A STRANGER.
"He lived at peace with all mankind,
In friendship he was true;
His coat had pocket holes behind,
His pantaloons were blue."
--A. G. Greene.
"Zoe, come in out of the hot sun, child; do you hear? Sitting out there
in the full glare, bless my soul, without even a hat on your head."
Miss Adeline Litchfield, the monitress of the Litchfield establishment,
stands in the pretty front porch, overhung with fragrant blossoming
honeysuckle and sweet climbing roses. She looks with wrathful eyes upon
her niece, curled up on a chair on the veranda, her book on the top
railing, with her elbows beside it, her head buried in her two hands.
Zoe was lost to the objects around and the world in general. She was far
off, taking a far deeper interest in the pleasures and trials of her
friends in the book spread out before her, than in the everyday
employments or household duties in which "auntie" wished her to excel.
"Zoe! do you hear me? Come in directly."
"Let me alone, Auntie; I am all right. I just have two chapters more,
and then I'll come."
Miss Litchfield retires discomfitted, but not conquered. After a few
moments she again appears, bearing a large white sun hat, daintily
trimmed with muslin, and a small oval basket. Going over to the guilty
party, she quietly shuts the book up and puts it under her arm.
"Zoe, put on your hat; I want you to go an errand for me, down to Mrs.
Haley's. Tell her I was so well pleased with the rolls of fresh butter
she sent, that I will take two more."
Zoe's eyes blazed; it was on the tip of her quick tongue to say, "I
won't;" but an inward sense of politeness forbade her to do so; for
though "Auntie" had a sharp tongue and a strong sense of right, which
made her at times hard to get on with, still for all that her two
nieces, to whom she had been mother, counsellor and friend since their
own mother left them, were wrapped up in quick-tempered but kind meaning
aunt Adeline.
People were not sure if Mrs. Litchfield was dead or not. Rumors had been
afloat that she had left her husband. No one dared question either Mr.
Litchfield nor his sister; every one knew it to be an understood fact
that the family desired the public to consider her dead. "Auntie" had
always been all-in-all to her brother and his children.
Now Auntie hurries in to the kitchen, to see that the beautiful brown
loaves of bread, baking in the oven, are not burning. Zoe departs on her
mission; she walks down the road slowly; it is awfully warm. Goodness!
she never felt the heat so intense, with such a trot way down ever so
far. Ah! here is a brilliant chance for saving herself the weary walk to
Mrs. Haley's. Coming down behind is a cart filled with hay, and sitting
on top are three little boys in white pinafores, chattering to the old
man who holds the reins, and every little while flicks a fly off the
horses' backs with the whip he idly dangles.
"Have a ride?" comes in chorus from the load of hay. Without a second
invitation, throwing the basket up ahead, Zoe climbs nimbly up; with the
able assistance of the three small pinafored gentlemen, she is pulled
triumphantly aloft. The heat is great, but it has no visible effect on
the three younger members of the party. After tumbling about at the
imminent peril of being minutely precipitated over the side, they
propose to bury Zoe alive. This takes some time to accomplish to every
one's satisfaction, so long, in fact, that presently Mrs. Haley's white
mite of a cottage appears in view. Zoe suggests that perhaps she had
better alight before she gets quite to the door. So the horses are
stopped by a tremendous "whoa!" and Zoe proceeds to descend as
gracefully as it is possible to do so. She is going down famously,
thinking how more than fortunate it is that she got this ride on such a
melting day. She happens to glance up the road; oh, horrors! coming
leisurely down, with his hands thrust carelessly in the pockets of a
little dark blue shooting coat, and a cigar between his lips, is a
man--a young man too--and, yes, he is looking at her. She misses her
balance, her foot slips, and, throwing her arms wildly upward, arrives
in the arms of mother earth, in any but a dignified descent.
The "horrid brute" came quickly to see if he could assist the young lady
to arise; he takes her arm, and Zoe stands up, her face as red as the
scarlet passion flower tucked in her belt.
"You are very kind," she stammers. "I should not have got up there; it
was very unfortunate."
The gentleman, finding she is unharmed, lifts his hat and proceeds on
his way.
Zoe hurries into Mrs. Haley's. Oh how silly she feels; oh heart! what
would auntie say if she knew the disgrace which had fallen upon her
niece? She wondered, with a sickening at her heart, if he had seen her
feet. Oh, dear! if he had would it not be dreadful? She looked at her
pretty slippered feet inquiringly. Of course they were nothing to be
ashamed of, but oh dear! And now come to think of it, "Auntie" had
strictly forbidden her riding on top of hay carts, ever since she had
read in the papers how some one had fell and broke their arm. Oh, she
hoped and prayed Auntie would never find out this wretched morning's
work.
Zoe did her errand, and returned home, taking special care to "walk."
And the "horrid man," sitting on the veranda, talking so comfortably
with aunt Adeline, on being presented to "my youngest niece," bows, and
seems as unconscious of ever having laid eyes on the youngest Miss
Litchfield before, or knew what a pretty sight a young lady could make
of herself, coming to the ground in a diagonal line from half way down a
cart of hay. Yes, coming quickly around the corner, and running right up
the steps, she was astonished at finding this stranger conversing with
her aunt. Miss Litchfield rocked to and fro in the little wicker chair,
and Zoe, as she stands there holding the little basket with the rolls of
fragrant, sweet butter, covered with cool green leaves, concludes in her
own mind, this young man must be something of a favourite, or auntie
would not be so willing to be interrupted in her morning's work.
"Zoe, how hot you are, child; your face is perfectly scarlet. What is
the matter with your skirt, child? a great rent in one side, a frill
torn beyond all mending, and the dress a brand new muslin, just made
last week. Where have you been, or what have you been about, to,
literally speaking, come home in such a ragamuffin fashion?"
Zoe looks at her dress in dismay. Not for one instant had she remembered
to notice if her tumble had proved destructive to the pretty new suit
she had felt so proud of. Auntie was waiting for an answer to her
question. The young gentleman was busy looking at the fuschia climbing
up the pillar near which he sat. Perhaps he turned to look at the
flower, perhaps it was to hide the smile of amusement which would curl
the corners of his handsome mouth.
"Put your hair off your forehead, do, child. The person who invented the
fashion of wearing one's hair all over their eyes should have been
banished from all civilized lands. The only thing that will keep your
father out of Heaven, Zoe Litchfield, is your persistent act of wearing
bangs, for it is the only fault in you that makes him angry."
Just then the visitor turns around and deliberately surveys the pretty
culprit.
"Nothing wrong in keeping along with the times, Miss Litchfield," he
says pleasantly; and Zoe casts him a grateful glance from the pretty
blue eyes, whose color no one can tell the exact shade. Any one who will
defend her pet bang is Zoe's friend.
"I will tell you some other time how this wretched dress got torn.
Surely you will trust me enough to know I will tell you the truth, and
the exact truth about it." And Zoe turns to walk into the house, her
head thrown proudly up, with the torn frill of her white gown trailing
after her.