Clemantiny knew that when Miss Salome did make up her mind and
announced it in that very quiet, very unmistakable tone, she was
mistress of the situation and intended to remain so.
"Oh, very well," she retorted. "You'll please yourself, Salome, of
course. I think it would be wiser to wait until you found out a little
more about him."
"And have him starving on people's doorsteps in the meantime?"
questioned Miss Salome severely.
"Well," returned Clemantiny with the air of one who washes her hands
of a doubtful proposition, "don't blame me if you repent of it."
By this time Chester had grasped the wonderful fact that his troubles
were ended--for a while, at least. He raised himself up on one arm and
looked gratefully at Miss Salome.
"Thank you," he said. "I'll work hard. I'm used to doing a lot."
"There, there!" said Miss Salome, patting his shoulder gently. "Lie
down and rest. Dinner will be ready soon, and I guess you'll be ready
for it."
To Clemantiny she added in a low, gentle tone, "There's a look on his
face that reminded me of Johnny. It came out so strong when he sat up
just now that it made me feel like crying. Don't you notice it,
Clemantiny?"
"Can't say that I do," replied that energetic person, who was flying
about the kitchen with a speed that made Chester's head dizzy trying
to follow her with his eyes. "All I can see is freckles and bones--but
if you're satisfied, I am. For law's sake, don't fluster me, Salome.
There's a hundred and one things to be done out of hand. This frolic
has clean dundered the whole forenoon's work."
After dinner Chester decided that it was time to make himself useful.
"Can't I go right to work now?" he asked.
"We don't begin harvest till tomorrow," said Miss Salome. "You'd
better rest this afternoon."
"Oh, I'm all right now," insisted Chester. "I feel fine. Please give
me something to do."
"You can go out and cut me some wood for my afternoon's baking," said
Clemantiny. "And see you cut it short enough. Any other boy that's
tried always gets it about two inches too long."
When he had gone out, she said scornfully to Miss Salome, "Well, what
do you expect that size to accomplish in a harvest field, Salome
Whitney?"
"Not very much, perhaps," said Miss Salome mildly. "But what could I
do? You wouldn't have me turn the child adrift on the world again,
would you, Clemantiny?"
Clemantiny did not choose to answer this appeal. She rattled her
dishes noisily into the dishpan.
"Well, where are you going to put him to sleep?" she demanded. "The
hands you've got will fill the kitchen chamber. There's only the spare
room left. You'll hardly put him there, I suppose? Your philanthropy
will hardly lead you as far as _that_."
When Clemantiny employed big words and sarcasm at the same time, the
effect was tremendous. But Miss Salome didn't wilt.
"What makes you so prejudiced against him?" she asked curiously.
"I'm _not_ prejudiced against him. But that story about himself didn't
ring true. I worked in Upton years ago, and there weren't any Bensons
there then. There's more behind that he hasn't told. I'd find out what
it was before I took him into my house, that's all. But I'm not
prejudiced."
"Well, well," said Miss Salome soothingly, "we must do the best we can
for him. It's a sort of duty. And as for a room for him--why, I'll put
him in Johnny's."
Clemantiny opened her mouth and shut it again. She understood that it
would be a waste of breath to say anything more. If Miss Salome had
made up her mind to put this freckled, determined-looking waif,
dropped on her doorstep from heaven knew where, into Johnny's room,
that was an end of the matter.
"But I'll not be surprised at anything after this," she muttered as
she carried her dishes into the pantry. "First a skinny little urchin
goes and faints on her doorstep. Then she hires him and puts him in
Johnny's room. Johnny's room! Salome Whitney, what _do_ you mean?"
Perhaps Miss Salome hardly knew what she meant. But somehow her heart
went out warmly to this boy. In spite of Clemantiny's sniffs, she held
to the opinion that he looked like Johnny. Johnny was a little nephew
of hers. She had taken him to bring up when his parents died, and she
had loved him very dearly. He had died four years ago, and since that
time the little front room over the front porch had never been
occupied. It was just as Johnny had left it. Beyond keeping it
scrupulously clean, Miss Salome never allowed it to be disturbed. And
now a somewhat ragged lad from nowhere was to be put into it! No
wonder Clemantiny shook her head when Miss Salome went up to air it.
