily her
hands were clean.

"Oh! you can't go, Dotty: Charlie will show you the beautiful chickens."

Dot set up a fearful cry, and wriggled herself out of Charlie's arms,
and Granny took her. Florence hurried through her good-bys, and was
glad to leave the confusion behind.

Granny indulged in a little cry afterward, and then went to her
ironing. Of course they must all flit from the old hive some time.
She could hardly persuade herself that Florence was fifteen,--almost a
young lady.

Joe and Hal wanted to hear all the particulars that evening. Charlie
dilated grandly on the magnificence of the ladies.

"It's real odd," said Joe. "Flossy always wanted to be a lady; and
maybe this is a step towards it. I wonder if I shall ever get to sea!"

"Oh, don't!" exclaimed Granny in a pitiful voice.

When Mrs. Green heard the news, she had to come over.

"I don't suppose they'd ever thought on't, if it hadn't been for me,"
she exclaimed. "They stopped to my house while their wagon was bein'
mended, and the sickly lookin' one seemed to be terribly interested in
your folks; so, thinks I, if I can do a good turn for a neighbor it's
all right; and I spoke a word, now and then, for Florence,--though it's
a pity her name hadn't been Mary Jane. I never did approve of such
romantic names for children. And I hope Florence will be a good girl,
and suit; for the Lord knows that you have your hands full!"

Charlie ran wild, as usual, through vacation. In one of her long
rambles in the woods she found a hollow tree with a rock beside it,
and her fertile imagination at once suggested a cave. She worked very
industriously to get it in order; brought a great pile of leaves for
a bed, and armsful of brush to cook with, and then besought Kit to run
away and live in the woods.

Kit tried it for one day. They had some apples and berries, and a
piece of bread taken from the pantry when Granny wasn't around. They
undertook to fish, but could not catch any thing; though Charlie was
quite sure, that, if Joe would lend her his pistol, she could shoot a
bird.

"Anyhow, we'll have a fire, and roast our apples," said Charlie,
undaunted.

"But it's awful lonesome, I think. S'pose we don't stay all night:
Granny'll be worried."

"Pooh!" returned Charlie with supreme disdain.

So she lighted her fire. The twigs crackled and blazed, and the flame
ran along on the ground.

"Isn't it splendid!" she exclaimed, "Why, it's almost like fireworks!
Oh, see, Kit! that dead tree has caught. We'll have a gay old time now."

Alas! Charlie's "gay old time" came to an ignoble end. Some one rushed
through the woods shouting,--

"Hillo! What the mischief are you at? Don't you know any better than to
be setting the woods on fire?"

It was Mr. Trumbull, looking angry enough. He bent the burning tree
over, and stamped out the blaze; then poked the fire apart, and crushed
the burning fragments into the soft ground. A dense smoke filled the
little nook.

"Whose work is this? You youngsters deserve a good thrashing, and I've
half a mind to take your hide off."

With that he caught Kit by the arm.

"He didn't do it," spoke up courageous Charlie. "He never brought a
leaf nor a stick; and you sha'n't thrash him!"

"What's he here for, then?"

"I brought him."

"And did you kindle the fire?"

"Yes," said Charlie, hanging her head a little.

"What for? Didn't you know that you might burn the woods down, in such
a dry time? Why, I could shut you up in jail for it."

That frightened Charlie a good deal.

"I didn't mean to--do any harm: we thought--we'd have a little
fun"--came out Charlie's answer by jerks.

"Fine fun! Why, you're Granny Kenneth's youngsters! I guess I'll have
to march you off to jail."

"Oh, let Kit go home!" cried Charlie with a great lump in her throat.
"It wasn't his fault. He didn't even want to come."

Something in the child's air and frankness touched Mr. Trumbull's
heart, and caused him to smile. He had a houseful of children at home,
every one of whom possessed a wonderful faculty for mischief; but this
little girl's bravery disarmed his anger.

"I want to explain to you that a fire like this might burn down a
handsome piece of woodlands worth thousands of dollars. All these large
trees are sent to the sawmill, and made into boards and shingles and
various things. So it would be a great loss."

"I'm very sorry," returned Charlie. "I didn't know it would do any
harm."

"If I don't take you to jail this time, will you promise never to do it
again?"

Charlie shivered a little at her narrow escape.

"I surely wouldn't," she said very soberly.

By this time Mr. Trumbull had the fire pretty well out.

"Well, don't ever let me catch you at it again, or you will not get off
so easily. Now trot home as fast as you can."

Charlie paused a moment, tugging at the cape of her sun-bonnet.

"I'm glad you told me about burning up the woods," she said. "I didn't
think of that."

Mr. Trumbull laughed pleasantly.

So the two walked homeward, Charlie in a more serious frame of mind
than usual.

"I tell you, Kit," she began at length, "out West is the place to have
a cave, and fires, and all that Hal had a book about it. Sometimes
children are kidnapped by Indians, and live in their tents, and learn
how to make bead-bags and moccasins"--

"I don't want to go;" and Kit gave his slender shoulders a shrug. "They
scalp you too."

"But they wouldn't me. I should marry one of the chiefs." Then, after a
rather reflective pause, "I'm glad we didn't burn down Mr. Trumbull's
woods: only I guess he wasn't in earnest when he said he would put me
in jail."

But for all that she begged Kit not to relate their adventure to
Granny, and perplexed her youthful brain for a more feasible method of
running away.

The house seemed very odd without Florence. The children's small errors
passed unrebuked; and they revelled in dirt to their utmost content.
For what with working out a day now and then, getting meals, patching
old clothes, and sundry odd jobs, Granny had her poor old hands quite
full. But she never complained.




CHAPTER X.

  WHICH SHOULD SHE CHOOSE?


The reality at Seabury far exceeded Florence Kenneth's expectations.
The hotel was really finer than that at Salem. And then, instead
of being maid, she found here a woman who waited upon Mrs. Osgood,
arranged her hair, kept her dresses in order, and did the small
errands. What was she to do, then?

Not very much, it seemed. She read aloud, and Florence was an
undeniably good reader; she embroidered a little, went every day for a
ride, and absolutely sat in the parlor. It was rather embarrassing at
first.

"I have decided," Mrs. Osgood said to her sister, a few days afterward.
"The child has a very sweet temper, and a most affectionate nature;
and then she is so lovely. A perfect blonde beauty! In two years she
will be able to enter society. Mrs. Deering declared yesterday that her
voice was remarkable."

"I hope you will not spoil her completely. She has a good share of
vanity, I perceive."

"It is only proper pride: the child is well-born. I know her mother
must have been a lady, and Kenneth is not a common name."

"I am sure I hope your _protegee_ will prove a comfort."

Then Mrs. Osgood announced her plans to Florence, who was literally
overwhelmed. To be adopted by so rich a lady, to have an elegant home,
and become skilled in all accomplishments--was it not a dream,--her
wild, improbable dream?

To Florence Mrs. Osgood was an angel. True, she had seen her rather
pettish, and sometimes she scolded Martha, and gave way to hysterical
spasms; but these were minor faults. She drew the child to her with the
sweet and not-forgotten arts of her faded girlhood, and was pleased
with the sincere homage that had in it so much of wonder. Florence
would love her like a daughter.

"I cannot promise to leave you a fortune," she said, "but while I live
you shall have every thing. I was treated very unjustly by Mr. Osgood's
will; though I know he was influenced by his relatives, who grudge me
every penny. They would be very glad to have some of their children
live at Roselawn: I christened the place myself on account of the
roses."

"How beautiful it must be!" exclaimed Florence, enchanted.

"It _is_ a handsome place. You would have a governess, and be taught
music and French and drawing, and be introduced everywhere as my
daughter. If I had one, I fancy she would look something like you, for
I was called very pretty in my younger days;" and Mrs. Osgood sighed.

"I can never be grateful enough," said Florence.

"I shall want you to love me a great deal,--just as if I were your own
mother. And when you are grown you must make me your confidant. You
will marry brilliantly, of course; but you must promise that it will
not be without my consent."

"I shall never want to leave you!" declared Florence impulsively,
kissing the thin hands.

"It will be such a luxury to have your affection. My life has always
been so lonely. Very few people can understand my sensitive nature, but
I trust you will be able to."

There was some other points not so congenial. When they came to these,
Florence's heart shrank a little.

For, if she chose Mrs. Osgood, the group at home must drop out of her
life completely. There could be no visiting, no corresponding.

Poor Florence! This was a cloud upon her bright visions.

"I shall write to your grandmother occasionally to let her know that
you are well; but, as my daughter, you will be in such an entirely
different sphere, that the slightest intimacy would be unwise."

What should she do? Would Granny think her cruel and ungrateful?

Mrs. Osgood proposed to take her back to Madison to spend a few days in
which to decide. As for her, it hardly appeared possible to her that
the child could hesitate. And now that she had enjoyed this little
taste of luxury, poverty would seem all the more repulsive.

They drove over one morning. Luckily, Granny was in very tolerable
order; but, oh the difference! She was so glad to see Florence, that
she kissed and cried over her a little.

"I want to have a talk with your grandmother," Mrs. Osgood said; and
Florence betook herself to the kitchen. How dreadfully poor and mean
every thing looked!

Mrs. Osgood went straight about the business in hand. She described
her offer in the most glowing terms, and held out all its advantages.
It would relieve Mrs. Kenneth from much care and anxiety, give her one
less to struggle for; and then Florence would have the position for
which Nature had fitted her. Not one thing was forgotten.

Granny listened like one in a dream. Flossy to be a rich lady's
daughter,--to ride in a carriage, to have a piano, and be dressed in
silk! Could it be true?

"But oh! I can't give her up," moaned Granny. "She was poor Joe's
first-born, and such a sweet, pretty baby! There never was one on 'em
that I could spare."

"I wish you would take counsel with some friend. I think this
opportunity for Florence is too good to be thrown away."

"I don't know, I'm sure. You are very kind and generous. But to part
with my poor darling."

The lady rose at length.

"I shall leave Florence here for three days," she said. "In the mean
while consider the subject well, and do not stand in the way of the
child's welfare."

Florence was very sorry to part with Mrs. Osgood. She walked out to the
gate, and lingered there, clinging to the slender hand, and at last
being kissed tenderly.

"Think earnestly of my proposal. On Saturday I shall come for my
answer," said Mrs. Osgood.

The lady had not much fear. She knew that money was all-potent in this
world; and it was quite absurd to suppose that a pretty girl would
prefer toil and poverty in this hovel, to luxury and ease with handsome
surroundings.

"Oh dear!" and Granny's arms were around Flossy's neck. "I can't let
you go away forever. And I am sure you don't want to," scanning the
fair face with her fond and eager eyes.

"Granny, I don't know what to say. I should so like to have an
education, and to be--oh! don't cry so. If every one thinks I ought not
to go,"--and Flossy's lip quivered.

"I am a foolish old body," sobbed Granny. "I'm not worth minding, my
dear."

"Fossy tum home. What 'ou ky?" said Dot, tugging at Granny's dress.

"If we could see you once in a while."

Florence felt the last to be an impossibility. She had a keen
perception of the difference in station, and the nameless something
that Granny could not be brought to see.

"You would hear about me," she said softly.

Granny went back to her ironing. Florence offered to help, and arranged
her own light table. But it was uncomfortable this hot summer day, and
her tender hand felt as if it was blistered. She consoled herself by
relating the experiences of the past month, and inwardly sighing for
the luxurious life. Granny was not so stupid but that she could see the
direction of the child's desires.

"I don't wonder that you liked it; and she couldn't help loving you,
even if I do say it. Why, a queen might be proud of you! If we knew
some one to ask."

"There is Mr. Howard," Florence suggested.

"Sure enough. He would see all sides of it. We'll go over after the
work is done;" and Granny tried to smile a little lightness into her
sad face.

Charlie had gone to pull weeds for a neighbor, Hal was out also, so
there was only Kit to dinner. After that was out of the way, and Dot
had her nap, they made themselves ready for their call.

Florence tried her best to make a lady out of Granny. A queer little
old woman she was, and would be to the end of the chapter. Her bonnet
was dreadfully old-fashioned, and her gingham dress too short for
modern requirements. Her wrinkled hands were as brown as berries, and
she never _would_ wear gloves in the summer. Then, after she was all
ready, she surreptitiously tied on her black alpaca apron; at which
Flossy gave a sigh of despair.

The parsonage was a pretty little nest, half-covered with vines, and
shaded by a great sycamore. Dolly and Fred Howard were playing on the
grass, and Dot started for the small group instantly.

"O Mrs. Kenneth! how do you do? What a stranger you are! And here is
Florence, fresh as a rose! I heard that you had run away, my child.
Come and sit in the shade here: it is cooler than within doors. Mary,
here are some visitors."

Mrs. Howard gave them a cordial welcome, and insisted that Granny
should lay aside her bonnet. She inquired if Florence had enjoyed her
month at Seabury, and if she was not glad to get back again.

Granny twisted her apron-strings, and glanced at the young girl
uneasily. Of course she must begin somehow, but there was a great
sinking at her heart.

"Flossy's had a chance," she began; and then the strings were untied.
"We thought we'd come and ask a little advice. It's hard tellin' what's
for the best;" and Granny looked as if she might break down into a cry.

"A chance for an education?" asked Mrs. Howard.

"No: it's--to go for good. Flossy, you tell. I am not much of a hand at
getting things straight," murmured Granny.

Florence told the story in a very ladylike fashion, giving it the air
of a romance.

"Why, Florence, that is quite an adventure. And she wants to adopt
you?" Mrs. Howard exclaimed, much interested.

"Do you know any thing about this Mrs. Osgood?" asked Mr. Howard.

Florence used her limited knowledge to its fullest extent.

"Oh! I believe I know something about Mrs. Duncan. Dr. Carew was
attending the boy. I have heard him speak of them all. Isn't Mrs.
Osgood something of an invalid,--rather full of whims?"

"She is not very strong," Florence admitted.

"But it is a remarkable offer," rejoined Mrs. Howard. "And to have one
of the family so well provided for, seems like an especial providence."

"But to have her go away," said Granny. "To give her up, and never see
her again!"

"That does seem unkind. Perhaps it would not be quite as bad as that."

Mr. Howard studied Florence attentively for a few moments. He had
always considered her rather above her station.

"It certainly is a generous proposal, granting every thing to be as
represented. Florence will receive a superior education, and be raised
above the care and drudgery of life. Yet she may have to devote many
of her best years to Mrs. Osgood; and ministering to an invalid is
wearisome work. It is taking her entirely away from her family, to be
sure; but, putting aside love, she might never be able to help along
much. Women are not extravagantly remunerated; and, if she went away to
teach school, she could not do much more than take care of herself. And
there would be a partial separation."

Florence gave Mr. Howard a look of relief and thankfulness.

"I don't want to keep her from doing whatever will be best," said
Granny tremulously.

"There are Joe and Hal to help along,--smart boys both. And though
your strong and tender arms have kept the little flock together these
many years, they will wear out by and by. And, if any accident befell
you, it would be well to have some of them provided for. The important
question seems to be whether what Florence can do at home will
compensate for what she must relinquish. The entire separation appears
to me rather unjust. You said that Mrs. Osgood proposed that you should
take counsel of some one: suppose I should go to Seabury, and talk the
matter over with her?"

"Oh, if you would!" said Florence beseechingly. She felt that Mr.
Howard was on her side, though she did not quite understand why.

"Yes," rejoined Granny, catching at a straw. "You could tell her how it
is,--poor Joe's children, every one on 'em so precious to me. I never
had much learnin'; but I love 'em for father and mother both, and I
can't bear to think of their going away. Ah, well! it's a world full of
trouble, though they've always been good to me, poor dears."

Mrs. Howard turned away her face to hide her tears, and presently left
them to get a slice of nice fresh cake and a glass of milk for her
guests. Her heart really ached for Granny.

So it was settled that Mr. Howard would go over to Seabury, and learn
all the particulars of the offer. Granny was very thankful indeed. Soon
after, they picked up Dot, and started homeward.

"You rather approve of it," Mrs. Howard said to her husband, watching
the retreating figures, and smiling at Dot, who pulled at every wayside
daisy-head.

"Florence has her heart set upon it, that is plain to see."

"And yet it seems ungrateful in her."

"It would be nobler for her to stay with Granny, and help rear the
others. Yet that is more than one can reasonably expect of pretty young
girlhood."

"She is industrious, and has many excellent points but she is a good
deal ashamed of the poverty."

"I wonder whether she would be any real assistance? She has a good deal
of vanity, and love of dress; and no doubt she would spend most of her
money upon herself. Then, in some mood of dissatisfaction, she might
marry unwisely, and perhaps be more trouble than comfort to Granny. If
Mrs. Osgood is in earnest, Florence would at least receive an education
that might fit her for a nice position in case Mrs. Osgood tired of
her."

"And the life at home is not a great delight to her," said Mr. Howard
with a smile. "But whether I would like to give up my brothers and
sisters"--

"Florence is peculiar. Ten years from this time she may love them
better than she does now."

There was a noisy time in the "Old Shoe" that night. They were all
so glad to have Flossy back again. Kit played on imaginary fiddles;
Charlie climbed on her chair, and once came tumbling over into her lap;
Hal watched her with delight, and thought her prettier than ever; Joe
whistled and sang, and told her all that had occurred in the store,
pointing his stories with an occasional somerset, or standing on his
head to Dot's great satisfaction.

"Well, that is really margaret-nificent," declared Joe, flourishing
Granny's old apron on the broomstick. "Flossy, you are in luck! It is
all due to your winning ways and curly hair."

"If I go"--with a sad little sigh.

"Go? why, of course you will! She'd be a great goose; would she not,
Granny?

    'Washing and ironing I daily have to do;
    Baking and brewing I must remember too;
    Three small children to maintain:
    Oh, how I wish I was single again!'"

sang Joe with irresistible drollery.

Granny laughed; but she winked her eyes hard, and something suspicious
shone in them.

"It would be splendid, and no mistake! To think of having a piano, and
learning French, and riding in a carriage--'A coach and four and a gold
galore!' And then pretty Peggy we should"--

Joe made a great pause, for something stuck in his throat.

"But couldn't we ever see you?" asked Charlie.

An awesome silence fell over the little group.

"If you could come and see us once in a while," said Hal softly. "We
would not so much mind not going _there_"--

"I'd run away and visit her," announced daring Charlie. "I'd hide about
in the woods until I saw her some day, and then"--

"They'd set the dog on you."

"Hum! As if I was afraid of a dog, Joe Kenneth! I'd snap my fingers in
his face, and ask him what he had for breakfast. Then I'd come back
home and tell you all about it."

"The breakfast, or the dog?"

"Joseph, I am afraid you are getting in your dotage," said Charlie with
a shake of the head. "But, if I started to, I know I'd find Florence."

"It is rather cruel," said Joe sturdily. "I don't see why she should
want to take you entirely away from us."

"We cannot look at it just as the lady does," said Hal's mild voice. "I
suppose she thinks, if she does so much for Flossy, that she ought to
have a good deal of love in return."

"She is ashamed of us because we are poor. But maybe if we managed to
get along, and grow up nicely--she wouldn't feel so--so particular
about it."

"I don't believe she would," exclaimed Florence. "You see, people
are so different; and--I'm sure I've always wanted you to have nice
manners."

"So you have, Flossy," declared Joe. "And you were meant for a lady."

Hal and Granny sat on the doorstep after the rest had gone to bed,
crying a little, and yet finding some comfort.

"It would be so nice for Florence!" Hal said in his pleading tone.
"She would always have to work here, and not learn music and all those
lovely things. And she has such a beautiful voice, you know, and such
pretty hands, and nice, dainty ways"--

"But never to see her again!" groaned Granny.

"I think we shall see her,--some time. Perhaps Mrs. Osgood might die:
she is not very well, and Flossy might come back to us. Oh, yes,
Granny, I do believe we shall see her again!"

"I've loved you all so much!"

"And we should always love you, even if we went to Japan. Then, if
Flossy should have to work hard, and be unhappy, we might be sorry that
we kept her out of any thing so nice."

"I do believe you are right, Hal; only it's so hard to think of not
seeing her again."

"I'll try to make it up, dear. You will always have me."

The soft young lips kissed those that quivered so piteously, and
smoothed the wet, wrinkled cheek.

"We'll pray about it, Granny. Somehow it seems as if God made these
things plain after a while; and it is in his hands. He hears the ravens
cry, poor, hungry little birdies; and he must care for us. He will
watch over Florence."

"O Hal, you talk like a minister! Maybe you will be one some day. And
it is so sweet to have you, dear boy!"

"I shall never be half good enough," he said solemnly.

He crept up to his room, but laid awake a long while, watching the
stars, and thinking.

Florence resolved the next day that she would not go, and braced
herself to martyr-like endurance. But oh, how mean and poor every thing
appeared by contrast! Charlie in rags,--you never could keep Charlie
in whole clothes; Dot playing in the dirt, for, though you washed
her twenty times an hour, she would not stay clean; the shabby, old
fashioned, tumble-down cottage,--no, Mrs. Osgood never would want any
of these wild Arabs visiting her.

So she shed many quiet tears. Perhaps it would be best to make the
sacrifice, hard as it was.

Granny saw it all. Her old eyes were not blind, and her heart smote her
for something akin to selfishness. Poor, aching heart.

"Flossy," she said, over her heart-break, "if Mr. Howard is satisfied,
I think you had better go."

"I have about decided to give it up. Perhaps it is my _duty_ to stay."

Granny scanned the face eagerly, but found there no cheerful and sweet
self-denial.

"I've been thinking it over"--her voice broken and quavering. "Perhaps
it will be best. Though I don't like to part with you, for your poor
father"--and Granny's inconsequent speech ended in tears.

"I'll stay home then, and do what I can; only it seems as if there
were so many of us,--and the place so little, and I can't help being
different, and liking music and education, and a nice orderly house"--

"No, you can't help it. Poor Joe--your father I mean--liked 'em all
too. I've sometimes thought that maybe, if he'd gone away, he might
have been a gentleman. He'd a master voice to sing. And God will watch
over you there, and not let you come to harm. Oh, dear!"

Granny covered her face with her apron, and cried softly.

Mr. Howard called that evening. He had been quite favorably impressed
with Mrs. Osgood's proposal.

"Her connections are all reputable people," he said; "and I think
she means to treat Florence like a daughter. She can give her many
advantages, and she is strongly attached to her already. But she _is_
exclusive and aristocratic. She wants Florence all to herself. Still,
she has made one concession: she will allow her to write home once a
year."

"And then I could tell you every thing!" exclaimed Florence overjoyed.

"But she is resolved not to permit any visiting. To be sure, time may
soften this condition; yet, if Florence goes, she ought to abide by her
promise."

"Yes," answered the child meekly.

"It does seem a remarkable opportunity. I do not know as it would be
wise to refuse."

Ah, if one _could_ know what was for the best! The days flew by
so rapidly, there was so much talking, but never any coming to a
conclusion. Joe was loudly on Florence's side. So was Hal, for
that matter; but from more thoughtful motives. And Granny was too
conscientious to stand in the way of the child's advancement, much as
she loved her, and longed to keep her.

Then, on Friday evening they sat on the old stone doorstep, a sad
group, going over the subject in low, sad tones, the pain of parting
already in their voices. Granny's vehemence had subsided. Hal had
Florence's soft hand in his, Kit's head was in her lap, and Charlie sat
at her feet.

Should she go? When all the mists and glamor of desire cleared away,
as they did now in the calm star-light, with God watching up above,
she felt that it would be nobler and truer to remain with them, and
share the poverty and the trials. For to have them ill, dying perhaps,
without looking upon their dear faces, with no last words or last
kisses to remember, was more than she could bear. Would it not seem
selfish to go off to luxury and indolence, when they must struggle on
with toil and care and poverty?

"Oh!" she exclaimed, going to Granny's arms, with a sob. "I believe
I cannot leave you when it comes to absolute parting. We have been
happy, in spite of the troubles and wants. I should miss you all so
much! And, if I could get to be a teacher, I might help a little."

Granny held her to her heart, and kissed the wet face again and again.

"My dear darling, God bless you!" she said brokenly.

Flossy thought herself a very heroic girl. There was a great lump
in her throat, and she could not utter another word. It was a born
princess turning her back on the palace.

Hal and Joe eyed each other inquisitively. It was the noblest thing she
could do, but would it be the wisest?




CHAPTER XI.

  OUT OF THE OLD HOME-NEST.


But then it all looked so different by daylight! The old rickety house,
the noisy children, the general shabbiness, and the life of hard work
and dissatisfaction, stretching out interminably. For, to the eyes
of fifteen, it seems a long way to fifty; and roses are so much more
tempting than thorns!

Hal found her out in the garden crying.

"Dear Flossy," he began tenderly, "I think you had better go, after
all. When the parting is over, Granny will be reconciled, and
understand that it is for the best."

"But I ought to stay at home and help," she sobbed. "If I could do
both"--

"That is not possible;" and Hal tried to smile away the tears in his
eyes.

"It looks so--so foolish not to be able to make up one's mind."

"It is a hard case, and there is so much on Mrs. Osgood's side."

"Hal, what would you do?" and Florence glanced up earnestly.

"My darling, I think you want to go, and that you would always be
unhappy and regretful if you staid. We can't help all our feelings and
wants and tastes; and it seems as if you were born for a lady. That is
natural too."

"But I do love you all, and dear Granny"--

"We shall never doubt that," he answered re-assuringly. "We shall often
sit on the old doorstep, and talk about you, and try to imagine you in
the beautiful house, with the pictures and the piano, and all the nice
things you will be learning. It will be just lovely for us too. Then
you can write every summer."

"And perhaps I shall come back when I am a woman!"

At this Florence brightened wonderfully, but after a moment said, "You
don't think it very selfish, Hal?"

"My dear, no," replied brave little Hal. "I am sure it would be a great
trial for me to give up any thing so splendid."

"If you would only tell Granny--again."

Hal nodded; for he couldn't say any more just then.

Granny wiped the tears out of her old eyes with the corner of her
checked apron, and trod upon the cat, stretched out upon the floor, who
added her pathetic howl to the fund of general sorrow.

So it came to pass, when Mrs. Osgood made her appearance, Florence was
quite elegant and composed. The lady was very, very gracious. She
expatiated on the great advantage this step would be to Florence, the
pleasure to _her_, and the relief to Granny to know that one of her
flock was provided for. Of course, she understood it was hard to part
with her; but they had so many left, that in a little while they would
hardly miss her. Then they _would_ hear about her, and no doubt come to
rejoice in her good fortune.

Indeed, by the time Mr. Howard arrived, she had talked them into quite
a reasonable frame of mind. She promised to treat her like a daughter,
educate her handsomely; so that, in case of her death, Florence would
be able to take care of herself. If, at the end of the first year,
she should feel unwilling to remain, Mrs. Osgood would not oppose her
return.

Granny was calm, but very grave, while these preliminaries were being
discussed. Hal kept swallowing over great sobs that wrenched his heart
at every breath. The agreement was concluded and signed.

"Now, my dear, put on your hat," said Mrs. Osgood in her sweetest tone.
"Brief partings are the kindest; are they not, Mr. Howard? I am much
obliged for your assistance in this matter; and you must permit me to
offer you a small donation for your pretty little church."

Granny's tears streamed afresh; but Hal managed her with delicate
tenderness. Florence kissed them all many times. Dot wanted to go in
the "boofer wagon;" while Kit and Charlie looked on, with tearful,
wondering eyes, not half understanding the importance of the step.

Then--she was driving away. One last, long look. Was that the waving of
her pretty white hand? Their eyes were too dim to see.

"It seems to me that she will come back to the old house some time,"
said Hal, breaking the sad silence.

Granny turned away, and shut herself in the best room. For a long while
they heard nothing of her. But God was listening to the heart-broken
prayer, which he answered in his own time and his own way.

"So Flossy's gone!" exclaimed Joe soberly that night. "I can't make it
seem a bit real. Air-castles don't generally turn into the substantial.
After the king's ball I guess she will come home in glass slippers, and
we will have her giving us loads of good advice. It is so sure to be
true, Granny, that we can afford to take a little comfort meanwhile."

Granny did not laugh as usual. Kit chewed his thumb vigorously, and saw
piles of violins in the distance.

But they confessed to being very lonesome on Sunday. Charlie declined
wearing Flossy's second-best hat; for she insisted that she "felt it in
her bones" that Florence would return, which Joe declared was incipient
rheumatism, and that she must take a steam-bath over the spout of the
tea-kettle. Yet secretly in his heart he had greater faith in the
mythical sea-captain who was to take him off with flying colors.

About a month afterwards they received a letter from Mrs. Osgood. Joe
displayed the handsome monogram in great triumph, and begged Mr. Terry
to let him run home with it at noon. They all crowded round him with
eager eyes.

"It's Granny's letter," he said, handing it to her.

"Read it, Hal," she rejoined tremulously.

Mrs. Osgood gave a delightful account of Florence; declaring that she
already loved her as a mother, and, the homesickness being over, she
was studying industriously. There was no doubt but that she would make
a very fine musician; and it was extremely fortunate that such talent
could be rescued in time to make the most of it. Then Florence added
a few words, to say that she was very happy, and that it seemed like
fairy-land, every thing was so beautiful. She enclosed a gift for them
all, and said good-by until next year.

They felt then how surely they were divided; yet they all rejoiced in
Flossy's good fortune. Mr. and Mrs. Howard were very kind; but I think
Hal's tender love did more towards comforting Granny than all the rest.
She kept telling herself that it was foolish to grieve; yet there was
a dumb ache way down in the poor old heart, an empty corner where one
birdling had flown out of the home-nest.

The affair had created quite an excitement in Madison. Joe pictured
it in the most gorgeous style, and made Mrs. Osgood an actual fairy
godmother. Mrs. Van Wyck, who still held a little grudge against her,
insisted that it was not half as grand as the Kenneths represented it.

"Now, Mr. Howard," she said at one of the parsonage gatherings, "is it
really true? Did this woman adopt that flyaway Kenneth girl, or only
take her as a sort of servant? And is she so very rich?"

"Mrs. Osgood is a lady of means and position, and is connected with
some of the most reliable people in New York. She has legally adopted
Florence, and I was a witness to the agreement. It certainly was a
rather remarkable event."

"Well, she's nothing but a bunch of vanity, anyhow. She'll make one of
the high-flyers, without a grain of sense, and I dare say elope with
the coachman. I wish the woman joy of her bargain;" and Mrs. Van Wyck
set her cap-streamers in violent motion.

Autumn came on apace. Poor Granny was grievously perplexed when she
entered the clothing-campaign. Florence's fertile brain and handy
fingers were sorely missed. Granny did her best; but the tasty touches
the child was wont to add, that transformed the commonest garb into
certain prettiness, were lacking now. Still, Charlie thought it a
godsend to have so many clothes all at once, having fallen heir to
Flossy's discarded heritage.

"Granny!" exclaimed Hal, rushing in breathless one afternoon, "Mr.
Kinsey says he will take all my chickens to market! Isn't that
splendid? He is going on Friday, and again next Tuesday; and he showed
me how to make a crate to pack them in. Now is the very time, he says."

"But we'll have to kill 'em, Hal!" exclaimed Granny aghast.

"To be sure: that's the hard part of it, isn't it;" and Hal looked
sober.

