a little two-story cabin with a loft. What on earth possesses you to
want to go there? Hear the child cough, Ben. Sounds to me like the
whooping-cough; mighty like it. I shouldn't be surprised if the child
had it. She oughtn't to be running wild around the country in this way."
"Oh, do you think I really have it? I am so glad," Eleanor exclaimed in
a satisfied tone.
Mr. Snyder laughed. "Funny thing to be glad about."
"Why, you see, they have all got it at my aunt's in the city and that
is why I couldn't go there when mamma went away, and now maybe I can."
"But what put it into your head to come so far from home to-day?" Mrs.
Snyder asked.
Eleanor hung her head. "Because--because, Don hung my doll, and I can't
bear him, and they don't believe anything I say, and nobody loves me,
and I was so lonely I just couldn't stand it."
Mrs. Snyder looked at her husband and then gathered Eleanor into her
motherly arms. "Poor little thing! Homesick in her own home; mother
sick, I reckon. Let us keep her here a bit, Ben. You told me a month
ago that Mrs. Dallas had gone off to them Hot Springs and left the
child with kinfolks. I remember, because you said you'd never had
no complaint of your butter and eggs from that house in all these
years, and you reckoned Mrs. Murdoch was kind of fussy. Ain't her name
Murdoch?"
"Yes, that's it; Murdoch. She did say the butter was too salt and
couldn't I bring her bigger eggs; these was too small; and I told her
I'd call the hen's attention to it, and tell them they must keep their
tape-measures in their pockets. She didn't half like that. Fact is, she
told me she'd get some one else to serve her."
"And that house has been supplied by you ever since Mrs. Dallas went
there a bride. Well, child, I guess your mother didn't know who she was
leaving you with. I reckon you haven't been very well looked after.
Here, set right up here and eat some dinner. She looks kind of blue
around the mouth, Ben. I don't think she'd ought to go back to-day, in
this cold wind."
"Then, I'll send word to Mrs. Murdoch by Lem. He can go some time
before night; I'd as lief let her worry for a while. He can go 'round
by Johnson's and see if the little darky is there. Very likely she's
all snug with them. Some one else probably gave her a lift. I remember,
now, I didn't go to town on Wednesday week. I went to that sale over
by the crossroads, and I got Nat Gilam to go for me. No doubt she went
with him to Johnson's. Don't you worry about her, honey. What you got
bilin' in that pot, mother?"
"Suet puddin'. Seemed like the day for it. I'd as lief let her fuss for
a while, that Mrs. Murdoch, I mean. Butter too salt, indeed."
"Give the child somethin' to eat, mother; she ain't scarcely touched
anything."
"She's half sick," said Mrs. Snyder, regarding the child with kind
eyes. "Don't you pester her, Mr. Snyder. I'll look after her. I've lost
six," she said to Eleanor, "and it's mighty lonely sometimes. I'm glad
enough to see a little child, once in a while."
"There, mother, there; don't let's talk about it now," said Mr. Snyder;
"you'll be losin' your appetite next. I'm savin' a place for that suet
puddin' myself."
Eleanor watched with wonder the huge amount of food which Mr. Snyder
consumed, but she hardly tasted any herself, and after the good man
had left the kitchen and Mrs. Snyder had washed the dishes and put
them away, she took the child on her lap and rocked her in an old
splint-bottomed chair which had a cozy squeak to it, so that, feeling
very content, Eleanor fell asleep to the accompaniment of creaking
chair and singing teakettle.
She did not awaken till the short winter day had ended. Once she
stirred and was dimly conscious of being placed in a more comfortable
position, and felt herself warmly covered up and a soft kiss imprinted
upon her cheek; then she dropped into a sound sleep, to dream that her
mother was near her; that it was soft spring weather and the birds were
singing in the apple-tree by the kitchen door.
It was when Mr. Snyder came noisily into the kitchen that she sat up
and rubbed her eyes, wondering where she was. "There, now, Ben, you've
waked the child, and she was sleeping so sweetly. I think she's got a
little fever." Mrs. Snyder bent over her, looking much concerned. "How
do you feel, my dear? Are you rested?"
"Oh, yes." Eleanor threw off the shawl which had covered her, and arose
to her feet. "I feel very much rested, thank you, Mrs. Snyder."
"Bless her dear heart!" exclaimed Mrs. Snyder, hugging her up close to
her.
Eleanor gave a sigh of satisfaction. "It was so nice to have you rock
me to sleep," she said. "It made me feel as if I had mamma again."