* * * * *
Even Clemantiny had to admit that Chester was willing to work. He
split wood until she called him to stop. Then he carried in the
wood-box full, and piled it so neatly that even the grim handmaiden
was pleased. After that, she sent him to the garden to pick the early
beans. In the evening he milked three cows and did all the chores,
falling into the ways of the place with a deft adaptability that went
far to soften Clemantiny's heart.
"He's been taught to work somewheres," she admitted grudgingly, "and
he's real polite and respectful. But he looks too cute by half. And
his name isn't Benson any more than mine. When I called him 'Chester
Benson' out there in the cow-yard, he stared at me fer half a minute
'sif I'd called him Nebuchadnezzar."
When bedtime came, Miss Salome took Chester up to a room whose
whiteness and daintiness quite took away the breath of a lad who had
been used to sleeping in garrets or hired men's kitchen chambers all
his life. Later on Miss Salome came in to see if he was comfortable,
and stood, with her candle in her hand, looking down very kindly at
the thin, shrewd little face on the pillow.
"I hope you'll sleep real well here, Chester," she said. "I had a
little boy once who used to sleep here. You--you look like him. Good
night."
She bent over him and kissed his forehead. Chester had never been
kissed by anyone before, so far as he could remember. Something came
up in his throat that felt about as big as a pumpkin. At the same
moment he wished he could have told Miss Salome the whole truth about
himself. I might tell her in the morning, he thought, as he watched
her figure passing out of the little porch chamber.
But on second thought he decided that this would never do. He felt
sure she would disapprove of his running away, and would probably
insist upon his going straight back to Upton or, at least, informing
Aunt Harriet of his whereabouts. No, he could not tell her.
Clemantiny was an early riser, but when she came into the kitchen the
next morning the fire was already made and Chester was out in the yard
with three of the five cows milked.
"Humph!" said Clemantiny amiably. "New brooms sweep clean."
But she gave him cream with his porridge that morning. Generally, all
Miss Salome's hired hands got from Clemantiny was skim milk.
Miss Salome's regular hired man lived in a little house down in the
hollow. He soon turned up, and the other two men she had hired for
harvest also arrived. Martin, the man, looked Chester over
quizzically.
"What do you think you can do, sonny?"
"Anything," said Chester sturdily. "I'm used to work."
"He's right," whispered Clemantiny aside. "He's smart as a steel trap.
But just you keep an eye on him all the same, Martin."
Chester soon proved his mettle in the harvest field. In the brisk
three weeks that followed, even Clemantiny had to admit that he earned
every cent of his wages. His active feet were untiring and his wiry
arms could pitch and stock with the best. When the day's work was
ended, he brought in wood and water for Clemantiny, helped milk the
cows, gathered the eggs, and made on his own responsibility a round
of barns and outhouses to make sure that everything was snug and tight
for the night.
"Freckles-and-Bones has been well trained somewhere," said Clemantiny
again.
It was hardly fair to put the bones in now, for Chester was growing
plump and hearty. He had never been so happy in his life. Upton
drudgery and that dreadful week in Montrose seemed like a bad dream.
Here, in the golden meadows of Mount Hope Farm, he worked with a right
good will. The men liked him, and he soon became a favourite with
them. Even Clemantiny relented somewhat. To be sure, she continued
very grim, and still threw her words at him as if they were so many
missiles warranted to strike home. But Chester soon learned that
Clemantiny's bark was worse than her bite. She was really very good to
him and fed him lavishly. But she declared that this was only to put
some flesh on him.
"It offends me to see bones sticking through anybody's skin like that.
We aren't used to such objects at Mount Hope Farm, thank goodness.
Yes, you may smile, Salome. I like him well enough, and I'll admit
that he knows how to make himself useful, but I don't trust him any
more than ever I did. He's mighty close about his past life. You can't
get any more out of him than juice out of a post. I've tried, and I
know."
But it was Miss Salome who had won Chester's whole heart. He had never
loved anybody in his hard little life before. He loved her with an
almost dog-like devotion. He forgot that he was working to earn
money--and make his fortune. He worked to please Miss Salome. She was
good and kind and gentle to him, and his starved heart thawed and
expanded in the sunshine of her atmosphere. She went to the little
porch room every night to kiss him good night. Chester would have been
bitterly disappointed if she had failed to go.
She was greatly shocked to find out that he had never said his prayers
before going to bed. She insisted on teaching him the simple little
one she had used herself when a child. When Chester found that it
would please her, he said it every night. There was nothing he would
not have done for Miss Salome.