"They seem a'most like human beings. They patter round after Dot, and
talk to her in their queer fashion, and eat out of her hand. But, then,
we couldn't keep them all through the winter."

"We shall save the pets. There are some that I could not spare. But you
must not grow chicken-hearted, Granny;" and he laughed softly at her.

"Deary me! Somehow I can't bear to part with any thing any more. What a
foolish old cretur!"

"The dearest old creature in the world!" and Hal kissed her. "I wouldn't
have you changed a mite, except, that, when you were almost a hundred,
I'd like to set you back so that we could keep you always."

"I sha'n't be worth it, Hal;" and she shook her head.

"I shall have to stay home from school on Tuesday. I am quite anxious
to know what our fortune will be, and whether it has paid."

For Hal had gone back to school, as there seemed no business opening
for him. Mr. Terry had raised Joe's wages; and, one way and another,
they managed to get along quite comfortably. Hal tried to make up for
the absence of Florence, and comforted Granny in many tender, girlish
ways. He would pull her cap straight, and find her glasses and her
thimble, two things that were forever going astray. Then he borrowed
books from one and another to read aloud evenings; and, though Granny
sat in the chimney-corner and nodded, she always declared that it was
the loveliest thing in the world, and that she didn't believe but Hal
would write a book some day himself, he was so powerful fond of them.

To Charlie and Kit this was a great enjoyment. Indeed, it seemed as
if in most things they listened more readily than they ever had to
Florence. Dear, sweet-souled Hal! Your uses and duties in the world
were manifold. And yet it tries our faith to see such fine gold dropped
into the crucible. Is it those whom the Lord loveth?

They had a great time on Thursday. Joe was up early in the morning, as
he thought there was some fun in making an onslaught upon the army of
chickens; so when Hal and Granny stepped over the threshold, they saw a
great pile of decapitated fowls.

"Why, Hal, you'll make a mint of money!" exclaimed Joe. "I suppose you
mean to put it in government bonds."

Hal only laughed.

But he and Granny were busy as bees all day. About four o'clock Mr.
Kinsey came over to see how the packing progressed.

"There are just two dozen," said Hal; "and I shall have two dozen again
next week."

"They're beauties too! Why, I believe they go ahead of mine. You've
plucked them nicely. Poultry's pretty high this year; retailing at
twenty-five and twenty-eight, I heard."

They weighed them, and then laid them snugly in the crate; plump and
yellow, looking almost good enough to eat without a pinch of salt, Mr.
Kinsey said.

"Now I shall send them all over to the station, and they'll go through
in the freight-train. Jim will soon be here with the wagon."

Joe and Hal counted up the possible profit that evening. They had
raised, with all their broods, sixty-five chickens. The actual outlay
for food had been seventeen dollars; and Hal had sold eggs to the value
of two dollars and a half.

"It's better than keeping store, I do believe!" ejaculated Joe. "Hal,
you have a genius for farming."

"Does raising chickens prove it?"

"If a hundred of corn-meal costs two fifty, what will the biggest
chanticleer in the lot come to? There's a question for you, Granny."

"Why, it would depend on--how much he weighed," said Granny cautiously.

"Oh, no! it would depend on how you cooked him. In my kitchen he'd come
to pot-pie, according to the double rule of a good hot fire."

"You won't sell 'em all, Hal?" said Charlie anxiously.

"No: we will have a little Thanksgiving for ourselves."

Granny sighed. They all knew of whom she was thinking,--a sweet,
fair face dropped out of the circle. Now that Flossy was gone, they
remembered only her pleasant qualities; and it seemed as if Joe did not
care half so much for making a noise when she was not here to be teased.

Mr. Kinsey did not return until Saturday, but he came over with a
smiling face.

"Royal luck for you, Hal!" he said in his hearty tone. "I've half a
mind to make you guess, and keep all that is over."

"But I might guess high;" and a bright smile brought sunshine into the
boy's face.

"Try it, then."

"Thirty dollars," ventured Hal, rather hesitatingly. "Though I don't
believe it _is_ as much as that."

"Thirty-two dollars; and the same man has spoken for your next lot.
They were about the handsomest chickens in the market."

"Oh! isn't that splendid?" said Hal. "Why, I can hardly believe it!"

"There's the money. I've always observed that there's no eye-salve like
money;" and Mr. Kinsey laughed.

"You ought to have something for your trouble."

"No, my fine little fellow. I shall only take out the freight. I'm glad
to see you so energetic; and I do hope you will prosper as well in
every thing you undertake."

Hal thanked Mr. Kinsey again and again, and insisted that he should
come over and do some work for the farmer; but that gentleman only
laughed.

"Have your second lot ready on Tuesday evening," said he, as he wished
them good-day.

The next was still more of a success, for they netted thirty-four
dollars. Hal was overjoyed.

"That certainly is 'bully!' our dear Flossy to the contrary," declared
Joe. "Why, I'm so glad that I could stand on my head or the tip of my
little finger. What _will_ you do with it all? Granny, was there ever
so much money in this old house? It's lucky that I have a pistol to
keep guard."

Granny smiled, but a tear crept to the corner of her eye.

"Now let us reckon it all up," said Hal. "Here is my book."

Every item had been put down in the most systematic manner. They made
a list of the expenses, and added the column, then subtracted it from
the whole sum.

"Forty-seven dollars!"

"All that clear!" asked Granny in amaze.

"Yes. Isn't it wonderful?"

Joe could hold in no longer; but took a tour over the chairs, as if
they had been a part of the flying trapeze. Hal's eyes were as large as
saucers,--small ones.

"I wouldn't a' believed it! But you've been very ekernomical, Hal, and
used every thing, and raised so much corn"--

"And the buckwheat-field was so nice for them! If we can only keep them
comfortable through the winter, and have them lay lots of eggs!"

"It's astonishing how contrary they are when eggs are scarce," said Joe
gravely. "What do you suppose is the reason, Charlie?"

"Forty-seven dollars!" said Charlie, loftily ignoring the last remark.

"Enough to buy me a fiddle," Kit remarked.

"It will have to buy a good many things," said Hal. "I am so very, very
thankful for it."

Granny insisted that Hal should have a suit of clothes, and finally
persuaded him into buying a complete outfit. That took twenty-three
dollars. Then some boots for Kit, shoes for Charley, a pretty dress
for Dot, a barrel of flour, and there was very little of it left.

"But it was really magnificent!" said Hal with a sigh of pleasure. "I
shall try it again next year, if you don't mind the trouble, Granny."

Granny said that she should not.

Their Christmas festival was quiet compared to the last one. Flossy had
helped make them gay then, and there had been the wonderful shoe. Would
any thing ever be quite as brilliant again?

"It almost seems as if Flossy was dead, doesn't it?" Hal said softly
to granny. "And yet I suppose she has had lots of presents, and
is--very--happy."

"God keep her safely," answered Granny.

Before spring some changes came to Madison. Grandmother Kinsey died,
having reached a good old age; and Mr. Kinsey resolved to put his pet
project into execution,--removing to the West, and farming on a large
scale. Everybody was very sorry to have them go. It seemed to Granny as
if she were losing her best friend. Ah! by and by the world would look
very wide and desolate.

But the Kenneths had a little recompense for their loss. In casting
about for a parting gift to Hal, fortune seemed to put an excellent one
right in his way. In having some dealings with Farmer Peters, he took
the small piece of land that Hal had made so profitable, and deeded it
to the boy.

"It is not much," he said; "but it may help along a little. I only wish
you were going out West with me. That's the place for boys!"

Hal almost wished that he could.

"But you will come and visit us some day, I know. You are a brave,
ambitious little chap, and deserve to prosper. I hope you will, indeed."

Hal was a good deal astonished, and wonderfully thankful for his gift.
To think of being actual owner of some land!

"You beat the Dutch for luck, Hal! I never did see any thing like it,"
was Joe's comment.

All Madison bewailed the Kinseys. They were some of the oldest
settlers, and it was like removing a landmark. Mrs. Kinsey did not
forget Granny, but sent her many useful articles in the way of old
clothes, and some furniture that would have brought but a trifle at
auction, yet served to quite renovate the little cottage. But when
Granny tried to thank her kind friend, Mrs. Kinsey said,--

"I've always been glad to do what I could; for when I thought of you at
your age, taking charge of all those little ones, it seemed as if every
one ought to stand by you. And they will be a comfort to you, I know.
God will not let you go without some reward."

Granny wiped the tears from her eyes, and answered brokenly. One and
another were dropping out of her world.

She had hardly recovered from this blow when one night Joe came home in
high glee.

"The luck's changed, Hal!" he said in his laughing, breezy voice. "Just
guess"--

"More wages?"

"No indeed! Better still, a great sight. If you have tears, please
wring out your pocket-hand_kerchers_, and prepare to shed 'em! Slightly
altered from Shakspeare. I'm going to sea! Hip, hip, hurrah!"

Joe swung his old hat so hard that crown and brim parted, the crown
landing on the mantle-piece.

"Couldn't have done better if I'd tried. I'm a dead shot, for certain!"

"Going to sea?"

Granny came out at that.

"Yes. A cousin of Mr. Terry's has been visiting there; and we have
struck up a friendship and a bargain,--Cap'n Burton. He owns a sloop
that goes to Albany and around, and wants a boy who can keep books a
little, and all that. It's just as jolly as a lark!"

It was plain to be seen that Joe no longer stood in awe of Florence's
ladylike reprimands.

Granny's eyes grew larger and larger. She fairly clutched Joe's arm as
she gasped,--

"Going--to sea!"

"Yes, Granny. Don't get solemn new, as if you thought a shark would
devour me the first thing,--body and boots. You know it always _was_
my idea, and this is real splendid! And there's no more danger than
driving Mr. Terry's grocery-wagon."

"But you might get drownded," Granny said awesomely.

"Tell you what I'll do, Granny. Tie a rope to my leg, and fasten it
to the mast. Then you know, if I fall overboard, I can haul in. There
isn't a bit of danger. Why, Capt. Burton's been all his life. There,
don't cry. You are the dearest old grandmother that ever was; but we
can't stay under your wing forever."

"You have not made your bargain?" asked Hal, surprised that another
dream should come true.

"Well,--almost. He's coming down here in the morning to have a talk
with Granny. He will give me ten dollars a month and found, which mean,
tea and fish and baccy."

"Oh!" said Hal, "you won't chew tobacco?"

"Sailors always do. But ten dollars a month _is_ better than eight, and
my board thrown in. I'm going, Granny."

Granny sighed. It was useless to endeavor to talk Joe out of his
project; and so she might as well keep silence.

Capt. Burton came the next morning. He had taken a wonderful fancy to
Joe, and was very anxious to engage him.

"He's just the kind of lad that I need," exclaimed the captain. "I
want some one who is handy, and quick in figgers; who can keep my
accounts for me, as my eyes are getting rather poor; and do arrants;
and I've taken a 'mazing liking to him. I'll keep a good watch over
him; and he can come home once in a while."

"How far do you go?" asked Granny.

"To Albany, mostly. Now and then I take a trip around Long Island, or
up the Sound. Your boy has taken a 'mazing fancy to the sea; and he
will never be satisfied until he's had a taste of salt water, in my
'pinion."

"No, that I won't!" declared Joe stoutly.

"We haul off in the winter 'bout three months; which'll give him a
holiday. Sence he hankers after it so, you better consent, I think.
Cousin Terry will tell you that I ain't a hard master."

What could Granny say? Nothing but cry a little, look up Joe's clothes,
and kiss him a hundred times, or more, after the fashion of Mrs. Malloy
and her dear Pat. Joe was so delighted, that he could hardly "hold in
his skin," as he said to Kit, who sagely advised him not to get into a
cast-iron sweat,--Kit's chronic fear on remarkable occasions.

There was not much time for consideration. In two days Joe was off, bag
and baggage, whistling, "The girl I left behind me."

And so the gay household thinned out. They missed Joe terribly. To be
sure, vacation commenced after a while; and Kit and Charlie were in
mischief continually, or in rags: Granny hardly knew which was worse.

They had some glowing letters from Joe, who didn't believe there was
any thing finer in Europe than New York and the Hudson River. Capt.
Burton was a "jolly old tar;" and nautical phrases were sprinkled about
thick as blackberries.

Mr. Terry offered the place in the store to Hal, who consulted awhile
with Granny.

"I think I could make as much money by working round, and raising
chickens, and all that; and then I could go to school. I believe I
should like it better; and there is so much that I want to learn!"

"But you know a master sight now, Hal," said Granny in admiration.

So the proposal was very kindly declined.

Charlie thought Fourth of July was "awful dull" this year. She lamented
Joe loudly.

"If she had only been a boy!" said Hal regretfully.

The latter part of July, Joe came home for a flying visit. It seemed
as if he had grown taller in this brief while. His curly hair had been
cropped close; and he was brown as an Indian. Charlie made herself a
perpetual interrogation-point; and Joe told her the most marvellous
yarns that ever were invented. She soon learned every thing about the
sloop, and wished that she could be a sailor, but finally comforted
herself by thinking that she _might_ marry a sea-captain.

Then, to crown all, they had a letter from Florence. It was written on
tinted paper, and had a beautiful monogram in green and gold. She was
very well, very happy; had grown a little taller than Mrs. Osgood; and
was studying every thing. She could play quite well, and read French,
and went to dancing-school, besides lovely little parties. Then the
house was so elegant! She had never been homesick at all.

Perhaps she thought it would be wrong to wish to see them; for that was
never once expressed.

"But I am glad she is happy," said Granny, striving to be heroic.




CHAPTER XII.

  JOE'S FORTUNE.


Hal's chickens were a success again, though it cost more for him to
get them to market this fall. And, since eggs seemed to be a very
profitable speculation, they concluded to winter over quite a number,
mostly spring broods. Hal enlarged their house; as he had a wonderful
gift, Granny declared, for building. And a very nice place it was, I
can assure you.

Granny still wove rag-carpets and the like, and now and then helped a
neighbor at house-cleaning; but she had not worked out so much since
the Kinseys went away. It troubled Hal to have her do it at all.

"When I get a little older, you never shall, Granny," he would say,
giving her a fond hug; and she would answer,--

"You're a great blessing, Hal. Whatever should I have done without you?"

Dot grew nicely, though she was still "small for her size." Joe said.
But now she kept quite well; and she was as fair as a lily, with tiny
golden curls that never seemed to grow long. There the resemblance to
Florence ceased. She was such an odd, old-fashioned little thing! and
reminded Hal more of Granny than any one else.

"It would be sweet to have her a baby always, now that she is well,
and doesn't cry all the time," said Hal. "I'm sorry to have her lose
all her crooked baby words. Joe use to laugh so over 'pety poket,' and
'poky hontis,' and 'umbebella tause it wained.' Dear, dear! shall we
ever have such nice, gay times again, Granny, when there wasn't any
thing but mush and molasses for supper, and a crowd of hungry children?"

Granny sighed at the remembrance.

"And yet it is a comfort to grow up, and be able to do something for
you."

Hal studied hard, and spent much of his leisure time in reading.
Charlie was wilder than a hawk, combining Joe's love of mischief with
perfect lawlessness. Mr. Fielder tried every motive of reward, and
every method of punishment; and Charlie cried one moment, but laughed
the next, and, what was infinitely more aggravating, made all the
children laugh. If every thing else failed her, she could draw funny
faces on her slate, that set every one in a titter. And then she
climbed trees, jumped fences, or perched herself on a post, and made
Fourth-of-July orations. She could talk Irish with a true national
screech and whoop, or broken German as if she had just come over; she
could make "pigs under the gate," cats in a terrible combat, and a
litter of puppies under your feet that would absolutely frighten you.

Nobody could see what Granny Kenneth would do with Charlie. Florence,
now, had been a lady; but Charlie was a regular wild Indian. She could
work like a Trojan, but she did not like it; and as for sewing--well,
there was no word that could describe the performance. With all her
faults, she had a warm, tender side to her character. She fought Kit's
battles, and always came off triumphant. She was never cruel to any
thing smaller and weaker than herself; and I think no one ever could
remember her telling a lie. But as Dot said in her sage way, with a
solemn shake of the head,--

"She was the worstest child we had."

Joe came home the latter part of December as important as the Great
Mogul himself. _We_ had been selling out the old craft, and were
bargaining for a regular little beauty,--a trading-vessel to make trips
between New York and the West Indies, Cuba, and all those places. The
boys opened their eyes at that. Joe Kenneth actually going to Havana,
to be feasted continually upon oranges, figs, cocoanuts, and bananas!

Why, it was wonderful! incredible! There _was_ nothing like being a
sailor, and travelling all over the world. Joe took upon himself the
tallest kind of airs, confused the boys with his flying-jib and spanker
and mizzen-mast and capstan and larboard and starboard, and forty
other things that he knew all about, and they didn't. And then the
frolics and tricks, the sailors' yarns, the storms and dangers, held
them all spell-bound. Indeed, I don't believe Joe ever knew so much
again in all his life.

Capt. Burton followed him about a week later. "The Morning Star" had
been purchased, and was being repaired a little.

The captain's principal errand in Madison was to see Granny Kenneth.

"Joe and me gets along tip-top," he said. "He's a sailor all over:
there isn't a hair in his head but loves salt water. And I'm as glad
to have him as he is to go; but, as we were making a new bargain all
round, it wouldn't 'a been the thing not to come here and have a talk
with you."

"Yes," replied Granny with a bob of her curls, though for her life she
could not have told to what she was assenting.

"It's just here, you see. If the lad means to be a sailor, he can't
have a much better chance. He's smart and quick in figgers, which suits
me to a shaving; and I'd like to take him for the next two years. I'll
give twelve dollars a month, beginning now, and look after him as if
he'd a been my own son. I had a lad once,--about like him. It all came
back when I was at Cousin Terry's last winter, watching him, so full of
pranks and tricks, and with a smile and a pleasant word for everybody.
My Dick was jest so. I took him on a trip with me, for he had a
hankerin' after the sea; but his poor mother she most grieved herself
sick. There wa'n't no gals to comfort her. He was all we had. So I left
him home next time. I can jest see him, with the tears shining in his
eyes, and a' choking over his good-by; and then how he turned round
and put his face right between his mother's neck and shoulder, so's I
shouldn't see him cry. Well, when I came back my poor Dick was dead and
buried."

Granny gave a little sob, and Capt. Burton drew the back of his hand
across his eyes.

"Yes, 'twas a fever. His poor mother was 'most crazy. So I tried to
comfort her. 'Sweetheart,' said I, 'God is all over, on the sea as well
as the land, and he's brought our Dick into a better port, though we
can't understand it jest now in our grief. If we didn't know there was
a wiser hand than ours in it, we couldn't bear it; but that will help
to cheer a bit. But it was a hard blow."

Capt. Burton wiped his eyes, and cleared the huskiness from his voice.

"So I took a 'mazing fancy to this lad; and I'm proud to say I like him
better'n better. He's trusty, for all his fun and nonsense, and bright
as steel. So, if you'll agree, I will promise to do my best, and put
him along as fast as I can, so that by the time he's a man he will be
able to manage a craft of his own. He's a smart lad."

Granny was glad to hear the good report; and as for the bargain,--why,
there was nothing to do but to consent. She did not know as it would be
any worse to have Joe go to Cuba than to Albany.

"It won't be as bad," said he. "Why, I can come home every time that
we're in port unloading. It's the most splendid streak of luck that I
ever heard of. And, Granny, I'm bound to go to China some day."

Granny consented inwardly, with a great quaking of the heart.

"And you'll have the green-house, Hal! Wasn't it funny that we should
plan it all up in the old garret?"

Hal's eyes sparkled with a distant hope.

"Can't girls _ever_ go to sea?" asked Charlie.

"Oh, yes! they can go to see their friends and take tea, or go to
Europe if they have money enough."

"I did not mean that!" she said with contempt.

"Tell you what, Charlie," and there was a sly twinkle in Joe's eye:
"there is something that you can do if you would like to be a boy."

"What?" and Charlie was on tiptoe.

"Why, there's a kind of mill somewhere; and they put girls in it, and
grind 'em all up fine, and they come out boys!"

"O Joe!"

"Fact," said Joe solemnly.

"I wonder--if--'twould--hurt much?" and Charlie considered on her
powers of endurance.

That was too much for Joe, and even Hal joined the laugh.

"I knew it wasn't true," said Charlie, red with anger and
disappointment. "But I do hate to be a girl, and you having all the fun
and going everywhere."

"Well, you can run away. There is a bright opening for your future."

"You see if I don't!" returned Charlie.

So Joe went off again in capital spirits. At Capt. Burton's suggestion
he told Granny that he meant to give her half his pay; which she,
simple soul, thought the noblest thing in the world.

"I mean to do a good deal for you by and by, Granny. I'll be a captain
some day, and make oceans of money."

"It is nice to have Joe settled and in good hands," Hal said after he
was gone. "And I hope we'll all be an honor to you, Granny."

"You've been a comfort since the day you were born," was Granny's
tremulous answer.

They found Joe's six dollars a month a great help; and then the two
were missed out of the dish, as well as the household circle. Hal still
kept to his thoughtful ways, reading and studying, and planning how he
should make his wants and his opportunities join hands. For somehow he
did mean to compass the green-house.

Joe's letters and stories were wonderfully entertaining. He began
to lose the boy's braggadocio: indeed, the facts themselves were
interesting enough, without much embellishment. One by one the
islands came in for a share. Moro Castle and all the old Spanish
fortifications, the natives who were so new and peculiar, the different
modes of life, the business, the days and nights of listless, lovely
sailing, the storms and dangers, gave a great variety to his life.

Now and then he brought them some choice fruits; and, while Charlie and
Kit devoured them, Hal used to sit and listen to the description of
orange-groves, and how pine-apples and bananas grew. It was something
to have been on the spot, and looked at them with your own eyes,--ever
so much better than a book.

Thus the months and years ran on. Joe was past sixteen, tall, and,
though not thin, had a round, supple look, and could dance a break-down
to perfection. He did not practise standing on his head quite so much,
but I dare say he could have done it with equal grace. He was just as
droll and as merry as ever; and you would always be able to tell him by
the twinkle in his fun-loving eye. In fact, Joe Kenneth was "somebody"
at Madison.

Hal was much smaller of his age. Charlie began to evince symptoms of
shooting up into a May-pole, and being all arms and legs. She was still
thin, lanky indeed, and always burned as brown as a berry, except a
few weeks at mid-winter; and her eyes looked larger than ever; while
her hair was cropped close,--she would have it so, and, to her great
disgust, it seemed as if it was actually turning red.

"Because you always ran in the sun so much," Hal would say.

They heard from Flossy, who was happy and prosperous,--a great lady
indeed. She had elegant dresses, and went to grand parties, had created
a sensation at Saratoga, been to Niagara Falls, and expected to spend
the winter at Fifth-avenue Hotel.

Ah, how far she had drifted beyond them! They could not cross the
golden river that flowed between. Did she ever long for them a little?
Would she be glad to drop down upon them in all her glory and beauty,
and be kissed by the dear old lips that prayed daily and nightly for
her welfare?

There came some quite important changes to Madison. A new railroad was
projected, that would shorten the distance to the intervening cities,
and bring it within an hour's ride from the great emporium, New York.
Then began a great era of activity. Streets were laid out around the
station; quite an extensive woollen-mill was put in operation, which
caused an influx of population. The old sawing-mill was enlarged, so
great became the demand for lumber; the Kinsey farm was divided into
building-lots, some rather elegant mansions were raised, and a new
church erected.

The Kenneth place was rather out of range of all this.

"But our little farm may be quite valuable by and by," declared Hal.
"It would be astonishing, Granny, if you were to become a rich woman
before you died."

"I'll have to live a good long while;" and Granny gave her cracked but
still pleasant little laugh.

Joe remained nearly two years and a half with Capt. Burton, when the
crowning good fortune of his life, as he thought it, occurred. This was
nothing less than an opportunity to go to China, his great ambition.

It almost broke Granny's heart. To have him away two or three months
had appeared a long while; but when it came to be years--

"Of course I shall return," declared Joe. "Did you ever hear of a fish
being drowned, or a bad penny that didn't come back? And then for a
silk gown, Granny, and a crape shawl! You shall have one if you are a
hundred years old, and have to hobble around with a crutch."

"I'd rather have you than a hundred silk gowns."

"And I expect you to have me. The very handsomest grandson in the
family. If you are not proud of me, Granny, I shall cut you off with a
shilling, and wear a willow garland all the days of my life, in token
of grief."

So he kept them laughing to the latest moment; and, after all, it was
not so very different from the other partings. But he declared, if
Granny didn't live to see him come home, he never should be able to
forgive her.

Hal actually went down to New York to see him off, and had a pleasant
visit with Mrs. Burton. It was a great event in the boy's life.

"I didn't think there ever could be quite such a splendid place!" he
said on his return. "And the great beautiful bay, with its crowds and
crowds of shipping, looking like flocks of birds in the distance; but
the people almost frightened me, for it seemed as if one could never
get out of the tangle. Then the park is just like fairy-land. And I
found a place where a man buys cut-flowers, especially all kinds of
beautiful white ones. And, Granny, one _could_ make a good deal of
money with a hot-house."

"I hope you'll have it," Granny answered; though, truth to tell, she
had no very clear ideas upon the subject, except that Hal of all others
deserved to have his dream come true.

Hal had treated himself to a book on gardening, and another on
floriculture. He was fifteen now,--a steady, industrious little chap;
and the farmers round were very glad to have him when they were in
a hurry or ran short of help. For Hal had a good many very sensible
ideas, and sometimes quite astonished the country people who went on
in the same groove as their fathers and grandfathers. To be sure,
they laughed and pooh-poohed a little; but, when his plans proved more
fortunate in some respect, they admitted that he had an old head on
young shoulders.

"I'm going to have some nice hot-beds for next spring," he said to
Granny. "I'm sure I can sell early lettuce and radishes, and some of
those things."

So he worked on, spending his leisure days in improving his own little
garden-spot. The place had begun "to blossom like a rose," dear Joe
said. There were honeysuckle and roses trained over the house, making
it a pretty little nest, in spite of want of paint and a general
tumbling into decay. Over the kitchen part crept clusters of wisteria;
and in front there were two mounds of flowers, making the small
dooryard bright and attractive.

The chickens had to be kept by themselves, on Hal's farm. Every day
he felt thankful for that little plot of ground. Mr. Terry was glad
to take all their eggs, for Hal managed that they should be large and
choice.

"And if I should have a hot-house by the time Joe comes back, it will
be just royal!"

Granny smiled.

Poor dear Hal! One day he was working out in the hayfield, gay as a
lark; and Farmer Morris said his boys did as much again work when
Hal was there. The last load was going home. Hal mounted to the top,
calling merrily to the group, when the horses gave a sudden start. It
seemed as if he only slid down, and the distance was not very great;
but he lay quite still. They waited for a laugh or a shout, and then
ran; but Hal's face was over in the grass.

Great brawny Sam lifted him up, uttering a sharp cry; for Hal was
deathly white, and could not stand. A deep groan escaped the lips that
had laughed with gladness only a moment ago, and were now drawn to a
thin blue line.

They crowded round with awe-stricken faces.

"Oh, he isn't dead!"

"No, I guess not;" and Sam's voice had a quiver in it, as if tears were
not far off. "O father, father!"

Mr. Morris hurried to the spot.

"Poor Hal! Let's take him home, and send for a doctor. I wouldn't had
it happen for a hundred dollars! It'll about kill his grandmother."

Hal gave another groan, but did not open his eyes.

"Can't we rig up some kind of a litter? for, if he's hurt much, it will
never do to carry him by hand. Run get a shutter, Sam. Dick, go and
bring a hatful of water. Poor boy! I'd rather it had been one of my
own."

Dick flew to the brook, and brought back some water, with which they
bathed the small white face. Then Sam made his appearance, with a
shutter on his shoulder.

"Raise him softly, so. Dick, run after Dr. Meade as fast as you can go.
We'll take him home."

They lifted him with tender hands; but both soul and body were
unconscious of pain. Sam brushed away some tears with his shirt-sleeve,
and Farmer Morris spread his linen coat over the silent figure. It was
some distance to Mrs. Kenneth's.

Charlie was firing stones at a mark; but she rushed to the gate and
screamed, "Granny, Granny!"

When Granny Kenneth saw them with their burden, a speechless agony
seized every pulse. She could not even utter a cry.

"He isn't dead," Farmer Morris hurried to say. "But it's a sad day's
work, and I'd a hundred times rather it had been my Dick."

"O Hal, my darling! The greatest comfort your poor old Granny had! No,
I can't have him die. Oh! will God hear us, and pity me a little? I've
had a sight o' troubles in my day, but this"--

They laid him on Granny's bed, and washed his face with camphor,
feeling of the limp wrists, and chafing the cold hands.

A little quiver seemed to run along the lips, deepening into a shudder,
and then a groan which they were thankful to hear.

"No, he isn't dead. Thank God for that!"

Fortunately Dr. Meade was at home, and he lost no time in coming over
immediately.

Mr. Morris and the doctor stripped off Hal's clothes, and began to
examine the limbs. The arms were all right,--ankles, knees, ah, what
was this!

Hal opened his eyes, and uttered an excruciating cry.

Granny rocked herself to and fro, her poor old brain wild with
apprehension, for his pain was hers.

"The trouble's here,--in the thigh. Not a break, I hope; but it's bad
enough!"

Bad enough they found it,--a severe and complicated fracture, and
perhaps internal injuries.

"Do your best, doctor," said Mr. Morris. "I'm going to foot this bill;
and if any thing'll save him"--

He sent Sam back for some articles that they needed, and tried
patiently to understand the full extent of the injury. Part of the time
Hal was unconscious. And after a long while they laid him on his back,
bandaged, but more dead than alive.

"My wife will come over and stay with you," Mr. Morris said to Granny.
"She's a master hand at nursing."

Dot hid herself in the shadow of Granny's skirts, clinging fast with
her little hands; and Kit and Charlie huddled in the corner of the
kitchen window-sill, crying softly. No one wanted any supper, except
the chickens, who asked in vain.

All night Granny prayed in her broken, wandering way. God had her own
dear Joe up in heaven. Flossy was gone; little Joe was on the wide
ocean; and how could she live without her precious Hal! Not but what he
was good enough to be an angel, only--only--and the poor heart seemed
breaking.

God listened and answered. The August weather was hot and sultry; and
Hal had to battle with fever, with dreadful languor and mortal pain.
He used to think sometimes that it would be blessed to die, and have a
little rest, but for Granny's sake!--

After the first fortnight the danger was over, and the case progressing
fairly. Hal's back had received some injury, that was evident, and
recovery would be tedious. But Granny was so thankful to have him any
way.

Everybody was very kind. Mr. and Mrs. Howard came often; the Terrys
sent in many luxuries; Sam Morris drew a cord of wood, sawed, split,
and piled it; and there was nothing wanting. But Hal lay there white
and wan, his fingers growing almost as thin as Dot's little bird's
claws.

"I can't understand why it had to happen to you, Hal," Granny would
exclaim piteously. "Now, if it had been Charlie, who is always
sky-larking round; but you, the very best one of 'em all!"

Hal would sigh. He couldn't exactly understand it, either. But
somehow--God was so much greater than them all; and he _did_ keep
watch, for it was better to be lying here than in the churchyard yonder.

