"Sister Ann, do you see any dust arising?" called Molly to Judy, who had
actually climbed up on the gate post, hoping to see a little farther up
the road, expecting the automobile from Louisville with her beloveds in
it.
"I see a little cloud and I hear a little buzzing. Oh, Molly, I believe
it's them."
"Is it, oh, Wellington graduate? Get your cases straight before they
come or your father will think that diploma is a fake."
"Grammar go hang," said Judy, performing a dangerous pas seul on the
gate post and then jumping lightly down and racing up the avenue to meet
the incoming automobile. Molly followed more slowly, never having been
the sprinter that Judy was. Mr. Kean sprang from the car and lifted Judy
off her feet in a regular bear hug.
"Save a little for me, Bobby," piped the little lady mother. "Judy,
Judy, it is too good to be true that we have got you at last, and I mean
to keep you forever now, you slippery thing." And then they all of them
got into the car and had a three-cornered hug. Molly came up with only
enough breath to give them a cordial greeting, welcoming them to
Chatsworth.
"That is a very fine young man, your brother, who met us at the station,
Miss Molly. Kent is his name? He recognized us by my likeness to you,
Judy, so make your best bow and look pleased." In looking pleased, Judy
did a great deal of unnecessary blushing which her mother noticed, but,
mothers being different from fathers, said nothing about it.
Mrs. Brown came hurrying down the walk to meet her guests. She was
amused to see how much Judy resembled both her parents, although Mrs.
Kean was so small and Mr. Kean so large. Mother and daughter were alike
in their quick, extravagant speech, and a certain bird-like poise of the
head, but father and daughter had eyes that might have been cut out of
the same piece of gray and by the same pattern.
"Where is your baggage? Surely Kent gave you my message and you are
going to visit us?"
"You have been so kind to my girl that I see no way but to let you be
kind to us, too, and if we will not inconvenience you we will accept
your invitation," said Mr. Kean. "As for baggage: Mrs. Kean is a dressy
soul, but she only carries a doll trunk which holds all of her little
frocks and fixings and even leaves a tiny tray for my belongings."
He assisted his smiling wife to alight and then from the bottom of the
car produced a wicker trunk that was really no bigger than a large
suitcase, but much more dignified looking.
"She says a trunk gives her a little more permanent feeling than a bag
and makes a hotel room seem more homelike," went on Mr. Kean. Mrs. Brown
thought that she had never heard such a pleasant voice and jolly laugh.
"Judy, show your mother and father their room. I know they are tired and
will want to rest before dinner."
"Tired! Bless your soul, what have we done to be tired? We have been on
a Pullman four nights, and that is when we get in rest enough for months
to come. I know Julia will want to get at her doll trunk and change her
traveling dress, but, if you will permit me, I shall stay down here with
you. What a beautiful farm you have! How many acres in it?"
"I have three hundred acres in all; two hundred under cultivation and in
grass, fifty in woodland, and fifty that are not worth anything. It is a
strange barren strip of land that my father had to take as a bad debt
and I inherited from him. We graze some forlorn sheep on it, but they
won't drink the water, and it is almost more trouble than they are worth
to drive them to water on another part of the place."
Mr. Kean listened intently. "I should like to see your farm, Mrs. Brown.
Did you ever have the water on the barren strip analyzed?"
"No, Mr. Brown thought of looking into it but never did, and I have had
so many problems to solve and expenses to meet with my large and growing
family that I have never thought of it any more."
Mrs. Kean and Judy came down to join the others in a very short time,
considering that Mrs. Kean had unpacked her tiny trunk and shaken out
her little frocks and changed into a dainty pink gingham that looked as
though it had just come from the laundry, showing no signs of having
been packed for weeks.
"What have you done to my Judy, Mrs. Brown? I have never seen her
looking so well."
"Fried chicken and candied sweet potatoes are the chief of my diet, and
who would have the ingratitude not to show such keep?" laughed the
daughter, pulling the little mother down on her lap and holding her as
tenderly as though their relationship were reversed. "Robert and Julia,
are you aware of the fact that your lady daughter has been a perfect
lady since she came to these parts, and has got herself into no bad
scrapes, and has not been saucy but once, and that was necessary? Wasn't
it, Mrs. Brown?"
"It certainly was. My old mammy used to tell me, 'Don' sass ole folks
'til they fust sass you'; and Saint Paul says, 'Live peaceably with all
men, as much as lieth in you.' When Judy felt called upon to speak out
to Miss Hunt she had the gratitude of almost every one present."
Professor Green joined them and, having made the Keans' acquaintance at
Wellington, introductions were not necessary. That young man was in a
very happy frame of mind as his hated rival that he had to like in spite
of himself had taken an early train to Lexington; and there had been a
dejected look to his back as he got into the buggy that Edwin Green
decided could not belong to an accepted lover. Molly had a soft, sad
look about her blue eyes, but certainly none of the elation of the newly
engaged. He had held a cryptic conversation with Mrs. Brown that morning
on the porch, in which he had gathered that the dear lady considered
Molly singularly undeveloped for a girl her age; that any thought of her
becoming engaged for at least a year was very distasteful to her mother;
that her mind should be left free for the postgraduate course she was so
soon to enter upon. But she very delicately gave him to understand that
she liked him and that Molly also liked him more than any friend she
had. The conversation left him slightly dazed, but also very calm and
happy, liking Mrs. Brown even better than before and admiring her for
her delicate tact and frankness that does not often combine with such
diplomacy. His mail had come and he had no excuse for further delay, and
had determined to go home on the following day.