She talked a good deal to him about Johnny and she gave him the
jack-knife that Johnny had owned.
"It belonged to a good, manly little boy once," she said, "and now I
hope it belongs to another such."
"I ain't very good," said Chester repentantly, "but I'll try to be,
Miss Salome--honest, I will."
One day he heard Miss Salome speaking of someone who had run away from
home. "A wicked, ungrateful boy," she called him. Chester blushed
until his freckles were drowned out in a sea of red, and Clemantiny
saw it, of course. When did anything ever escape those merciless black
eyes of Clemantiny's?
"Do you think it's always wrong for a fellow to run away, Miss
Salome?" he faltered.
"It can't ever be right," said Miss Salome decidedly.
"But if he wasn't treated well--and was jawed at--and not let go to
school?" pleaded Chester.
Clemantiny gave Miss Salome a look as of one who would say, You're
bat-blind if you can't read between the lines of that; but Miss Salome
was placidly unconscious. She was not really thinking of the subject
at all, and did not guess that Chester meant anything more than
generalities.
"Not even then," she said firmly. "Nothing can justify a boy for
running away--especially as Jarvis Colemen did--never even left a word
behind him to say where he'd gone. His aunt thought he'd fallen into
the river."
"Don't suppose she would have grieved much if he had," said Clemantiny
sarcastically, all the while watching Chester, until he felt as if
she were boring into his very soul and reading all his past life.
When the harvest season drew to a close, dismay crept into the soul of
our hero. Where would he go now? He hated to think of leaving Mount
Hope Farm and Miss Salome. He would have been content to stay there
and work as hard as he had ever worked at Upton, merely for the roof
over his head and the food he ate. The making of a fortune seemed a
small thing compared to the privilege of being near Miss Salome.
"But I suppose I must just up and go," he muttered dolefully.
One day Miss Salome had a conference with Clemantiny. At the end of it
the latter said, "Do as you please," in the tone she might have used
to a spoiled child. "But if you'd take my advice--which you won't and
never do--you'd write to somebody in Upton and make inquiries about
him first. What he says is all very well and he sticks to it
marvellous, and there's no tripping him up. But there's something
behind, Salome Whitney--mark my words, there's something behind."
"He looks so like Johnny," said Miss Salome wistfully.
"And I suppose you think that covers a multitude of sins," said
Clemantiny contemptuously.
* * * * *
On the day when the last load of rustling golden sheaves was carried
into the big barn and stowed away in the dusty loft, Miss Salome
called Chester into the kitchen. Chester's heart sank as he obeyed the
summons.
His time was up, and now he was to be paid his wages and sent away. To
be sure, Martin had told him that morning that a man in East Hopedale
wanted a boy for a spell, and that he, Martin, would see that he got
the place if he wanted it. But that did not reconcile him to leaving
Mount Hope Farm.
Miss Salome was sitting in her favourite sunny corner of the kitchen
and Clemantiny was flying around with double briskness. The latter's
thin lips were tightly set and disapproval was writ large in every
flutter of her calico skirts.
"Chester," said Miss Salome kindly, "your time is up today."
Chester nodded. For a moment he felt as he had felt when he left the
provision store in Montrose. But he would not let Clemantiny see him
cry. Somehow, he would not have minded Miss Salome.
"What are you thinking of doing now?" Miss Salome went on.
"There's a man at East Hopedale wants a boy," said Chester, "and
Martin says he thinks I'll suit."
"That is Jonas Smallman," said Miss Salome thoughtfully. "He has the
name of being a hard master. It isn't right of me to say so, perhaps.
I really don't know much about him. But wouldn't you rather stay here
with me for the winter, Chester?"
"Ma'am? Miss Salome?" stammered Chester. He heard Clemantiny give a
snort behind him and mutter, "Clean infatuated--clean infatuated,"
without in the least knowing what she meant.
"We really need a chore boy all the year round," said Miss Salome.
"Martin has all he can do with the heavy work. And there are the
apples to be picked. If you care to stay, you shall have your board
and clothes for doing the odd jobs, and you can go to school all
winter. In the spring we will see what need be done then."
If he would care to stay! Chester could have laughed aloud. His eyes
were shining with joy as he replied, "Oh, Miss Salome, I'll be so glad
to stay! I--I--didn't want to go away. I'll try to do everything you
want me to do. I'll work ever so hard."