Mr. Fielder had gone away, and Hal felt the loss sorely. He was a
little afraid of Mr. Howard, and could not seem to talk of his plans
and his flowers, and ask any question that puzzled him; though Mr.
Howard kindly sent him entertaining books, and used to drop in for a
chat now and then.

September passed. Hal was still unable to sit up, and he began to grow
weary of the confinement.

"Granny," he said one day, "I believe I'll have to be a girl, and learn
to make myself useful. I could knit a little once, or I might sew
patchwork. There is no one to laugh at me."

"Dear heart, so you shall," replied Granny.

So she cut him out a pile of pretty bright calicoes begged of the
dressmaker. And then he knit Charlie a pair of yarn mittens, and
crocheted some edging for Dot's white apron.

Indeed, Dot was a great comfort to him. She used to climb up on his bed
with her "Red Riding Hood," or "Mother Goose Melodies," and read him
stories by the hour. Then she would twine her fingers in his soft brown
hair to make him "pretty," as she said, and cuddle him in various ways,
always ending with a host of kisses and, "Dotty so sorry for you, Hal!"

For she was still a little <DW40>, and cried so dreadfully the first
day she went to school that they let her stay home. Hal had taught her
a great deal; but she was so shy that she would hardly say a word to a
stranger.

Charlie began to improve a little, it must be confessed; though she
had fits of abstraction, when she salted the pan of dish-water in the
closet, and threw the knives and forks out of doors, and one day
boiled the dish-cloth instead of the potatoes, which Hal fancied must
be army-soup; and sometimes, without the slightest apparent cause, she
would almost laugh herself into hysterics.

"What _is_ the matter?" Granny would ask. "Are you out of your head?"

And Charlie would answer, "I was only thinking."

"I'd like to get inside of her brain, and see what was there," Hal
would sometimes remark.

The chickens had to be made ready and taken to market this year without
any of Hal's assistance. And then he began to wonder if he ever would
get well? Suppose he did not?




CHAPTER XIII.

  FROM GRAY SKIES TO BLUE.


They were pretty poor, to be sure,--poor as in the hardest of times.
There were the chickens, and Granny could make a bit of broth for Hal;
but Kit and Charlie raced like deers, and had appetites. After Granny
bought them clothes and shoes, the funds were rather low. Hal guessed
at it all, but Granny never made any complaints.

He had begun a tidy in red-and-white diamond-shaped blocks; but it
seemed to grow upon his hands; and one day when Dot called it a
beautiful _bedcrilt_, for her tongue still had a few kinks in it, a new
idea crept into his brain.

"Do you think it would make a pretty spread?" he asked Mrs. Howard
rather timidly, during a call.

"Why, it would, to be sure, and so serviceable! It is a bright idea,
Hal."

"Do you suppose I could sell it?"

"If you want to--yes."

"I can't do any thing else," said Hal with a sigh; "and if I have to
stay here all winter."

For Hal's back was so weak that he could only be bolstered up in the
bed, and he had not walked a step yet.

Mrs. Howard thought a moment, then said,--

"Finish it Hal, and I will see that it is sold."

So Hal went on hopefully. Granny bewailed the fact that she had done
nothing all the fall to help along. They missed their allowance from
Joe; but they had heard from him in his usual glowing and exuberant
fashion.

Mrs. Howard took a trip around Madison one morning, and held sundry
mysterious conferences with some of her neighbors, returning home quite
well pleased.

"I am so glad I thought of it!" she said to her husband; and he
answered, "So am I, my dear."

One afternoon early in December she went over to Mrs. Kenneth's. Dot
had been clearing up under Hal's instructions, and they looked neat
as a pin. After she found that her visitor intended to remain, Granny
put on a fresh calico dress and a clean cap; and they had a nice
old-fashioned time talking, which Hal enjoyed exceedingly.

Mrs. Howard had brought a basket full of various luxuries,--some nice
cold tongue, and part of a turkey, besides jellies and cake. Quite a
little feast, indeed.

Hal begged them to have tea in the best room, where he lay; and he
enjoyed it almost as much as if he could have sat up to the table. Kit
and Charlie were delighted with the feast.

Then they settled every thing again, and Granny stirred the fire. The
wind whistled without, but within it was bright and cheerful. Hal felt
very happy indeed. It seemed as if God's strong arms were about him,
helping him to bear the weariness, as he had been strengthened to bear
pain.

Presently there was a tramping up the path, and a confusion of voices.

"Some one is coming;" and Hal raised himself. "I am almost sorry--we
were having such a nice, quiet time."

A knock at the door, which Granny opened. Kit, in the glowing
chimney-corner, rubbed his eyes; and it would have been hard to tell
which was the sleepiest, he or the old gray cat.

"O-o-h!" exclaimed Charlie; and then she darted to Hal. "A whole crowd
of 'em!"

A crowd, sure enough. It was something of a mystery to know how they
were going to get in that small place. There was Dr. and Mrs. Meade,
Mr. Howard, Mr. and Mrs. Morris, and the boys, all the Terrys,--indeed,
half Madison, Hal thought.

Mrs. Howard laughed a little at Hal's puzzled face.

"Oh!--I guess"--

Granny in the other room was quite overcome. Parcels and bags and
boxes, shaking of hands, and clattering of tongues.

"It isn't exactly Christmas, Hal," began Mr. Morris; "but Santa Claus
does sometimes lose his reckoning. So we thought we'd all drop in."

"And give me a surprise-party," said Hal.

"Exactly. Why, you look quite bright, my boy!"

Hal was bright enough then, with cheeks like roses, and lustrous eyes.

Dr. Meade sat him up in the bed. One and another came to shake hands,
and say a pleasant word; and in a few moments the whole group were
laughing and talking. There was skating already over on the pond, the
boys told him; they were going to have a Christmas exhibition; Jim
Terry had received a letter from Joe; and all the small gossip that
sounds so pleasant when one is shut within doors.

Then Mrs. Howard brought out the bedspread. None of the boys laughed at
Hal, you may be sure; and the older people thought it quite wonderful.
Mrs. Morris declared that she'd really like to have it.

"It is for sale," said Hal with a little flush.

"Let's take shares!" exclaimed Sam. "Now's your chance, mother: how
much will you give?"

"A right good plan," returned Mrs. Meade.

After a little discussion they adopted it. There were twenty-six people
who subscribed a dollar; and then the slips of paper were arranged for
drawing. The younger portion were considerably excited; and Hal's face
was in a glow of interest.

So they began. One after another took his or her chance; and, when it
was through, they all opened their slips of paper, looking eagerly at
each other.

Clara Terry blushed scarlet; and Sam's quick eyes caught the unusual
brilliancy. For the cream of the affair was, that Clara expected to be
married in a few weeks.

Dr. Meade guessed also, and then they had a good laugh. Hal was
delighted.

"It went to the right one," said Mr. Morris. "So much towards
housekeeping, Clara."

"I shall always think of Joe as well as you," she said in a soft
whisper to Hal, holding the thin fingers a moment.

After that they had a pleasant time singing. Hal was very fond of vocal
music. It seemed to him about the happiest night of his life. Then the
crowd began to disperse.

"I have thought of something new, Hal," said Dr. Meade. "I sent to New
York this morning for a small galvanic battery, to try if electricity
will not help you. We shall have you around yet: do not be discouraged."

"Everybody is so kind"--and Hal's voice quivered. "This has been a
lovely surprise party."

After they were gone Charlie began to count up the spoils; and every
exclamation grew longer and louder. There was a large ham, a fine
turkey, tea and coffee and butter, flour, rice, farina, cake and
biscuit, a bag of apples, and some cans of fruit.

"We shall live like kings," said Granny, with a little sound in her
voice that might have been a sob or a laugh. "And only this morning I
was a wondering how we _should_ get along."

"And twenty-six dollars. Why, it is almost as good as being a minister,
and having a donation-party."

"God doesn't forget us, you see," said Hal with great thankfulness.

He finished the spread a few days afterward, and sent it to Miss Clara;
and then Mrs. Meade brought him the materials to make her one.

The fracture had united; but there seemed such a terrible weakness
of the muscles in Hal's back, that Dr. Meade had become rather
apprehensive. But, after using electricity a few weeks, there _was_ an
improvement. And one day Hal balanced himself upon two crutches.

"That's red hot!" ejaculated Charlie.

"O Charlie! worthy follower of Joe, what will you do when you get to be
a young lady?"

"Oh, dear! I wish I didn't have to be one;" and Charlie began to cry.
"I'll wear a big stone on top of my head."

"I am afraid it is too late. You are as tall as Granny now."

Hal gained slowly. All this time he was thinking what he should do?
for he had a presentiment that he might never be very strong again.
No more working around on farms; and, though there were some sedentary
trades in cities, he would meet with no chance to attain to them. So he
must have the green-house.

By spring he was able to go about pretty well. But he looked white as a
ghost, quite unlike the round rosy Hal of other days.

"Kit," said he, "you'll have to be my right-hand man this summer. Maybe
by another Christmas we might have the violin."

"O Hal! I'd work from morning till night," and the eager eyes were
luminous.

"Well, we'll see."

Charlie was seized with a helpful fit also. After the garden was
ploughed, they all planted and hoed and weeded; and, as it was an early
season, they had some quite forward vegetables.

One day Hal went over to Salem, and invested a few dollars in
tuberoses, besides purchasing some choice flower-seeds. Then he stopped
into a small place where he had noticed cut-flowers, and began to
inquire whether they ever bought any.

"All I can get," said the man. "Flowers are coming to be the rage.
People think they can't have weddings or funerals without them."

"But you want white ones mostly?"

"White ones for funerals and brides. There are other occasions, though,
when  ones are worth twice as much, and as much needed."

"You raise some?" said Hal.

"All I can. I have a small green-house. Come in and see it. Did you
think of starting in the business?"

Hal , and cleared his voice of a little tremble.

"I believe I shall some time," he said.

The green-house was not very large, to be sure, now quite empty, as the
flowers were out of doors.

"I wonder how much such a place would cost?" Hal asked with some
hesitation.

"About a thousand dollars," replied the man, eying it rather
critically. "Have you had any experience with flowers?"

"Not much;" and Hal sighed. A thousand dollars! No, he could never do
any thing like that.

"The best way would be to study a year or two with a florist."

"I suppose so."

Hal was quite discouraged, for that appeared out of his power as well.

"There is not so great a demand for flowers in summer, you know; but
in winter they are scarce, and bring good prices. Still, some of the
choicer kinds sell almost any time; fine rosebuds, heliotrope, and such
things."

After a little further talk, Hal thanked the man, and said good-by with
a feeling of disappointment. A hot-house was quite beyond his reach.

However, he did mean to have some early vegetable beds for another
spring--if nothing happened, he said to himself, remembering his last
summer's plans.

Not that he was idle, either. He did a good deal in the lighter kinds
of gardening. The new houses required considerable in the way of
adornment; and Dr. Meade spoke a good word for him whenever opportunity
offered. He had so much taste, besides his extravagant love for
flowers; and then he had studied their habits, the soil they required,
the time of blossoming, parting, or resetting. And it seemed as if he
could make any thing grow. Slips of geranium, rose-cuttings, and indeed
almost every thing, flourished as soon as he took it in hand.

The new railroad brought them in direct and easy communication with
another city, Newbury. Hal took a journey thither one day, and found a
florist and nurseryman who conducted operations on quite an extensive
scale. But still it was expensive in the start. He had thought of
mortgaging the place; but the little money he could raise in that way
would hardly be sufficient; and then, if he was not prosperous, they
might lose their little home.

At midsummer they heard some wonderful news about Florence. Mrs.
Osgood wrote that she was going to marry very fortunately, a gentleman
of wealth and position. She sent love to them, but she was very much
engrossed; and Mrs. Osgood said they must excuse her not writing. She
enlarged considerably upon Florence's brilliant prospect, and appeared
to take great pleasure in thinking she had fitted her for the new
position.

"Oh!" said Granny with a sigh, "we've lost her now. She will be too
rich and grand ever to come back to us."

"I don't know," returned Hal. "She did owe Mrs. Osgood a good deal of
gratitude; and it was right for her to be happy and obedient when she
was having so much done for her. But now she may feel free"--

"She has forgotten us, Hal: at least, she doesn't want to remember;"
and Granny wiped her eyes.

"I can't quite believe it. She had a good heart, and she did love us.
But maybe it's best anyway. We have been unfortunate"--

Hal's voice trembled a little. Granny rocked to and fro, her old method
of composing her mind when any thing went wrong. And, though she could
not bear to blame Flossy, there was a soreness and pain in the old
heart,--a little sting of ingratitude, if she had dared to confess it.

"Hal," said Dr. Meade one day, "they are going to start a new school
over at the cross-roads. It's a small place, and probably there will
not be more than twenty or thirty scholars,--some of the mill-children.
If you would like to teach it, I am pretty sure that I could get it for
you."

"Oh, if I could!" and Hal's eyes were all alight.

"To be sure you can. The salary is very small"--and Dr. Meade made a
long pause.

"Even a little would help along," was Hal's reply, his heart beating
with a strange rapidity.

"There can't be any appropriation made for it, you
see, as there will be no election till spring. But four hundred dollars
have been subscribed, and the committee had a fancy that they might get
a lady for that."

"I'd take it," said Hal. Four hundred dollars looked like quite a
fortune to him.

"It may get up to four hundred and fifty, though I would not like to
promise. It _is_ a small sum."

"But there's always Saturday to yourself, and nights and mornings," was
Hal's hopeful reply.

"Well, I will propose you, then. I shall be on the examining committee."

"How kind you are!" and Hal's smile was most grateful.

Still Hal was in so much doubt about his good fortune that he didn't
say a word to Granny until the examination was over and he was sure of
the appointment.

"It's just royal, isn't it?" and his eyes danced with delight. "I
was wondering what we should do this winter, when there would be no
gardening, unless I went to work in one of the mills."

"And you'd like this better? O Hal! it does seem as if the good God
was watching over us, and always sent something along in the right
time."

"He does, Granny, I am sure."

"For, when we were nearly out last winter, there was that splendid
surprise-party. I never can get over it, Hal. And your _bew_tiful
quilt, that I don't believe another boy in the world could have done. O
Hal! you're such a comfort!"

And Granny wiped her poor old eyes.

The first pea-vines were pulled up; and then Hal began to prepare for
his spring bed. It was vacation; and Charlie and Kit went into the
experiment with a great deal of zeal. First Hal dug two trenches about
twelve feet long, and four feet apart. He laid in these the stones the
children brought in a wagon that he had manufactured for Dot a long
while before. He piled them up like a wall, sifted sand between them,
and then banked up the outside, making one edge considerably higher
than the other. Around it all, at the top, he put a row of planking
about twelve inches high, and fixed grooves for the sashes to slide
across. Then he lowered the ground inside, and enriched it with manure,
making quite a little garden-spot.

Charlie wanted to have something planted right away; and she did put in
surreptitiously some peas, morning-glories, and a few squash-seed.

"I don't know but we might make another," said Hal, surveying it with a
good deal of pride.

"Oh, do!" exclaimed Charlie. "It's such fun!"

Kit didn't mind, if Hal would only tell him a story now and then.
Mozart's childhood that he had read in a stray copy of an old magazine,
fragments of Mendelssohn, and all the floating incidents he could
recall of Ole Bull. When these were exhausted, Hal used to draw a
little upon his imagination. They had a wonderful hero named Hugo, who
was stolen by gypsies when he was a little boy, and wandered around
in the German forest for years, meeting with various adventures, and
always playing on a violin to solace himself when he was cold, or
tired, or hungry, or beaten.

And, though Hal often declared that he couldn't think of any thing
more, Kit pleaded so wistfully with his luminous blue eyes and soft
voice, that Hugo would be started upon his travels again.

When the frames were done, Hal went to see Mr. Sherman, the carpenter
at Madison, to find what the sashes would cost.

"There's an odd lot up in the loft," he said to the boy. "They are
old-fashioned; and nobody seems to want any thing of that kind, except
now and then for a kitchen. I'll sell 'em cheap, if you can make 'em
answer."

So they were sent down to the Kenneths. Hal worked over them a few
days, and found that he could make them serviceable, only there would
not be quite enough. He was very handy; and soon fitted them in their
places.

"Now, that's what I call smart," exclaimed Mr. Sherman. "Why, Hal!
you'd make a good carpenter. Tell you what I'll do. I'm in an awful
hurry; and, if you'll come over and work for me a spell, we will quit
square."

Hal was delighted, and accepted at once.

"How lucky it all comes round, Granny!" he said in a gratified tone.
"And I've been thinking"--

"I'll be bound it's a bright idea;" and Granny gave her little
chirruping laugh.

"I was considering about the loom-room, Granny. You'll never weave any
more carpets; it's too hard work: and then Mr. Higgins wants to set up
in the business. He asked me about our loom the other day."

"No, I sha'n't never weave no more;" and Granny sighed, not at the
confusion of negatives, but at the knowledge that old things were
passing away.

"And it would make such a beautiful flower-room, lying to the south and
west!"

Joe would have said, "What! the loom?" But dear, rollicking Joe was not
there to catch anybody tripping in absence of mind.

"So it would. Yes, you shall have it, Hal."

For Granny would have given him her two eyes, if it would have done him
any good, and been satisfied to be led about by a dog and a string all
the rest of her life.

They ran up stairs to survey. The afternoon sun was shining in at the
windows, covering half the floor.

"Oh, it _would_ be splendid! We can put up a little stove here; and I
can have it for a kind of study besides. And a room full of flowers!"

The tears fairly stood in Hal's eyes.

There was not much time to lose; for in ten days school would begin.
And now Hal considered what he must do.

The windows came almost down to the floor, the ceiling being low. But
it would not do to have all the flowers stand on a level, as the sun
would not reach them alike. And then a brilliant idea occurred to Hal.

He went over to Mr. Sherman's, and gathered some pieces of joist that
had been sawed off, and thrown by as nearly useless. He found eight
that he made of a length, about three feet high, and bespoke a number
of rough hemlock-boards. Out of these he made a sort of counter, with
the joists for support; and then, nailing a piece all round, he had
quite a garden-bed. This was to stand back from the windows, and have
slips and various seeds planted in it. Charlie and Kit helped bring up
the soil to fill it.

Then Hal bought, for a trifle, a lot of old butter-tubs and firkins
that Mr. Terry was not sorry to be rid of. He sawed them down just the
height he wanted; and they made very good flower-pots for some of the
larger plants. They were so beautiful, that it would be a shame to
leave them out to perish in the cold blasts.

"And somehow they seem just like children to me," he said, his brown
eyes suffused with tenderness.

On the last Saturday he cast up his accounts, and took a small
inventory.

"We shall have potatoes and vegetables for winter; and we have a barrel
of flour, and a hundred of meal, besides lots of corn for the chickens;
then my salary will be a little more than thirty-six dollars a month,
counting eleven months; and fifty dollars for our poultry."

"Why, we'll be as rich as kings!" was Granny's delighted reply. "You're
a wonderful boy, Hal!"

"And if I could sell some flowers! Anyhow, there will be the spring
things. It does look a little like prosperity, Granny."

"I'm so thankful!" and Granny twisted up her apron in pure gratitude.

"Charlie had better go to school again. I wish she could learn to be a
teacher; for she never will like to sew."

"No," replied Granny, with a solemn shake of the head.

"And she is getting to be such a large girl! Well, I suppose something
will come. It has to all of us."




CHAPTER XIV.

  A FLOWER-GARDEN IN DOORS.


Hal went to school bright and early the first Monday in September. It
was about a mile to the place called the "Cross-roads," because from
there the roads diverged in every direction. An old tumble-down house
had been put in tolerable order, and some second-hand desks and benches
arranged in the usual fashion. Just around this point, there was quite
a nest of cottages belonging to the mill workmen.

The children straggled in shyly, eying the new master. Rather unkempt,
some of them, and with not very promising faces, belonging to the
poorer class of German and English; then others bright and tidy, and
brimming over with mirthful smiles.

By ten o'clock sixteen had assembled. Hal gave them a short address,
made a few rules, and attempted to classify them. They read and spelled
a little, at least those who were able, when the bell on the factory
rang out the hour of noon.

Three new ones came after dinner. Hal labored faithfully; but it _was_
a relief to have the session close.

Before the week ended, however, the prospect became more inspiriting.
There were twenty-three scholars, and some whom it would be a pleasure
to teach. But, after all, it was not as delightful as working among
the flowers,--the dear, beautiful children who gave only fragrance and
loveliness continually.

He had been so tired every night, that he could do nothing but rest;
and so he was glad to have Saturday come.

"It seems early to take them in," he said, surveying the garden so full
of glory. "But there is a good deal to do; and I shall have only one
day in the week."

Kit took the wheelbarrow, and trundled off to the woods for some more
good soil; for Hal had to be economical, since he could not afford to
buy every thing. They were out of debt, and had a little money,--very
little indeed; but there were some pears and grapes to sell. Hal's
Concord and Rogers hybrid had done beautifully; and two of the
new-comers in Madison had offered to take all he had, at ten cents a
pound.

"I could get more in the city," he said; "but there would be the time
and trouble of going. And grapes are heavy too: it doesn't take many
bunches to weigh a pound; and ten pounds come to a dollar."

But on this day he went at his roses. He had obtained quite a number
of slips of hybrid monthlies, mostly tea-roses; and they were doing
nicely. Some had blossomed once, and others were just showing bud.
These he meant to transplant to his bed up stairs. Careful and patient,
he took up the most of them so nicely, that I don't believe they knew
they were moved, until they began to look around for their companions.

Dot ran up stairs and down, and was most enthusiastic.

"It will be _so_ lovely to have a garden in the house!" was her
constant ejaculation.

By noon he had all the small roses in,--five white ones, four pink, and
about a dozen of different shades of deep velvety red. In this soil
he had used an abundance of powdered charcoal. Then came half a dozen
young heliotropes.

"Now, I am going to save the rest of the space, and shall plant
sweet-alyssum and candytuft, and some mignonette. I guess we have done
about enough for one day," he said to Granny and Dot.

Charlie and Kit were lolling under the trees, resting from their
labors. Now and then they had a merry outburst; but Charlie had grown
strangely quiet. She would sit lost in thought for hours together,
unless some one spoke to her; and then she would take to reading in the
same absorbed manner.

"Hal," she said one evening, "what do you know of drawing?"

"A little more than the old woman who could not tell a cow from a
rosebud;" and Hal smiled with quiet humor.

"I wish some one would teach me!"

"They do not have any drawing at school?"

"No, only at the academy. Belle Hartman is learning; but I don't care
any thing about flowers and such."

Faces and grotesque situations were Charlie's passion. She could see
the ludicrous side so quickly!

"You might practise at home, evenings."

"But paper costs a good deal. Oh, I wish I had some money!"

"Well Charlie, be patient. Something may come around by and by."

"Oh, dear!" and Charlie sighed. "I wish some one would come along and
adopt me; but then I'm not handsome, like Flossy. I suppose she is
having a splendid time. It seems to me that she might write just a
little word."

Hal thought so too. As the months went on, he began to feel bitterly
disappointed. Ah! if they could but see her once,--their beautiful
Florence.

Through the course of the month Hal managed to get his flowers in very
nice order,--several fuchsia that were in splendid bloom, two large
heliotropes, an elegant and thrifty monthly carnation, and a salvia
that was a glory in itself. But alas! that drooped and withered: so
Hall trimmed it down. Besides this, some rose and balm geraniums, a tub
full of callas, and ten of his tuberoses, that he had saved for winter
blossoming. The other two had been a source of untold comfort to him.
Then he had an exquisite safrano, and two chromatilla roses.

"Why it's quite a green-house," he said delightedly. "Now, if I can
only make them blossom all winter!"

The first spare Saturday he went over to Salem to see Mr. Thomas.
He was rather diffident, and did not like to explain his economical
arrangements, but said that he was likely to have some flowers for
sale. Mr. Thomas took him through his green-house again; and, though
there were a great many more plants, Hal thought he could show almost
as much bloom.

"I'll take your flowers," he promised, "provided you do not have too
many, and if we could manage it this way: sometimes I receive a large
order nearly a week beforehand, and I could let you know, in order that
you might bring me all you had which were really fine. And, to be frank
with you, I cannot afford to pay as much as you might get at Newbury or
New York."

"I should like to know some of the prices," Hal remarked.

"It depends a good deal upon the demand and the season; but prices
never vary a great deal."

They went round, and Hal learned a good deal in the course of his tour.


"Do you know of any place in Newbury where I could dispose of flowers?"
he asked.

"There is a Mr. Kirkman,--one brother keeps a confectionery, and the
other supplies flowers. But perhaps I may be able to do as well by you.
However, I will give you his card."

Hal and Mr. Thomas parted very good friends; and the florist gave him
some valuable advice.

"That fellow will succeed," he said to himself, watching Hal's
retreating figure. "His whole soul is in the flowers; and he blushes
over them as if they were a sweetheart. Looks pale and delicate,
though."

Truth to tell, Hal had been working pretty hard. The school _was_ a
great tax upon him; and the labor with his plants had been severe. Kit
and Granny tried to save him all they could in the way of getting in
winter vegetables, and looking after the chickens.

Ten days after his visit to Salem, he received a little note from Mr.
Thomas on this wise.

    "Bring me on Thursday morning, if you have them, three dozen roses,
    assorted colors, heliotrope, and fine sprays of fuchsia, if yours
    are still in bloom."

    "F. THOMAS."

Hal was delighted. Through September they had managed to get along on
the proceeds of their garden, and the fruit; but his first month's pay
had to go for clothes. It almost broke Granny's heart to take it.

"Why, I shall earn some more!" Hal exclaimed with his gay laugh. "It is
just what it is for, Granny, to spend. I'm thankful to be able to earn
it."

It was the middle of October now; and there had been some severe frost
already. Tender out-doors plants were a mass of blackened ruins.

"You will have to go over for me, Charlie," said Hal, "because I cannot
leave school. The stage starts at nine."

Charlie was in ecstasies. She rose by daylight on Thursday morning, to
curl her hair, Kit said; and could hardly wait for Hal to cut and pack
the flowers.

"I am sure I shall be left!" she declared twenty times at least.

Hal thought of it all the way to school. It seemed different from any
other earnings, and gave him an exquisite pleasure. His own lovely
darlings, his dream actually coming to pass.

Charlie was superbly generous, and left the stage at the Cross-roads,
when she might have ridden half a mile farther.

The children were just being dismissed: so she rushed in full of
excitement.

"O Hal! he said they were lovely, and the carnations magnificent. He
wondered how you raised them. They were a great deal prettier than his."

Hal blushed like a girl. He had sent the carnations at a venture.

"And here's the bill and the money."

Charlie was as proud as if it had been her own. Hal's fingers trembled
as he opened it. There they all were:--

    Three dozen Roses      $1.50
    Two dozen Heliotrope     .75
    Fuchsias                 .75
    One dozen Carnations     .48
                           -----
                           $3.48

"Oh!" exclaimed Hal with a glad cry: "it's just splendid! And he liked
them all?"

"Yes. There's going to be a great wedding in Salem. Such hosts and
hosts of flowers! And Jim Street took me for fifteen cents!"

"So there's more than three dollars profit," Hal returned. "Now you
must run home, Charlie, and get some dinner. I have not enough for two."

"I don't see why I can't stay. I should like to see your school, Hal,
when all the children are in."

"But Granny will be troubled. Yes, you had better go, Charlie. You have
been so good this morning, that you must not spoil it all. And then
she'll be glad to hear."

Charlie went reluctantly. Granny was overjoyed The three dollars looked
as large to her as a hundred would have to many a one.

Hal could hardly wait until four o'clock. He hurried home, and ran up
stairs; but the poor flowers had been shorn of their crown of glory.

"I can't bear to look at 'em," said Granny with a quiver in her voice.
"The poor dear things, that seemed jest like human creeturs! I used
to talk to 'em every time I came in."

"But they'll soon be lovely again; and it pleases me so much to think
that I can make a little money. I shall have the green-house some day;
and you won't have any thing to do but walk round in it like a queen."

Granny smiled. Every plan of Hal's was precious to her.

The heliotrope appeared to be the better for the pruning; and some of
the tuberoses shot up a tall spike for buds.

Then Hal had a few demands from the neighbors round. Mr. Thomas's next
call was early in November, when he asked Hal to bring all the flowers
that were available. It being Saturday morning, he went in with them
himself, and became the happy recipient of five dollars and a quarter.
Then he took a ramble in a bookstore, and, being attracted by the first
few pages of "Charles Auchester," purchased the book.

Kit went nearly wild over it. Hal read it aloud; and he held his breath
at the exquisite description of Charles's first concert, and the
tenderness and sweetness of the Chevalier. Though part of it was rather
beyond their comprehension, they enjoyed it wonderfully, nevertheless.

The little room up stairs became quite a parlor for them. The stove
kept it nice and warm; and they used to love to sit there evenings,
inhaling the fragrance, and watching the drowsy leaves as they nodded
to each other: it seemed to Hal that he had never been so happy in the
world. He ceased to long for Florence.

They did very well on their chickens this year, clearing forty dollars.
Granny thought they were quite rich.

"You ought to put it in the bank, Hal! it's just a flow of good luck on
every side."

And, when he received his pay for November, he actually did put fifty
dollars in the bank, though there were a hundred things he wanted with
it.

The latter part of December Hal's flowers began to bloom in great
profusion. The alyssum and candytuft came out, and the house was sweet
with tuberoses. There being more than Mr. Thomas wanted, he took a box
full to Newbury one Saturday morning, and found Mr. Kirkman, to whom
the flowers were quite a godsend. Eight dollars! Hal felt richer than
ever.

He had set his heart upon buying some Christmas gifts. At first he
thought he would break the fifty dollars; but it was so near the end of
the month that he borrowed a little from Dr. Meade instead. He came
home laden with budgets; but both Kit and Charlie were out, fortunately.

"Now, Granny, you _will_ keep the secret," he implored. "Don't breathe
a hint of it."

Very hard work Granny found it. She chuckled over her dish-washing;
and, when Dot asked what was the matter, subsided into an awful
solemnity. But Wednesday morning soon came.

They all rushed down to their stockings, which Kit and Charlie had
insisted upon hanging up after the olden fashion. Stockings were empty
however, as Santy Claus' gifts were rather unwieldy for so small a
receptacle.

Kit started back in amazement. A mysterious black case with a brass
handle on the top.

"O Hal! you are the dearest old chap in the world; a perfect darling,
isn't he Granny? and I never, never can thank you. I've been thinking
about it all the time, and wondering--oh, you dear, precious fiddle!"

Kit hugged it; and I am not sure but he kissed it, and capered around
the room as if he had lost his senses.

Charlie's gift was a drawing-book, a set of  pencils, and a new
dress; Granny's a new dress; and Dot's a muff and tippet, a very pretty
imitation of ermine. How delighted they all were! Kit could hardly eat
a mouthful of breakfast.

Granny gave them a royal dinner. Altogether it was almost as good as
the Christmas with "The old woman who lived in a shoe."

Yet there were only four of them now. How they missed the two absent
faces!

Shortly after this they had a letter from Joe. He had actually been
at Canton, seen John Chinaman on his native soil in all the glory of
pigtail and chop-stick. Such hosts of funny adventures it would have
been hard to find even in a book. He meant to cruise around in that
part of the world until he was tired, for he was having the tallest
kind of sport.