"Professor Green, I have been so long on the train that I feel the need
of stretching my legs. Could you tear yourself away from these ladies
long enough to show me around the farm?"
"Indeed, I could; but maybe the ladies would like to come."
"No, indeed," answered Mrs. Kean. "I know Bobbie's leg-stretching walks
too well to have any desire to try to keep up with him. It is so
pleasant and restful here, and Mrs. Brown, Molly, Judy and I can have a
nice talk."
The two gentlemen started off at a good pace.
"Professor, I should like to see this barren strip of land Mrs. Brown
tells me of. It sounds rather interesting to me. You know where it is,
do you not?"
"Yes; and, do you know, I was going to ask you to look at it and give
your opinion about it. It has the look to me of possible oil fields. I
haven't said anything to any of the family about it, as they are such a
sanguine lot I was afraid of raising their hopes when nothing might come
of it, but I had determined to have a talk with Kent before I left. He
is the most level-headed member of the family, and would not fly off
half-cocked. Miss Molly tells me they are contemplating selling this
wonderful bit of beech woods. They have a good offer for it, but it is
like selling members of the family to part with these trees."
The two men walked on, discovering many things to talk about and finding
each other vastly agreeable. Their walk led them through the beech
woods, then through a growth of scrub pines and stunted oaks and
blackberry bushes, until they gradually emerged into a hard stony valley
sparsely covered with grass and broomsedge.
"About as forlorn a spot as you can find in the whole of Kentucky, I
fancy," said the younger man. "Its contrast with the beech woods we have
just passed is about as great as that between Mrs. Brown and her sister,
Mrs. Clay, who, with all due respect, is as rocky as this strip of
barren land and as unattractive. She is the only person of whom I have
ever heard Miss Molly and her brother Kent say anything unkind, and they
cannot conceal their feeling against her. It seems that Mrs. Clay had
the settling of her father's estate, and arranged matters so well for
herself that Mrs. Brown's share turned out to be this stony strip. Mrs.
Brown accepted it and refused to make a row, declaring that she would
never have a disagreement with any member of her family about 'things.'
She is a wonderful woman," added the professor, thinking of his talk of
the morning.
Mr. Kean stopped at the banks of a lonesome tarn, filled with black
water with a greasy looking slime over it.
"Look at those bubbles over there! Could they be caused by turtles? No,
turtles could not live in this Dead Sea. Look, look! More and more of
them. Watch that big one break! See the greasy ring he made!"
He was so excited that Edwin Green smiled to see how alike father and
daughter were, and was amused at himself for speaking of the Browns as
being people who went off half-cocked to this man who was a hair trigger
if ever there was one.
Mr. Kean stooped over and scooped up some of the water in his hand. "'If
my old nose don't tell no lies, seems like I smell custard pies.' Why,
Green, smell this! It's simply reeking of petroleum! I bet that old Mrs.
Clay will come to wish she had made a different division of her father's
estate. Come on, let's go break the news to the Browns."
"But are you certain enough? They may be disappointed," said the more
cautious Edwin.
"I am sure enough to want to send to Louisville immediately for a drill
to test it. I have had a lot of experience with oil in various places
and I am a regular oil wizard. You have heard of a water witch? My
friends say that my nose has never played me false, and I can smell out
oil lands that they would buy on the say-so of my scent as quickly as
with the proof of a drill and pump. My, I'm glad for this good luck to
come to these people who have been so good to my little girl."
The two men were very much excited as they made their way back to the
house.
"It is funny the way oil crops up in unexpected places," said Mr. Kean.
"There is very little of it in this belt, and for that reason Mrs. Brown
should get a very good price for her land. I think it best for her to
sell to the Trust as soon as possible. There is no use in fighting them.
They are obliged to win out. They will be pretty square with her if she
does not try to fight them. What a fine young fellow that Kent is! And
as for Miss Molly, she is a corker! She has got my poor little wild
Indian of a Judy out of dozens of scrapes at college. Judy always ends
by telling us all about the terrible things that almost happened to her.
She seems to me to be a little tamer, but maybe it is a strangeness from
not seeing us for so long."
Edwin Green had his own opinion about the reason for that seeming
tameness, but he held his peace. He could not help seeing Kent's
partiality for Miss Julia Kean, and had no reason to believe otherwise
than that the young lady reciprocated. Love, or the possibility of
loving, might be a great tamer for Judy. He was really not far from the
mark. Judy was interested in Kent, very much so, but it was ambition
that was steadying her and a determination to do something with the
artistic talent that she was almost sure she possessed. Paris was her
Mecca, and she was preparing herself to talk it out with her parents.
They, poor grown-up children that they were, had no plans for their
daughter's future. College had solved the problem for four years, but,
now that that was over, what to do with her next? They loved to have her
with them and had looked forward eagerly to the time when she could be
with them, but after all was a railway camp the best place for a girl of
Judy's stamp?
"Mrs. Brown, what will you take for that barren strip of land over
there?" said Mr. Kean, sinking into a chair on the porch where the
ladies were still having their quiet talk.
"Well, Mr. Kean, since it is not worth anything, and I have to pay taxes
on it, I think I would give it away to any one who would promise to keep
up the fences."
"Can you get right-of-way through the adjoining place to the road behind
you, where I see that a narrow-gauge railroad runs?"