"Humph!"
This, of course, was from Clemantiny, as she set a pan of apples on
the stove with an emphatic thud. "Nobody ever doubted your willingness
to work. Pity everything else about you isn't as satisfactory."
"Clemantiny!" said Miss Salome rebukingly. She put her arms about
Chester and drew him to her. "Then it is all settled, Chester. You are
my boy now, and of course I shall expect you to be a good boy."
If ever a boy was determined to be good, that boy was Chester. That
day was the beginning of a new life for him. He began to go to the
Hopedale school the next week. Miss Salome gave him all Johnny's old
school books and took an eager interest in his studies.
Chester ought to have been very happy, and at first he was; but as the
bright, mellow days of autumn passed by, a shadow came over his
happiness. He could not help thinking that he had really deceived Miss
Salome, and was deceiving her still--Miss Salome, who had such
confidence in him. He was not what he pretended to be. And as for his
running away, he felt sure that Miss Salome would view that with
horror. As the time passed by and he learned more and more what a high
standard of honour and truth she had, he felt more and more ashamed of
himself. When she looked at him with her clear, trustful, blue eyes,
Chester felt as guilty as if he had systematically deceived her with
intent to do harm. He began to wish that he had the courage to tell
her the whole truth about himself.
Moreover, he began to think that perhaps he had not done right, after
all, in running away from Aunt Harriet. In Miss Salome's code nothing
could be right that was underhanded, and Chester was very swiftly
coming to look at things through Miss Salome's eyes. He felt sure that
Johnny would never have acted as he had, and if Chester now had one
dear ambition on earth, it was to be as good and manly a fellow as
Johnny must have been. But he could never be that as long as he kept
the truth about himself from Miss Salome.
"That boy has got something on his mind," said the terrible
Clemantiny, who, Chester felt convinced, could see through a stone
wall.
"Nonsense! What could he have on his mind?" said Miss Salome. But she
said it a little anxiously. She, too, had noticed Chester's absent
ways and abstracted face.
"Goodness me, I don't know! I don't suppose he has robbed a bank or
murdered anybody. But he is worrying over something, as plain as
plain."
"He is getting on very well at school," said Miss Salome. "His teacher
says so, and he is very eager to learn. I don't know what can be
troubling him."
She was fated not to know for a fortnight longer. During that time
Chester fought out his struggle with himself, and conquered. He must
tell Miss Salome, he decided, with a long sigh. He knew that it would
mean going back to Upton and Aunt Harriet and the old, hard life, but
he would not sail under false colours any longer.
* * * * *
Chester went into the kitchen one afternoon when he came home from
school, with his lips set and his jaws even squarer than usual. Miss
Salome was making some of her famous taffy, and Clemantiny was
spinning yarn on the big wheel.
"Miss Salome," said Chester desperately, "if you're not too busy,
there is something I'd like to tell you."
"What is it?" asked Miss Salome good-humouredly, turning to him with
her spoon poised in midair over her granite saucepan.
"It's about myself. I--I--oh, Miss Salome, I didn't tell you the
truth about myself. I've got to tell it now. My name isn't
Benson--exactly--and I ran away from home."
"Dear me!" said Miss Salome mildly. She dropped her spoon, handle and
all, into the taffy and never noticed it. "Dear me, Chester!"
"I knew it," said Clemantiny triumphantly. "I knew it--and I always
said it. Run away, did you?"
"Yes'm. My name is Chester Benson Stephens, and I lived at Upton with
Aunt Harriet Elwell. But she ain't any relation to me, really. She's
only father's stepsister. She--she--wasn't kind to me and she wouldn't
let me go to school--so I ran away."
"But, dear me, Chester, didn't you know that was very wrong?" said
Miss Salome in bewilderment.
"No'm--I didn't know it then. I've been thinking lately that maybe it
was. I'm--I'm real sorry."
"What did you say your real name was?" demanded Clemantiny.
"Stephens, ma'am."
"And your mother's name before she was married?"
"Mary Morrow," said Chester, wondering what upon earth Clemantiny
meant.
Clemantiny turned to Miss Salome with an air of surrendering a dearly
cherished opinion.
"Well, ma'am, I guess you must be right about his looking like Johnny.
I must say I never could see the resemblance, but it may well be
there, for he--that very fellow there--and Johnny are first cousins.