February was very pleasant indeed. Hal stirred up the soil in his cold
frames, and planted some seeds. His flowers were still doing very well,
the slips having come forward beautifully. On the whole, it had proved
a rather pleasant winter, and they had been very happy.

Granny declared that she was quite a lady. No more weaving carpet, or
going out to work,--nothing but "puttering" about the house. She was
becoming accustomed to the care of the flowers, and looked after them
in a manner that won Hal's entire heart.

Easter was to fall very early. Mr. Thomas had engaged all Hal's
flowers, and begged him to have as many white ones as possible. So
he fed the callas on warm water, with a little spirits of ammonia in
it, and the five beautiful stalks grew up, with their fairy haunt of
loveliness and fragrance. Dot used to look at them twenty times a day,
as the soft green turned paler and paler, bleaching out at last to that
wonderful creamy white with its delicate odor.

Outside he transplanted his heads of lettuce, sowed fresh seeds
of various kinds, and began to set slips of geranium. On cold or
stormy days they kept the glass covered, and always at night. It was
marvellous, the way every thing throve and grew. It seemed to Hal that
there was nothing else in the world so interesting.

Kit had begun to take lessons on his violin; but he soon found there
was a wide difference between the absolute drudgery of rudiments,
and the delicious dreams of melody that floated through his brain.
Sometimes he cried over the difficulties, and felt tempted to throw
away his violin; then he and Hal would have a good time with their
beloved Charles Auchester, when he would go on with renewed courage.

After Easter the flowers looked like mere wrecks. Hal cut most of the
roses down, trimmed the heliotrope and fuchsias, and planted verbenas.
His <DW29>s, which had come from seed, looked very fine and thrifty,
and were in bud. So he mentioned that he would have quite a number of
bedding-plants for sale.

Indeed, the fame of Hal's green-house spread through Madison. It was a
marvel to everybody, how he could make plants grow in such a remarkable
fashion, and under not a few disadvantages. But he studied the soil
and habits minutely; and then he had a "gift,"--as much of a genius for
this, as Kit's for music, or Charlie's for drawing.

But with these warm spring days Hal grew very pale and thin. It
seemed to him sometimes as if he could not endure the peculiar wear
and anxiety of the school. There were thirty-five scholars now; and,
although he tried to keep respectable order, he found it very hard
work. He had such a tender, indulgent heart, that he oftener excused
than punished.

His head used to ache dreadfully in the afternoon, and every pulse in
his body would throb until it seemed to make him absolutely sore. The
gardening and the school were quite too much.

"Granny," said Charlie one evening, "I am not going to school any more."

Granny opened her eyes in surprise.

"I am going to work."

"To work?"

It was astonishing to hear Charlie declare such sentiments.

"Yes,--in the mill."

"What will you do?"

"Sarah Marshall began last fall: it's cleaning specks and imperfections
out of the cloth; not very hard, either, and they give her four and a
half a week."

"That's pretty good," said Granny.

"Yes. I shall have to do something. I hate housework and sewing, and--I
want some money."

"I'm sure Hal's as good as an angel."

"I don't want Hal's. Goodness knows! he has enough to do, and it's high
time I began to think about myself."

Granny was overwhelmed with admiration at Charlie's spirit and
resolution, yet she was not quite certain of its being proper until she
had asked Hal.

"I wish she wanted to learn dressmaking instead, or to teach school;
but she isn't proud, like Flossy. And now she is growing so large that
she wants nice clothes, and all that."

Yet Hal sighed a little. Charlie somehow appeared to be lacking in
refinement. She had a great deal of energy and persistence, and was not
easily daunted or laughed out of any idea.

"Though I think she will make a nice girl," said Hal, as if he had been
indulging in a little treason. "We have a good deal to be thankful for,
Granny."

"Yes, indeed! And dear, brave Joe such a nice boy!"

Hal made a few inquiries at the mill. They would take Charlie, and pay
her two dollars a week for the first month, after that by the piece;
and, if she was smart, she could earn three or four dollars.

So Charlie went to work with her usual sturdiness. If they could have
looked in her heart, and beheld all her plans, and known that she
hated this as bitterly as washing dishes or mending old clothes!

On the first of June, Hal took an account of stock. They had been quite
fortunate in the sale of early vegetables. The lettuce, radishes, and
tomato-plants had done beautifully. For cut-flowers he had received
fifty-two dollars; for bedding-plants,--scarlet and other geraniums,
and <DW29>s,--the sum had amounted to over nine dollars; for vegetables
and garden-plants, eleven. They had not incurred any extra expense,
save the labor.

"To think of that, Granny! Almost seventy-five dollars! And on such a
small scale too! I think I could make gardening pay, if I had a fair
chance."

Dr. Meade admitted that it was wonderful, when he heard of it.

"I'm not sure that a hot-house would pay here in Madison, but you could
send a great many things to New York. Any how, Hal, if I were rich I
should build you one."

"You are very kind. I shouldn't have done as well, if it had not been
for you."

"Tut, tut! That's nothing. But I don't like to see you growing so thin.
I shall have to prepare you a tonic. You work too hard."

Hal smiled faintly.

"You must let gardening alone for the next six weeks. And the school
isn't the best thing in the world for you."

"I've been very thankful for it, though."

"If you stay another year, the salary must be raised. Do you like it?"

"Not as well as gardening."

"Well, take matters easy," advised the good doctor.

The tonic was sent over. Hal made a strong fight against the
languor; but the enemy was rather too stout for him. Every day
there was a little fever; and at night he tossed from side to side,
and could not sleep. Granny made him a "pitcher of tea," her great
cure-all,--valerian, gentian, and wild-cherry,--in a pitcher that had
lost both handle and spout; and, though he drank it to please her, it
did not appear to help him any.

It seemed to him, some days, that he never could walk home from school.
Now and then he caught a ride, to be sure; but the weary step after
step on these warm afternoons almost used up his last remnant of
strength.

"Now," said Dr. Meade when school had ended, "you really must begin to
take care of yourself. You are as white as if you had not an ounce of
blood in your whole body. No work of any kind, remember. It is to be a
regular vacation."

Hal acquiesced from sheer inability to do any thing else. The house
was quiet; for Dot never had been a noisy child since her crying-days.
She was much more like Florence, except the small vanities, and air of
martyrdom, that so often spoiled the elder sister's sacrifices,--a
sweet, affectionate little thing, a kind of baby, as she would always
be.

Her love for Hal and Granny was perfect devotion, and held in it a
strand of quaintness that made one smile. She could cook quite nicely;
and sewing appeared to come natural to her. Hal called her "Small
woman," as an especial term of endearment.

But they hardly knew what to make of Charlie. Instead of launching out
into gayeties, as they expected (for Charlie was very fond of finery),
she proved so economical, that she was almost stingy. She gave Granny a
dollar a week; and they heard she was earning as much as Sarah Marshall
already. In fact, Charlie was a Trojan when she worked in good earnest.

"What are you going to do with it all?" Hal would ask playfully.

"Maybe I'll put it in the bank, or buy a farm."

"Ho!" said Kit. "What would you do with a farm?"

"Hire it out on shares to Hal."

"You are a good girl, Charlie; and it's well to save a little 'gainst
time o' need."

Which encomium of Granny's would always settle the matter.

Hal did not get better. Dr. Meade wanted him to go to the seaside for a
few weeks.

"I cannot afford it," he said; "and I shouldn't enjoy it a bit alone. I
think I shall be better when cool weather comes. These warm days seem
to melt all the strength out of me."

"Well, I hope so."

Hal hoped so too. He was young; and the world looked bright; and then
they all needed him. Not that he had any morbid thoughts of dying, only
sometimes it crossed his mind. He had never been quite so well and
strong since the accident.

For Granny's sake and for Dot's sake. He loved them both so dearly; and
they seemed so peculiarly helpless,--the one in her shy childhood, the
other on the opposite confine. He wanted to make Granny's life pleasant
at the last, when she had worked so hard for all of them.

But God would do what was best; though Hal's lip quivered, and an
unbidden tear dropped from the sad eye.

O Florence! had you forgotten them?




CHAPTER XV.

  HOW CHARLIE RAN AWAY.


"Where is Charlie?" asked Hal as they sat down to the supper-table one
evening.

"She didn't go to work this afternoon, but put on her best clothes, and
said she meant to take a holiday."

"Well, the poor child needed it, I am sure. To think of our wild,
heedless, tomboy Charlie settling into such a steady girl!"

"But Charlie always was good at heart. I've had six of the best and
nicest grandchildren you could pick out anywhere, if I do say it
myself."

Granny uttered the words with a good deal of pride.

"Yes," said Kit: "we'll be a what-is-it--crown to your old age."

Granny laughed merrily.

"Seven children!" appended Kit. "You forgot my fiddle."

"Eight children!" said Dot. "You forgot Hal's flowers."

Hal smiled at this.

"I may as well wash the dishes," exclaimed Dot presently. "I guess
Charlie will stay out to tea."

After that they sat on the doorstep in the moonlight, and sang,--Dot
with her head in Hal's lap, and Hal's arm around Granny's shoulder. A
very sacred and solemn feeling seemed to come to them on this evening,
as if it was a time which it would be important to remember.

"I do not believe Charlie means to come home to-night," Hal said when
the clock struck ten.

"But she has on her best clothes. She wouldn't wear 'em to the mill."

So they waited a while longer. No Charlie. Then they kissed each other
good-night, and began to disperse.

Hal looked into the deserted flower-room, which was still a kind of
library and cosey place. The moonlight lay in broad white sheets on the
floor, quivering like a summer sea. How strange and sweet it was! How
lovely God had made the earth, and the serene heaven above it!

Something on the table caught his eye as he turned,--a piece of folded
paper like a letter. He wondered what he had left there, and picked it
up carelessly.

    "_To Granny and Hal._"

Hal started in the utmost surprise. An unsealed letter in Charlie's
handwriting, which had never been remarkable for its beauty. He
trembled all over, and stood in the moonlight to read it, the slow
tears coming into his eyes.

Should he go down and tell them? Perhaps it would be better not to
alarm them to-night. Occasionally, when it had rained, Charlie spent
the night with some of the girls living near the mill: so Granny would
not worry about her.

O brave, daring, impulsive Charlie! If you could have seen the pain in
Hal's heart!

He brought the letter down the next morning.

"How queer it is that Charlie stays!" said Dot, toasting some bread. "O
Hal! what's the matter?"

"Nothing--only--You'll have to hear it sometime; and maybe it will
all end right. Charlie's gone away."

"Gone away!" echoed Granny.

"Yes. She left a letter. I found it last night in the flower-room. Let
me read it to you."

Hal cleared his throat. The others stood absolutely awe-stricken.

    "DEAR GRANNY AND HAL,--You know I always had my heart set
    on running away; and I'm going to do it now, because, if I told you
    all my plans, you would say they were quite wild. Perhaps they are.
    Only I _shall_ try to make them work; and, somehow, I think I can.
    I have sights of courage and hope. But, O Granny! I couldn't stay
    in the mill: it was like putting me in prison. I hated the coarse
    work, the dirt, the noise, and the smells of grease, and everybody
    there. Some days I felt as if I must scream and scream, until God
    came and took me out of it. But I wanted to earn some money; and
    there wasn't any other way in Madison that I should have liked any
    better. I've had this in my mind ever since I went to work.

    "I can't tell you all my plans,--I don't even know them
    myself,--only I am going to try; and, if I cannot succeed, I shall
    come back. I have twenty-five dollars that I've saved. And, if I
    have good luck, you'll hear that too. Please don't worry about me.
    I shall find friends, and not get into any trouble, I know.

    "I am very sorry to leave you all; but then I kissed you
    good-by,--Hal and Kit this morning, when I said it softly in my
    heart; and Dot and you, dear Granny, when I went away. I had it all
    planned so nicely, and you never suspected a word. I shall come
    back some time, of course. And now you must be happy without me,
    and just say a tiny bit of prayer every night, as I shall for you,
    and never fret a word. Somehow I feel as if I were a little like
    Joe; and you know he is doing beautifully.

    "Good-by with a thousand kisses. Don't try to find me; for you
    can't, I know. I'll write some time again. Your own queer, loving.

    "CHARLIE."

"Well, that's too good!" said Kit, breaking the silence of tears.
"Charlie has the spunk--and a girl too!"

"Oh!" sobbed Granny, "she don't know nothing; and she'll get lost, and
get into trouble."

"No, she won't, either! I'll bet on Charlie. And she was saving up her
money for that, and never said a word!"

Kit's admiration was intense.

"It's about the drawing; and she has gone to New York, I am almost
sure," said Hal. "Don't cry, Granny; for somehow I think Charlie will
be safe. She is good and honest and truthful."

"But in New York! And she don't know anybody there"--

"Maybe she has gone to Mrs. Burton's. I might write and see. Or there
is Clara Pennington--they moved last spring, you remember. I'm pretty
sure we shall find her."

Hal's voice was strong with hope. Now that he had to comfort Granny, he
could see a bright side himself.

"And she has some money too."

"She'll do," said Kit decisively. "And if that isn't great! She coaxed
me to run away once and live in the woods; but I think this is better."

"Did you do it?" asked Dot.

"Yes. We came near setting the woods on fire; and didn't we get a jolly
scolding! Charlie's a trump."

So they settled themselves to the fact quite calmly. Charlie had taken
the best of her clothes, and would be prepared for present emergencies.

Before the day was over, they had another event to startle them.

Dr. Meade tied his old horse to the gate-post, and came in. Granny was
taking a little rest in the other room; and Dot was up stairs, reading.

"Better to-day, eh?" said the doctor.

"I believe I do feel a little better. I have not had any headache or
fever for several days."

"You'll come out bright as a blue-bird next spring."

"Before that, I hope. School commences next week."

"Then you have heard--nothing?"

"Was there any thing for me to hear?"

Hal looked up anxiously; and the soft brown eyes, in their wistfulness,
touched the doctor's heart.

"They've served you and me a mean trick, Hal," began the doctor rather
warmly. "Some of it was my fault. I told the committee that you would
not take it next year under five hundred dollars."

"It's worth that," said Hal quietly.

"Yes, if it is worth a cent. Well, Squire Haines has had a niece
staying with him who has taught school in Brooklyn for eight or ten
years,--a great, tall sharp kind of a woman; and she was willing to
come for the old salary. She's setting her cap for Mrs. Haines's
brother, I can see that fast enough. The squire, he's favored her; and
they've pushed the matter through."

"Then Miss Perkins has it!" Hal exclaimed with a gasp, feeling as if he
were stranded on the lee-shore.

"Exactly. And I don't know but it is best. To tell the truth, Hal, you
are not strong, and you did work too hard last year. You want rest; but
you'll never be able to go into the battle rough and tumble. I may as
well tell you this."

"Do you think I shall never"--Hal's lip quivered.

"The fall gave you a great shock, you see; and then the confinement in
school was altogether wrong. You want quiet and ease; and I do think
this flower-business will be the very thing for you. I've been casting
it over in my mind; and I have a fancy that another spring I'll be able
to do something for you. Keep heart, my boy. It's darkest just before
the dawn, you know."

"You are so kind!" and the brown eyes filled with tears.

"It will all come out right, I'm pretty sure. This winter's rest will
be just the thing for you. Now, don't fret yourself back to the old
point again; for you have improved a little. And, if you want any
thing, come to me. We all get in tight places sometimes."

Hal repeated this to Dot and Granny; and when Kit came home he heard
the "bad news," over which he looked very sober.

"But then it might be worse," said Hal cheerily; for he was never sad
long at a time. "We have almost a hundred dollars, and I shall try to
make my flowers more profitable this winter."

And the best of all was, Hal _did_ begin to feel better. The terrible
weakness seemed to yield at last to some of the good doctor's tonics,
his appetite improved, and he could sleep quite well once more.

At this juncture Kit found an opening.

"They'll take me in the melodeon-factory over at Salem," he announced
breathlessly one evening. "Mr. Briggs told me of it, and I went to see.
I can board with Mr. Halsey, the foreman; and oh, can't he play on the
violin! He will go on teaching me, and I can have my board and four
dollars a month."

"Well, I declare!" ejaculated Granny. "What next?"

"Then you won't have me to take care of this winter. I'm about tired
of going to school, and that's nice business. I can come home every
Saturday night."

"Yes," said Hal thoughtfully.

"I do believe Mr. Halsey's taken a great liking to me. He wants you to
come over, Hal, and have a talk."

So Hal went over. The prospect appeared very fair. Kit had some
mechanical genius; but building melodeons would be much more to his
taste than building houses.

"It has a suggestion of music in it," laughed Hal.

So the bargain was concluded. About the middle of September, Kit
started for Salem and business.

But oh, how lonely the old house was! All the mirth and mischief gone!
It seemed to Granny that she would be quite willing to go out washing,
and weave carpets, if she could have them all children once more.

There was plenty of room in the Old Shoe now. One bed in the parlor
held Dot and Granny. No cradle with a baby face in it, no fair girl
with golden curls sewing at the window. Tabby sat unmolested in the
chimney-corner. No one turned back her ears, or put walnut-shells over
her claws; no one made her dance a jig on her hind-legs, or bundled her
in shawls until she was smothered, and had to give a pathetic m-i-a-o-u
in self-defence.

Oh, the gay, laughing, tormenting children! Always clothes to mend,
cut fingers and stubbed toes to doctor, quarrels to settle, noises to
quell, to tumble over one here and another there, to have them cross
with the measles and forlorn with the mumps, but coming back to fun
again in a day or two,--the dear, troublesome, vanished children!

Many a time Granny cried alone by herself. It was right that they
should grow into men and women; but oh, the ache and emptiness it left
in her poor old heart! And it seemed as if Tabby missed them; for now
and then she would put her paws on the old window-seat, stretching out
her full length, and look up and down the street, uttering a mournful
cry.

One day Dot brought home a letter from the store directed to Hal.

"Why, it's Charlie!" he said with a great cry of joy and confusion of
person. "Dear old Charlie!"

He tore it open with hasty, trembling fingers.

    "DEAR HAL AND GRANNY,--I'm like Joe, happy as a big
    sunflower! I can't tell you half nor quarter; so I shall not try,
    but save it all against the time I come home; for I _am_ coming.
    Every thing is just splendid! It wasn't so nice at first, and one
    day I felt almost homesick; but it came out right. Oh, dear! I want
    to see you so, and tell you all the wonderful things that have
    happened to me,--just like a story-book. I think of you all,--Hal
    in his school, Granny busy about the house, Dot, the little
    darling, sweet as ever, and a whole roomful of flowers up-stairs,
    and Kit playing on his violin. Did you miss me much? I missed the
    dear old home, the sweet kisses, and tender voices; but some day I
    shall have them again. I never forget you a moment; but oh, oh, oh!
    That's all I can say. There are not words enough to express all the
    rest. Don't forget me; but love me just the same. A thousand kisses
    to all you children left in the old shoe, and another thousand to
    Granny.

    "Your own dear
    CHARLIE."

Hal's eyes were full of tears. To tell the truth, they had a good
crying-time before any of them could speak a word.

"Dear, brave Charlie! She and Joe are alike. Granny, I don't know but
they are the children to be proud of, after all."

"Where is she?" asked Granny, wiping her nose violently.

"Why, there isn't a bit of--address--to it; and the post-mark--begins
with an N--but all the rest is blurred. She means to wait until she
comes home, and tell us the whole story; and she will not give us an
opportunity to write, for fear we will ask some questions. She means to
keep up her running away."

They were all delighted, and had to read the letter over and over again.

"She must be in New York somewhere, and studying drawing. I've a great
mind to write at a venture."

"And she will come home," crooned Granny softly.

"I'm glad she thinks us all so happy and prosperous," said Hal.

I shall have to tell you how it fared with Charlie and not keep you
waiting until they heard the story.

She had indeed followed out her old plan. Child as she was, when she
went to work in the mill she crowded all her wild dreams down in the
depths of her heart. No one ever knew what heroic sacrifices Charlie
Kenneth made. She was fond of dress, and just of an age when a bright
ribbon, a pretty hat, and a dozen other dainty trifles, seem to add so
much to one's happiness.

But she resolutely eschewed them all. Week by week her little hoard
gained slowly, every day bringing her nearer the hour of freedom. She
planned, too, more practically than any one would have supposed. And
one evening she smuggled a black travelling-bag into the house, hiding
it in a rubbish-closet until she could pack it.

She seized her opportunity at noon, to get it out unobserved; and,
putting it in an out-of-the-way corner, dragged some pea-brush over it,
that gave it the look of a pile of rubbish. Then she dressed herself,
and said her good-bys gayly, but with a trembling heart, and went off
to take her holiday.

Charlie tugged her bag to the depot, and bought a ticket for Newbury.
Then she seated herself in great state, and really began to enjoy the
adventure. She wondered how people could spend all their lives in a
little humdrum place like Madison.

At Newbury she bought a ticket for New York. Then she sat thinking what
she should do. A family by the name of Wilcox had left Madison two
years before, and gone to New York. The mother was a clever, ignorant,
good-hearted sort of woman, of whom Charlie Kenneth had been rather
fond in her childish days. Mary Jane, the daughter, had paid a flying
visit to Madison that spring, and Charlie had heard her describe the
route to her house in Fourteenth Street. This was where she purposed to
go.

The cars stopped. The passengers left in a crowd, Charlie following.
If they were going to New York, she would not get lost. So the ferry
was crossed in safety. Then she asked a policeman to direct her to City
Hall. A little ragged urchin pestered her about carrying her bag, but
it was too precious to be trusted to strangers.

She saw the Third-avenue cars; but how was she to get to them? The
street seemed blocked up continually. By and by a policeman piloted her
across, and saw her safely deposited in the car.

Charlie paid her fare, and told the conductor to stop at Fourteenth
Street; but, after riding a while, she began to look out for herself.
What an endless way it was! and where _did_ all the people come from?
Could it be possible that there were houses enough for them to live in?
Ah! here was her corner.

She turned easterly, watching for the number. There was Mrs. Wilcox's
frowsy head at the front basement window; and Charlie felt almost
afraid to ring at the front-door, so she tried that lowly entrance.

"Come in," said a voice in response to her knock.

It was evident she had grown out of Mrs. Wilcox's remembrance, so she
rather awkwardly introduced herself.

"Charlie Kenneth! The land sakes! How you have growed! Why, I'm right
glad to see you. How is Granny and all the children, and all the folks
at Madison?"

Charlie "lumped" them, and answered, "Pretty well."

"Did you come down all alone? And how did you find us? Mary Jane'll be
powerful glad to see you. Ain't you most tired to death luggin' that
heavy bag? Do take off your things, and get rested."

Charlie complied. Mrs. Wilcox went on with her endless string of
questions, even after she rose to set the supper-table.

"And so Florence is married. Strange you've never heard about her.
She's so rich and grand that I s'pose she don't want to remember poor
relations. And Hal's been a teachin' school! Why, you're quite gettin'
up in the world."

Mary Jane soon made her appearance. A flirting, flippant girl of
sixteen, rather good-looking, and trimmed up with ribbons and cheap
furbelows. She appeared glad to see Charlie, and all the questions were
asked over again. Then Mr. Wilcox came in, washed his hands and face,
and they sat down to supper. Before they were half through, Tom and Ed
came tumbling in, full of fun and nonsense.

"Boys, be still!" said their father; which admonition they heeded for
about the space of ten seconds.

Mary Jane rose from the table as soon as she had finished her supper.

"Charlie'll sleep with me, of course," she said. "Bring your bag and
your things up stairs, Charlie."

Charlie followed her to the third story,--a very fair-sized room, but
with an appearance of general untidiness visible everywhere.

"You can hang up your clothes in that closet," indicating it with her
head. "Did you go to work in the mill, Charlie?"

"Yes."

"Didn't you like it?"

"Not very much," slowly shaking out her clean calico dress.

"I shouldn't, either. What did you earn?"

"Sometimes four dollars and a half."

"I earn six, week in and week out. Then I do a little overwork every
day, which gives me Saturday afternoon. Charlie, why don't you stay?"

Mary Jane was taking down her hair, and turned round suddenly.

"I thought I would;" and Charlie blushed. "I've saved up a little
money, enough to pay my board for a few weeks, until I can find
something to do."

"Flower-making is first-rate. Some of the girls earn ten dollars a
week. I've only been at it a year, you see. They pay a dollar a week
while you're learning. Shall I try to get you in?"

"I don't know yet," was the hesitating answer.

"What makes you wear your hair short, Charlie?"

"Why--I like it so. It's no trouble."

"But it's so childish!"

Mary Jane was arranging a wonderful waterfall. On the top of this she
hung a cluster of curls, and on the top of her head she tied in a bunch
of frizettes with a scarlet ribbon.

"Now, that's what I call stylish;" and she turned round to Charlie. "If
I was you, I'd let my hair grow; and, as soon as it is long enough to
tie in a little knot, you can buy a waterfall."

Charlie was quite bewildered with these manifold adornments.

Then Mary Jane put on a white dress, a red carved ivory pin and
ear-rings, and presented quite a gorgeous appearance.

"Charlie, I've been thinking--why can't you board here? I pay mother
two dollars a week, and you could just as well have part of my room.
Mother wanted me to let the boys have it, because there were two of
them; but I wanted plenty of room. Yes: it would be real nice to have
you here. I'll ask mother. I know you can find something to do."

A great load seemed lifted from Charlie's heart.

Then they went down to the next floor. The boys had the hall bedroom,
and the back room was used by the heads of the family. There were two
large pantries between, and then a front parlor. Charlie was quite
stunned; for the place appeared fully as gorgeous as Mary Jane. A cheap
Brussels carpet in bright colors, the figure of which ran all over the
floor; two immense vases on the mantle, where grotesque Chinese figures
were disporting on a bright green ground; a rather shabby crimson plush
rocker; and some quite impossible sunsets done in oil, with showy wide
gilt frames. Mrs. Wilcox had purchased them at auction, and considered
them a great bargain.

Then Mary Jane, with a great deal of giggling and blushing, confessed
to Charlie that she had a beau. "A real nice young man," clerk in a
dry-goods store, Walter Brown by name, and that he came almost every
evening.

"You can't help liking him," was the positive assertion. "I wish you
didn't have short hair, nor look so much like a little girl; for you
are as tall as I am."

Which was very true; but Charlie felt herself quite a child, and very
much startled at the idea of beaux.

Mary Jane took out some embroidery, and did not deign to revisit the
kitchen. A trifle after eight Mr. Brown made his appearance, looking
neat as a pink, and nearly as sweet with perfume. For the first time in
her life, Charlie was painfully bashful. When he proposed a walk to an
ice-cream saloon, she would fain have remained at home; but Mary Jane
over-ruled.

The walk was quite pleasant, and the cream a positive treat. Charlie
said some very bright things, which Mr. Brown appeared to consider
exceedingly funny. Then they rambled around a while; and when they
returned, Mary Jane lingered at the hall-door to have a little private
talk, while Charlie ran up stairs. Mrs. Wilcox sat in the parlor
fanning herself, and eagerly questioned the child as to where they had
been, and how she liked New York.

Tired and excited, Charlie went to bed at last; but she could not
sleep. The strange place, the tinkle of the car-bells, the noises in
the streets, and, most of all, her own thoughts, kept her wakeful. She
could hardly believe that she had achieved her great ambition, and
actually run away. On the whole, it was rather comical.

Had they found her letter yet? What did Hal and Granny think? Would
they be very much worried?

And if she only _could_ find out something about pictures, and begin to
work in good earnest at the right thing. It was as much to her as the
flowers were to dear Hal. God bless and keep them all!




CHAPTER XVI.

  ALMOST DISCOURAGED.


Charlie was really tired on Friday, and did not feel equal to making
any effort; so she assisted Mrs. Wilcox with the housework, and tidied
up Mary Jane's room until one would hardly have known it. But every
thing seemed so strange and new.

Late in the afternoon she gained courage to say,--

"Did Mary Jane tell you, Mrs. Wilcox, that--I'd like to stay?"

"Yes. And so you _really_ came to York to get something to do! I s'pose
there's such a host of you at home!"

Charlie swallowed over a lump in her throat. Perhaps she was not a
little glad that Mrs. Wilcox did not suspect her unorthodox manner of
leaving Madison.

"I mean to find something to do. And if you would board me"--

"Now, Charlie Kenneth! first you stay and make a visit, and see what
you can find, before you talk of payin' board. Thank Heaven! I never
begrudged any one a meal's vittles or a night's sleep. Your poor old
grandmother's slaved herself half to death for you, and I'm glad to see
you have some spunk."

"Then, you'll let me stay?" and a soft flush of relief stole over
Charlie's face.

"Stay!" rather indignantly. "No one ever heard of Hannah Wilcox turnin'
people out o' doors. Your Granny has done more than one good turn for
me."

"But I've saved some money to pay my board"--

"I won't take a cent of it till you get to work, there, now! Jest you
never fret yourself a word. It'll all come right, I know."

"I'm very much obliged," said Charlie, feeling as if she would like to
cry.

"Mary Jane spoke of a chance of getting you at the flowers. It's light,
easy work,--I tell her jest like play. But you must have a visit first."

On Saturday Mary Jane came home at noon.

"I do think Charlie Kenneth's earned a holiday," said Mrs. Wilcox. "I
couldn't begin to tell the things that girl's done this mornin'. Swept
and dusted, and helped me clean the closet"--

"Then you're in clover, mother;" and Mary Jane laughed. "I never could
bear to do housework."

"A great kind of a wife you'll make."

"That will be some one else's look out;" and Mary Jane tossed her head
in a curiously satisfied manner.

They took a promenade on Broadway in the afternoon. Charlie was
delighted; and the shop-windows entertained her beyond description.
They bought some trifles,--a pair of gloves, a collar, and a ribbon
or two,--and Charlie found that money absolutely melted away. She had
spent four dollars.

She summoned courage to question Mary Jane a little, but found her
exceedingly ignorant on the great topic that absorbed her.

"I believe girls do color photographs in some places, but then you'd
have to know a good deal to get a situation like that. I guess only
rich girls have a chance to learn drawing and painting."

"But when it comes natural," said Charlie slowly.

"Well, I'll ask _him_;" and Mary Jane smiled, and nodded her head.
"_He_ knows most every thing."

"Are you going to marry him?" Charlie asked innocently, understanding
the pronoun.

"Oh, I don't know!" with a toss of the head. "I mean to have some fun
first. Some girls have lots of beaux."

Charlie . She had not the judgment or the experience to assist
her in any sort of analysis; but she _felt_ that these Wilcoxes were
very different from their household. They had always been poor, lived
in an old tumble-down cottage, with a bed in the parlor; were a noisy,
frolicksome, romping set; given to slang, Flossy's great abhorrence;
and yet--there was a clean, pure element in them all,--a kind of
unconscious refinement. Florence's fine-ladyisms had not been entirely
useless or wasted.

Refinement was the idea floating so dimly through Charlie's brain. In
after years she understood the force of Hal's example, and the many
traits Joe had laughed at as being girlish. But now she could only feel
that there was a great gulf between her and Mary Jane; that the latter
could _not_ enter into her hopes and ambitions.

However, Charlie's drawings were brought to Mr. Brown for inspection.

"Why, you're a regular genius!" he exclaimed in surprise.

Charlie  with delight, and every nerve seemed to expand with
precious hope.

"It is a great pity that you are not a man."

"Why?" and Charlie opened her large eyes wonderingly.