Mrs. Brown flushed and hesitated. "There is a lane connecting these two
turnpikes older than the turnpikes themselves. My place does not go
through to this narrow-gauge railroad that you saw this morning, but my
father's old place, the Carmichael farm, now owned by my sister, Mrs.
Clay, borders on both roads. This lane divides the two places as far as
mine goes and then cuts through her place to the road behind. She has
lately closed that lane, fenced it off and put it in corn."
"Rather high-handed proceedings," growled Mr. Kean. "Did you protest?"
"The boys went to see her about it, as it blocks their short cut to the
Ohio River, where they go swimming, but she was so insulted at what she
called their interference that I insisted upon their letting the matter
drop. Paul, who always has insisted on his rights, went so far as to see
a lawyer about it. His opinion was that Sister Sarah had no more right
to fence off that lane than she would have to build a house in the
middle of Main Street. But, if you knew my Sister Sarah, you would
understand that if she decided to build a house in the middle of Main
Street she would do it."
"Perhaps she would if the Law were as ladylike as you are, Mrs. Brown,"
laughed Mr. Kean, "but the Law happens to be not even much of a
gentleman. What I wanted to get at was whether or not you had
right-of-way, not way. You have the right if not the way. Now I am going
to come to business with you. Did you know, my dear lady, that that
despised strip of land is worth more than all of your fruitful acres put
together, beech woods and apple orchard thrown in?" He jumped up from
his chair, able to contain himself no longer, and in clarion tones
literally shouted, "Lady, lady, you've struck oil, you've struck oil!"
BOOK II.
CHAPTER I.--WELLINGTON AGAIN.
"Wellington! Wellington!"
Molly waked from her reverie with a start. It seemed only yesterday that
she was coming to Wellington for the first time, "a greeny from
Greenville, Green County," as she had been scornfully designated by a
superior sophomore. She could vividly recall her arrival, a poor, tired,
timid little girl in a shabby brown dress, with soot on her face and
seemingly not a friend on earth. She smiled when she thought of how many
friends she had made that first day, friends who had really stuck. First
of all there had been dear old Nance Oldham; then Mary Stewart, who had
taken her under her wing and looked after her like a veritable anxious
hen-mother during the whole of her freshman year; then the vivid,
scintillating Julia Kean, her own Judy; then Professor Green, who
certainly had proved a friend. On looking back, it seemed that every one
with whom she had come in contact on that day had done something nice
for her and tried to help her. Mother had always told her that friends
were already made for persons who really wanted them, made and ready
with hands outstretched, and all you had to do was reach out and find
your friend.
Now, as before, the trainload of girls piled out at the pretty, trim
little station, and there was dear old Mr. Murphy ready to look after
the baggage, no easy job, as he declared, there being as many different
kinds of trunks as there were young ladies. Molly shook his hand warmly,
for, after all, he was really the very first friend she had made at
Wellington. Her trunk being shabby had had no effect on his manner to
her as a Freshman, but he noticed now that she had a new one and
remarked on its elegance.
"I simply had to have a new one, Mr. Murphy, 'the good old wagon done
broke down.' It was old when I started in at Wellington, and four round
trips have done for it."
Next to Molly's big new trunk,--and this time it was a big one, as she
had some new clothes and enough of them for about the first time in her
life, and had bought a trunk with plenty of trays so as to pack them
properly,--and snuggled up close to it as though for protection, was the
strangest little trunk Molly had ever seen: calf-skin with the hair on
it, spotted red and white, a little moth eaten in spots, with wrought
iron hinges and a lock of great strength but of a simple, fine
design--oak leaves with the key hole shaped like an acorn. A rope was
tied tightly around it, reminding Molly of a halter dragging the poor
little calf to slaughter.
"Well, well, I haven't seen such a trunk as this since I left the ould
counthry," said the baggage master, putting his hand fondly on the
strange-looking trunk. "I'll bet the owner of this, Miss Molly, will
have many a knock from some of the high-falutin' young ladies of
Wellington. They haven't seen it yet, because it is hiding behind your
grand new big one. I pray the Blessed Virgin that the poor little maid
will find a strong friend to get behind and to look after her."
Molly smiled at the old man's imagery, and thought, "What a race the
Irish are! I am glad I have some of their blood."
She turned at the sound of laughter and saw coming toward her as strange
a figure as Wellington Station had ever sheltered, she was sure. A tall
girl of about twenty years was approaching, dressed in a stiff blue
homespun dress with a very wide gathered skirt and a tight basque (about
the fashion of the early eighties), and a cheap sailor hat. In her hand
she carried a bundle done up in a large, flowered, knotted handkerchief.
Her hair was black and straight and coming down, but when your eyes once
got to her face her clothes paled into insignificance, and Molly, for
one, never gave them another thought. Imagine the oval of a Holbein
Madonna; a clear olive skin; hazel eyes wide and dreamy; a broad low
forehead with strongly marked brows; a nose of unusual beauty (there are
so few beautiful noses in real life); and a determined mouth with a "do
or die" expression. She came down the platform, head well up and an easy
swinging walk, no more regarding the amused titter of the crowd of
girls, separating to let her pass, than a St. Bernard dog would have
noticed the yap of some toy poodles. On espying her trunk--of course it
was hers, the little hair trunk with the wrought iron hinges and
lock--she quickened her gait, as though to meet a friend, stooped over,
picked it up, and swung it to her broad fine shoulder, more as though it
had been a kitten than a calf. Turning to the astonished Molly, she said
in a voice so sweet and full that it suggested the low notes of a
'cello, "Kin you'uns tell me'uns whar--no, no, I mean--can you tell me
where I can find the president?"