"I went over to see about your little Bubbles," said Mr. Snyder, "but
nobody's seen her. Sylvy showed every tooth in her head when she saw
me, and I told her you were here with us. I could scarcely keep her
from coming right over, but I told her you were too tired and were
taking a nap. How far did you trot behind my wagon? All the way out
from town to Murphy's, mother. That's where I met up with her. Sylvy
says she will be here to-morrow, and I've sent word to your cousin that
you are safe and sound, but that you've got the whooping-cough. That'll
finish the business, I think, mother. Those precious children of hers
are all made of gold studded with diamonds, and if there's any way to
prevent your coming near them she'll agree to it." He nodded knowingly
at Eleanor.
Two red spots were burning on the child's cheeks; her eyes were very
bright, and her hands hot, so that Mrs. Snyder declared that she must
go to bed early, and after supper, for which Eleanor had but little
appetite, she was dosed with an herby draught and snugly placed between
warm sheets in a clean little room where a wood stove roared and sent
out a pleasant heat. "I shall be right in here," Mrs. Snyder said, "so
don't you be scared. If your cough is bad in the night, I'll come in
and give you something for it." She stooped to give a good-night kiss,
and Eleanor reached out her arms from under the covers and clasped the
good woman's neck.
"I do love you," she said. "Nobody has kissed me good-night since
mamma went away. Where do you suppose poor little Bubbles is? Oh, Mrs.
Snyder, I am so distressed about her. I'm afraid she might be the one
that Zula, the gipsy girl, told me about. Why didn't I ask more about
her? I never thought it might be Bubbles. I thought of course that she
was safe with Sylvy."
"There, dear, there, Mr. Snyder'll see about it the first thing in the
morning," said Mrs. Snyder.
But Eleanor kept repeating: "What has become of her? Poor little
Bubbles!" She sobbed piteously, and for all Mrs. Snyder comforted her
as best she could, it was a long time before she could go to sleep, and
when she did her pillow was wet with tears.
Meantime, quite a stir was caused by Eleanor's long absence. Olive and
Jessie returned home from school with the news that Eleanor had not
been seen since eleven o'clock, when she was met by some of the girls
on her way to Mrs. Wills'. Miss Reese had questioned the old woman who
remembered that the little Dallas girl had been there. Yes, she had
been there, and she had not stopped long; but Mrs. Wills said nothing
about the bundle which Eleanor had left in her care and which she had
taken away with her. The old woman had a very poor memory, at the best,
and she was peculiar.
Miss Reese stopped to report the result of her inquiries to Mrs.
Murdoch. "Just like the child," said the latter; "she delights to annoy
me, and has taken this means of doing it. She probably wanted to play
truant, and will be coming toward night, no doubt." Nevertheless, there
was an undercurrent of anxiety, and some qualms of conscience regarding
the child's real reason for going off in this stealthy way, and as the
afternoon wore on and no Eleanor appeared, Mrs. Murdoch became more
and more annoyed. "The child was left in my care," she said to Olive,
"and her mother will censure me if anything happens to her. Do you
and Donald hunt around the house and grounds for her, and I will send
Jessie to the houses where she would be most likely to visit."
But after a thorough search, Olive, of course, reported that no Eleanor
was to be found, and then, just as Mrs. Murdoch was really getting
worked up into a state of nervous fear and dread, Miss Reese came in.
"I have just received a little note from Eleanor," she said, "and she
tells me that she has gone to find Bubbles." She handed the note to
Mrs. Murdoch, who read it without a word, although under Miss Reese's
quiet gaze, she flushed slightly.
"It is not always easy to understand children," said Miss Reese gently.
"Often their little hearts are bleeding under an indifferent, and,
often, defiant exterior. Eleanor has always had a life so full of
love and sympathy that any lack of it would probably affect her more
seriously than it would a less emotional child."
"I am sure I have tried to do my duty," said Mrs. Murdoch plaintively.
"I have bathed her with my own hands more than once, and I have been
most particular to see that she was properly clad, and I have seen to
it that she had her study hour."
Miss Reese said only: "She is safe, at all events. I think that Dr.
Sullivan goes out in that direction and perhaps, to-morrow, he will
stop and bring her back with him. He is very fond of her, I know, and
it would not be asking him to perform an unpleasant task. Shall I speak
to him about it?"
"I shall be very much relieved if you will," returned Mrs. Murdoch,
glad to see a way out of the difficulty; and Miss Reese departed. But
next came word from Mr. Snyder that Eleanor was at his house, and
that she was not well; Mrs. Snyder had a suspicion that she might be
developing the whooping-cough. Perhaps she would best stay where she
was till the truth could be learned from the doctor.
