Tom was eighteen, and was spending the long summer days behind the
village-store counter--Tom hoped to go to college in the fall.
Carrie was fifteen; the long days found her oftenest down by the brook,
reading--Carrie was a bit romantic, and the book was usually poetry.
Robert and Rosamond, the twins--known to all their world as "Rob" and
"Rose"--were eight; existence for them meant play, food, and sleep. To
be sure, there were books and school; but those were in the remote past
or dim future together with winter, mittens, and fires. It was summer,
now--summer, and the two filled the hours with rollicking games and
gleeful shouts--and incidentally their mother's workbasket with
numerous torn pinafores and trousers.
Behind everything, above everything, and beneath everything, with
all-powerful hands and an all-wise brain, was mother. There was
father, of course; but father could not cook the meals, sweep the
rooms, sew on buttons, find lost pencils, bathe bumped foreheads, and
do countless other things. So thought Tom, Carrie, and the twins that
dreadful morning when father came dolefully downstairs and said that
mother was sick.
_Mother sick_! Tom stared blankly at the sugar bowl, Carrie fell
limply into the nearest chair, and the twins began to cry softly.
The next thirty-six hours were never forgotten by the Dudleys. The
cool nook in the woods was deserted, and Carrie spent a hot,
discouraged morning in the kitchen--sole mistress where before she had
been an all too seldom helper. At noon Mr. Dudley and Tom came home to
partake of underdone potatoes and overdone meat. The twins, repressed
and admonished into a state of hysterical nervousness, repaired
directly after dinner to the attic. Half an hour later a prolonged
wail told that Rob had cut his finger severely with an old knife; and
it was during the attendant excitement that Rose managed to fall the
entire length of the attic stairs. At night, after a supper of soggy
rolls and burnt omelet, Mr. Dudley sent an appealing telegram to
"Cousin Helen"; and the next afternoon, at five, she came.
Miss Helen Mortimer was pretty, sweet-tempered, and twenty-five. The
entire family fell captive to her first smile. There was a world of
comfort and relief in her very presence, and in the way she said
cheerily:
"We shall do very well, I am sure. Carrie can attend to her mother,
and I will take the helm downstairs."
The doctor said that rest and quiet was what Mrs. Dudley most needed,
so Carrie's task would be comparatively light; and with a stout woman
to come twice a week for the heavy work downstairs, the household gave
promise of being once more on a livable basis.
It was at breakfast the next morning that the first cloud appeared on
Miss Mortimer's horizon. It came in the shape of the crisply fried
potatoes she was serving. The four children were eating late after
their father had left.
"Oh, Cousin Helen," began Tom, in an annoyed manner, "I forgot to tell
you; I don't like fried potatoes. I have baked ones."
"Baked ones?"
"Yes; mother always baked them for me."'
"Oh, that's too bad; you can't eat them, then,--they hurt you!"
Tom laughed.
"Hurt me? Not a bit of it! I don't like them, that's all. Never
mind; you can do it to-morrow."
When "to-morrow" came Miss Mortimer had not forgotten. The big round
dish was heaped with potatoes baked to a turn.
"Thank you, I'll take the fried," said Carrie, as the dish was passed
to her.
"The f-fried?" stammered Miss Mortimer.
"Yes; I prefer those."
"But there _are_ no fried. I baked them."
"Well, how funny!" laughed Carrie. "I thought we had it all fixed
yesterday. I thought we were to have both fried and baked. Mother
always did, you know. You see, we don't like them the same way. Never
mind," she added with a beaming smile, quite misunderstanding the look
on her cousin's face, "it does n't matter a bit and you must n't feel
so bad. It 'll be all right to-morrow, I'm sure."
"Yes, and I want buckwheat cakes, please," piped up Rob.
"All right, you shall have them," agreed Cousin Helen with a smile.
Tom laughed.
"Maybe you don't quite know what you 're getting into, Cousin Helen,"
he suggested. "If you make buckwheat cakes for Rob--it means graham
muffins for Rose."
"And she shall have them; the very next morning, too."
"Oh, no, that will never do. She demands them the same day."
"What!"
"Oh, I thought you didn't understand," chuckled Tom. "When you make
one, you have to make both. Mother always did--she had to; 't was the
only way she could suit both the twins, and I don't believe you 'll
find any other way out of it. As for us--we don't mind; we eat them
all!"
"Oh!" said Cousin Helen faintly.
"And another thing," resumed Tom, "we might as well settle the drink
question right away--of course you 'll want to know. Father is the
only one who drinks cereal coffee. We (Carrie and I) like the real
thing, every time; and the twins have cocoa--weak, of course, so there
's not much to it."
"And you must n't sweeten mine while you 're cooking it," interposed
Rose decidedly.
"Sure enough--lucky you thought of that," laughed Tom, "or else poor
Cousin Helen would have had another mistake to fret over. You see," he
explained pleasantly, "Rose insists on putting in _all_ the sugar
herself, so hers has to be made unsweetened; but Rob is n't so
particular and prefers his made in the regular way--sweetened while
cooking, you know."
"Oh, I make two kinds of cocoa, do I?" asked Cousin Helen.
"Yes--er--that is, in two ways."
"Hm-m; and coffee and the cereal drink, making four in all?" continued
Cousin Helen, with ominous sweetness.