"Indeed, I can," answered Molly. "I am going to see her myself just as
soon as I get settled in my quarters in the Quadrangle, and if you will
tell me where you are to be I will take you to your room and then come
for you to go and see President Walker. Mr. Murphy, the baggage master,
will attend to your trunk. You will see to this young lady's trunk soon,
won't you, Mr. Murphy?"
"The Saints be praised for answering the prayers of an ould man in such
a hurry! Of course I will, Miss Molly; and where shall I be after
sinding the little trunk, miss?"
"I don't know until I see the president. I think I'll just keep my box
with me. I can carry it myself. 'Tain't much to tote."
"Oh, no, I wouldn't do that," said Molly, hardly able to keep back the
laugh that she was afraid would come bubbling out in spite of her. "I
tell you what you do: let Mr. Murphy keep your trunk until you find out
where your room is to be, and in the meantime you come to my place; then
as soon as you are located we can 'phone for it." The girl looked at her
new-found friend with eyes for all the world like a trusting collie's,
and silently followed her to the 'bus.
"My name is Molly Brown, of Kentucky. Please tell me yours."
"Kaintucky? Oh, I might have known it. I am Melissa Hathaway, and am
pleased to make your acquaintance, Molly Brown of Kaintucky. I come from
near Catlettsburg, Kaintucky, myself."
"Well, we are from the same state and must be friends, mustn't we?"
There were many curious glances cast at Molly's new friend, but the
giggling at her strange clothes had stopped and the spell of her
countenance had in a measure taken hold of the girls. Molly spoke to
many friends, but she missed her intimates and wondered where Nance was,
and if any of the others were coming back for the postgraduate course.
At the thought of Nance she smiled, knowing just how she would take her
befriending this mountain girl. She would be cold at first and perhaps a
bit scornful in her ladylike way, and end by being as good as gold to
her, and perhaps even making her some proper clothes.
The door at No. 5 Quadrangle was ajar and Molly could see Nance flitting
back and forth getting things to rights. What a busy soul she was and
how good it was to know she was already there! The girls were soon
locked in each other's arms, so overjoyed to be together again that
Molly for a moment forgot her guest; and Nance did not see her as she
stood in the doorway, a silent witness to the enthusiastic meeting of
the chums.
"Oh, Melissa, what am I thinking of, leaving you standing there so long?
You must excuse me. Nance Oldham and I always behave this way when we
get back in the fall; and now I want to introduce you two. Miss Oldham,
this is my new friend, Miss Hathaway, also of Kentucky."
Nance shook hands with the quaint-looking new friend and awaited an
explanation, which she knew would be forthcoming from Molly as soon as
she could get a chance. Melissa was quiet and composed, taking in
everything in the room. Her eyes lingered hungrily on the books that
Nance had already arranged on the shelves, and then rested in a kind of
trance on the pictures that Nance had unpacked and hung.
"Nance, I have some biscuit and fudge in my grip, if you could scare up
some tea. I am awfully hungry, and I fancy Miss Hathaway could eat a
little something before we go to look up the president. She does not
know where her room is to be, and I asked her to come with us until she
is located."
"You are very kind to me, and your treating me so well makes me feel as
though I were back in the mountains. We-uns--I mean we always try to be
good to strangers, back where I come from."
Nance was drawn to the girl as Molly had been.
"She knows how to sit still, and waits until she has something to say
before she says anything," thought the analytical Nance. "I believe I am
going to like Molly's 'lame duck' this time; and, goodness me, how
beautiful she is!"
Melissa was glad to get her tea, having been in a day coach all night
with nothing but a cold lunch to keep body and soul together until she
got to Wellington. Nance noticed that she knew how to hold her cup
properly and ate like a lady; her English, too, was good as a rule, with
occasional lapses into the mountain vernacular. The girls were curious
about her, but did not like to question her, and she said nothing about
herself.
Tea over, they went to call on the president, leaving Nance to go on
with her "feminine touches," as Judy used to call her arrangements.
Miss Walker was very glad to see Molly, kissing her fondly and calling
her "Molly." "It is good, indeed, to have you back. Every Wellington
girl who comes back for the postgraduate course gives me a compliment
better than a gift of jewels. And this is Miss Melissa Hathaway? I have
been expecting you, and to think that you should have fallen to the care
of Molly Brown on your very first day at college! You are to be
congratulated, Miss Hathaway. Molly Brown's friendship keeps one from
all harm, like the kiss of a good fairy on one's brow. Molly, if you
will excuse me, I shall take Miss Hathaway into my office first and have
a talk with her and shall see you later."
Molly was blushing with pleasure over the praise from Prexy, and was
glad to sit in the quiet room awaiting her turn.
Melissa was closeted for some time with the president, and in the
meantime the waiting-room began to fill with students, some of them
newcomers tremblingly awaiting the ordeal of an interview with the
august head of Wellington; others, like Molly, looking forward with
pleasure to a chat with an old friend. Melissa came back alone with a
message for Molly to come in to Miss Walker, and told her that she was
to wait, as the president wished Molly to show the stranger her room.
"Molly Brown, how did you happen to be the one to look after this girl?
It seems providential."
"Well, Mr. Murphy attributes it to himself, and declares it is the
direct answer to his prayers," laughed Molly, and told Miss Walker of
the little calf trunk and the old baggage master's sentimentality about
it.