Therefore, much against his will, Donald was dispatched to take word
to Miss Reese and to the doctor. "That child will be the death of me,"
complained Mrs. Murdoch. "I wish to heavens I had never undertaken the
care of her. I know nothing about these people to whom she has gone."
But a call from the doctor reassured her. "She couldn't be in better
hands," he said. "I'll stop there to-morrow and see how she is. Bless
the little monkey! she ought to have come to me, if she was sick. She
is a dear child, one of the sweetest I ever knew, and that is a good
deal for a doctor to say." Mrs. Murdoch probably did not agree with
him, but she did not say so.
But Eleanor, sleeping soundly, did not concern herself about any of
this and little knew what the morrow had in store for her.
_CHAPTER VII_
_Uncle Heath_
The little girl's thoughts upon first awakening were concerning
Bubbles. She slipped out of bed and as she jumped upon the braided mat
which lay upon the floor the noise informed Mrs. Snyder that she was
up and her pleasant face appeared at the door. "Scramble back again,
honey," she said, "till I get this fire stirred up. The room will be
warm in a jiffy if I put in a stick of wood and open the drafts. Mr.
Snyder's gone to hunt up them gipsies; he'll be back by the time you're
ready for breakfast. Can you dress yourself? If you want me to fasten
any buttons, just run down to the kitchen. I've some bread in the oven
and I must be looking after it."
Eleanor hurried to dress, for she was very anxious to hear if Bubbles
had been seen by the gipsies, and she was at the kitchen window
watching for Mr. Snyder when he drove up. He entered the room in his
usual hearty blustering way. "Breakfast ready, mother?" he asked.
"All ready. I'm dishing up now."
"Hallo, little one!" Mr. Snyder drew Eleanor to his knee. "Well, I've
been to the gipsy camp, and they've cleared out; every hoof. It is
getting too late for them and they want to get south. I'm sorry but it
don't seem to me that Bubbles could be with them; more likely she's
with some of the darkies in town."
Eleanor shook her head. "No, she wouldn't go to any of them, 'cause she
told me she meant to come out here to Sylvy, for Sylvy said when she
left, if Bubbles couldn't get along with Cousin Ellen she could come to
her. You see, she's known Bubbles all her life; ever since Bubbles was
a baby, and it isn't likely she'd go to any one else."
"That's so." Mr. Snyder nodded thoughtfully. "And you say that little
gipsy girl told you there was a colored child at the camp?"
"Yes," Eleanor answered.
"Those gipsies have been about here for a couple of weeks. I mind just
when they came. Yes, it might be her. Well, Sylvy's coming over after
a bit, and we'll see what she says about it. It seems to me if the
child the gipsies had was Bubbles, that they would have let Sylvy know,
or would have sent the child to her. Come now, breakfast is ready."
It was impossible, even with this anxiety of mind, not to enjoy Mrs.
Snyder's delicious rolls and sweet butter, her honey and her country
sausage, and Eleanor really ate heartily, although she was not feeling
very well, and her cough troubled her. Mrs. Snyder suggested all sorts
of queer remedies, chief among which was a decoction made from a
hornet's nest which Eleanor rejected emphatically. "Oh, please, Mrs.
Snyder, I shouldn't want that. It might make me feel a buzzy and stingy
inside."
Mrs. Snyder laughed, and just then Sylvy came in. Eleanor greeted her
joyfully. "Oh, Sylvy," she said, "I'm so glad to see you, but where do
you suppose poor Bubbles is? I feel so dreadfully about her."
"Me too, honey," said Sylvy. "It on mah min' all de time. Tell me jes'
how it happen she quit Miss Murdoch." And Eleanor related her woeful
little tale which brought many "uh-uhms" and "dar nows," from Sylvy.
"I git mah fathah to go 'roun' an' fin' out what he kin," said Sylvy,
after Eleanor had concluded, "an' if nobody ain't seen her I'll reckon
she's the one the gipsy folks has. How long yuh gwine stay here, honey?"
"I wish I could stay here till I hear from mamma. I like Mrs. Snyder
and she says I am to stay to-day, anyhow."
She seemed so much brighter that morning that Mrs. Snyder's fears that
she might have a very ill child on her hands were allayed, and Mr.
Snyder joked with her saying he believed it was a disappointment to his
wife not to have secured some one needing her nursing.
"Now, father," Mrs. Snyder protested, "it isn't that, but I'd like to
keep the child here."
"So you shall, till we hear what the doctor says. If she's got the
whoops she can't go back to school and she'll not be very welcome at
Mrs. Murdoch's, I'll venture to say."
