"That niece of yours is the most remarkable girl I have seen in years,"
said Mr. Burch when the door closed.
"She seems to be turnin' out smart enough lately, but she's consid'able
heedless," answered Miranda, "an' most too lively."
"We must remember that it is deficient, not excessive vitality, that
makes the greatest trouble in this world," returned Mr. Burch.
"She'd make a wonderful missionary," said Mrs. Burch; "with her voice,
and her magnetism, and her gift of language."
"If I was to say which of the two she was best adapted for, I'd say
she'd make a better heathen," remarked Miranda curtly.
"My sister don't believe in flattering children," hastily interpolated
Jane, glancing toward Mrs. Burch, who seemed somewhat shocked, and was
about to open her lips to ask if Rebecca was not a "professor."
Mrs. Cobb had been looking for this question all the evening and
dreading some allusion to her favorite as gifted in prayer. She had
taken an instantaneous and illogical dislike to the Rev. Mr. Burch in
the afternoon because he called upon Rebecca to "lead." She had seen
the pallor creep into the girl's face, the hunted look in her eyes, and
the trembling of the lashes on her cheeks, and realized the ordeal
through which she was passing. Her prejudice against the minister had
relaxed under his genial talk and presence, but feeling that Mrs. Burch
was about to tread on dangerous ground, she hastily asked her if one
had to change cars many times going from Riverboro to Syria. She felt
that it was not a particularly appropriate question, but it served her
turn.
Deacon Milliken, meantime, said to Miss Sawyer, "Mirandy, do you know
who Rebecky reminds me of?"
"I can guess pretty well," she replied.
"Then you've noticed it too! I thought at first, seein' she favored her
father so on the outside, that she was the same all through; but she
ain't, she's like your father, Israel Sawyer."
"I don't see how you make that out," said Miranda, thoroughly
astonished.
"It struck me this afternoon when she got up to give your invitation in
meetin'. It was kind o' cur'ous, but she set in the same seat he used
to when he was leader o' the Sabbath-school. You know his old way of
holdin' his chin up and throwin' his head back a leetle when he got up
to say anything? Well, she done the very same thing; there was more'n
one spoke of it."
The callers left before nine, and at that hour (an impossibly
dissipated one for the brick house) the family retired for the night.
As Rebecca carried Mrs. Burch's candle upstairs and found herself thus
alone with her for a minute, she said shyly, "Will you please tell Mr.
Burch that I'm not a member of the church? I didn't know what to do
when he asked me to pray this afternoon. I hadn't the courage to say I
had never done it out loud and didn't know how. I couldn't think; and I
was so frightened I wanted to sink into the floor. It seemed bold and
wicked for me to pray before all those old church members and make
believe I was better than I really was; but then again, wouldn't God
think I was wicked not to be willing to pray when a minister asked me
to?"
The candle light fell on Rebecca's flushed, sensitive face. Mrs. Burch
bent and kissed her good-night. "Don't be troubled," she said. "I'll
tell Mr. Burch, and I guess God will understand."
Rebecca waked before six the next morning, so full of household cares
that sleep was impossible. She went to the window and looked out; it
was still dark, and a blustering, boisterous day.
"Aunt Jane told me she should get up at half past six and have
breakfast at half past seven," she thought; "but I daresay they are
both sick with their colds, and aunt Miranda will be fidgety with so
many in the house. I believe I'll creep down and start things for a
surprise."
She put on a wadded wrapper and slippers and stole quietly down the
tabooed front stairs, carefully closed the kitchen door behind her so
that no noise should waken the rest of the household, busied herself
for a half hour with the early morning routine she knew so well, and
then went back to her room to dress before calling the children.
Contrary to expectation, Miss Jane, who the evening before felt better
than Miranda, grew worse in the night, and was wholly unable to leave
her bed in the morning. Miranda grumbled without ceasing during the
progress of her hasty toilet, blaming everybody in the universe for the
afflictions she had borne and was to bear during the day; she even
castigated the Missionary Board that had sent the Burches to Syria, and
gave it as her unbiased opinion that those who went to foreign lands
for the purpose of saving heathen should stay there and save 'em, and
not go gallivantin' all over the earth with a passel o' children,
visitin' folks that didn't want 'em and never asked 'em.
Jane lay anxiously and restlessly in bed with a feverish headache,
wondering how her sister could manage without her.
Miranda walked stiffly through the dining-room, tying a shawl over her
head to keep the draughts away, intending to start the breakfast fire
and then call Rebecca down, set her to work, and tell her, meanwhile, a
few plain facts concerning the proper way of representing the family at
a missionary meeting.
She opened the kitchen door and stared vaguely about her, wondering
whether she had strayed into the wrong house by mistake.
The shades were up, and there was a roaring fire in the stove; the
teakettle was singing and bubbling as it sent out a cloud of steam, and
pushed over its capacious nose was a half sheet of note paper with
"Compliments of Rebecca" scrawled on it. The coffee pot was scalding,
the coffee was measured out in a bowl, and broken eggshells for the
settling process were standing near. The cold potatoes and corned beef
were in the wooden tray, and "Regards of Rebecca" stuck on the chopping
knife. The brown loaf was out, the white loaf was out, the toast rack
was out, the doughnuts were out, the milk was skimmed, the butter had
been brought from the dairy.
Miranda removed the shawl from her head and sank into the kitchen
rocker, ejaculating under her breath, "She is the beatin'est child! I
declare she's all Sawyer!"
The day and the evening passed off with credit and honor to everybody
concerned, even to Jane, who had the discretion to recover instead of
growing worse and acting as a damper to the general enjoyment. The
Burches left with lively regrets, and the little missionaries, bathed
in tears, swore eternal friendship with Rebecca, who pressed into their
hands at parting a poem composed before breakfast.