"I am going to read you part of a letter concerning Melissa Hathaway,
and that will explain her and her being at Wellington better than any
words of mine. This letter is from an old graduate, a splendid woman who
has for years been doing a kind of social settlement work in the
mountains of Virginia and Kentucky.
"'I am sending you the first ripe fruit from the orchard that I
planted at least ten years ago in this mountain soil. You must not
think it is a century plant I am tending. I gather flowers every day
that fully repay me for my labor here, but, alas, flowers do not
always come to fruit. Melissa Hathaway is without doubt one of the
most remarkable young women I have ever known, and has repaid me for
the infinite pains I have taken with her, and will repay every one
by being a success. She comes from surroundings that the people of
cities could hardly dream of, in spite of the slums that are, of
course, worse because of their crowded condition and lack of air.
But in these mountain cabins you find a desolation and ignorance
that is appalling, but at the same time a rectitude and intelligence
that astonish you; and unbounded hospitality.
"'A generation ago the Hathaways were rather well-to-do, for the
mountains; that is, they owned a cow and some hogs and chickens and
did not sleep in the kitchen, but had a second room and some twenty
beautiful home-made quilts. A feud wiped almost the whole family off
the face of the earth. Melissa's father, grandfather and three
uncles were killed in a raid by their mortal enemies, the Sydneys,
and the grandmother and Melissa were the only ones left to tell the
tale. (Her young mother died in giving birth to Melissa.) Melissa
was eight years old at the time of the wholesale tragedy, which
occurred a few days before I came here to take up my life work. I
went to old Mrs. Hathaway's cabin as soon as I could make my way
across the mountain. The old woman received me with dignity and
reserve, but some suspicion. I asked her to let Melissa come to
school. She was rather eager for her to learn, since she was nothing
but a miserable girl. She was bitter on the subject of Melissa's
sex. "Ter think of my bringing forth man-child after man-child, and
here in my old age not a thing but this puny little gal ter look to,
ter shoot down those dogs of Sydneys!"
"'This child of eight (Melissa is now eighteen, but looks older),
came to school every day rain or shine, walking three miles over the
worst trail you have ever imagined. Her eagerness for knowledge was
something pathetic. I realized from the beginning that she had a
very remarkable intellect and gave her every chance for cultivation
and preparation for college, determined that my Alma Mater should
have the final hand in her education if it could be managed. And
now, managed it is by a scholarship presented to my now flourishing
school by the Mountain Educational Association. I am sorry her
clothes are not quite what my beautiful Melissa should have, but she
would not accept a penny for clothes from any of the funds that I
sometimes have at my disposal. "Money for my education is
different," she said. "I mean to bring all of that back to the
mountains and give it to my people, but I cannot let any one spend
money on clothes for me. They would burn my back unless I earned
them myself." She was that way from the time she first came to me. I
remember she had a green skirt and an old black basque of her
grandmother's, belted in on her slim little figure. I wanted all of
my pupils to have a change of clothing, as from the first I was
trying to teach cleanliness and hygiene along with the three R's. I
asked the children one day to let me know if they had two of
everything. Melissa stood up and proudly raised her hand. "Please,
Miss Teacher, we'uns is got two dresses; one ain't got no waist and
one ain't got no skirt, but they is two dresses."
"'I know that my dear Miss Walker will do her best to place my girl
where she can make some friends and not get too homesick for her
mountains. I wish she had clothes more like other people, but, since
she is what she is, I fancy the clothes in the long run will not
make much difference.'
"That is all of interest to you," concluded Miss Walker. "Miss Hathaway
is, to say the least, a very remarkable young woman. Her entrance
examination was unconditioned. And now to get her into a suitable room!
I had expected to put her in one over the postoffice, but she would be
so isolated there. I wish she could have the singleton near you in the
Quadrangle. I, too, have some funds at my disposal that would enable me
to give her one of these more expensive rooms, but do you think she
would accept it?"
Molly, rather amused at being asked by Prexy herself to decide what to
do with this proud girl, smilingly answered, "I am proud myself, but
lots of things have been done for me without my knowing about it, and
when I do find out I am not hurt but pleased to feel that my friends
want to help me. I can't remember being insulted yet."
"Well, my child, if I have your sanction about a little mild deceit, I
think I'll put Miss Hathaway in the singleton near you. I believe she is
going to be a credit to Wellington. Kentucky has been good to us,
indeed."
"I'll do all I can to help Melissa," said Molly, her eyes still misty
over the letter concerning the childhood of the mountain girl. "She
interests me deeply."
Then Molly and Miss Walker plunged into a talk about what Molly was to
study. English Literature and Composition were of course the big things,
but she was also anxious to take up some special work in Domestic
Science, a new and very complete equipment having been recently
installed at Wellington and a highly recommended teacher, a graduate
from the Boston school, being in charge.
"Miss Hathaway is to do work on that line, too, and I fancy you will be
put into the same division. She is preparing herself to help her
mountain people, and I think they need domestic science even more than
they do higher mathematics."
Molly escorted Melissa to her small room in the Quadrangle, where she
was duly and gratefully installed. Her shyness was passing off with
Nance and Molly, and now they noticed that she never made the slips into
the mountain vernacular. But on meeting strangers, or when embarrassed
in any way, she would unconsciously drop into it, and then become more
embarrassed. She never let herself off, but always bit her lip and
quickly repeated her remark in the proper English.
"She is really almost as foreign as little Otoyo Sen," said Nance.