"Because then you could do something with your talent. All these comic
pictures in papers are designed by men; and they sometimes travel
about, writing descriptions of places, and drawing little sketches to
go with them. It is capital business."

"That is what I should like;" and Charlie's face glowed.

"But girls and women never do it. It's altogether out of their sphere.
You see, that is one of the disadvantages."

Mr. Brown uttered this dogmatically.

"But if they know how, and can do it"--

"They couldn't travel about alone, running into dangers of all kinds.
And it is just here. Now, some of these sketches are as good as you
see in the papers; but no one would think of buying them of a woman,
because it is men's work."

Charlie winked the tears out of her eyes. The argument was crushing,
for she could not refute the lameness of the logic; and she had always
felt sore about being a girl.

"They teach women to draw and paint down here at Cooper Institute," he
said presently.

"But I suppose it costs a good deal?" and Charlie sighed.

"Yes."

"These things are for rich people," said Mary Jane with an air of
authority.

Charlie could not summon heart to question further: besides, she had
some ideas in her brain. Maybe she _might_ sell her pictures to some
newspaper. Any how, she would try.

She began the week with this determination. On Monday she dressed
herself carefully, and gave her face a rather rigorous inspection. It
_did_ look very little-girlish. And somehow she wished her hair wasn't
short, and that she could be handsome. Who ever heard of such dark eyes
and light hair, such a peculiar tint too,--a kind of Quaker-drab; not
golden nor auburn nor chestnut. Well, she was as she grew, and she
couldn't help any of it.

By dint of inquiring now and then, she found her way about pretty well.
Her first essay was in the office of an illustrated paper.

The man listened to her story with a peculiar sharp business air, and
merely said,--

"No: we don't want any thing of the kind."

Charlie felt that she could not say another word, and walked out.

She stood a long while looking in the window of a print-shop, and at
last ventured again.

This person was less brusque.

"My little girl," he said, "we never do any thing with such matters. We
buy our pictures, printed or painted, or engravings, as the case may
be, from all parts of the world. Many of them are copies from different
artists well known to fame. It costs a great deal for the plate of a
picture."

Which explanation was quite unintelligible to Charlie.

She rambled on until she came to a bookstore. There being only a boy
within, she entered.

"Do you ever buy any pictures for books?" she asked.

"Books allus have pictures in 'em," was the oracular reply.

"But who makes them?"

"Why, engravers, of course;" with supreme astonishment at her ignorance.

"And they--do the thinking,--plan the picture, I mean?"

"What?" asked the boy, as if Charlie had spoken Greek.

"Some one must have the idea first."

He could not controvert it, and stared about helplessly.

"Are there any lady engravers?"

"No, I guess not;" scratching his head.

"And who makes these little pictures of children like this girl
teaching the dog to read, and this one with the flowers?"

"Oh, I know what you want!" exclaimed the boy. "We gets 'em down in Ann
Street. There's some girls working in the place. Do you know where Ann
Street is?"

Some of Charlie's old humor cropped out.

"No, nor Polly Street, nor Jemima Street."

The boy studied her sharply, but preserved a sullen silence, strongly
suspecting that he was being laughed at.

"Will you please tell me?" quite meekly. "And--the man's name."

The boy found a card, and directed her. Charlie trudged on with a light
heart.

The place was up two flights of very dirty steps. Mr. Balcour had gone
out to dinner, and she was rather glad of an excuse to rest. In the
adjoining room there were three girls laughing and chatting. Now, if
she could come here to work!

When Mr. Balcour entered, Charlie found him a very pleasant-looking
man. She made known her errand with but little hesitation.

"It is something of a mistake," was the smiling answer. "My business is
coloring prints, flower-pieces, and all that. Sometimes they are sent
to me, but these little things I buy by the hundred or thousand, and
color them; then picture-dealers, Sunday-schools, &c., come in here to
purchase."

With that he displayed cases of birds, flowers, fancy scenes, and tiny
landscapes.

"Oh, how beautiful they are!" and she glanced them over with delight.
"I should like to do them!"

"Do you know any thing about water-coloring?"

"No;" rather hesitatingly, for she was not at all certain as to the
precise nature of water-coloring.

"I keep several young ladies at work. It requires taste, practice, and
a certain degree of genius, artistic ability."

"I meant the first thought of the picture," said Charlie, blushing.
"Some one must know how it is to be made."

"Yes, certainly."

"If you would look at these"--

She opened her parcel, and spread them before him.

"Did you do them?"

He asked the question in astonishment.

"Yes," was Charlie's simple reply.

He studied her critically, which made her warm color come and go, and
she interlaced her fingers nervously.

"My child, this first thought, as you call it, is designing. You have a
very remarkable genius, I should say. How old are you?"

"Fifteen."

"You have had some instruction!"

Charlie concluded it would be wiser to say that she had, for there was
the drawing-book and Hal.

"You wish to do this for a living?" he asked kindly.

"Oh, if I could! I like it so much!" and there was a world of entreaty
in Charlie's tone.

Mr. Balcour had to laugh over some of the drawings, for the faces were
so spirited and expressive.

"I will tell you the very best thing for you to do. Enter the School of
Design for women. The arrangements, I believe, are very good; that is,
there is a chance to earn something while you are studying."

"Oh!"

Charlie's face was fairly transfigured. Mr. Balcour thought her a
wonderfully pretty girl.

"It is at Cooper Institute, Third Avenue and Seventh or Eighth Street.
I really do not know any thing about it, except that it does profess to
assist young students in art."

"I am so much obliged to you;" and Charlie gave him a sweet, grateful
smile.

"I should like to hear a little about you!" he said; "and I hope you
will succeed. Come in some time and let me know. Do you live in the
city?"

"No; but I am staying with some friends on Fourteenth Street."

"Not far from Cooper Institute, then."

"No, I can easily find it."

They said good-by; and Charlie threaded her way up to City Hall with a
heart as light as thistle-down, quite forgetting that she had missed
her dinner. Then, by car, she went up to Cooper Institute.

And now what was she to do? I told you that Charlie had a great deal of
courage and perseverance. And then she was so earnest in this quest!
She inquired in a china-store, and was directed up stairs.

It was very odd indeed. First she stumbled into a reading-room, and was
guided from thence to the art-gallery by a boy. The pictures amused
and interested her for quite a while. One lady and two gentlemen were
making copies.

By and by she summoned courage to ask the lady which was the school, or
study-room.

"School of Design?"

"Yes," timidly.

"It is closed."

Charlie's countenance fell.

"When will it be open?"

"About the first of October."

The child gave a great sigh of disappointment.

"Were you thinking of entering?"

"I wanted to see--if I could."

"Have you painted any?"

"No: but I have been drawing a little."

"You are rather young, I think."

Then the lady went on with her work. Charlie turned away with tears in
her eyes. A whole month to wait!

Mrs. Wilcox plied her with questions on her return, but Charlie was not
communicative.

After a night's rest she felt quite courageous again. She would see
what could be done about engraving.

Poor Charlie! There were no bright spots in this day. Everybody seemed
cross and in a hurry. One man said coarsely,--

"You needn't tell me you did them things by yourself. You took 'em from
some picturs."

So she came home tired and dispirited. Mary Jane had a crowd of gay
company in the evening, and Charlie slipped off to bed. Oh, if she
could only give Dot a good hug, and kiss Hal's pale face, and hear
Granny's cracked voice! Even the horrible tuning of Kit's fiddle would
sound sweet. But to be here,--among strangers,--and not be able to make
her plans work.

Charlie turned her face over on the pillow, and had a good cry. After
all, there never could be anybody in this world half so sweet as "The
old woman who lived in a shoe!"

On Wednesday it rained. Charlie was positively glad to have a good
excuse for staying within doors. She helped Mrs. Wilcox with her
sewing, and told her every thing she could remember about the people at
Madison.

"How strange it must look,--and a railroad through the middle of it!
There wa'n't no mills in my time, either. And rows of houses, Mary Jane
said. She'd never 'a' known the place if it hadn't been for the folks.
Dear, dear!"

Mary Jane came home in high feather that night.

"I found they were taking on some girls to-day, Charlie; and I spoke
a good word for you. You can come next Monday. I don't believe you'll
make out much with the pictures."

"You were very good;" but Charlie's lip quivered a little.

"It will be ever so nice to have company up and down! and you'll like
it, I'm sure."

Mary Jane, being of a particularly discursive nature, was delighted to
have a constant listener.

"Well, that was better than nothing," Charlie thought. She might work
a while, and perhaps learn something more definite about the School of
Design.

"For I'll never give it up, never!" and Charlie set her resolute red
lips together, while her eyes glanced into the future.

The following morning was so lovely, that she felt as if she must have
a walk. She put on her white dress and sacque, and looked as fresh as
a rose. She would go over on Broadway, where every thing was clean and
lovely, and have a delightful time looking at the shop-windows and the
beautiful ladies.

It was foolish to take her pictures along, and yet she did it. They
really appeared a part of her life. On and on she sauntered, enjoying
every thing with the keenest relish. The mellow sun, the refreshing
air that had in it a crisp flavor, the cloudless sky overhead, and the
bright faces around, made her almost dance with gladness.

She stood for a long while viewing some chromos in a window,--two or
three of children, which were very piquant and amusing, and appealed
to her love of fun. Obeying her impulse she entered, and stole timidly
around. Two gentlemen were talking, and one of the faces pleased her
exceedingly. A large, fair, fresh-complexioned man, with curly brown
hair, and a patriarchal beard, snowy white, though he did not appear
old.

A young fellow came to her presently, and asked if there was any thing
he could show her.

"I should like to see the gentleman--when he is--disengaged."

That speech would have done credit to Florence.

The youth carried the message, and the proprietor glanced around. Not
the one with the beautiful beard, and Charlie felt rather disappointed.

They talked a while longer, then he came forward.

"You wished to see me?"

Charlie turned scarlet to the tips of her fingers, and stammered
something in an absurdly incoherent fashion.

"Oh! you did not interrupt me--particularly," and he smiled kindly.
"What can I do for you?"

"Will you tell me--who made the first design--for--those pictures in
the window,--the children, I mean?"

"Different artists. Two, I think, are by ladies."

"And how did they get to do it? I mean, after they made the sketch, who
painted it?"

"Those are from the original paintings. The artist had the thought, and
embodied it in a sketch."

"But suppose no one wanted to buy it?"

"That _has_ happened;" and he smiled again. "Why? Have you been trying
your hand at pictures?"

"Yes," answered Charlie in great doubt and perplexity. "Only mine are
done in pencil. If you would look at them."

Charlie's eyes were so beseeching, that he could not resist.

She opened her small portfolio,--Hal's handiwork. The gentleman glanced
over two or three.

"Did you do these yourself?"

"Yes;" and Charlie wondered that she should be asked the question so
frequently.

"Who taught you?"

"My brother, a little; but I think it comes natural," said Charlie in
her earnestness, knowing no reason why she should not tell the truth.

"Darol, here is a genius for you!" he exclaimed, going back to his
friend.

Charlie watched them with throbbing heart and bated breath. She was
growing very sensitive.

"That child!" "Come here, little girl, will you?" said Mr. Darol,
beckoning her towards them.

"Who put the faces in these?"

"I did;" and the downcast lids trembled perceptibly.

"How long have you been studying?"

"Oh! I could always do that," answered Charlie. "I used to in school.
And some of them are just what did happen."

"This,--Mr. Kettleman's troubles?" and he scrutinized her earnestly.

"There was a man working in the mill whose name was Kettleman, and he
always carried a dinner-kettle. But I thought up the adventures myself."

Charlie uttered this very modestly, and yet in a quiet, straightforward
manner, that bore the impress of sincerity.

The first picture was Mr. Kettleman purchasing his kettle. A scene
in a tin-shop; the seller a round, jolly fellow, about the shape of
a beer-cask; and Mr. Kettleman tall and thin, with a long nose, long
fingers, and long legs. He was saying, "Will it hold enough?" The faces
_were_ capital.

In the second Mrs. Kettleman was putting up her husband's dinner. There
were piles and piles of goodies; and his cadaverous face was bent over
the mass, the lips slightly parted, the nose longer than ever, and
asking solemnly, "Can you get it all in, Becky?"

The third showed a group of laughing men round a small table, which was
spread with different articles. One fellow held the pail up-side-down,
saying, "The last crumb." The head of Mr. Kettleman was just in sight,
ascending the stairs.

Lastly the kettle tied to a dog's tail. Mr. Kettleman in the distance,
taller, thinner, and exceedingly woebegone, watching his beloved but
unfortunate kettle as it thumped over the stones.

There were many irregularities and defects, but the faces were
remarkable for expression. Mr. Darol laughed heartily.

"How old are you?" asked Mr. Wentworth, glancing curiously at the
slender slip of a girl.

"Fifteen."

"You don't look that."

"You have a wonderful gift," said Mr. Darol thoughtfully.

"Oh, that is real!" exclaimed Charlie eagerly, as they turned to
another. "My brother was in a store once, and sold some pepper for
allspice. The woman put it in her pie."

"So I should judge from her husband's face;" and they both laughed
again, and praised Charlie to her heart's content.

By degrees Mr. Darol drew Charlie's history from her. She did not
conceal her poverty nor her ambition; and her love for her one talent
spoke eloquently in every line of her face.

"My child, you have a remarkable genius for designing. The school at
Cooper Institute will be just the place for you. Wentworth, I think I
shall take her over to Miss Charteris. What is your name, little one?"

"Charlie Kenneth."

"Charlie?" in amaze.

"It was Charlotte, but I've always been called Charlie."

"Just the name for you! Miss Charlie, you have a world of energy
and spirit. I know you will succeed. And now it would give me great
pleasure to take you to the studio of an artist friend."

The tears came into Charlie's eyes: she couldn't help it, though she
tried to smile.

"Oh!" with a tremulous sob, "it's just like a dream. And you are so
good! I'd go with one meal a day if I could only draw pictures!"

And Charlie was lovely again, with her face full of smiles, tears,
and blushes. Earnest, piquant, and irregular, she was like a picture
herself.

It seemed to Charlie that in five minutes they reached Miss Charteris's
studio; and she stood in awe and trembling, scarcely daring to breathe.
For up to this date she had hardly been able to believe that any woman
in the world besides Rosa Bonheur had actually painted pictures.

"I have brought you a new study, Miss Charteris. A romance and a small
young woman."

"Well, Paul Darol! I don't believe there is your equal in the world
for picking up the lame and the halt and the blind, and the waifs and
strays. What now?" and Miss Charteris laughed with such a musical
ripple that Charlie turned and answered her with a smile.

"First look at these, and then let me tell you a story."

"Very fair and vigorous sketches;" and Miss Charteris glanced
curiously at Charlie.

Then Mr. Darol began with the story, telling his part first, and
calling in Charlie to add sundry helps to the other.

"And so, you see, I ventured to try your good temper once more, and
bring her to you."

"What shall I do,--paint her? She might sit for a gypsy girl now, but
in ten years she will be a handsome woman. What an odd, trustful child!
This promises better than some of your discoveries."

"Well, help me to get her into the School of Design, and make a
successful genius of her. She is too plucky for any one to refuse her a
helping hand."

Miss Charteris began to question Charlie. She had a vein of drollery in
her own nature; and in half an hour Charlie was laughing and talking
as if she had known her all her lifetime. What pleased Mr. Darol most
was her honesty and unflinching truth. She told of their poverty and
struggles, of the love and the fun they had shared together; but there
was a little tremor in her voice as she said, "We had one sister who
was adopted by a rich lady."

The matter was soon settled, being in the right hands. Charlie was
registered as a pupil at the school; and Miss Charteris taught her to
re-touch photographs, and found her an opportunity to do a little work.
It was something of a hardship to go on boarding with Mrs. Wilcox;
but they were so fond of her, and so proud of what they could not
understand!

So you do not wonder, I fancy, that Charlie's letter should be such a
jubilate. Ah, if she could only earn a little money to take back with
her!

She saw Miss Charteris and Mr. Darol quite often. He was like a father,
but sweeter and dearer than any one's father she had ever known. When
she went home, she meant to coax Hal to return with her, just for the
pleasure of meeting such splendid people; "for he is the best of all of
us," she used to say to Miss Charteris.

Ah, Charlie, if you dreamed of what was happening in the Old Shoe!




CHAPTER XVII.

  LOST AT SEA.


The autumn was unusually warm and pleasant, without any frost to injure
the flowers until the middle of October. Hal enlarged his green-house
arrangements, and had a fine stock of tuberoses. He had learned a good
deal by his experiments of the past year.

He had been careful not to overwork; since he was improving, and took
every thing moderately. But at last it was all finished,--the cold
frames arranged for spring, the plants housed, the place tidy and in
order.

The loss of the school had been a severe disappointment to Hal. He was
casting about now for some employment whereby he might earn a little.
If Mr. Sherman would only give him a few days' work, now and then,
they could get along nicely; for Granny was a most economical manager,
and, besides, there was eighty dollars in the bank, and a very small
family,--only three of them.

Hal came home one day, and found Granny sitting over a handful of fire,
bundled in a great shawl. Her eyes had a frightened look, and there
was a blue line about her mouth.

"Why. Granny dear, what is the matter?" he asked in alarm, stooping
over to kiss the cold wrinkled cheek.

"I d-d-don't know," the teeth chattering in the attempt to speak. "I
b-b-lieve I've got a chill!"

"Oh, so you have, poor dear child!" and Hal was as motherly as the old
gray hen outside. "You must go to bed at once. Perhaps you had better
bathe your feet, and have a bowl of hot tea."

"And my head aches so! I'm not used to having headache, Hal."

She said this piteously, as if she fancied Hal, who could do every
thing in her opinion, might exorcise the pain.

"I'm very sorry, dear," stroking the wrinkled face as if she had been a
baby. "Now I'll put some water on to heat."

"O Hal, I'm so cold! 'Pears to me I never shall be warm again."

"Yes, when I get you snug in the bed, and make you some nice tea. What
shall it be,--pennyroyal?"

"And a little feverfew."

Hal kissed the cold, trembling lips, and went about his preparations.
The water was soon hot; and he put a little mustard in the pail with
it, carrying it to the bedside in the other room, and leading poor
Granny thither.

The place was steaming presently with the fragrance of pennyroyal. Hal
poured it off into a cool bowl, and gave Granny a good drink, then
tucked her in the bed, and spread the shawl over her; but still she
cried in her pitiful voice,--

"I'm so cold, Hal!"

After the rigor of the chill began to abate, a raging fever set in, and
Granny's mind wandered a little. Then Hal was rather alarmed. Granny
had never been down sick a day in her life, although she was not so
very robust.

"Dot, darling, you must run for Dr. Meade," Hal said, as the child came
home from school. "Granny is very ill, I am afraid."

Dr. Meade was away, and did not come until eight in the evening.

"I fear it is going to be a run of fever, Hal," he began gravely.
"At her time of life too! But we'll do the best we can. There is
considerable fever about."

Hal drew a long breath of pain.

"You will be the best nurse in the world, Hal;" and the doctor smiled,
placing his hand on the boy's shoulder re-assuringly.

Hal winked away some tears. They lay quite too close to the surface for
a man's nature.

"I'll leave her some drops, and be in again in the morning. Don't
worry, my dear boy."

Granny could hardly bear to have Hal out of sight, and wanted to keep
hold of his hand all the time. Dot prepared the supper, but they could
taste nothing beyond a cup of tea.

"Dot," he said, "you must go up stairs and sleep in my bed to-night. I
shall stay here to watch Granny."

"But it will be so--lonesome!" with her baby entreaty.

"It is best, my darling."

So Dot kissed him many times, lingering until after the clock struck
ten, when Hal said,--

"My birdie's eyes will be heavy to-morrow."

Granny was worse the next day. Indeed, for the ensuing fortnight her
life seemed vibrating in the balance. Everybody was very kind, but she
could bear no one besides Hal. Just a little delirious occasionally,
and going back to the time when they were all babies, and her own dear
Joe lay dying.

"I've done my best for 'em, Joe," she would murmur. "I've never minded
heat nor cold, nor hard work. They've been a great blessing,--they
always were good children."

For Granny forgot all Charlie's badness, Joe's mischief, and Dot's
crossness. Transfigured by her devotion, they were without a fault. Ah,
how one tender love makes beautiful the world! Whatever others might
think, God had a crown of gold up in heaven, waiting for the poor
tired brow; and the one angel would have flown through starry skies for
her, taking her to rest on his bosom, but the other pleaded,--

"A little longer, for the children's sake."

At last the fever was conquered. Granny was weak as a baby, and had
grown fearfully thin; but it was a comfort to have her in her right
mind. Still Hal remarked that the doctor's face had an anxious look,
and that he watched him with a kind of pitying air. So much so, that
one day he said,--

"You think she _will_ get well, doctor?"

"There is nothing to prevent it if we can only keep up her appetite."

"I always feed her," returned Hal with a smile, "whether she is willing
to eat or not."

"You are a born nurse, as good as a woman. Give her a little of the
port wine every day."

Then the doctor turned to the window, and seemed to glance over towards
the woods.

"Quite winterish, isn't it? When have you heard from Joe?"

"Not in a long time. Letters do not come so regularly as they used. I
think we have not had one since August. But he writes whenever he can,
dear Joe. The last time we received three."

"Yes," in a kind of absent way.

When Dr. Meade started to go, he kept his hand for several minutes on
the door-latch, giving some unimportant directions.

"God bless you, Hal!" he said in a strained, husky tone, "and give you
grace to bear all the trials of this life. Heaven knows, there are
enough of them!"

What did the doctor mean? Hal wondered eagerly.

That evening Mr. and Mrs. Terry dropped in for a friendly call.

"When did you hear from Joe last?" asked Mr. Terry.

"In August."

"Wasn't expecting him home, I suppose?"

"Not until next summer. Has any one heard?" and there was a quiver in
Hal's voice.

"I don't know of any one who has had a letter;" and Mr. Terry appeared
to be measuring his words. "Joe was a nice bright lad, just as full of
fun as an egg is full of meat. Cousin Burton took a wonderful fancy to
him; though I suppose he'd have gone off to sea, any way. If it had not
been Burton, it would have been some one else."

"Yes. Joe always had his heart set upon it."

"Father and Joe used to get along so nicely. We never had a boy we
liked better. He was a brave, honest fellow."

It seemed almost as if Mrs. Terry wiped a tear from her eye. But Granny
wanted to be raised in the bed, and some way Hal couldn't think until
after they were gone.

He was thankful to see the doctor come in the next morning.

"Oh!" he exclaimed in a low tone, "you were talking of Joe yesterday:
has anybody heard from him, or about him?"

The hand that clasped the doctor's arm trembled violently.

"Hal, be calm," entreated the doctor.

"I cannot! Oh, you _do_ know,--and it's bad news!"

"My dear boy--O Hal!" and he was folded in the doctor's arms.

"Tell me, tell me!" in a yearning, impatient tone, that seemed to crowd
its way over sobs.

"God knows it could not have hurt me more if it had been one of my own!
But he was a hero--to the last. There isn't a braver young soul up in
heaven, I'll answer for that. Here--it's in the paper. I've carried it
about with me three days, old coward that I've been, and not dared to
tell you. But it's all over the village. Hush,--for Granny's sake. She
must not know."

Hal dropped on the lounge that he and Granny had manufactured with so
much pride. He was stunned,--dead to every thing but pain, and that was
torturing. The doctor placed the paper in his hands, and went into the
other room to his patient.

Yes, there it was! The words blurred before his eyes; and still he
read, by some kind of intuition. "The Argemone" had met with a terrific
storm in the Indian Ocean; and, though she had battled bravely, winds
and waves had proved too strong. All one night the men had labored
heroically, but in vain; and when she began to go down, just at dawn,
the life-boats were filled, too few, alas! even if there were safety in
them. Nothing could exceed the bravery and coolness of the young second
mate. The captain lay sick below; the first mate and the engineer were
panic-stricken; but this strong, earnest voice had inspired every one
through the fearful night. When it was found that some must be left
behind, he decided to stay, and assisted the others with a courage and
presence of mind that was beyond all praise. The smile that illuminated
his face when he refused to step into the already overladen boat was
like the smile of an angel. They who saw it in the light of the gray
dawn would never forget. One boat drifted in to Sumatra, the other
was picked up by a passing vessel. But the few who remained must have
perished in any case, and among them no name so deserving of honor as
that of Joseph Kenneth.

Hal read it again and again. Joseph Kenneth! Was that dear, laughing
Joe, with his merry eyes, and the sauciest trick of winking in the
corner of one; little Joe who had stood on his head, played circus,
and, with the aid of a few old shawls, been lion, tiger, elephant,
and camel; dear Joe, who had cuddled up in bed cold winter nights and
almost smothered him,--Hal; who had made ghosts out of the bolster, and
frightened Kit half to death! Why did he think of these foolish things
now? Oh, this brave Joseph Kenneth never could be their little Joe! God
surely would not give Granny this pain and anguish to bear at the last!

A hand was laid on Hal's shoulder.

"Oh! it can't be true"--

"There's just one chance out of a thousand. Hal, it seems to me
the saddest thing I ever heard, and yet so grand. You see what the
passengers said of him. Ah, I think he did not need to knock long at
St. Peter's gate!"

The doctor wiped his eyes.

"But--never to have him--come back"--

"He has drifted into a better port, my dear boy: that must be our
comfort. We shall all cross the river by and by; and it is never so
hard for the one who goes, as for those who stay and bear the pain and
loneliness. And some time it will be sweet to remember that he gave his
brave young life for others."

Hal's eyes were tearless, and there was a hard, strained look in his
face.

"Don't tell Granny now. She couldn't bear it."

"No;" and Hal's voice was full of pathetic grief.

"And oh, Hal, be comforted a little! I know there is an overwhelming
anguish in it; but for the sake of those still left"--

"Yes." Hal's ashen lips quivered.

The doctor brushed away the soft hair tumbled about his forehead, and
held the cold hand in his.

"God has some balm for every ache, my boy."

Hal sat there until Granny called for something, every moment growing
more incredulous. But a heavy weight hung about his heart, even though
he refused to believe. It seemed as if there could not be despairing
certainty before to-morrow.

When Kit came home on Saturday night, and just threw his arms around
Hal's neck, sobbing as if his heart had broken, it gave a strange
reality to the grief and sorrow.

"I heard it on Monday,--the loss of 'The Argemone.' How proud Joe was
of her! And my heart's been aching for you every day. The cruel thing
of it all is, never to have him come home again."

Dot had to be taken into confidence then; but she was a discreet little
thing, and quite to be trusted. She did not suffer so deeply, for Joe
was only a pleasant dream to her; and she tried to comfort Hal with her
sweet, winsome ways.

Granny _did_ improve slowly. She began to sit up in the rocking-chair,
walk to the window and look out, and occasionally smile, in her faint,
wan fashion. They would never hear the merry chirruping laugh again,
Hal thought.

But all the details of life had to be gone through with, as usual.
There was the poultry to be prepared for market; for this source of
their income could not be overlooked. In fact, Hal and Dot were not
quite as economical managers as Granny; and then every thing was very
high. They required more luxuries in sickness, and Hal would not stint.
But, when this was gone, there would be the money for the flowers, and
their little hoard in the bank still remained unbroken.

It was not any fear of want that troubled Hal. The old dreams and
ambitions seemed to be slipping away. Sometimes even the idea of
attaining to a green-house failed to charm; though he still loved his
flowers passionately, and they comforted him as nothing else could have
done.

One day Granny thought of Joe.

"Have we had a letter since my illness?" she asked.

"No," answered Hal faintly.

"Not since--let me see,--it was August."

Hal made no reply.

"Why--it's strange! He never did such a thing before! Hasn't any one
heard?"

"I believe not." Hal turned his head, and went on with some writing.

"Seems to me you take it pretty easy," said Granny, a little vexed.
"Joe never was the one to forget his home folks. Hal, something's
happened: mark my words!"

Poor Hal brushed away a tear.

Then Granny gave Dot a mysterious confidence, and asked her to inquire
of Mr. Terry.

"He always wrote to them, and they must know."

Dot said, in return, that they had not received a letter.

Granny then began to worry in desperate earnest, and besieged every
visitor with questions and surmises. Hal was in a sore strait. Of
course she must know sometime.

She made herself so nearly sick, that Dr. Meade saw the danger and
harm, and felt that she had better know the truth.

"Will you tell her?" faltered Hal.

He undertook the sorrowful office. Tenderly, kindly, and yet it was a
cruel wound.

"Oh, it cannot be!" she cried. "God wouldn't take him from me now that
I'm old and sick and helpless! Let me see the paper."

They complied with her request, but the doctor had to read it. Her old
eyes could not see a word.

"Oh, oh! Drowned in the sea! And I never wanted him to go! My poor
darling! who was always so bright, so happy, and who loved his poor
old Granny so well! Let me go back to bed now: I don't want to live.
They're all up in heaven,--_my_ Joe, and little Joe, and poor Dora.
There is no use of staying here."

Hal soothed her with fondest love and caresses; but nothing could
change the longing in her heart, the weary look in the eyes that seemed
to be discerning the shore beyond, and the sad voice with its one
refrain, "Poor, dear Joe!"

After that she failed rapidly. Hal scarcely left her. She used to ask
him to read all the old letters over again, from the first boyish pride
that so exulted in the trip to Albany. And she would recall some act of
tenderness, or a gay prank at which they all had laughed.

One evening Hal felt unusually weary. There had been a warm rain for
two days, with most un-December-like weather. A fire felt absolutely
uncomfortable. He generally slept down on the lounge now, to be near
if Granny wanted any thing. Before retiring he paid his flower-room a
visit. Every thing was doing splendidly. So far business had not been
very brisk; but that morning he had received an order for the next
week,--Christmastide,--for all the flowers he could cut.

"Dear sweet children," he said, talking softly to himself. "If I could
only have put some in _his_ coffin, and on his grave! but to think of
him lying in the sea, with the endless music over his head, and the
shells tangled in his hair. O Joe! it doesn't seem a bit true, and I
never can make it so."

Yet he knew in his heart that it was; and he tried to remember that
Joe was up in heaven, past all pain and care, ready to welcome them as
they came, one by one,--Granny first. It would be easier to give her
up, because she was going to be with darling Joe.

He left the door against the hall open, it was so warm; then he took
a last look at Granny, and dropped on his couch. It was a long while
before he fell asleep, and then he slumbered soundly. Once he awoke
with a shiver, and reached out for the blanket he had thrown off
earlier in the night.

The light in the window roused him at length. How oddly it looked,
and oh, how cold! Why, the panes were frosted with a thousand fairy
devices! And then Hal sprang up, hurried into his clothes, and ran
to the flower-room. The windows were white with frost, and the thick
papers rolled to the top. Worst of all, the fire had gone out!

For a moment Hal stood in blank despair. His beautiful buds that were
to be out in a few days, his tender, delicate plants! How had it
happened? There must have been more ashes in the bottom of the stove
than he thought; and the fire, being weak, had not kindled at all. He
tore it out with eager hands. Not a spark remained. The stove was as
cold as a stone.

But there was no time to waste in grief. Hal kindled his fire, and then
began to drench his plants. Something might be saved.

Presently Dot's little feet pattered up the stairs.

"How we all slept!" she said. "And oh, dear! its as cold as Greenland,
after the beautiful summer weather. But Hal, dear, what is the matter?"