It was about noon that the doctor's buggy drove up. Sylvy, who had been
giving Mrs. Snyder a helping hand in the kitchen, caught sight of the
doctor's white horse. "Hyar come Dr. Sullivan," she said. "I knows that
white horse of his'n."
Eleanor ran to the window. "It is Dr. Sullivan, and he is coming here.
There is some one with him; I wonder who it is."
"Miss Murdoch?"
"No, not Cousin Ellen; it is a man; I see his hat."
"Don't run out in the cold hall," Mrs. Snyder warned her. "The
doctor will ride around to the side porch and I'll take him into the
settin'-room. I'm glad there's a good fire in there, for it's snapping
cold this morning."
Eleanor waited till she heard the doctor's hearty voice say: "I'll have
you up for kidnapping, Mrs. Snyder. Where's that little girl of mine?
Bless her heart, why didn't she come tell me her troubles? Here is
somebody she'll be glad to see, if I'm not mistaken."
At this Eleanor ran in to see, not only her friend the doctor, but her
dearly loved Uncle Heath. With a cry of joy she threw herself into the
arms of the latter, forgetting every one else.
"Here, here," cried the doctor, "I want some of those kisses; don't
give them all away. Look here, baby, what's all this row about, anyhow?
What did you cut and run for?"
Eleanor hung her head, and then, by dint of questioning, they reached
the root of the matter. The two men looked at each other, and the
doctor said under his breath: "I'd like to have the dosing of that boy
for about a week."
"Oh, Uncle Heath, you won't let me go back to Cousin Ellen, will you?"
Eleanor said with entreaty in her tones.
He took her up in his lap and stroked her hair. "No, Miss Dimps, I
have come on purpose to take you back home with me. On our way from
California your Aunt Dora and I stopped to see your father and mother,
and I have my pockets full of love for you." He did not say that Rock
had sent his mother Eleanor's pitiful little letter and on account of
this, more than anything else, Mrs. Heath Dallas and her husband had
hurried home that Eleanor might come to them.
The little girl's hand stole into her uncle's pocket as if to gather up
some of the love of which he spoke, and she nestled closer to him.
"Imagine my surprise when I called upon Mrs. Murdoch last evening to be
told that you were not there," her Uncle Heath went on. "I was referred
to our good friend, Dr. Sullivan, and here we are, ready to pick you up
and carry you back with us."
"Weren't you s'prised not to see Sylvy or Bubbles come to the door at
our house? And, oh, doesn't it look queer with the furniture in the
parlor all switched around in a different way from that mamma used to
have it?"
"I'm afraid those things made very little impression on me, for I was
very anxious to see my little niece and didn't think of any one else.
Now, how soon can you be ready to go back with me?"
A fit of coughing brought from the doctor: "Here, here, what is that?
The child has the whooping-cough."
"Yes," said Eleanor between her gasps, "Mrs. Snyder told me so."
"Then, that settles it; you can't go back to Mrs. Murdoch. She'd sweep
you out with a broom, and then go into hysterics for fear her children
had caught the disease."
"Do you suppose they have?"
"I can't say; it is not improbable, but at all events, you'd best not
go back there. Mrs. Sullivan will keep you till you are ready to take
your journey, I am sure."
"Sylvy can go in with me," Uncle Heath said. "She knows where your
traps are, I suppose, and she can help Mrs. Murdoch to get them ready
for you. Your mamma said all your toys and such things of yours as
might be in the way, were to be locked up in your little house in the
yard."
"Oh,"--Eleanor exclaimed, and then stopped short.
"What's the matter?" asked her uncle.
"Why, Donald has that, and it's so dirty and battered up out there."
"How is that? What is Donald doing out there? Did your mamma say he was
to use your playhouse?"
Eleanor explained, and Uncle Heath's eyes snapped as he said, "We'll
let Sylvy go in and clean it up; then she can carry back your
belongings and set them in place. I'll have a Yale lock put on the door
and the windows boarded up. I have a letter from your mamma in which
she tells exactly what is to be done, and there will be no trouble in
carrying out her wishes, I think."
"Uncle Heath, you are a darling, but I wish you'd do just one thing
more."
"And what is that?"
"Let Rock come home from boarding-school; he isn't having a bit of a
nice time."
"I know it, and although boys aren't usually sent away from home
to school to have a good time, he is coming away for the Christmas
holidays and will not return. I suppose you'd like me to carry Sylvy,
and perhaps the doctor, back with me," he said, pinching her cheek.
"Yes, I should like that."