CHAPTER II.--LEVITY IN THE LEAVEN.
"Molly, do you know you are a grown-up lady?" asked Nance a few days
after they had settled themselves and were back in the grind of work. "I
have been seeing it in all kinds of ways; firstly, you have gained in
weight."
"Only three pounds, and that could not show much, spread over such a
large area," laughed Molly.
"Well, you look more rounded, somehow. Then I notice you keep your pumps
on and don't kick them off every time you sit down; and when you do sit
down you don't always lie down as you used to do. Now, I have always
been a grown-up little old lady, but you were a child when you left
college last June, and now you are a beautiful, dignified woman."
"Nonsense, Nance, I am exactly the same. I don't kick off my pumps
because I might have a hole in the toe of my stocking, and I don't lie
down when I sit down because of my good tailored skirt. You are just
fancying things. I am the same old kid. It is thanks to Judy that I have
the tailor-made dress and the other things that make me feel grown-up.
You see, my family have always had an idea that I did not care for
clothes just because I wore the old ones without complaining. One day
Kent spoke of my indifference to clothes to Judy, and she fired up and
told him I did love clothes and would like to have pretty ones more than
any girl she knew of; that I pretended to be indifferent just to carry
off the old ones with grace. Kent was very much astonished and the dear
boy insisted on my going into Louisville before Judy left and having a
good tailor make me two dresses, this blue one for every day and my
lovely best gray. I was so afraid of hurting Miss Lizzie Monday's
feelings (she is the little old seamstress who has made my clothes ever
since I was born); but Kent fixed that up by going to see Miss Lizzie
himself, asking her advice and requesting her company into Louisville,
where we did the shopping and interviewed the tailor, had lunch at the
Watterson and took in a show in the afternoon. Miss Lizzie had the time
of her life and was as much pleased over my having some good clothes as
I am myself. Dear old Kent had to draw on his savings that he is putting
by with a view to taking a finishing course on architecture, but mother
says she is going to reimburse him just as soon as there is a settlement
made for the oil lands we are selling."
"Do you know, Molly, when I got your letter telling me about Mr. Kean's
nosing out oil on your place, I was so happy and excited that I began to
cry and got my nose so red I had to skip a lecture at Chautauqua, which
shocked my mother greatly. To think of your dear mother having an income
that will make her comfortable and independent!"
"Mother does not seem to be greatly elated over it. She is very glad to
pay off the mortgage on Chatsworth; relieved that we shall not have to
sell our beautiful beech woods; but money means less to my mother than
any one in the world, I do believe. Why, talking about my being a kid, I
was born more grown-up than my mother, in some ways. It's the Irish in
her. The Irish are all children."
Molly had very cleverly got Nance off of the subject of there being a
change in her, but Nance was right. Molly was older, and she felt it
herself. The summer had been an eventful one for her and had left her
older and wiser. Mildred's marriage; Jimmy Lufton's proposal, or near
proposal; the family's change of fortune; Professor Green's evident
preference for her society; all these things had combined to sober her
in a way.
"I am as limber as ever, and don't feel my age in my 'jints,' but I am
getting on," thought Molly. "Nance sees it, and I wonder if Professor
Green notices it. He seemed a little stiff with me, but seeing him for
the first time in class might account for that."
The class in Domestic Science was proving of tremendous interest both to
Molly and Melissa. Melissa had much to learn and Molly much to un-learn.
It was a special course, and for that reason girls from all classes were
mixed in it. There were quite a number of Juniors, and Molly was sorry
to see Anne White among them, as she had been on the platform at
Wellington when Melissa arrived, and, in the quiet way for which she was
famous in making trouble, had been the one to start the titter that had
grown, as that seemingly unconscious young goddess made her way down the
platform, into a wave of laughter. Melissa had been fully aware of the
amusement she had caused, but she had borne no malice against the
thoughtless girls.
"I reckon I was a figure of fun to these rich girls," Melissa said to
Molly, "but I know they did not mean to be unkind; and if they knew what
it means to me to come to college perhaps they would look at me
differently. Anyhow, you were so nice to me from the very minute I spoke
to you; and even before I spoke, Molly, dear, because I saw your sweet
eyes taking me in as I came up the platform between the rows of grinning
students. And I said to myself, 'All these are just second-growth timber
and don't count for much. That girl with the blue eyes and the pretty
red hair looking at me so kindly is the only tree here that is worth
much.' And somehow I have been resting in the shade of your branches
ever since."
This little conversation was held one morning as the girls were getting
their materials ready for some experimental bread-making. A tremendously
interesting lecture on yeast had preceded it, and now was to be followed
by various chemical experiments. The lecturer had not arrived, but had
appointed certain students to get the materials in order.
Anne White was one of the monitors, and was moving around in a demure
way, daintily setting out the little bowls of flour and portions of
yeast. Anne White was a small, mousy-looking, brown-haired young woman
who looked as though butter would not melt in her mouth, but who was in
reality often the ring-leader in many foolish escapades. She was a great
practical joker, and when all is told a practical joker is a very trying
person, and very often a person lacking in true humor. As she placed the
bowls of yeast, she sang the following song with many sly looks at Molly
and her friend:
"The first time I saw Melissa,
She was sitting in the cellar,
Sitting in the cellar shelling peas.
And when I stooped to kiss her,
She said she'd tell her mother,
For she was such an awful little tease.
Oh, wasn't she sweet? You bet she was,
She couldn't have been any sweeter.