"My fire went out."

"Will it hurt the plants?"

"Some of them;" and his voice had a great tremble in it.

"Oh, it is too bad, Hal! doesn't every thing seem to happen to us?" and
tears sprang to the fond eyes.

Hal gave a long, pained sigh.

"Can't you save any of them?"

"Yes: some, I think. It might have been worse."

Dot kissed him tenderly,--it was all she could do. Then she ran down,
and began to prepare breakfast.

The sun was rising; and Hal dropped the papers to keep it dark for the
present, and allowed his fire to come on gradually. At first he began
to take hope, for the flowers held up their heads crisply.

Alas! by noon they showed signs of drooping; and before night the buds
of the tuberoses began to be slightly discolored. Poor Hal could have
cried out of pure sorrow. He loved them all so dearly, and it almost
seemed to him as if they suffered as well.

But the next day the ruin was plainly established. He went about with
his scissors, clipping here and there. The heliotrope displayed a mass
of blackened clusters; but it could be trimmed for new blossoming.
Many of the more forward, choice rosebuds were ruined but the plants
were not deeply injured. The bouvardias were quite spoiled; but the
mignonette and alyssum were unharmed.

Hal cut a few the day before Christmas, and sent them over to Mr.
Thomas. It was such a sore loss and disappointment, that it hung around
him like a heavy burden. They had been counting on the money with so
much pleasure.

"Never mind," exclaimed Dot cheerfully. "We will not have any extra
Christmas. Granny will not be able to sit up, and there'll be no one
home but Kit."

Hal brushed away a tear. To tell the truth, he felt miserably lonesome,
and sick at heart. Every day the sense of loss grew upon him. He had
given up hope for Granny; though she was no worse, and perhaps had
improved a little in appetite. But then she did not care to get well.
And the faces lost out of the home group made such a sad break.

They had received two more hopeful little notes from Charlie; but, if
she was happy and prosperous, would she not be weaned away, like the
one other. Joe, in his deep sea-grave, had always been tender and true.

"Christmas isn't much to us now," Hal answered, recalling the old
gayety. "Yet it is too bad to put such black shadows in your life, my
darling."

"The sun has never been so bright for me, you know," Dot said, in her
sweet, soft voice, in which there was not a touch of complaint. "It
seems as if the path had grown shady before I came to it, so I don't
miss the gayety. And, while I can have you and Granny, I'll be quite
satisfied."

"You are a comfort and a treasure. I'm so glad to have _you_, Dot,
though you were a wee baby and always sick. Now and then a neighbor
used to say,--'What a blessing it would be if that child should die!'
But Granny never thought so."

Dot nestled closer.

The morning had been cloudy, and about ten o'clock it commenced
snowing. They did their housework, and prepared their simple dinner.

"I had resolved to go to town to-day, and buy some Christmas," said
Hal. "I believe we never were quite so blue before."

"I don't suppose Kit will be able to get home this evening," Dot said
slowly.

"No."

"Then we'll keep it by ourselves, Hal. It will not be so very bad."

"But to have no little gifts,--and Granny sick in bed"--

"It will not be a merry Christmas for us, dear; but there may be
something pleasant in it."

Hal sighed sorrowfully. Oh, for the sweet, lost childhood!




CHAPTER XVIII.

  A SONG IN THE NIGHT.


It snowed steadily all day; and evening closed around them in the midst
of this soft, noiseless storm. The roads were beginning to be blocked
up, the houses were hooded in ermine, and no one passed by the windows.
Not a soul had been in that day. So, after the lamp was lighted, they
drew closer together. Hal read a while from a book of poems that Mrs.
Howard had lent him.

"It is nearly bed-time," he said at length.

"I don't feel a bit sleepy."

"Hal," began Granny, stretching out her thin hand, "don't leave me. I
feel so strange."

"Worse, my own dear?"

"Not in pain, but sort of restful, as if I'd come to something--no,
I'm not afraid, Hal. I've been praying all along that I might die, and
maybe it's coming. I'm a poor old body, not worth much,--and Joe's
_there_, you know."

She gave her head a feeble nod. Hal swallowed over a great sob.

"When will it be Christmas?"

"To-morrow."

"Maybe I'll be up among the angels,--a poor, ignorant, foolish old
body like me! It's wonderful to think of! But Joe'll be there, to take
his dear Granny by the hand, and keep her from stumbling, and making
mistakes, and doing all the things that would shame or vex any one. And
Christ loved us all, you know. He died for us. I think I've understood
it better since Joe stood there on the ship, refusing to get into
the boat lest he might swamp it. He died for some one: not in _that_
fashion, for he didn't have any sins to bear, and wasn't reviled and
wounded; but still he gave his sweet life,--his dear life that was so
much to me."

Dot crept up to the bed.

"After I'm gone you and Dot'll love each other. It will be sad for a
little while, but God will remember you, and bring you comfort. I've
cried to him a' many times, when it's been dark all round; and, when
all other friends fail, you'll find him true and strong. I've done the
best I could. It's been poor enough; but then I never had learnin'
and all that to help me. I took you when you were all little chaps,
motherless and fatherless, and I've tried to keep you together. But
they've strayed off, Hal. There's only you and Dot to give Granny a
last kiss."

Dot was sobbing on Granny's pillow.

"Don't, deary, don't," in her quivering, entreating voice. "We must
all die some time. God knows when it's best. And I ain't of any use
now, my work's all done. I'd like to see 'em all again, Hal,--dear
little things; only I never can believe they are all men and women.
And, if Flossy comes back, give her my love. She was so pretty, with
her long golden curls! I don't wonder the grand lady liked her. And
Charlie,--Charlie was such a good girl all last summer, working like a
woman! Yes--if I could only see 'em once more!"

Hal wiped away his fast falling tears. It seemed too hard that Granny's
unselfish life should not be crowned at the last. To die here, almost
alone!

"You remember the old Christmas, Hal? The last time we were all
together! Ah, how sweet it was! And the presents, and the old shoe
full!"

Granny's voice sunk to a tremble of delight.

"It was so happy, so merry! All of 'em laughing and talking, and their
bright pretty faces full of fun. But--maybe--I'll see 'em all in
heaven. Don't cry, Dot."

Hal drew her to his breast, and soothed her with tender kisses. Then he
sat down in the old rocker, and took her on his knee.

"There never was such a Christmas, never! I was so glad to have you
all, so proud of you! And I've done my best"--

"Yes, Granny, God, who watches over all things, will bear witness to
that. You were mother and father to us. And how you have toiled and
worried and made sacrifices, how you have loved us, will all be written
in the Great Book. I'm glad you are going to have a reward there."

"I shall see Joe."

Then she was quiet for a long while.

"I can't remember any thing about the Christmas," said Dot with much
perplexity.

"Tell her, Hal. I'll listen; and it will seem all fresh again," pleaded
Granny in a faint, far-off voice.

"You were such a weeny little thing, and couldn't talk plain; but then
you had always been sick."

"And cross," Kit says.

"You did use to cry--sometimes; and then at others you were like a
little lamb. All children cry occasionally."

Dot felt, somehow, as if she had not outgrown the trick yet; but the
tears fell close to Hal's heart.

"But about the Christmas?"

"Oh, yes!"

Then Hal began. The preparations beforehand, the secrecy and plotting,
the stockings stuffed to overflowing, and the wildest of merriment the
next morning. It appeared to Dot that she could see it like a picture.

"And O Hal, that we should be so lonely now! Hasn't God let us slip out
of his mind for a little while?"

"I think not, my darling."

"But how _can_ you always believe? Why did God let Joe die, when we
wanted him so much; and Flossy go away? And all the other things,--the
sweet pretty flowers that were frozen?"

"My dear child, we cannot answer the questions. Trials always appear
very hard to those who have them to bear; but maybe God gives us one to
save us from some other that would be a great deal harder. And with it
there is grace to endure."

"As when you were hurt. I wonder that you could be so patient, Hal!"
and the little arms crept up around his neck.

"It was part my nature, you know. I used to be sorry at school, that I
wasn't like the other boys; for, somehow, I never _was_: but, when God
knew what I would have to bear, he made me patient, and almost girlish,
loving to stay in the house, and all that. If I'd been like Joe, I
should have fretted sorely when I found I should never be able to go to
sea. He was so full of life and energy, you know, so ambitious, that it
would almost have killed him. It was best to have it happen to me."

Dot sighed, her small brain being greatly puzzled.

"But I don't see why every one cannot be happy and prosperous. Isn't
there enough to go round to all?"

"God knows best. And, when it troubles me sorely, I think of the
little Christ-child, who was born eighteen hundred years ago, all
goodness and sweetness and meekness, and of the trials he had to bear
for our sakes. All the lowly life, the reviling, the unbelief, the
persecution, the being homeless, and sometimes almost friendless,
and at the last the shameful death. We shall never have all that, my
darling; and so we ought to bear our lesser sorrows patiently."

Dot made no answer.

"My darling," said Hal, glancing at the clock, "ought you not to go to
bed? It is almost midnight."

"And you?" reaching up to kiss the dear face.

"I am going to stay here by Granny."

Dot looked into his face with great awe.

"Hal, I've never seen any one die; but I want to stay too. There's only
just you and I; and she'll want us to kiss her for the last time, when
the angels come."

Hal pressed the little face in his trembling hands, but could not deny
the wistful eyes.

Then he rose, and looked at Granny. She had fallen into a peaceful
slumber. It did not seem as if she could die just then; and yet, at
this hour of rejoicing, some souls were slipping out of the world.

He came back to his seat, and to his little sister. Dot's head was
pillowed on his knee, and presently she began to drowse. Poor little
bairn!

So he kept his vigil by himself, thinking over the old days, when they
were all here. Oh, if Granny could have seen them once more! If the
brave and lovely men and women could come back to the old home-nest,
all outgrown,--and he smiled sadly to himself,--just to clasp each
other's hands, and glance into each other's eyes, to speak some word
of comfort and blessing, to smooth the path of the dear heart yonder,
who had given herself for them without stint or grudging, a holier
sacrifice than even a mother's love.

His mind was sorely troubled when he thought of Florence. Since
childhood she had "lain in the roses and lilies of life." They had
borne the burden and sorrow, the trials, the deprivations, days of
toil, nights of anxious care about the future. And it seemed as if none
of them had been especially prospered. She had gone to luxury at a
bound. Where was she to-night? Did any remembrance of them ever cross
her soul, amid her wealth and pleasure?

Poor Joe again! It was the sad refrain to which his life would be
forever set, like a strain of minor music. He loved Joe so dearly!
There was such a soreness, such an aching and longing in his heart,
that it sometimes seemed as if he could stretch out his arms, and
search among the tangled seaweed until he found Joe, and lift him out
of his cold bed. One bright dream broken off in the middle.

There had been so much to take up his attention this winter, that he
had hardly felt anxious for Charlie. Her cheerful little notes were
like stray sunbeams, and she _had_ promised to come back. Ah, if it
could only be in time to say good-by to Granny!

Now and then he shut his eyes, and breathed a tender prayer,--that God
would keep them all; that, no matter how far they strayed from each
other, they might never stray from him.

The lamp burned dimly in the room beyond. Granny still slept
peacefully, and Dot's baby hand was fast clasped in his. All was still
to awesomeness. Even the storm without must have ceased.

"Hal," called the dear voice.

Gently as he laid Dot down, the movement woke her.

"Give me a little drink, Hal, please," Granny asked.

He brought her some wine.

"I wonder if there is any thing that I could eat?"

"I left some chicken-broth on the stove to keep warm, and there is a
little jelly."

"I've had such a nice sleep, Hal! I feel so rested! It was almost like
being in heaven, for Joe seemed to have his arms around my neck. Is it
morning?"

"Almost."

"Oh!" exclaimed Dot, "it is clear and beautiful, with hosts of stars! I
wonder if any shepherd watches them and thinks"--

"'In Bethlehem of Judea,'" said Granny in a chanting tone. "'Unto you
is born a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.'"

"How strange it seems! Christmas morning!"

Hal brought the chicken and the jelly. Granny ate remarkably for her.
Then he placed his fingers on her pulse. It certainly _was_ stronger.

"I do think she is better," he said to Dot, who had followed him to the
kitchen.

"O Hal! maybe she won't die. I never saw anybody"--

"She was nervous last night, thinking so much of Joe," rejoined Hal
softly in the pause that Dot did not finish.

"I'm so glad to have her better!"

"Children," Granny said when they came back, "it is Christmas morning,
and you ought to sing. Everybody keeps Christmas."

Dot glanced up in tearful surprise. What was she thinking of,--angels
in heaven?

"They sang on the plains of Judea, you know."

An awesome chill crept over Hal. Was this the change that sometimes
preceded the last step over the narrow river? Had Granny received that
solemn call?

"Sing," she said again. "Some of the bright Christmas hymns."

Hal's heart was throbbing up to his throat. He did not know whether he
could trust his voice.

"What shall it be, Dot?"

She thought a moment. "'Wonderful Night,'" she answered. "But, oh! I
feel more like crying. I can't help it."

The two voices rose tremblingly in the beautiful carol.

          "Wonderful night,
          Wonderful night!
    Angels and shining immortals,
    Thronging the heavenly portals,
      Fling out their banner of light.
      Wonderful, wonderful night!"

They sang until they forgot sorrow and toil and poverty, and the great
fear that overshadowed them. The soft voice of the child Dot growing
stronger, and the pain in Hal's slipping away, changing into faith and
trust. For, as he sung, he grew wonderfully calm, even hopeful.

"It's like heaven, children! I've been thinking it all over, and God
_does_ know best. If they were all here, it would be harder for me to
go."

The two kissed each other amid fast falling tears. When they glanced up
again a faint streak of dawn stole in at the window.

"How strange!" exclaimed Dot. "We have not been to bed at all, only I
had a nap on your knee." Then very softly,--

"Merry Christmas, Hal."

"Merry Christmas to you, my little darling."

Then Hal looked at the fires, and hurried them up a trifle. How lovely
it was without! Over the whole earth lay a mantle of whitest ermine.
Tree and shrub were robed in fleecy garments,--arrayed for this
Christmas morning. As the sun began to quiver in the east they sparkled
with a thousand gems.

It seemed like the beginning of a new life. Why, he could not tell,
but he never forgot the feeling of solemn sweetness that stole over
him as he stood by the window in the flower-room, looking over to the
infinite, fancying that earth and heaven met this morning; the fine
gold of the one blending with the snowy whiteness of the other. So pure
was the soul of the little child born eighteen hundred years ago.

Within, it was all fragrance and beauty. The plains of the Orient could
not have been more odorous in that early dawn. Unconsciously he hummed
over two or three lines,--

    "Midnight scarcely passed and over,
      Drawing to this holy morn;
    Very early, very early--
              Christ was born."

They went about their simple homely duties, as if some unbidden guest
had entered, whose presence filled the space out of which a dear face
had vanished.

"Granny _is_ better, I am sure," Dot said, preparing some breakfast for
her.

"I am so thankful!"

"Listen to the church-bell! How faintly it comes ploughing through the
snow; but oh, how sweet! Hal, I can't help feeling happy. I wonder if
it is wrong, when we were so sad last night?"

Something floated through Hal's brain,--"Sorrow may endure for a night,
but joy cometh in the morning." He brushed a tear away from his eye;
but it was tenderness rather than sorrow.

While Dot was cooking her dainty breakfast, Hal took a turn at
shovelling snow, clearing the old doorstep, and part of the path. It
made his cheeks rosy, and the fresh crisp air took the tired look out
of his eyes.

"Granny has been asking for you," Dot said, as he came in.

He warmed his hands, and entered the room. Dot lingered by the window,
glancing up and down the unbroken road. Not a sound anywhere. It
absolutely seemed to her as if a little bird ought to come out of the
snowy trees, and sing.

Something attracted her attention,--a man striding along, muffled up
to the ears, looking this way and that, as if considering how best to
extricate himself from the last plunge, and make another. No, it was
not Dr. Meade,--no one for them thus early in the morning.

Still she looked, and smiled a little. The strong, manful tread was
good to behold. When he reached the house, he paused, appeared to be
considering, then wheeled about.

She laughed this time. He placed his hand on the gate-post, and leaped
over. It was such a boyish, agile spring! In the path he stamped off
the snow, came straight to the door, and knocked.

Dot started, and opened it. A tall, laughing fellow, with a bronze
brown beard and swarthy cheeks, lighted with a healthful glow of
crimson. What was there so oddly familiar in the laughing eyes?

For an instant he did not speak. Dot began to color with embarrassment,
and half turned to summon Hal.

"Oh, it's Dot, little Dot! And you have forgotten me!"

The rich, ringing voice electrified Hal. He made a rush in a blind,
dazed way; for the room swam round, and it seemed almost as if he were
dying.

"Oh, it isn't Joe! dear old Joe!"

And then Hal felt the strong arms around him. The glowing cheek was
against his, and there were tears and kisses, for Hal was crying like a
baby. I've done my best with him, I want you to observe; but I'm afraid
he will be a "girl"-boy to the end. But nothing ever was so sweet as
that clasp; and Joe's love on this side of the shining river seemed the
next best thing to the infinite love beyond.

"Oh, I can't believe it!" he sobbed. "Did God raise you from the sea,
Joe? for we heard"--

"Yes," with a great tremble in the tone. "It's just like being raised
from the dead. And oh, Hal, God only knows how glad I am to come back
to you all!"

Hal hid his face in the curly beard, and tried to stop the tears that
_would_ flow in spite of his courageous efforts.

There was a call from the other room,--a wild, tender cry,--and the
next instant Joe was hugging Granny to his throbbing, thankful heart.
You could hear nothing but the soft sobs that sounded like summer rain,
blown about by the south wind. Ah, how sweet, how satisfying! What was
poverty and care and trouble and loss, so long as they had Joe back
again?

"Oh!" cried Granny, "I'm willing to die now. I've seen him, my darling!"

"Why, Granny, that would be blackest ingratitude. Here I've lived
through all my narrow escapes, and they have been enough to kill any
ten men, and, by way of welcome, you talk of dying. Why, I'll run back,
and jump into the sea!"

"She has been very sick," said Hal.

"But she means to get well now. Dear old Granny! We couldn't keep house
without you."

They knew well enough then that it was Joe, and not a Christmas ghost;
for no one ever did have such a rich merry voice, such a ringing laugh,
and oh, the dear bright eyes, shining like an April sky!

Granny looked him all over. How he had changed! A great strong,
splendid fellow, whose smiling face put new hope into one.

"I almost feel as if I could get well," she said weakly.

"Of course you will; for, Granny, I have the silk gown, and we'll have
just the jolliest time there has ever been in this little shanty. But
where are all the rest?"

"Kit is at work in Salem, and he meant to come home last night; but I
suppose the storm prevented."

"It was terrible! I've travelled night and day to reach home by
Christmas. And last night, when the trains had to go at a snail's pace,
or were snowed in, I couldn't stand it, so I took a sleigh; but we lost
the road, and twenty other things; and then the horse gave out: it was
such fearful, wearing work. And, when I came in sight of Terry's old
store, I wouldn't stop, but trudged on afoot; for I wanted you to know,
first of all, that I was safe and alive."

"It's just like a dream; and oh, Joe, the merriest Christmas there ever
can be!"

"Where's that <DW40> of a Charlie?"

"Ran away! It's very funny;" and Hal smiled, with tears in his eyes.

"But you know where she is?"

"I think she is in New York,--I'm pretty sure; and she has promised to
come home."

"Well, that beats my time! Ran away! She threatened to do it, you know.
And here I've forgotten all about little Dot! You don't deserve to be
kissed nor made much of, you small woman, when you never gave me a word
of welcome, but, instead, a cold, unfriendly stare. You don't remember
Joe, who broke his delicate constitution carrying you round on his back
to keep you from crying."

With that he caught her up, and perched her on the edge of Granny's
bed. She was very shy, and turned a brilliant scarlet. This great
strange fellow their dear, sweet Joe? She could not believe it!

"And you really were not drowned," said Granny, still anxious.

"Not exactly," with a droll twinkle of the eye.

"We heard"--

"Yes, the brave little 'Argemone' went down, and she was a beauty. But
such a frightful storm! You can form no idea of it. Some day I'll tell
you all. Our time is too precious for the long story now."

"And you wouldn't get in the boat," said Granny, her pale washed-out
eyes alight with pride.

"There were three young fellows of us besides the sick captain, and we
had no wives nor babies; so it seemed right that we should give the
others the first chance. It was a miracle that they were saved. I never
thought they would be. We lashed ourselves to some timbers, and trusted
the winds and waves. What those days and nights were I can never tell
you! I know now what that brave old soldier and sailor, St. Paul, meant
when he said, 'A day and a night have I been in the deep.'"

Hal gave the sun-browned hand a tender squeeze.

"An Arabian trading vessel picked us up at last. We thought Jack
was dead, but after a long while he revived. We were all perfectly
exhausted. I could send no word, and then I resolved to come home just
as soon as I could. I fancied you would hear of the loss. Did that make
Granny ill?"

"No, she was sick before."

"But I'll get well now," she rejoined humbly. "I didn't want to, you
know. Heaven seemed so much better."

Joe bent over and kissed her, wondering if he ever could repay the
tender love.

"Have you ever heard from"--

There was no need of a name.

"She was married more than a year ago. I wrote that to you. There have
been no tidings since."

"Are you going to have any breakfast?" asked Dot. "My muffins will be
spoiled."

"Yes, indeed! I'm hungry as a bear. Granny, shall I carry you out?"

She laughed in her old cracked, tremulous fashion, good to hear. To Hal
it seemed the beginning of a new life.

"I guess I'll lie still and think a bit, for I can't make it true.
It's just as if we watched for him last night, Hal, and to-day is a day
of great joy."

Dot's coffee and muffins were delightful. Then she broiled over a
little of the chicken that had been left from the day before, and they
had quite a sumptuous breakfast.

"How odd it seems to have Dot any thing but a baby!" laughed Joe. "It's
quite ridiculous for her to set up housekeeping. Small young woman, you
can't impose upon me."

"But she is royal at it;" and Hal gave her a fond smile.

"Now tell me all that has happened: I'm crazy to know. I believe I've
not heard a word in six or eight months," declared Joe.

So Hal went back to the summer,--losing the school, Charlie's running
away, Granny's illness, Kit's going to Salem, the mishap of the
flowers, even the vigil of last night, when they believed Granny dying.

"But it _will_ be a merry Christmas," Joe said with a great tremble in
his voice. "And you can never guess how glad I am to be safe and alive,
to comfort you all. Dear, dear Granny!--the best and bravest heart in
the wide world, and the most loving."




CHAPTER XIX.

  IN THE OLD HOME-NEST AGAIN.


They sat over their breakfast, and talked a long while. And then, after
another glimpse at Granny, they went up to see the flowers, which had
begun to recover rapidly from their misfortune.

"Why, Hal, it's a perfect little green-house, and oh, how fragrant!
There are some tuberoses coming out. What an awful shame about that
cold night! So you have wrecks on the land as well as on the sea?"

"I don't mind now. Your return makes up for all the misfortunes. We
will have enough for some bouquets to-day;" and Hal's face was one
grateful smile.

"And what will we have for dinner?" asked Dot. "It ought to be a feast.
I wonder if Kit will get home in time? Oh, I'll tell you! we will not
have our dinner until about three."

"Sensible to the last, Dot. Why, it is almost ten now; and our
breakfasts have just been swallowed."

"We will have some chickens," exclaimed Hal.

"And a cranberry pie."

"Who is to make it,--you, or Hal?" laughed Joe. "He used to be my very
dear Mrs. Betty. I don't know how we should ever have lived without
him. Hal, I must confess that there's some rare good fortune in store
for me. I had to stop a while in New York; and to think I should
stumble over one of the very men who was last to leave 'The Argemone.'
And he tells such a marvellous story! I suppose every thing looked
different out there in the storm and darkness and night, with death
staring us in the face; for, after all, I only did my duty, and our
poor captain lying sick too! I don't mean ever to go very far away
while--while Granny lives; but there's nothing like the sea for me!"

"Oh!" exclaimed Hal, with a soft little sigh.

"Well, the upshot of it was, that they, the owners, and this Mr.
Parker, made me take a little gift,--five hundred dollars. I know where
I can get enough more to build a real green-house. You see, the fall
off the hay-wagon did for you; and you'll never be a great hulking
fellow like me, fit to take the rough and tumble of life."

Hal clasped the arm that was thrown protectingly around him.

"No, you'll never be very strong; and you shall have the green-house.
That will set you up for old age even."

"Dear, noble Joe!"

"Not half as noble as you. I often used to think of you, Hal, out
there, miles and miles away, amid all manner of strange sights; and it
was my one comfort that you'd always stand by Granny. What comrades you
have been! And after this, you see, I shall be able to do my share."

Hal winked away some tears.

"Here's where we used to sleep. Oh! did you dream then that I'd be so
tall I should have to go round, bowing my head to every doorway, just
as if I believed in Chinese idols? And here's the old garret, where we
dreamed our dreams. Hal, my darling, I'm glad to see every old board
and crack and crevice in this blessed place!"

They went down presently. Joe stole off to Granny again, while Hal
and Dot went about their household affairs. Hal soon had a couple of
chickens for roasting. Dot made some savory dressing, stirred up her
fire, baked her pie first, and then put the chickens in the oven. Hal
shovelled away the snow, and took out two beautiful heads of celery,
crisp and creamy.

Dr. Meade dropped in. You may imagine his rejoicing. They made him
promise over and over again, that he would not tell a single soul in
Madison. They wanted this dear Christmas Day to themselves.

"He's a hero to be proud of, Granny," exclaimed the doctor delightedly.
"Such a great stalwart fellow, with a beard like a Turk, and a voice
like an organ! Why, he overtops us all! Dot, if I were in your place,
I should give his pockets a wide berth; for he could stow away such a
weeny thing before your disconsolate friends would miss you."

Dot laughed, as if she wasn't much afraid.

"The excitement has not hurt Granny?" queried Hal.

"No, indeed! It's better than quarts of my tonics, and gallons of port
wine. She only wanted a good strong motive to give the blood a rush
through her veins."

"I was quite afraid last night."

"She'll weather it through, and come out in the spring like a lark. O
Hal, my dear boy, God is wonderful! 'And so He bringeth them to the
haven where they would be.'"

"Yes. I've been thinking of it all the morning."

"Merry Christmas, everybody. Not a word will I say."

Joe was still watching by the window, when another sleigh stopped, and
a brisk little figure sprang out, running up the walk. He opened the
door.

"Hillo!" he cried. "Here comes Kit, scalp-lock, fiddle, and all."

"Oh!" in the utmost wonder and amazement, glancing around as if
suddenly bereft of his senses. "Oh, it isn't Joe, raised out of the
sea! It can't be!"

"Pity the poor fishes," said Joe comically. "Think of the banquet to
which they might have asked all their relations."

And then Kit was in his arms, crying and laughing; and, if Joe's head
had not been securely fastened, it never could have stood the pressure.

"Oh, dear darling old Joe! How were you saved? What _did_ Granny say?"

And then the little goose had to go and cry over Granny.

"You have really achieved a fiddle," exclaimed Joe at length. "Kit, my
dear, you are on the high road to fame."

"Not very _high_," returned Kit. "But it's splendid to have. Hal gave
it to me, and I can play quite well."

"We shall have to give a party some day,--a golden wedding for Granny."

"Or a golden Christmas. O Joe! I can't believe it a bit. I was awfully
disappointed last night when it stormed, and they said I shouldn't come
home. I thought how lonely Dot and Hal would be this morning."

The two smiled at each other, remembering the Christmas hymns in the
gray dawn.

Dot's dinner began to diffuse its aroma around the room. What with
boiling and baking, she had her hands full.

"Let us put both tables together," she said to Hal "It will give us so
much more room. And it's to be a regular feast."

"Over the prodigal son," rejoined Joe. "Kit, here, who spends his
substance in fiddles and riotous living."

"No: it is Dot who does the latter."

Dot laughed. "You will not complain, when I ask you to share the
riotous living," she said.

The tables were set out, and Dot hunted up the best cloth. White enough
it was too. Then the plates: how many were there? For somehow her wits
seemed to have gone wool-gathering, and she had a misgiving lest some
of them might disappear.

"Oh!"

Kit gave a great cry, dashed open the door, and flew down the walk, his
scalp-lock flying, until he went head first into a snowbank.

"Kit's demented, and there's a girl at the bottom of it," said Joe. "O
Kit! you've gone the way of mankind early."

"It's Charlie!" almost screamed Dot, following as if she had been shot
out of a seventy-four pounder.

"Charlie! Oh, what a blessed, blessed Christmas!"

They dragged Charlie in,--not by the hair of her head, for that was
hardly long enough. Charlie, in a pretty brown dress and cloak, a
squirrel collar and muff, a jaunty hat with green velvet bands and a
green feather. She was quite tall, and not so thin; and a winter of
good care had completed the bleaching process commenced at the mill.
She was many shades fairer, with a soft bloom on her cheek, while her
mouth no longer threatened to make the top of her head an island.

"O Hal! and where's Granny? And"--

She paused before Joe.

"Why, Charlie, you're grown so handsome that you really don't know your
poor relations."

"It's Joe! What a great giant! Oh! when did he come?"

"And we thought him drowned," said Dot, half crying. "We heard it ever
so long ago! It was so splendid to have him come back!"

"Shut the door," exclaimed Hal.

"Why, I thought it was dreadful cold," said Kit, glancing round at the
wide open door.

"Cold isn't any word for it! If we had a cast-iron dog we should have
to tie him to the stove-leg to keep his hair from freezing off. It's
lucky I wear a wig."

"You're the same old Joe," said Charlie, laughing.

"But where have you been, Charlie?"

"In New York. I've such lots and lots to tell you. But oh, I must see
Granny!"

So Granny had to be hugged and kissed, and everybody went to look.
They all talked and laughed and cried in the same breath; and nobody
knew what was said, only they were all there together again, and Granny
was alive.

"I intended to come home yesterday, but it stormed so fearfully; and
to-day there were so many detentions, that I began almost to despair.
But I had some Christmas for darling Granny, and I couldn't wait. See
here,"--and Charlie began to search her pockets energetically. "Fifty
dollars, Granny; and I earned it all my own self, besides ever so much
more. And I'm going to be a--a"--

"Genius," said Kit. "Hooray for Charlie!"

"It's all about the pictures. Mr. Darol sold some designs for me, and I
wanted Granny to have the money; but I never dreamed that she had been
sick. And did you miss me much? I never told Mr. Darol about it until
yesterday. I suppose it wasn't right. And oh! Granny, I'm sorry if I've
given you the least mite of pain; but all the time I've been as happy
as Joe's big sunflower."

"We shall set Granny crazy," said thoughtful Hal.

"Oh, my dinner!" and Dot flew to the stove-oven like the "moon-eyed
herald of dismay."

There was no damage done. The chickens were browned to a turn. She took
them out on a dish, and made her gravy, and then Hal came to help with
the vegetables. Potatoes, onions, carrots stewed with milk dressing,
cranberry sauce, celery,--altogether a fit repast for anybody's
Christmas dinner.

"If Granny could only come?"

"I've been thinking that we might take her up a little while at
dessert. She asked to sit up before Charlie came. What a day of
excitement!"