Their mothers were sisters!"
"Clemantiny!" exclaimed Miss Salome.
"You may well say 'Clemantiny.' Such a coincidence! It doesn't make
you and him any relation, of course--the cousinship is on the mother's
side. But it's there. Mary Morrow was born and brought up in Hopedale.
She went to Upton when I did, and married Oliver Stephens there. Why,
I knew his father as well as I know you."
"This is wonderful," said Miss Salome. Then she added sorrowfully,
"But it doesn't make your running away right, Chester."
"Tell us all about it," demanded Clemantiny, sitting down on the
wood-box. "Sit down, boy, sit down--don't stand there looking as if
you were on trial for your life. Tell us all about it."
Thus adjured, Chester sat down and told them all about it--his
moonlight flitting and his adventures in Montrose. Miss Salome
exclaimed with horror over the fact of his sleeping in a pile of
lumber for seven nights, but Clemantiny listened in silence, never
taking her eyes from the boy's pale face. When Chester finished, she
nodded.
"We've got it all now. There's nothing more behind, Salome. It would
have been better for you to have told as straight a story at first,
young man."
Chester knew that, but, having no reply to make, made none. Miss
Salome looked at him wistfully.
"But, with it all, you didn't do right to run away, Chester," she said
firmly. "I dare say your aunt was severe with you--but two wrongs
never make a right, you know."
"No'm," said Chester.
"You must go back to your aunt," continued Miss Salome sadly.
Chester nodded. He knew this, but he could not trust himself to speak.
Then did Clemantiny arise in her righteous indignation.
"Well, I never heard of such nonsense, Salome Whitney! What on earth
do you want to send him back for? I knew Harriet Elwell years ago, and
if she's still what she was then, it ain't much wonder Chester ran
away from her. I'd say 'run,' too. Go back, indeed! You keep him right
here, as you should, and let Harriet Elwell look somewhere else for
somebody to scold!"
"Clemantiny!" expostulated Miss Salome.
"Oh, I must and will speak my mind, Salome. There's no one else to
take Chester's part, it seems. You have as much claim on him as
Harriet Elwell has. She ain't any real relation to him any more than
you are."
Miss Salome looked troubled. Perhaps there was something in
Clemantiny's argument. And she hated to think of seeing Chester go. He
looked more like Johnny than ever, as he stood there with his flushed
face and wistful eyes.
"Chester," she said gravely, "I leave it to you to decide. If you
think you ought to go back to your aunt, well and good. If not, you
shall stay here."
This was the hardest yet. Chester wished she had not left the decision
to him. It was like cutting off his own hand. But he spoke up
manfully.
"I--I think I ought to go back, Miss Salome, and I want to pay back
the money, too."
"I think so, too, Chester, although I'm sorry as sorry can be. I'll go
back to Upton with you. We'll start tomorrow. If, when we get there,
your aunt is willing to let you stay with me, you can come back."
"There's a big chance of that!" said Clemantiny sourly. "A woman's
likely to give up a boy like Chester--a good, steady worker and as
respectful and obliging as there is between this and sunset--very
likely, isn't she! Well, this taffy is all burnt to the saucepan and
clean ruined--but what's the odds! All I hope, Salome Whitney, is that
the next time you adopt a boy and let him twine himself 'round a
person's heart, you'll make sure first that you are going to stick to
it. I don't like having my affections torn up by the roots."
Clemantiny seized the saucepan and disappeared with it into the pantry
amid a whirl of pungent smoke.
Mount Hope Farm was a strangely dismal place that night. Miss Salome
sighed heavily and often as she made her preparations for the morrow's
journey.
Clemantiny stalked about with her grim face grimmer than ever. As for
Chester, when he went to bed that night in the little porch chamber,
he cried heartily into his pillows. He didn't care for pride any
longer; he just cried and didn't even pretend he wasn't crying when
Miss Salome came in to sit by him a little while and talk to him. That
talk comforted Chester. He realized that, come what might, he would
always have a good friend in Miss Salome--aye, and in Clemantiny, too.
Chester never knew it, but after he had fallen asleep, with the tears
still glistening on his brown cheeks, Clemantiny tiptoed silently in
with a candle in her hand and bent over him with an expression of
almost maternal tenderness on her face. It was late and an aroma of
boiling sugar hung about her. She had sat up long after Miss Salome
was abed, to boil another saucepan of taffy for Chester to eat on his
journey.