Oh, wasn't she cute? You bet she was,
She couldn't have been any cuter.
For when I stooped to kiss her,
She said she'd tell her mother,
For she was such an awful little tease."
The singing was so evidently done for Melissa's benefit that Molly felt
indignant.
"I can't stand teasing, and certainly not such silly teasing as Anne
White delights in. She is a slippery little thing, and I have an idea
means mischief for my Melissa. I wish Judy were here to circumvent her,
but since she is not I shall have to keep my eye open." So thought
Molly, and accordingly opened her eyes just in time to see Anne White
raise the cover of Melissa's bowl of flour and drop in something. The
instructor came in just then and the class came to order.
"It can't do any real harm," thought Molly, "because we don't have to
eat our messes, but if it is something to embarrass Melissa I shall have
a talk with Anne White that she will remember all her days. She knows
Melissa and I are not the kind to blab on her, the reason she is
presuming in this way."
Miss Morse, the Domestic Science teacher, was so exactly like the
advertisements in the magazines of various foodstuffs that one was
forced to smile. She was always dressed in immaculate linen, and, as she
would stand at her desk and hold out a sample of material with which she
was going to demonstrate, her smile and expression were always those of
the lady who says, "Use this and no other." She was thoroughly in
earnest, however, and scientific, and her lectures on Domestic Economy
were really thrilling to Molly, who always took an interest in household
affairs and was astonished to find out what a waste was going on in all
American homes. Melissa listened to every word, and felt that the
knowledge she was gaining in this branch of college work was perhaps the
most necessary of all to take back to her mountain people.
Miss Morse had the most wonderful and capable hands that were ever seen.
She was never known to spill anything or slop over; she used her scales
and measures with the precision of an analytical chemist; and, no matter
how complicated the experiment, there were no extra, useless utensils.
This in itself is worth coming to college to learn, as I have never
known a girl make a plate of fudge without getting every pan in the
kitchen dirty. Later on in the course of lectures this wonderful woman
actually killed a fowl and picked and dressed it right before the eyes
of the astonished girls, without making a spot on her dress or on the
cloth spread on her desk, and she did not even turn back her linen
cuffs.
"I wish Ca'line could see that," thought Molly on that occasion, a
picture of the chicken pickin' in the back yard at Chatsworth coming
before her mind's eye, with feathers flying hither and yon and Ca'line
herself covered with gore.
"Now, young ladies," said the precise Miss Morse, "enough flour is given
each one for a small loaf of bread; the right amount of water is
measured out; salt and sugar; lard and yeast. You have the correct
material for a perfect loaf. This is a demonstration of yesterday's
lecture. Remember, salt retards the action of yeast and must not be put
in until the yeast plant has begun to grow. Sugar promotes the growth
and can be placed in the warm water with the yeast."
The students went eagerly to work like so many children with their mud
pies. In due course of time each little loaf was made out and put at
exactly the right temperature to rise. Miss Morse explained to them the
different methods of bread-making and the fallacy of thinking that good
bread-making is due to luck. Molly smiled in remembering what dear old
Aunt Mary had said about remembering to put the gumption in.
While the bread was rising and baking the girls were allowed to work on
their Domestic Science problem, a pretty difficult one requiring all
their faculties: it was how to feed a family consisting of five, mother
and father and three children, on ten dollars for one week. The market
price of food was given and their menus were to be worked out with
regard to the amount of nourishment to be gained as well as the
suitability of food. Miss Morse told them they would have to study
pretty hard to do it, but it was splendid practice. Poor Melissa was
having a hard time. In the first place, she knew so little about food,
having been brought up so very simply, and then, she confided to Molly,
she was very much worried about her loaf of bread because it didn't do
just right.
Finally the time was up, and the bread, too, according to science,
should have been up and ready to bake. The monitors were requested to
place the loaves in the gas ovens, already tested and proved to be of
proper temperature. The problems, meantime, must be completed at once
and handed in.
A wail from Melissa on the aside to Molly: "Oh, Molly, Molly, I have got
my family all fed for six days, and I forgot Sunday. Not a cent of money
left from all of that ten dollars, and I have known whole families live
for a month on less in the mountains! What shall I do?"
"I tell you," said Molly, stopping a minute to think, "have them all
invited out to Sunday dinner and let them eat no breakfast in
anticipation of the good things they are expecting; and let the dinner
be so delicious and plentiful that they can't possibly want any supper."
"Good," said Melissa, ever appreciative of Molly's suggestions, "I'll do
that very thing." And so she did; and Miss Morse was so amused that she
let it pass as a very good paper, as indeed it was.
All of the little loaves were baked and placed in front of the girls,
the pans being numbered so that each loaf returned to its trembling
maker. It was strange that in spite of science the loaves did not look
exactly alike. Molly's was beautiful, but had she not had her hand in
Aunt Mary's dough ever since she could climb up to the table and cut out
little "bis'it wif a thimble"? Some of them looked bumpy and some
stringy, but poor Melissa's was a strange dark color and had not risen.
"Miss Hathaway, did you follow the directions in your experiment?"
"Yes, Miss Morse, to the best of my ability," answered Melissa. And,
then flushing and becoming excited, she dropped into her familiar
mountain speech. "Some low-down sneak has drapped some sody in we'un's
pannikin. I mean, oh, I mean, some ill-bred person has put saleratus in
my little bowl. I have been raised on too much saleratus in the bread,
and I know it." And the proud mountain girl, who had not minded the
laughter caused by her appearance, burst into tears over the failure of
her bread-making and fled from the room.