"O Hal! it's all lovely. And I can't help thinking how good God was
_not_ to let her die in the night, when we were to have such a happy
day. He saw it, with the angels keeping Christmas around him; didn't
he, Hal?" said little Dot.

"Yes, my darling."

"And I'm so full of joy! I can't help crying every other minute! And to
think of that magnificent Charlie earning fifty dollars!"

Hal went to summon the "children," and explain to Granny, that if she
would be very quiet, and take a good rest, she might get up when the
dessert was brought on. The old woebegone look had vanished from her
face, and the faded eyes held in their depths a tender brightness.

She assented rather unwillingly to the proposal, for she could hardly
bear them out of her sight an instant. Hal closed the door between, but
she begged him to open it again.

"I'd like to hear you talk. I'll lie still, and never say a word."

A happy group they were, gathered round the table. Dot was perched up
at the head, and Hal took the opposite end, to do the carving. They
had time, then, to look round and see how pretty Charlie was growing.
The contact with refinement, and, in a certain sense, society, had
improved her very much. If any thing, she had grown still farther out
of the Wilcox sphere.

Then she had to tell her story.

"You really don't mean Mary Jane Wilcox?" interrupted Joe. "Why, we
used to go to school together!"

"I never thought of them," said Hal, "when I was considering where
I could write. Then Granny was taken sick, and the bad news about
Joe,--and somehow I had a fancy that you were safe."

"Mrs. Wilcox has been like a mother. She _is_ good, and I do like her;
but, somehow, she is not our kind, after all. But oh, if you could only
see Mr. Darol! I am going to stay a whole week, and he is coming out
here. I told them all about you, Hal."

Hal  a little.

"I'm glad I went, and made a beginning. There is ever so much hard
work before me; but it is what I like. I am actually studying wood
engraving. And Miss Charteris found me some work to do in my leisure
time. She is as lovely as she can be, and a real artist. Think of her
getting five hundred dollars for a picture!"

"And if you should ever do that!" said Kit admiringly.

"No: I haven't that kind of genius. But they all do say that my talent
for designing is remarkable; and I shall be able to earn a good deal of
money, even if I do not get as much at one time. I'm so glad, and so
thankful!"

They all looked at brave Charlie; and, somehow, it didn't seem as if
she were the little harum-scarum, who never had a whole dress for six
consecutive hours, who ran around bare-headed and bare-footed, and was
the tint of a copper- Indian. Why, she was almost as elegant as
Flossy, but with a nobler grace. There was nothing weak about her. You
felt that she would make a good fight to the end, and never go astray
in paths of meanness, deceit, or petty pride.

Then they had to tell what had happened to them. She had all the
rejoicing over Joe, without any of the pain and anguish. For, now that
he was here, she could not imagine the bitter tears which had been the
portion of the household.

How gay they were! There was no china on the table, no silver forks, no
cut-glass goblets; but the dinner was none the less enjoyable. There
never were such roasted chickens, nor such cranberry sauce, nor such
celery! And certainly never such glad and loving hearts. The sorrows
and successes drew them the more closely together.

What if Granny had let them stray off years ago, to forget and grow
cold! Ah! she had her reward now. Every year after this it would pour
in a golden harvest.

"We will have our dessert in style," said Hal.

"Kit, please help take off the dishes, for I know Dot must be tired."

"I will too," responded Charlie promptly.

They gathered up the fragments, and carried them in the pantry, took
away the dishes, brushed off the cloth, and then came the crowning
glories. First, two beautiful bouquets, with a setting of crisp,
fragrant geranium leaves; then a dish of apples, rosy-cheeked and
tempting.

"It is fortunate that I made a good large pie," said Dot with much
complacency.

Hal bundled Granny in a shawl; but, before he could help her out of
bed, Joe's strong arms had borne her to the kitchen. Hal brought the
rocking-chair, and they made her comfortable with pillows.

They all, I think, saw a strange beauty in her on this Christmas Day.
The little silvery curls,--they always _would_ curl; the pale, wrinkled
face; the faded eyes, with their youth and glory a thing of the past;
the feeble, cracked voice; the trembling hands,--all beautiful in their
sight. For the hands had toiled, the voice had comforted, the lips had
kissed away pains and griefs. Every furrow in the face was sacred. What
watching and anxiety and unfaltering labor they bespoke!

Dot poured her a cup of tea: then she proceeded to cut the pie.

"Dot, you are a royal cook!" exclaimed Joe. "We have discovered your
special genius."

It was very delightful. Granny had a little slice, and added her
praises to the rest so lavishly bestowed.

"There never was but one such Christmas. If I were a boy, I should
pronounce it 'red-hot,'" laughed Joe. "I'm almost sorry to outgrow the
boyish tricks and slang."

"And you can't cool it," appended Kit, with a melancholy shake of the
head.

"If there was one face more," began Granny slowly.

Yes, just one was needed to complete the group.

The sun stole softly out of the window. The happy day was drawing to a
close. Would life, too, draw to a close without her?

"Hark!" exclaimed Dot.

For the merry jingle of sleigh-bells ceased suddenly. Was it some
unwelcome guest to break in upon the sanctity of their twilight hour?

A knock at the door. Charlie, being the nearest, opened it. A lady
dressed in deep mourning, and a tall, fine-looking gentleman. She
certainly had never seen either of them before.

The veil was raised. Oh, that face, with all its fairness and beauty;
the golden hair, the lustrous eyes! They all knew then.

"O Granny, Granny!" and Florence was kneeling at her grandmother's
feet, kissing the wasted hands, her sad, pathetic voice broken with
sobs. "I had to come: I couldn't stay away. I've been selfish and
ungrateful, and God has punished me sorely. And, when I turned to
him in my sorrow, he brought before me all my neglect, my pride, my
cruelty. O Granny! can it be forgiven?"

"There's nothing to forgive, child."

She kissed the sweet, wet face. At that moment she forgot every thing
save that this darling had come back.

"Yes, there is so much, so much! You don't know. For, after I was
married, I might have come. Edmund was tender and noble. This is my
husband, Mr. Darol."

She rose as she uttered this, and made a gesture with her outstretched
hand. Mr. Darol bowed.

"This is my dear grandmother Edmund; and these are my brothers and
sisters. It is so long since I have seen any of you, that you seem
strangers to me."

There was a peculiar silence in the room.

"Oh!" with a low, imploring cry,--"have you no welcome for me? Have I
forfeited _all_ regard, all remembrance?"

Hal came round to her side; but she was so stately and beautiful, that
he felt almost awed.

"It is Hal, I know. Oh! take me back in your midst: for only yesterday
I buried my little baby; and I know now the sense of loss that I
entailed upon you."

They all crowded round her then. Not one had forgotten darling Flossy.
Kisses and fond clasps. They were so glad to take her into their circle.

"This is Joe," she said, "and Kit, and Dot. O Charlie! to see you all
once more! and to have you all alive! For I have been haunted with
a terrible fear lest some of you might have fallen out of the old
home-chain. Not a break, thank God!"

Then she brought them to her husband. Oh, how wild she had been when
she fancied that she _might_ be ashamed of them!--this group of brave,
loving faces, full of the essential elements of nobility.

Ah, Florence, if you had known all their deeds of simple heroism!

Charlie helped her take off her wrappings. She had not changed greatly,
except to grow older and more womanly.

"Granny has been ill!" she exclaimed in quick alarm.

"Yes, nearly all winter. But she is better now. O Flossy, I am so glad
you came to-day!" and Hal's soft eyes swam in tears.

"It was Christmas. I could not help thinking of the dear old Christmas
when we were all together. O Hal! if you could know all my shame and
sorrow!"

"Joe," said Granny feebly, "will you take me back to bed? I'm tired
again. I'm a poor old body at the best. Then you can come and sit round
me."

"Shall I send the driver away?" asked Mr. Darol of Florence.

"Yes: I can't leave them to-night. You will not mind?"--

She glanced around as she uttered this, as if apologizing for the poor
accommodations.

"No, I shall not mind," in a grave tone.

Granny was carried to bed again. Hal shook up the pillow, and
straightened the spreads. Joe laid her in tenderly, saying, as he
kissed her,--

"You have us all home again in the old shoe!"

The room was neat and orderly; poor, to be sure, but with a cheerful
air. Hal brought in the flowers, and Kit some chairs, and they made
quite a party.

"But think of the dishes!" whispered housewifely Dot. "And not a clean
one for morning, we've used so many. But, oh! wasn't it elegant? And
Florence is a real lady!"

"We had better slip out, and look after our household gods," Hal
murmured in return.

Before they were fairly in the business, Charlie joined them.

"Let me help too," she said. "I don't hate to wash dishes quite as much
as I used; and I am so happy to-night that I could do almost any thing!"

They were a practical exemplification of the old adage. Many hands did
make light work. In a little while they had their house in order.

"But what a family!" exclaimed Dot. "Where are we to put them all?"

"I've been thinking. Florence and her husband can have my room, and we
will make a bed for Kit and Joe in the flower-room. They won't mind it,
I guess."

"Dot can sleep with Granny, and I can curl up in any corner for
to-night," said Charlie.

"Hal never had a wink of sleep last night. We talked and sang Christmas
hymns, and Granny thought that she would not live."

Charlie gave a sad sigh.

"You are angels, both of you," she answered. "And when Mr. Darol
comes,--oh! isn't it funny that Florence's husband should have the same
name? I wonder"--

Charlie was off into a brown study.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "isn't it odd? Florence's name is Darol,
and there is my Mr. Darol. Why, I do believe they look something
alike,--Flossie's husband, I mean."

To which rather incoherent statement no one was able to reply.

"Perhaps we had better put my room in order," suggested Hal, returning
to the prose of housekeeping.

Dot found some clean sheets and pillow-cases. Charlie followed them,
and assisted a little. The bed was freshly made, a clean napkin spread
over the worn washstand, towels as white as snow, and every thing
neat, if not elegant.

"Though, of course, it will look very common to Flossy," said Dot with
a sigh. "I feel almost afraid of her, she is so grand."

"But she isn't a bit better than we are," returned Charlie stoutly. "I
think Hal is really the noblest of the lot, and the most unfortunate.
But I told Mr. Darol all about the green-house, Hal!"

Hal . Charlie was a warm and courageous champion.

Then they went down stairs. Florence still sat at the head of Granny's
bed, and had been crying. Hal remembered his hard thoughts of Flossy
the night before with a pang of regret; for, though they had been poor
and burdened with cares, death had not come nigh _them_, but had taken
Florence's first-born in the midst of her wealth and ease.

Charlie went round to them. "Florence," she began a little timidly, "do
you live in New York?"

"Yes."

"I've been there since the last of August."

"You?" returned Florence in surprise. "What are you doing?"

"Studying at the School of Design."

"Why, Charlie! how could you get there?"

"It was very strange. I almost wonder now if it really did happen to
me. You see, I worked in the mill, and saved up some money; and then
I went to New York. You remember Mrs. Wilcox, don't you? I've been
boarding there. And, while I was trying to find out what I must do, I
met a Mr. Paul Darol, who is a perfect prince"--

"O Florence! we have heard all this story," interrupted Mr. Darol. "It
is the little girl for whom Uncle Paul sold the designs. She wanted
some money to take home, you know. He never mentioned the name."

"Then he is your uncle," said Charlie, quite overwhelmed at her
success.

"Yes; and you are a brave girl, a genius too. Florence, I'm proud
enough of this little sister. Why didn't Uncle Paul think,--but you
don't look a bit alike."

And this was Charlie! Here were the brothers and sisters of whom she
had felt secretly ashamed! Joe, the dear, noble fellow; Hal, tender
and devoted; heroic Charlie; ambitious Kit; and fond little Dot. Oh!
instead, _she_ was the one for whom they needed to blush,--her own
selfish, unworthy soul, that had stood aloof the past year, when she
might have come to their assistance. How it humbled her! She even
shrank away from her husband's eyes.

"I think Granny is growing weary," Hal said presently, glancing at the
pallid cheek. "She has had a great deal of excitement to-day; and now,
if you will come up stairs and look at my flowers, we can let her have
a little rest."

They all agreed to the proposal.

So Hal gave her a composing draught; and, though Joe was fain to stay,
Granny sent him away with the others. They had all been so good, that
she, surely, must not be selfish; and, truth to tell, a little quiet
would not come amiss.

For, happy dream! she _had_ lived to see them all come back. What more
could she ask? That she might recover her health, and feast on their
smiles and joyousness; and she prayed humbly to God that it might be
so, in his great mercy.




CHAPTER XX.

  WHEREIN THE OLD SHOE BECOMES CROWDED.


They trooped up the narrow stairs. Why, the old loom-room looked like a
palace! Hal had made some very pretty brackets out of pine, and stained
them; and they were ranged round the wall, upholding a pot of flowers
or trailing vines, and two or three little plaster casts. Here were
some bookshelves, the table surmounted by a very passable writing-desk,
Hal's construction also. But the flowers were a marvel.

"Hal's dream was a green-house," exclaimed Florence. "But I don't see
how you found time for it all"--

"It has been profit as well as pleasure," said Hal with a little
pride. "Last winter I sold a quantity of flowers, and, in the spring,
bedding-plants and garden vegetables."

"Oh!" returned Florence, choking back the sobs, "do you remember one
summer day, long, long ago, when we all told over what we would like to
have happen to us? And it has all come about."

"Even to my fiddle," said Kit.

"And my running away," appended Charlie with great satisfaction.

Hal brought in some chairs.

"We're going to sit in the corner on the floor," said Charlie; and the
three younger ones ranged themselves in a small group.

Florence and her husband walked round to view the flowers, guided by
Joe.

"You appear to have wonderful success," remarked Mr. Darol. "These
tuberoses are very fine."

"They were frosted about ten days ago, and have hardly recovered. That
is, I lost most of my blossoms."

"Oh, what a pity!"

"And all our Christmas money," said Dot softly.

"No matter," returned Charlie. "You can have all of mine. I meant every
penny of it for Granny."

"And now I want to hear what you have been doing all these years. I
know it was my own act that shut me out of your joys and sorrows; but
if you will take me back"--and the voice was choked with tears.

Hal pressed the soft hand.

"You will find Edmund a brother to you all," she went on. "It is my
shame, that after my marriage, knowing that I could come any time, I
hesitated to take the step."

"It is a poor old house," exclaimed Hal tremulously.

"But holds more love and heroism than many grander mansions," Mr. Darol
said in his deep, manly tone. "Florence is right: I should like to be
a brother to you all. I honored Charlie before I fancied that I should
ever have a dearer claim."

"And I've been a sort of black sheep," returned Charlie frankly. "Hal
and Joe are the heroes in this family."

"It is so wonderful to have Joe safe!"

"And to think how sad we were last night," Dot began. "We did not
expect any one to help us keep Christmas but Kit."

"O Dot! tell me all about it," said Charlie eagerly. "I do like to hear
it so. And how Joe came home."

Dot was a little shy at first; but presently she commenced at Hal's
losing the school, Granny's sickness, Joe's shipwreck, the trouble and
sorrow that followed in succession, the misfortune of the flowers, and
then she came to the night when Granny wanted to die and go to heaven.
Only last night; but oh, how far off it appeared! She told it very
simply, but with such unconscious pathos that they were all crying
softly Florence leaned her head on her husband's shoulder, hiding her
face.

"And I never knew a word of it!" exclaimed Charlie with the quiver of
tears in her voice. "I didn't want to tell you about my going, for fear
you'd worry over me, or, if I should be disappointed, you would feel
it all the more keenly. But I never thought any thing sad could happen
to you."

"I should like to hear the first part of Charlie's adventures," said
Mr. Darol. "How did she come to know that she had a genius?"

"She used to be punished enough in school for drawing comical faces,"
answered Joe. "Little did Mr. Fielder think that you would make an
artist!"

"But I planned then to run away and live in the woods. I believe I once
took you off, Kit."

"Yes; and we were threatened with the jail, weren't we, because we made
a fire. But how you did talk, Charlie! You were always splendid on the
fighting side."

"I was made to go right straight ahead," said Charlie. "And, if I had
been afraid, I should never have done any thing."

"And we want to hear how you did it," pursued Mr. Darol.

So Charlie related her trials and perplexities, her fruitless journeys,
and her vain endeavors, until she met Mr. Paul Darol, who seemed to
understand just what she wanted.

"I don't see how you had the courage," Florence remarked. "And if I'd
only known you were there, Charlie!"

Charlie shrugged her shoulders. Now that the fight had been made,
and terminated successfully, she was rather glad to have gone into it
single-handed: not from any vanity, but a kind of sturdy independence
that had always characterized Charlie Kenneth.

And then they rambled farther back, to the time of Hal's sad accident.
Perhaps the most truly noble thing about them was their fearlessness
and honesty. They were not ashamed of the poverty and struggle: there
was no petty deceit or small shams to cover the truth.

Ah, what heroic lives they had all been, in a simple way! For it is not
only in great matters that men and women must fight: it is the truth
and endurance and perseverance which they bring into every-day events
that moulds character. Not a poor, false, or useless soul among them,
unless it was hers, Florence thought.

Hal stole down a time or two to see Granny, who had fallen into a
peaceful sleep. And presently the old clock struck ten. Dot and Kit
were nodding.

"I am going to put you in our old room," Hal said to Florence. "It is
the best I can do."

"No: let me sit up and watch with Granny."

"That is not at all necessary. Last night she was nervous. I fancy she
was haunted by a dim impression of impending change, and thought it
must mean death. Instead, it was the dearest of joys."

"O Hal! I don't feel worthy to come among you. Not simply because I
chose to go away, to have luxury and ease and idleness, while you
were in want and sorrow; for in those old days I thought only of
myself. But, a few months after I was married, Mrs. Osgood died, and
I was quite free to choose. Don't shrink away from me Hal, though the
cowardice has in it so much of vile ingratitude. I had not the courage
to be true to my secret longings. She had filled my weak soul with her
beliefs; and I persuaded myself that my debt to her was greater than
that to my own kindred."

"O Florence, hush! let it all go, since you _have_ come back," pleaded
unselfish Hal.

"And then my precious baby came. Hardly four months ago. He had your
tender eyes, Hal; and they used to reproach me daily. But I made a
hundred excuses and delays. And then God took him, to let me feel what
a wrench the soul endures when its cherished ones are removed. All
these years I have been like one dead to you, without the sweet comfort
of those who know their treasures are safe in heaven. When we came back
from _his_ grave yesterday, I told Edmund my deeper shame and anguish,
my disloyalty to those who had the first claim. And if any of you had
been dead, if I could never have won Granny's forgiveness, ah, how
heavy my burden would have proved!"

"But we all consented to your going," Hal said, longing to comfort her.

"Because you knew how weak and foolish I was, with my sinfully
ambitious longings. And oh, if my husband had been less noble!"

"You shall not so blame yourself on this blessed Christmas night. Is
there not to be peace on earth, and tenderness and good will for all?
And it seems as if you never could have come back at a more precious
moment."

Hal, foolish boy, cried a little in her arms. It was so sweet to have
her here.

After a while the children were all disposed of. Hal apologized to Joe
for the rather close and fragrant quarters.

"Don't worry, old comrade. When you've slept on a whale's backbone, or
a couple of inches of tarred rope, you take any thing cheerfully, from
a hammock to a bed of eider down."

Kit cuddled in his arms. Dear old Joe was the best and bravest of
heroes to him.

Hal threw himself on the lounge, covered with shawls and overcoats, for
the bedclothes were insufficient to go around. He laughed softly to
himself. Such a houseful as this the "Old Shoe" had never known before.
What was poverty and trouble now? A kind of ghostly phantom, that
vanished when one came near it. Why, he had never felt so rich in all
his life!

Granny was none the worse the next morning for her excitement. Dot
bathed her face, combed out the tiny silver curls, and put on a
fresh wrapper. Charlie helped get breakfast, though she was not as
deft-handed as Dot. The two tables were set again; and, when they
brought Granny out, she was more than proud of her family.

That seemed to be a gala-day for all Madison. When the news was once
started, it spread like wild-fire. Joe Kenneth wasn't drowned after
all, but had come back safe, a great, tall, handsome fellow. Florence
had returned with her fine-looking husband; and wild, queer Charlie had
actually been transformed into the family beauty.

"There never was a finer set of children in Madison," said Mr. Terry,
clearing his voice of a little huskiness. "And to think they're Joe
Kenneth's poor orphans! I tell you what! Granny Kenneth has been one
woman out of a thousand. Didn't everybody say she had better let the
youngsters go to the poor-house. And now they're a credit to the town.
Think of Joe being praised in the papers as he was! That went to my
heart,--his giving up a chance for life to some one else. He's a brave
fellow, and handsome as a picture. There isn't a girl but would jump
at the chance of marrying him. He will be a captain before he is five
years older, mark my words."

Dr. Meade was brimful of joy also. He kissed Charlie, and laughed at
her for running away, and was much astonished to find how fortunate she
had been But Joe was everybody's idol.

"I think some of you ought to be spared," exclaimed the good doctor.
"I don't see where you were all stowed last night. I have two or three
rooms at your service; and, indeed, am quite willing to take you all
in. But, anyhow, Kit and Joe might come for lodgings."

"We put them in the flower-room," said Charlie.

"Which accounts for their blooming appearance, I suppose;" and the
doctor pinched Charlie's ear.

Between themselves, they had endless talks. It seemed as if all the
stories would never get told. And, strangely enough, they came to pity
poor Flossy, who, among them all, had the only lasting sorrow.

Charlie took to Mr. Darol at once; and before the day ended they were
all fast friends.

"I think yours is a most remarkable family," he said to Florence.
"There is not one of the children but what you might be proud of
anywhere."

"I am so glad you can love them!" and the grateful tears were in her
eyes.

"And, when we return home, it seems as if we ought to take Charlie.
There she will have just the position she needs."

"O Edmund! I don't deserve that you should be so good to me. I was
longing to ask it. But I have been so weak and foolish!"

"My darling, that is past. I will say now, that my only misgiving about
you has been the apparent forgetfulness of old family ties. But I knew
you were young when you left your home, and that Mrs. Osgood insisted
upon this course; besides, I never could tell how worthy they were of
fond remembrance."

"And did not dream that I could be so basely ungrateful!" she answered
in deepest shame. "I abhor myself: I have forfeited your respect."

"Hush, dear! Let it all be buried in our child's grave. Perhaps his
death was the one needful lesson. And now that we have found them all,
we must try to make amends."

Florence sobbed her deep regret, nestling closely to his heart.

"Your brother Hal interests me so much! It seems that he will always
feel the result of his accident in some degree, on account of a
strained tendon. He has such a passionate love for flowers, and the
utmost skill in their care and culture. But he ought to have a wider
field for operations."

"Oh!" she said, "if we could help him. Charlie has worked her way so
energetically, that she only needs counsel and guidance. Kit and Dot
are still so young!"

"I don't wonder Uncle Paul was attracted. There is something very
bright and winsome about Charlie. I had to laugh at her naive
confession of being a black sheep."

"She used to be so boyish and boisterous! not half as gentle as dear
Hal."

"But it seems to be toned down to a very becoming piquancy;" and he
smiled.

"How very odd that she should have met your uncle!" Florence said
musingly. "How surprised he will be!"

Dr. Meade came over again that evening, and insisted upon the boys
accepting his hospitality; so Joe and Kit were packed into the sleigh,
and treated sumptuously.

Granny continued to improve, and could sit up for quite a while. She
enjoyed having them all around her so much! It was like the old time,
when the gay voices made the house glad.

And so the days passed, busy, and absolutely merry.

Charlie and Florence helped cook, and Joe insisted upon showing
how he could wash dishes. On Sunday they all went to church except
Dot,--Granny would have it so.

On Monday Mr. Darol came. Charlie had given him very explicit
directions, but she was hardly expecting him so soon. Sitting by the
window she saw him coming down the street in a thoughtful manner, as if
he were noting the landmarks.

"O Mr. Darol!" and she sprang to the door, nearly overturning Dot.

"Yes: you see I have been as good as my word. How bright you look! So
there was nothing amiss at home?"

"Indeed there was! but, in spite of it, we have all been so happy! For
everybody came home at Christmas, even Joe, whom they thought drowned.
This is my little sister Dot. And oh, this is my brother Hal!"

Mr. Darol clasped the hand of one, and gave the other a friendly pat on
the soft golden hair.

"I dare say Charlie has told you all about me: if she has not she is a
naughty girl. Why"--

For in the adjoining room sat Florence, close to Granny's chair. No
wonder he was amazed.

"That's Florence, and you've seen her before. And Mr. Edmund Darol is
here," went on Charlie in a graciously explanatory manner.

"They are my brothers and sisters," said Florence with a scarlet flush.

He looked at her in deep perplexity.

"Mrs. Osgood adopted Florence," Charlie interposed again. "It was all
her fault; for she would not allow the relation to be kept up, and"--

"This is your grandmother?" he interrupted almost sharply, feeling
unconsciously bitter against Florence.

"This is dear Granny."

He took the wrinkled hand, not much larger than a child's, for all it
had labored so long and faithfully.

"Mrs. Kenneth," he said, "I am proud to make your acquaintance. One
such child as Charlie would be glory enough."

Charlie fairly danced with delight to see Granny so honored in her old
days. And as for the poor woman, she was prouder than a queen.

"You've been so good to _her_!" she murmured tremulously, nodding her
head at Charlie.

"She is a brave girl, even if she did run away. I have used my best
efforts to make her sorry for it."

"But oh! Mr. Darol, the work was all undone as soon as I came home.
For when I found them sick, and full of trouble, it seemed so good to
be able to take care of myself, that I think running away the most
fortunate step of my whole life."

"I am afraid that we shall never bring you to a proper state of
penitence;" and he laughed.

"You were so good to her!" said Granny again, as if she had nothing but
gratitude in her soul.

"It was a great pleasure to me. But I never dreamed that I had made the
acquaintance of one of your family before."

"He will never like me so well again," thought Florence; "but that is
part of my punishment. I have been full of pride and cowardice."

Mr. Darol made himself at home in a very few moments, for he was
interested beyond measure.

"It _is_ a poor place," ruminated Charlie, glancing round; "but we
cannot help it, I'm sure. All of us have done our best."

Then she dismissed the subject with her usual happy faculty, and became
wonderfully entertaining; so much so, indeed, that, when Mr. Darol
glanced at his watch, he said,--

"In about half an hour my train goes down to the city. I have not
said half that I wanted to. I have not seen your brother Joe, nor the
hot-house; and what am I to do?"

"Stay," replied Charlie; and then she  vividly. "Our house is so
small that it will not hold any more; but Dr. Meade has already taken
in Kit and Joe, and he is just splendid!"

Mr. Darol laughed.

"Are there any hotel accommodations?"

"Oh, yes! at the station."

"Then I think I will remain; for my visit isn't half
finished, and I am not satisfied to end it here."

Charlie was delighted.

After that they went up to the flower-room. It seemed to improve every
day, and was quite a nest of sweets.

"So Miss Charlie hasn't all the family genius," said Mr. Darol. "It is
not every one who can make flowers grow under difficulties."

"They were nipped a little about the middle of the month. One night my
fire went out."

"And it blighted the flowers he meant to cut in a few days," explained
Charlie, "so that at first there did not seem a prospect of a very
merry Christmas."

And Charlie slipped her hand within Mr. Darol's, continuing, in a
whisper, "I can never tell you how glad I was to have the money. It was
like the good fortune in a fairy story."

He looked at the beaming, blushing face with its dewy eyes. Ah! he
little guessed, the day he first inspected Charlie Kenneth's drawings,
that all this pleasure was to arise from a deed of almost Quixotic
kindness.

Yet he wondered more than ever how she had dared to undertake such a
quest. Strangely courageous, earnest, and simple-hearted, with the
faith of a child, and the underlying strength of a woman,--it seemed as
if there might be a brilliant and successful future before her.

And this delicate brother with a shadow in his eyes like the drifts
floating over an April sky,--he, too, needed a friend to give him a
helping hand. Who could do it better than he, whose dearest ones were
sleeping in quiet, far-off graves?




CHAPTER XXI.

  HOW THE DREAMS CAME TRUE.


Charlie insisted upon Mr. Darol remaining to supper; and he was nothing
loth.

"Dear me!" exclaimed Dot, "we shall have to echo the crow's suggestive
query,--

    'The old one said unto his mate,
    "What shall we do for food to _ate_?"'"

"Make some biscuit or a Johnny-cake," said Charlie, fertile in
expedients. "Dot, I've just discovered the bent of your budding mind."

"What?" asked the child, tying on a large apron.

"Keeping a hotel. Why, it's been elegant for almost a week!--a perfect
crowd, and not a silver fork or a goblet, or a bit of china; rag-carpet
on the floor, and a bed in the best room. Nothing but happiness inside
and out! Even the ravens haven't cried. You see, it isn't money, but a
contented mind, a kitchen apron, a saucepan, and a genius for cooking."

"But you must have something to cook," was Dot's sage comment.

"True, my dear. Words of priceless wisdom fall from your young
lips,--diamonds and pearls actually! Now, if you will tell me what to
put in a cake"--

"A pinch of this, and a pinch of that," laughed Dot. "I am afraid to
trust your unskilful hands; so you may wait upon me. Open the draught,
and stir the fire: then you may bring me the soda and the sour milk,
and beat the eggs--oh, there in the basket!"

"Dot, my small darling, spare me! I am in a hopeless confusion.
Your brain must be full of shelves and boxes where every article is
labelled. One thing at a time."

"The fire first, then."

Dot sifted her flour, and went to work. Charlie sang a droll little
song for her, and then set the table. Their supper was a decided
success. Edmund came in, and was delighted to see his uncle. There was
hero Joe, gay as a sky-full of larks. It didn't seem as if any of them
had ever known trouble or sorrow. Even Granny gave her old chirruping
laugh.

The next day they had some serious talks. Hal and Mr. Darol slipped
into a pleasant confidence.

"I've been thinking over your affairs with a good deal of interest,"
he said. "It seems to me that you need a larger field for profitable
operations. I should not think Madison quite the place for a brilliant
success. You need to be in the vicinity of a large city. And, since
three of the others will be in New York principally, it certainly
would be better for you. Would your grandmother object to moving?"

"I don't know," Hal answered thoughtfully.

"Floriculture is becoming an excellent business. Since you have such a
decided taste for it, you can hardly fail. I should recommend Brooklyn,
Jersey City, or Harlem. Besides the flowers, there is a great demand
for bedding-plants. You haven't any other fancy?" and he studied Hal's
face intently.

Hal's lip quivered a moment. "It was my first dream, and I guess the
best thing that I can do. I could not endure hard study, or any thing
like that. Yes, I have decided it."

"I wish you would make me a visit very soon, and we could look around,
and consider what step would be best. You must forgive me for taking a
fatherly interest in you all. I love young people so much!"

Hal's eyes sparkled with delight. He did not wonder that Charlie had
told her story so fearlessly to him.

"You are most kind. I don't know how to thank you."

"You can do that when you are successful;" and he laughed cordially.

They had all taken Flossy's husband into favor, and their regard was
fully returned by him. Indeed, they appeared to him a most marvellous
little flock. As for Florence, the awe and strangeness with which she
had first impressed them was fast wearing off. As her better soul
came to light, she seemed to grow nearer to them, as if the years of
absence were being bridged over. Fastidious she would always be in some
respects, but never weakly foolish again. She had come to understand
a few of the nobler truths of life, learned through suffering,--that
there was a higher enjoyment than that of the senses, or the mere
outward uses of beauty.