Tom stirred uneasily and threw a sharp glance into his cousin's face.
"Well--er--it does seem a good many; but--well, mother did, you know,
and we might as well have what we want, as something different, I
suppose," he finished, with vague uneasiness.
"Oh, certainly, who would mind a small thing like that!" laughed Miss
Mortimer, a queer little gleam in her eyes.
This was but the beginning. On the pantry-shelf were four kinds of
cereals. Carrie explained that all were served each morning, for the
family could n't agree on any particular one. As for eggs; Tom always
had to have his dropped on a slice of toast; the twins liked theirs
scrambled; but Carrie herself preferred hers boiled in the shell.
Apple-pie must always be in the house for Tom, though it so happened,
strangely enough, Carrie said, that no one else cared for it at all.
"Mother was always making apple-pie," laughed Carrie apologetically.
"You see, they get stale so quickly, and Tom is the only one to eat
them, they have to be made pretty often--one at a time, of course."
Bread, rolls, pastry, meat, vegetables--each had its own particular
story, backed always by that ever-silencing "mother did," until Miss
Mortimer was almost in despair. Sometimes she made a feeble protest,
but the children were so good-natured, so entirely unaware that they
were asking anything out of the ordinary, and so amazed at any proposed
deviation from the established rules, that her protests fell powerless
at their feet.
"Mother did"--"mother did"--"mother did," Miss Mortimer would murmur
wearily to herself each day, until she came to think of the tired
little woman upstairs as "Mother Did" instead of "Aunt Maria." "No
wonder 'Mother Did' fell ill," she thought bitterly. "Who wouldn't!"
The weeks passed, as weeks will--even the dreariest of them--and the
day came for Cousin Helen to go home, Mrs. Dudley being now quite her
old self. Loud were the regrets at her departure, and overwhelming
were the thanks and blessings showered in loving profusion; but it was
two weeks later, when Tom, Carrie, and the twins each sent her a
birthday present, that an idea came to Miss Mortimer. She determined
at once to carry it out, even though the process might cause her some
heartache.
Thus it came about that Tom, Carrie, Rob, and Rose, each received a
letter (together with the gift each had sent) almost by return mail.
Tom's ran:
_My dear Cousin_: Thank you very much for the novel you sent me, but I
am going to ask you to change it for a book of travels. I like that
kind better, and mother and all my friends give me travels whenever
they want to please me. I might as well have something I want as
something different, I suppose, so I am asking you to change.
Very lovingly
YOUR COUSIN HELEN
Carrie read this:
_My dear Carrie_: Thank you for the pretty little turnover collar and
cuffs you sent me for my birthday; but I think it is so funny you never
noticed that I don't care for pink. Mother found it out even when I
was but little more than a baby. Oh, I can wear it, but I don't care
for it. Don't feel badly, however, my dear Carrie; all you've got to
do is just to take these back and make me some blue ones, and I know
you won't mind doing that.
Lovingly
COUSIN HELEN
Rob's letter ran:
_My dear Rob_: I am writing to thank you for the box of chocolates you
sent yesterday. I am sending them back to you, though, because I
seldom eat chocolates. Oh, no, they don't hurt me, but I don't like
them as well as I do caramels, so won't you please change them? Mother
gives me a box of candy every Christmas, but it is never chocolates. I
know you would rather give me what I like, Rob, dear.
Lots of love
COUSIN HELEN
Rose had striven early and late over a crocheted tidy, spending long
hours of her playtime in doing work to which her fingers were but
little accustomed. She confidently expected a loving letter of thanks
and praise, and could scarcely wait to open the envelope. This is what
she read:
_My dear Rose_: Thank you very much for the tidy, dear, but whatever in
the world caused you to make it in that stitch? I like shell-stitch
ever so much better, so would you mind doing it over for me? I am
returning this one, for maybe you will decide to ravel it out; if you
don't, you can just make me a new one. Mother has crocheted several
things for me, but most of them are in shell-stitch, which, after all,
is about the only stitch I care for.
Lots of love from
YOUR COUSIN HELEN
After a dazed five minutes of letter-reading, the four children hurried
to the attic--always their refuge for a conference. There they read
the four letters aloud, one after another. A dumfounded silence
followed the last word. Rose was the first to break it.
"I think she's a mean old thing--so there!" Rose was almost crying.
"Hush, dear, hush!" choked Carrie. "She isn't mean; she's good and
kind--we know she is. She--she means something by it; she must. Let's
read them again!"
Bit by bit they went over the letters. It was at the third mention of
"mother" that Tom raised his head with a jerk. He looked sheepishly
into Carrie's face.
"I--I guess I know," he said with a shame-faced laugh.
It must have been a month later that Miss Mortimer received a letter
from Mrs. Dudley. One paragraph sent a quick wave of color to the
reader's face; and this was the paragraph:
I am feeling better than for a long time. Some way, the work does n't
seem nearly so hard as it used to. Perhaps it is because I am
stronger, or perhaps it is because the children are not nearly so
particular about their food as they used to be. I am so glad, for it
worried me sometimes--they were so very fussy. I wondered how they
would get along out in the world where "mother" could n't fix
everything to their liking. Perhaps you noticed it when you were here.
At any rate, they are lots better now. Perhaps they have out-grown it.
I hope so, I'm sure.