"Poor, dear child!" she said, softly touching one of his crisp curls.
"It's a shame in Salome to insist on his going back. She doesn't know
what she's sending him to, or she wouldn't. He didn't say much against
his aunt, and Salome thinks she was only just a little bit cranky. But
_I_ could guess."
Early in the morning Miss Salome and Chester started. They were to
drive to Montrose, leave their team there and take the boat for
Belltown. Chester bade farewell to the porch chamber and the long,
white kitchen and the friendly barns with a full heart. When he
climbed into the wagon, Clemantiny put a big bagful of taffy into his
hands.
"Good-by, Chester," she said. "And remember, you've always got a
friend in me, anyhow."
Then Clemantiny went back into the kitchen and cried--good,
rough-spoken, tender-hearted Clemantiny sat down and cried.
It was an ideal day for travelling--crisp, clear and sunny--but
neither Chester nor Miss Salome was in a mood for enjoyment.
Back over Chester's runaway route they went, and reached Belltown on
the boat that evening.
They stayed in Belltown overnight and in the morning took the train to
Roxbury Station. Here Miss Salome hired a team from the storekeeper
and drove out to Upton.
Chester felt his heart sink as they drove into the Elwell yard. How
well he knew it!
Miss Salome tied her hired nag to the gatepost and took Chester by the
hand. They went to the door and knocked. It was opened with a jerk and
Mrs. Elwell stood before them. She had probably seen them from the
window, for she uttered no word of surprise at seeing Chester again.
Indeed, she said nothing at all, but only stood rigidly before them.
Dear me, what a disagreeable-looking woman! thought Miss Salome. But
she said courteously, "Are you Mrs. Elwell?"
"I am," said that lady forbiddingly.
"I've brought your nephew home," continued Miss Salome, laying her
hand encouragingly on Chester's shrinking shoulder. "I have had him
hired for some time on my farm at Hopedale, but I didn't know until
yesterday that he had run away from you. When he told me about it, I
thought he ought to come straight back and return your four dollars,
and so did he. So I have brought him."
"You might have saved yourself the trouble then!" cried Mrs. Elwell
shrilly. Her black eyes flashed with anger. "I'm done with him and
don't want the money. Run away when there was work to do, and thinks
he can come back now that it's all done and loaf all winter, does he?
He shall never enter my house again."
"That he shall not!" cried Miss Salome, at last finding her tongue.
Her gentle nature was grievously stirred by the heartlessness shown in
the face and voice of Mrs. Elwell. "That he shall not!" she cried
again. "But he shall not want for a home as long as I have one to give
him. Come, Chester, we'll go home."
"I wish you well of him," Mrs. Elwell said sarcastically.
Miss Salome already repented her angry retort. She was afraid she had
been undignified, but she wished for a moment that Clemantiny was
there. Wicked as she feared it was, Miss Salome thought she could have
enjoyed a tilt between her ancient handmaid and Mrs. Elwell.
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Elwell, if I have used any intemperate
expressions," she said with great dignity. "You provoked me more than
was becoming by your remarks. I wish you good morning."
Mrs. Elwell slammed the door shut.
With her cheeks even more than usually rosy, Miss Salome led Chester
down to the gate, untied her horse and drove out of the yard. Not
until they reached the main road did she trust herself to speak to the
dazed lad beside her.
"What a disagreeable women!" she ejaculated at last. "I don't wonder
you ran away, Chester--I don't, indeed! Though, mind you, I don't
think it was right, for all that. But I'm gladder than words can say
that she wouldn't take you back. You are mine now, and you will stay
mine. I want you to call me Aunt Salome after this. Get up, horse! If
we can catch that train at Roxbury, we'll be home by night yet."
Chester was too happy to speak. He had never felt so glad and grateful
in his life before.
They got home that night just as the sun was setting redly behind the
great maples on the western hill. As they drove into the yard,
Clemantiny's face appeared, gazing at them over the high board fence
of the cow-yard. Chester waved his hand at her gleefully.
"Lawful heart!" said Clemantiny. She set down her pail and came out to
the lane on a run. She caught Chester as he sprang from the wagon and
gave him a hearty hug.
"I'm glad clean down to my boot soles to see you back again," she
said.
"He's back for good," said Miss Salome. "Chester, you'd better go in
and study up your lessons for tomorrow."