They all appreciated the manner in which she made herself at home. They
gave her the best they had, to be sure; and she never pained them by
any thoughtless allusion to her luxuries. She had not lost her old art
with the needle, and Dot's dresses were renovated in such a manner that
she hardly knew them.

Granny would never allow her to regret her going with Mrs. Osgood.

"It was all right," she would say cheerfully. "The good Lord knew what
was best. I don't mind any of it now,--the losses and crosses, the
sorrows and sicknesses, and all the hard work. Your poor father would
be glad if he could see you, and I've kept my promise to him. So don't
cry, dearie. If you hadn't gone away, I shouldn't 'a' known how sweet
it was to have you come back."

Florence and Mr. Darol made their preparations to return. They decided
to take Charlie back with them, and install her in her new home; though
Charlie did not exactly like the prospect of having her visit abridged.

"I meant to stay all this week," she said decisively. "I cannot have
another vacation until next summer."

"But you will go back with me to my sad house, and help me to forget
my baby's dead face," Florence returned beseechingly. "O Charlie! I do
mean to be a true and fond sister to you if you will let me."

So Charlie consented; though she would much rather have staid, and had
a "good time" with Dot and Hal.

"If Florence was not here, I should like to perch myself on a
chair-back, and whistle 'Hail Columbia' to all the world. Dear old
shoe! What sights of fun we have had in it! I am rather sorry that I'll
soon be a woman. Oh, dear! You always _do_ have some trouble, don't
you?"

"Charlie, Charlie!" and Dot shook her small forefinger.

Joe was going too. "But I shall be back in a few days," he said to
Granny.

"O Joe! if you wouldn't go to sea any more,--and when you've been
a'most drowned"--

"O Granny! best mother in the world, do not feel troubled about me. We
are a family of geniuses, and I am the duckling that can't stay brooded
under mother-wings. It's my one love, and I should be a miserable fish
if you kept me on dry land. I have been offered a nice position to go
to Charleston; and as I am not rich, and have not the gout, I can't
afford to retire on a crust. But you'll see me every little while; and
you'll be proud enough of me when I get to be a captain."

Granny felt that she could not be any prouder of him if he was a king.

There was a great thinning-out again. Kit bemoaned the lonesomeness of
the place; but Dot's housewifely soul was comforted with the hope of a
good clearing-up time.

In two days Joe returned.

"Florence is as elegant as a queen," he reported; "not the grandest or
richest, but every thing in lovely style. Charlie went wild over the
pictures. And there are great mirrors, and marble statues, and carpets
as soft as spring-hillsides. You never imagined, Granny, that one of us
would attain to such magnificence, did you?"

Granny listened in wide-eyed wonder, and bobbed her little curls.

"And Darol's a splendid fellow! Flossy always did have the luck!"

That night Hal and Joe slept in the old room, which Joe declared seemed
good.

"We had a long talk about you, Hal. Mr. Paul Darol is wonderfully
interested in you. He is just as good and generous as he can be, and
has two beautiful rooms at a hotel. You know, in the old dream, it was
Flossy who was to meet with a benevolent old gentleman: instead, it
has been Charlie, the queer little <DW40>. What a youngster she has
been!"

"She is as good as gold."

"Mr. Darol thinks her the eighth wonder of the world. But he wants you
to have the green-house; and I said I intended to help you to it. When
he found that we did not mean to take any thing as a gift, he offered
to loan the whole amount, to be paid as you were prospered."

"How very, very generous!" said Hal with a long breath.

"It _was_ most kind; but you cannot do much here. I believe I like the
Brooklyn project best."

"I wonder if Granny would consent to leave Madison?"

"I think she will. You see, I can spend a good deal of time with you
then."

Joe was to start again the middle of January. Granny fretted at first;
but dear, merry Joe finally persuaded her that it was the best thing in
the world.

Hal could not help shedding a few quiet tears, but then they had a
glowing letter from Charlie. She and Florence had actually been to call
on Mrs. Wilcox in their own carriage. They had taken her and Mary Jane
a pretty gift; and Mrs. Wilcox was, to use her own expression, "clear
beat." And Charlie declared that she was living like a princess. She
could come home, and spend almost any Sunday with them.

While Hal was considering how best to inform Granny of the new project,
circumstances opened the way. In the march of improvement at Madison,
an old lane was to be widened, and straightened into a respectable
street; and one end of it would run through the old Kenneth cottage.

Poor old Shoe! Its days were numbered. But there were no more
rollicking children to tumble in and out of windows, or transform
the dusty garret into a bedlamic palace. And yet Granny could not be
consoled, or even persuaded.

"I never could take root anywhere else, Hal, dear," she said, shaking
her head sadly.

"But the old house has been patched and patched; it leaks everywhere;
and a good, strong gust of wind might blow it over. We should not want
to be in the ruins, I'm sure. Then, Granny, think of being so near all
the children!"

Granny was very grave for several days; but one evening she said with a
tremor in her voice,--

"Hal dear, I am a poor old body, and I shall never be worth any thing
again. I don't know as it makes much difference, after all, if you will
only promise to bring me back, and lay me alongside of my dear Joe."

Hal promised with a tender kiss.

Dr. Meade used to bundle Granny up in shawls, and take her out in his
old-fashioned gig; and, by the time Joe came back, he declared she was
a good deal better than new, and the dearest grandmother in the world.
I think she was, myself, even if she was little and old and wrinkled,
and had a cracked voice.

They formed a great conspiracy against her, and took her to New York.
She never could see how they did it; and Joe insisted that it was
"sleight-of-hand," he having learned magic in China. It was very odd
and laughable to see her going round Florence's pretty home, leaning
on Dot's shoulder, and listening, like a child, to the descriptions of
the pictures and bronzes, and confusing the names of different things.
But Dot declared that it was right next door to heaven; and, for sweet
content, it might have been. Charlie almost went wild.

It seemed, indeed, as if Florence could never do enough to make amends
for her past neglect. Edmund Darol treated Granny with the utmost
respect and tenderness. He never tired of hearing of their youthful
frolics and fun; but Charlie's running away seemed the drollest of all.

Mr. Paul Darol, or Uncle Paul as he had insisted upon being to all
the children, took Hal under his especial protection. They visited
green-houses, talked with florists, read books, and began to consider
themselves quite wise. Then they looked around for some suitable
places. At Jersey City they found the nucleus of a hot-house, and a
very fair prospect; but, on the outskirts of Brooklyn, they found a
pretty cottage and some vacant lots, that appeared quite as desirable.

"Indeed, the neighborhood is much better," said Mr. Darol.
"Green-houses could soon be put up, and by fall you might be started in
business. I think the sooner the better."

Hal's brown eyes opened wide in astonishment.

"Yes," continued Mr. Darol, with an amused expression, "Joe and I have
quite settled matters. He allows me _carte blanche_ for every thing;
and, being arbitrary, I like to have my own way. When you decide upon a
location, I will take care that it shall be placed within your power."

"You are so good! but I couldn't, I wouldn't dare"--And somehow Hal
could not keep the tears out of his eyes.

"I think this Brooklyn place the most desirable. It is on a horse-car
route, and near enough to Greenwood to attract purchasers thither. I'll
buy the place, and turn it over to you with a twenty-years' mortgage,
if you like. You see, I am not giving you any thing but a chance to do
for yourself."

Hal and Joe talked it over that evening.

"How good everybody is to us!" said Hal. "There was Mrs. Howard, when I
was so ill, and the Kinseys, while they were in Madison, and Dr. Meade,
and"--

"Mrs. Van Wyck, who snubbed Flossy, and prophesied that I should come
to the gallows. Hal, dear old chap, we have had ups and downs, and
been poor as church-mice; but it is all coming around just right. And
I'd take the place: I know you will succeed."

"But eight thousand dollars; and the green-houses, and the plants
afterward"--

"Why, I'd be responsible for the place myself. The property would be
worth a fortune in twenty years or so. And, with Mr. Darol to hold it,
there wouldn't be the slightest risk."

"But if I should not live"--

"Nonsense! I'll come in and administer. I'll be thinking about your
epitaph. Mine is already stored away for use:--

              'From which it is believed,
              The unfortunate bereaved
    Went to sea, and was promiscuously drownded.'"

"Now, isn't that pathetic?"

"O Joe! you are too bad!"

"It's a sign of long life, my dear. I have had to be worse than usual,
to balance your account."

Everybody said Hal must have the place. Mr. Darol actually purchased
it, and took Dot over to see the cottage. It was not very large, but
sufficiently roomy for them, and had only been tenanted for a year;
a pretty parlor and sitting-room, with a nice large kitchen, and
abundance of closets. The chambers up stairs were very pleasant, and
commanded a beautiful view.

"Will it do for you, O morsel of womankind?" asked Mr. Darol. "I
propose to buy you a dog, and call you Mother Hubbard."

Dot laughed, and blushed, and expressed her satisfaction.

Then Hal declared they must return to Madison, and he would consider
what could be done.

"You can count on me for three hundred a year," said Joe with his
good-by.

They wanted Granny to remain with Florence, but she would not: so they
returned together.

Oh, poor little cottage! The chimney over the "best room" had blown
down in a March gale, and the roof leaked worse than ever. The street
was surveyed, and staked out; and, oddest of all, Mr. Howard had
received a call to Brooklyn.

"I suppose we must go," said Granny. "Dot needs a pretty home, and this
isn't"--

"The palaces have spoiled us," said Dot. "Think of having hot and cold
water in your kitchen without a bit of fuss; and a bath-room, and the
work so easy that it is just like playing at housekeeping. Why, Granny,
you and I would have the nicest time in the world!"

Mrs. Meade had cared for the flowers while Hal was away, though they
missed his loving hand. But he decided that it would be best to sell
them all out, and dispose of the place as soon as he could. The
township offered him three hundred dollars for the ground they needed;
and presently Hal found a purchaser for the remainder, at twelve
hundred dollars. By the time of Joe's next return Hal was ready to take
a fresh start.

One thousand was paid down; and Joe promised three hundred of the
interest every year, and as much more as he could do. Mr. Darol was to
superintend the erection of the green-house,--two long rows, joined by
a little square at the end, a kind of work-room, which could be opened
or closed at pleasure. They were built on the back part of the two
lots, and the space in front was to remain a summer-garden. The street
had a lovely southern exposure, while a great elm-tree shaded the house.

They all came back to the Old Shoe for a farewell visit. It was June,
and they had supper out of doors; for, somehow, half the neighborhood
had invited itself. Everybody was sorry to lose Hal and Granny; and
everybody thought it wonderful that the Kenneths had prospered, and had
such luck.

Then Florence took Granny and Dot to a pretty seaside resort, where
Charlie was to join them. Kit and Hal were to pack up whatever
household treasures were worth saving, and afterward domesticate
themselves with their brother-in-law.

Good-by, Old Shoe! Tumble down at your will. There is no more laughing
or crying or scolding or planning for you to hear,--no tender
children's voices singing Sunday-evening hymns in the dusk, no little
folded hands saying reverent prayers. O old house, brown and rusty and
dilapidated! there has been much joy under your roof; many prayers
answered, many sorrows, and some bitter tears, that God's hand wiped
away. Every crumbling board has some tender memories. And, as Hal
and Kit sit on the old stone step for the last time, their hands are
clasped tightly, their eyes are full of tears, and neither can trust
his voice to speak.

Good-by! The birds said it, the wandering winds said it, the waving
grasses, and the rustling trees. You have had your day, old house, and
the night has come for you.




CHAPTER XXII.

  CHRISTMASTIDE.


Hal watched the hot-houses with strange delight. They seemed to him on
a most magnificent scale. The boiler was put in, the pipes laid, the
force-pump and coal-bins arranged; then the stands of steps, rising
higher, the wide ledge by the window for small plants and slips,
lattices for vines, hooks for hanging-baskets, and every thing in
complete order.

When Charlie rejoined Granny, Florence came back for a brief stay. She
and Edmund went over to the cottage, and measured and consulted; and
the result was, that one morning it looked wonderfully as if some one
was moving in. Hal ran to inform them of their mistake.

The carpet-men said they had their orders, and wouldn't budge an
inch. Down went carpets and oil-cloths. Such a hammering, and
knocking-about, and unrolling! Kit stood it as long as he could: then
he went out of doors, perched himself on a pile of stone, and played on
his beloved fiddle.

The next day there was another raid. This time it was furniture.
Florence and Edmund soon made their appearance.

"Oh!" exclaimed Hal.

"It is to be our gift," began Edmund. "Florence wished it so much!
She feels that she took her pleasure when you were all toiling and
suffering, and is better satisfied to make some amends. Besides, we
have an interest in Dot and grandmother."

"And I am only going to put in the principal things," explained
Florence. "There are so many that you will prefer to select yourselves."

The parlor and library, or sitting-room, were carpeted alike. The
furniture was in green, with here and there a bright article to relieve
it; a pretty book-case and writing-table, a _console_ for Dot's small
traps, easy-chairs in abundance, and every thing as pretty as it could
be. The dining-room and kitchen were plain, but home-like, with an
old-fashioned Boston rocker for Granny. But the three sleeping-rooms up
stairs were perfect little gems,--Hal's in black-walnut, Granny's in
quaint chestnut, and Dot's in pale green with a pretty green and white
carpet to match.

"Why, I shall want them to come home right away!" exclaimed Hal. "O
Flossy!"

"Dear, brave Hal! God has been good to us all. Only love me a little in
return."

The last of August, Hal's household returned. He and Kit had provided
for them a gorgeous supper, with the best china, and a bouquet at
each plate. Granny could hardly believe her eyes or her senses. Dot
and Charlie ran wild, and made themselves exclamation points in every
doorway.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!"

"And the surprise!"

"And so beautiful!"

"That I should ever live to see it!" said Granny.

They explored every nook and corner and closet.

"I like it so much," said old-fashioned little Dot, "because it isn't
too grand. For, after all, we are not rich. And it was so thoughtful of
Florence to choose what was simply pretty instead of magnificent!"

"Look at the goblets," said Charlie with a solemn shake of the head.
"Dot, if any nice old gentleman comes along, be sure to give him a
drink out of them, and put this K round where he can see it."

"The whole eighteen, I suppose, one after another," returned Dot drolly.

"I shall paint you some pictures," Charlie began presently; "and, Dot,
when I get to earning money in good earnest, I'll buy a piano. I used
to think I did not care much about it, and I never _could_ learn; but
sometimes, when Florence sits and plays like an angel, I can't help
crying softly to myself, though you wouldn't believe I was such a
goose. And, if you learn to play, it will be a great comfort to Hal."

"Yes," said Dot, crying out of pure sympathy.

They commenced housekeeping at once. Charlie was to remain with them
until the term commenced.

"Isn't it a delight to have such splendid things to work with?"
exclaimed Dot. "Why, Granny, don't you believe we have been spirited
away to some enchanted castle?"

Granny laughed, and surely thought they had.

Hal, meanwhile, was stocking his green-houses. Loads of sand and loam
had to be brought; piles of compost and rubble standing convenient; and
the two boys worked like Trojans. And then the journeys to florists,
that seemed to Hal like traversing realms of poesy and fragrance. Great
geraniums that one could cut into slips, roses, heliotrope, heaths,
violets, carnations, fuchsias; indeed, an endless mass of them. Hal's
heart was in his throat half the time with a suffocating sense of
beauty.

It was such a pleasure to arrange them! He used to handle them as if
they were the tenderest of babies. Watering and ventilation on so large
a scale was quite new to him; and he went at his business with a little
fear and trembling, and devoted every spare moment to study.

Mr. Darol had paid the bills as they had been presented. One day Hal
asked to see them. The request was evaded for a while; but one evening,
when he was dining with Mr. Darol, he insisted upon it.

"Very well," returned Mr. Darol smilingly. "Here they are: look them
over and be satisfied. Very moderate, I think."

The hot-house had cost thirteen hundred dollars; soil, and various
incidentals, one hundred more; flowers, three hundred.

"Seventeen hundred dollars," said Hal in a grave and rather tremulous
tone. "And seven thousand on the house."

"The mortgage is to remain any number of years, you know. Joe
has arranged to pay part of the interest. And the conditions of
these"--gathering them up, and turning toward Hal, who was leaning
against the mantle, rather stupefied at such overwhelming indebtedness.

"Well?" he said with a gasp that made his voice quiver.

"This," and Mr. Darol laughed genially. Hal saw a blaze in the grate,
and stood speechless.

"It is my gift to you. Not a very large business capital, to be sure;
but you can add to it from time to time."

"O Mr. Darol!"

"My dear Hal, if you knew the pleasure it has been to me! I don't know
why I have taken such a fancy to you all, unless it is for the sake of
the children I might have had; but that is an old dream, and the woman
who might have been their mother is in her grave. You deserve all this,
and more."

The tears stood in Hal's eyes, and he could not trust his voice. How
dark every thing had looked only a little year ago! _Could_ he ever be
thankful enough? And that it should all come through such a ridiculous
thing as Charlie's running away!

"I am confident that you will prosper. And I expect you all to like me
hugely, in return. When I take Dot and Charlie to operas, I shall look
to you to provide the flowers."

"A very small return," said Hal.

But he went home as if he had been a tuft of thistle-down on a
summer-breeze. Ferry-boat and horse-car were absolutely glorified. And
when he reached the little cottage with lights in every window, and the
dear ones awaiting him, he could only clasp his arms around them, and
kiss them. But they knew the next morning what had flushed his face,
and made his eyes so lustrous.

"Ah, I told you he was a prince!" declared Charlie in triumph.

And then Hal's work commenced in earnest. Every morning he spent in
his green-house, and began experiments of propagating, that were so
interesting to him. Kit assisted, and Dot ran in every hour or two, to
see how they prospered.

Kit had come across a German musician, hardly a square off, who was
giving him lessons, and who used to wax very enthusiastic over him.
There had been quite a discussion as to what should be done with him.

"Why, he must go to school," declared brother Edmund. "He's a mere
child yet; but he has a wonderful talent for music, it must be
admitted."

"He might become an organist," said Florence. "That gives a man a
position." Somehow she did not take cordially to the violin.

Kit consented to go to school.

"But to give up my dear, darling old fiddle! It's mean, when the rest
of you have had just what you wanted,--been adopted, and gone to
sea, and had green-houses, and all that!" said Kit, half-crying, and
jumbling his sentences all together.

"You shall keep the fiddle," said Granny. "I like it."

Florence also proposed that Granny should have a servant. At this
Granny was dismayed.

"A servant! Why, do you suppose I am going to set up for a queen,
because Hal has his beautiful hot-house,--an old woman like me?"

"But Dot ought to go to school, and then it would be too much for you."

"I am going to study at home," returned Dot with much spirit. "I
haven't any genius: so I shall keep house, and help Hal with his
flowers. And the work isn't any thing. A woman comes in to do the
washing and ironing."

"And Hal is handy as a girl. No: I'd rather stay as we are," Granny
said, with more determination than she had shown in her whole life.

Florence had to leave them "as they were." The simple, homely duties of
every-day life were not distasteful to them. If Granny could not have
been useful, the charm would have gone out of life for her.

Joe was delighted with every thing, and told Granny that if he wasn't
so tall he should surely stand on his head, out of pure joy. He was to
make his head-quarters with them when he was at home.

Miss Charteris had been added to their circle of friends, and enjoyed
the quaint household exceedingly. Hal was an especial favorite with
her, and she took a warm interest in his flowers.

In October, Hal began to have a little business. Baskets and stands
were sent in to be arranged for winter; and now and then some one
strayed in, and bought a pot of something in bloom. He began to feel
quite like a business-man. His five hundred dollars had served to
defray incidental expenses, and put in coal and provisions for the
winter, leaving a little margin. If he could get his sales up to
regular expenses, he thought he should be content for the present.

He took a trip to Madison one day. The cottage was nothing but a heap
of crumbling boards. Had they ever lived there, and been so happy?

"It'll never be the same place again," said Granny, listening to the
summer's improvements. "I am glad we came away. I couldn't have seen
the old house torn down. Maybe it's the flowers here, and the children,
that makes it seem like home to me; but most of all I think it must be
you, dear Hal. And so I'm satisfied, as the good Lord knows."

Her caps were a trifle more pretentious, and her gowns more in modern
style; but she was Granny still, and not one of them would have had her
changed. When she sat in her rocking-chair, with her hands crossed in
her lap, Hal thought her the prettiest thing in the house.

"Hooray!" exclaimed Kit, rushing home one evening out of breath, and
covered with snow. "What _do_ you think? Granny, you could never guess!"

"I never was good at guessing," returned Granny meekly.

"Something wonderful! Oh, a new fiddle!" said Dot.

"No: and Hal won't try. Well"--with a long breath--"I'm going--to
play--at a concert!"

"Oh!" the three exclaimed in a breath.

"And it's the oddest thing," began Kit, full of excitement. "You see,
there's to be a concert given in New York, to help raise funds to give
the newsboys, and other homeless children, a great Christmas dinner.
Mr. Kriessman has it in hand; and, because it's for boys, he wants me
to play--all alone."

"O Kit! you can't," said Hal. "When you faced the audience, it would
seem so strange, and you would lose your courage."

"No I wouldn't, either! I'd say to myself, 'Here's a dinner for a
hungry boy,' and then I wouldn't mind the people. Mr. Kriessman is sure
I can do it; and I've been practising all the evening. A real concert!
Think of it. Oh, if Joe can only be here!"

Dot put her arms round his neck, and kissed him. Hal winked his eyes
hard, remembering the old dreams in the garret.

He went to see Mr. Kriessman the next day.

"The boy is a genius, I tell you, Mr. Kenneth," said the enthusiastic
professor. "He will be a great man,--you see, you see! He has the soul,
the eyes, the touch. He fail!" and an expression of lofty scorn crossed
the fair, full face.

"But he has had so little practice"--

"It will all be right. You see, you see! Just leave him to me. And he
is so little!"

Hal smiled. Kit did not bid fair to become the family giant, it was
true.

Not a moment did the child lose. Dot declared that he could hardly eat.
Charlie was in high delight when she heard of it; for Mr. Darol was
going to take her and Miss Charteris. Hal hardly knew whether he dared
venture, or not.

But Joe did come just in the nick of time, and insisted that everybody
should go, ordering a carriage, and bundling Dot and Granny into it;
poor Granny being so confused that she could hardly make beginning or
end of it. And, when they were seated in the great hall that was as
light as day, she glanced helplessly around to Joe.

"Never you mind, Granny! I'm not a bit afraid," he whispered. "He will
fiddle with the best of them."

'The wonderful boy violinist,' it said on the programme. "If he should
not be so wonderful," thought Hal quietly, with a great fear in his
soul. He could not tell what should make him so nervous.

Mr. Darol came and spoke to them. "Isn't it odd?" he said with a laugh.
"Why, I never dreamed of it until Charlie told me! I wouldn't have
missed it for any thing."

The concert began. There was an orchestral overture, then a fine
quartet, a cornet solo, and so they went on. Hal followed the programme
down. Then he drew a long breath, and looked neither to the right nor
the left. That little chap perched up on the stage, Kit? making his
bow, and adjusting his violin, and--hark!

It was not the story of the child lost in the storm, but something
equally pathetic. Mr. Kriessman had made a fortunate selection.
Curiosity died out in the faces of the audience, and eagerness took its
place. Ah, what soft, delicious strains! Was it the violin, or the
soul of the player? Not a faltering note, not a sign of fear; and Hal
laughed softly to himself. On and on, now like the voice of a bird,
then the rustle of leaves, the tinkle of waters, fainter, fainter, a
mere echo,--a bow, and he was gone.

There was a rapturous round of applause. It nearly subsided once, then
began so vehemently that it brought Kit out again. But this time he was
the gayest little fiddler that ever played at an Irish fair. People
nodded and smiled to each other, and felt as if they must dance a jig
in another moment.

Joe bent over to Granny.

"Isn't that gay?" he asked. "Kit has beaten the lot of us. Granny, if
you are not proud of him, I'll take you straight home, and keep you on
bread and water for a month."

Proud of him! Why, Granny sat there crying her old eyes out from pure
joy. Her darling little Kit!

"Dot," exclaimed Mr. Darol as they were going out, "we shall hear of
you as an actress next. I never knew of such wonderful people in my
life."

"Oh, it was magnificent!" said Charlie. "And the applause!"

"That I should have lived to see the day!"

"Why, Granny, it would have been very unkind of you if you had not,"
declared Joe solemnly.

How they all reached home, they never exactly knew. They laughed and
cried, and it was almost morning before they thought of going to bed.

But the notices next day were as good as a feast. There could be no
doubt now. Hal understood that from henceforth Kit and his fiddle would
be inseparable. It was "born in him," as Joe said. As for Kit, he
hardly knew whether he were in the body, or out of the body.

Hal and Dot set about making up accounts the day before Christmas. The
three-months' proceeds had been two hundred and sixty dollars; pretty
fair for a beginning, and a whole green-house full of flowers coming
into bloom. He was on the high road to prosperity. So he fastened his
glasses, put on his coal, and arranged his heat cut-offs for the night,
and came into the house. There were Dot and Kit and Charlie, and the
supper waiting.

"And there is the six-months' interest," said Hal. "Next year we can
let up a little on dear, generous Joe. And to-night is Christmas Eve."

Joe rushed in.

"What do you think, Granny? I've just come from Flossy's. They have a
beautiful little boy named Hal Kenneth,--a real Christmas gift, and no
mistake. Here's to your namesake, Hal; though, try his best, he can
never be half as good as you."

I do believe poor, foolish Hal had his eyes full of tears, thinking
of Flossy's great joy. But Charlie and Kit cheered in a tremendous
fashion.

After the supper was cleared away, they sat in a little circle, and
talked. There always was so much to say, and Joe liked nothing half so
well as to hear of every event that had transpired in his absence. They
all kept such a warm interest in each other!

Somehow they strayed back to the last Christmas, and the "songs in the
night."

"Sing again," besought Granny.

Dot's birdlike voice was first to raise its clear notes. One hymn was
dearer than all the rest. The music quivered a little when they came to
this verse, as if tears and heart-throbs were not far off:--

      "Wonderful night!
    Sweet be thy rest to the weary!
    Making the dull heart and dreary
    Laugh with a dream of delight.
      Wonderful, wonderful night!"

And then a tender silence fell over them. They clasped each other's
hands softly, and the breaths had a strangled sound. Granny alive, Joe
raised from the dead, Kit some day to be a famous musician!

Joe crept up to Granny, and kissed her wrinkled face. Somehow it seemed
as if the furrows began to fill out.

"Oh," he said huskily, "there's nothing in the world so wonderful,
nor so sweet, nor so precious as 'The Old Woman who lived in a Shoe!'
When I think of her love, her patient toil, her many cares, and the
untiring devotion with which she has labored for us all, I feel that we
can never, never repay her. O Granny!"

"I've been glad to have you all, God knows. There wasn't one too many."

Not one of the loving arms that encircled her could have been spared.
There she sat enthroned, a prouder woman to-night, poor old Granny
Kenneth, than many a duchess in a blaze of diamonds. Fair Florence;
laughing Joe, with his great, warm heart; sweet, tender Hal; racketing
Charlie; Kit, with his scalp-lock waving in the breeze; and dear little
Dot,--jewels enough for any woman, surely!

Ah, children! love her with the best there is in your fresh young
souls. Make the paths smooth for her weary feet, remembering the years
she has trudged on the thorny highway of life for your sakes. When the
eyes grow dim, bring the brightest in your lives to glorify her way.
Cling to her, kiss warmth into the pale lips; for when she has gone to
heaven it will seem all too little at the best. True, she will reap her
reward there; but it is sweet to have a foretaste of it in your smiles,
as well. Dear Granny, who has made toil heroic, and old age lovely, and
out of whose simple, every-day existence have blossomed the roses that
still render this old world bright and glorious,--Love, Labor, Faith!




                          THE DOUGLAS NOVELS.

                       BY MISS AMANDA M. DOUGLAS.

                  _Uniform Volumes. Price $1.50 Each._


  FLOYD GRANDON'S HONOR.

"Fascinating throughout, and worthy of the reputation of the
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  WHOM KATHIE MARRIED.

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Kathie settled down in life. Hence this story, charmingly written.


  LOST IN A GREAT CITY.

"There is the power of delineation and robustness of expression that
would credit a masculine hand in the present volume, and the reader
will at no stage of the reading regret having commenced its perusal. In
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  THE OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A SHOE.

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interesting."--_Cambridge Tribune._


  HOPE MILLS; or, Between Friend and Sweetheart.

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  FROM HAND TO MOUTH.

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  NELLY KINNARD'S KINGDOM.

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  IN TRUST; or, Dr. Bertrand's Household.

"She writes in a free, fresh, and natural way; and her characters are
never overdrawn."--_Manchester Mirror._


  CLAUDIA.

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glory of the female sex to produce."--_Boston Journal._


  STEPHEN DANE.

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  HOME NOOK; or, the Crown of Duty.

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in forcible and attractive style."--_New-York Graphic._


  SYDNIE ADRIANCE; or, Trying the World.

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  SEVEN DAUGHTERS.

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pervades it.


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  JANET, A POOR HEIRESS.

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unappreciative father alienates her love, and nearly ruins her temper.
The mother knows the father is at fault, but does not dare to say
so. Then comes a discovery, that she is only an adopted daughter; a
forsaking of the old home; a life of strange vicissitudes; a return; a
marriage under difficulties; and a discovery, that, after all, she is
an heiress. The story is certainly a very attractive one."--_Chicago
Interior._


  THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER.

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another triumph in the new book with this title just issued. She has
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it, as much as the old folks want to read the books written for the
young ones. It is a splendid story for all ages."--_Lynn Semi-Weekly
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  THE ASBURY TWINS.

"The announcement of another work by this charming and popular writer
will be heartily welcomed by the public. And in this sensible,
fascinating story of the twin-sisters, 'Vic' and 'Van,' they have
before them a genuine treat. Vic writes her story in one chapter, and
Van in the next, and so on through the book. Van is frank, honest, and
practical; Vic wild, venturesome, and witty; and both of them natural
and winning. At home or abroad, they are true to their individuality,
and see things with their own eyes. It is a fresh, delightful volume,
well worthy of its gifted author."--_Boston Contributor._


  OUR HELEN.

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brave girl, that the young people will all like. We are pleased to meet
with some old friends in the book. It is a good companion-book for the
'Doctor's Daughter,' and the two should go together. Queer old Mrs.
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Machias; and other Quinnebasset people with familiar names occasionally
appear, along with new ones who are worth knowing. 'Our Helen' is a
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contrast between her and pretty, fascinating, selfish little Sharley,
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and pervaded by the same bright, cheery sunshine that we find in the
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her essay in a new field of literature, to which she will be warmly
welcomed by those who know and admire her 'Prudy Hooks.'"


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      *      *      *      *      *      *




Trancriber's note:

Some missing punctuation has been inserted.

The oe-ligature has been expanded to "oe."

    Page 12 The repeated word "the" has been deleted
    Page 12 honsysuckle is now honeysuckle
    Page 33 onimous is now ominous
    Page 141 retty is now pretty
    Page 156 slighest is now slightest
    Page 283 "I b-b-leive is now lieve
    Page 340 weren't me is now weren't we



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