"Leave me out," said the doctor, "I can't neglect my practice for any
youngster's whims."
"But you will try to find Bubbles, won't you, Uncle Heath?" Eleanor
asked wistfully. "Do you suppose she could be in Baltimore at the
hospital? You know Zula said her brother had taken a little colored
girl to a hospital."
"What do you think, doctor?"
"She might be in Baltimore or in Washington. I'll tell you what I'll
do, Dimple; I'll telegraph to the different hospitals in both cities as
soon as I get back home, and we'll find out I think without doubt. By
the way, what is Bubbles' name?"
Eleanor looked at Sylvy. "It's Barbara, but I never thought about her
having any other name."
"It's Markey," said Sylvy.
The doctor took out his notebook and jotted it down, and then repeated
his assurance that he would use every effort to find out what had
become of Bubbles.
Then it was settled that they should start the next morning. Sylvy
went in bright and early and the little playhouse was made as clean
as hands could make it, and it must be confessed that she took great
satisfaction in turning out Master Donald and in re-establishing
Eleanor's toys in their accustomed places. To be sure Donald blustered
and was inclined to do battle for the possession of the house, but
a few words from Mr. Heath Dallas settled the matter and his mother
assuring him that he could now have Eleanor's room he was pacified.
"He's not really a bad boy," her Uncle Heath told Eleanor, "but he is
spoiled, and has been made to believe that every one should yield to
him, so he has become very selfish and cannot imagine any rights that
conflict with his wishes."
"Rock isn't that way."
"No, he has a wise mother."
Rock was Mr. Heath Dallas' stepson. He and Eleanor were great friends,
and she looked forward with great delight to seeing him again. She was
planning many happy times with him and with her Cousin Florence who
lived not far from Mr. Heath Dallas. She asked her uncle if he thought
Rock had had the whooping-cough. "Suppose he hasn't," she said.
"To be sure, I hadn't thought of that. I am pretty sure he has though,
and at any rate, we'll take it for granted, and if he hasn't we can
settle the question before he gets home."
"I could go to Aunt Nellie's, you know."
"Yes, but I hope we can keep you with us till your papa and mamma
return."
Eleanor gave a little satisfied sigh. Her uncle had driven out from
town to take her back with him, and she was about to take leave of
good Mr. and Mrs. Snyder. Ada, attired in her grey traveling dress,
and carrying her muff, was ready to go, and Sylvy had pressed so many
cakes, apples and such things upon the child that she had to leave half
of them behind her. To Sylvy, even the shortest journey demanded a
supply of eatables.
The doctor had made every effort to discover the whereabouts of
Bubbles, but had received no news of her from any of the hospitals.
"If she is still with the gipsies, she would hardly have reached the
city yet," Eleanor was told for her comfort. "You may find her in
Baltimore when you get there," the doctor said further, and Eleanor was
obliged to be satisfied with this for the present.
As they passed the gate of her own home, Eleanor hugged Ada closer and
looking up at her uncle said, "I never want to see my home again, Uncle
Heath, until mamma is in it."
He smiled down at her. "You probably will not, dear child. We shall
keep you with us as long as we can."
"I hope there won't be any children in the cars," continued the child,
"for I might give them the whooping-cough."
"We are going to have the little compartment at the end of the parlor
car, and we can be all to ourselves in there."
"Oh, can we? I've always wanted to travel in that little room, Uncle
Heath. Did you get it on purpose?"
"Not exactly, but being a railroad man, I had it placed at my disposal."
It was nearly dark when they reached the city. Eleanor looked out at
the stiff rows of houses, secretly glad that her home was not in one
of these. She did not wonder that her Cousin Florence always said that
she could not bear the city. "Uncle Heath," she said, "are all cities
like Baltimore, with so many, many houses all alike, with no gardens at
all and hardly any trees anywhere? I don't see why they can't have a
little bit of a garden in front of them, or porches to the houses, or
something. Cities are very ugly, aren't they?"
"Most of them are, but some do have a section where you can see pretty
gardens and porches and many trees. Washington, you know, is very
attractive, and so are parts of Philadelphia."
"Yes, I know Washington is, but I most forget Philadelphia, I've not
been there for so long."
"We must go there some pleasant day."
"Rock too?"
"Yes; but here we are. Run in quickly."
The door was thrown open by Aunt Dora herself, who almost lifted
Eleanor off her feet in the energy of her embrace. "You dear little
midget," she exclaimed, "you did come all safe and sound, didn't you?"
"Yes, I came, and so did Ada. I was so glad to see Uncle Heath."