Miss Morse was shocked and sorry that such a scene should have occurred
in her class, but was determined to investigate the matter. She
dismissed the class without a word; but, as Molly was leaving the room,
she requested her to stop a moment.
"Miss Brown, this is a very unfortunate thing to have occurred in this
class. Domestic Science seems to be an easy prey to the practical joke,
and when once it is started it is a difficult matter to weed out. I am
particularly sorry for it to have been played on Miss Hathaway, who is
so earnest and anxious to learn. Miss Walker has told me much about her,
and the girl's appearance alone is fine enough to interest one. I could
not help seeing by your countenance, which is a very speaking one, my
dear, that you knew something about this so-called joke. Now, Miss
Brown, I ask you as a friend to tell me what you know, and, if you are
not willing, I demand it of you as an instructor and member of the
faculty of Wellington."
Molly, who had been as pale as death ever since Melissa's mortification
and outbreak, now flushed crimson, held her breath a minute to get
control of her voice, and then answered with as much composure as she
could muster: "Miss Morse, I have gone through four years at Wellington
and have happened to know of a great many scrapes the different students
have got themselves in, but never yet have I been known to tell tales,
and I could hardly start now. I do know who did the dastardly trick, and
am glad that Melissa had recourse to her native dialect to express her
feelings about the person who was mean enough to do it; 'low-down sneak'
is exactly what she was."
"Very well, Miss Brown, if you refuse to divulge the name of the joker,
I shall be forced to take the matter up with the president. I hoped we
could settle it in the class. This department being a new one at
Wellington, and also my first experience at teaching, I naturally have
some feeling about making it go as smoothly as possible." This time Miss
Morse was flushed and her lip trembling.
Molly felt truly sorry for her, and suddenly realized that Miss Morse,
with all of her assurance, was little more than a girl herself. As for
taking it up with the president, Molly smiled when she remembered the
time Miss Walker had tried to make her tell, and when she had refused
how Miss Walker had hugged her.
"Oh, Miss Morse, I am so sorry for you, and wish, almost wish, some one
had seen the offence besides myself, some one who would not mind
telling; but I truly can't tell, somehow I am not made that way. There
is something I can do, though, and that is, go call on the person myself
and put it up to her to refrain from any more jokes in your class. I
meant to see her, anyhow, and warn her to let my Melissa alone."
"Would you do that? I think that would be all that is necessary, and I
need not inform the president. I thank you, Miss Brown. You do not know
how this has disturbed me."
"Too much 'sody' in the bread is a very disturbing thing," laughed
Molly. "I remember a story they tell on my grandfather. He had an old
cook who was very fond of making buttermilk biscuit, and equally fond of
putting too much soda in them. He stood it for some time, but one
morning when they were brought to breakfast as green as poor Melissa's
loaf, grandpa sent for the cook and made her eat the whole panful.
Needless to add, she was cured of the soda habit. It would be a great
way to cure the would-be joker if we made her eat Melissa's sad loaf."
Molly did see Anne White that very afternoon, making a formal call on
her and giving that mousy young woman a talk that made her cry and
promise to play no more jokes in Domestic Science class, and to
apologize to Melissa for the mortification she had caused her. Molly
told her something about Melissa and the struggle and sacrifices she had
made to get her education, and before she had finished Anne White was as
much interested in the mountain girl and as anxious for her to succeed
as Molly herself. She promised to help her all she could, and a Junior
can do a great deal to help a Freshman. Molly was astonished to find
that Anne White was really rather likable. She had a mistaken sense of
fun, but was not really unkind.
Melissa had too much to do to brood long over her outbreak, and laughed
and let the matter drop out of her mind when the following apology was
poked under her door:
"My Dear Miss Hathaway: I am truly sorry to have caused you so much
mortification in the Domestic Science class. It was a very foolish,
thoughtless act, and I hope you will accept my apology. I wish I had
found such a friend in my freshman year as you have in Molly Brown.
"Sincerely yours,
"'A Low-Down Sneak.'"
CHAPTER III.--HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF.
Molly and Nance were very busy with their special courses, Nance working
at French literature as though she had no other interest in the world,
and Molly at English and Domestic Science.
"Thank goodness, I shall not have to tutor! Since we 'struck ile' I am
saved that," said Molly one day to her roommate, who was as usual
occupied, in spite of its being "blind man's holiday," too early to
light the gas and too late to see without it. "Nance, you will put out
your eyes with that mending. I never saw such a busy bee as you are.
Melissa tells me you are going to help her with a dress, too."
"Yes, I am so glad she will let me. I told her how we made the Empire
gown for you in your Freshman year, and she seemed to feel that if her
dear Molly allowed that much to be done for her, it was not for her to
object to a similar favor. I know you will laugh when I tell you that I
am going to get a one-piece dress and an extra skirt for shirtwaists out
of the blue homespun. It is beautiful material, spun with an
old-fashioned spinning wheel and woven on a hand loom by Melissa's
grandmother. Did you ever see so much goods in one dress? It seems that
the dear woman who has taught her everything she knows has not had any
new clothes herself for ten years, and could not give her much idea of
the prevailing fashion; and Melissa made this dress herself from a
pattern her mother had used for her wedding dress. I hate to cut it up.
It seems a kind of desecration, but Melissa has a splendid figure and if
her clothes were not quite so voluminous she would be as stylish as any
one. She improves every day in many ways and seems to be less shy."
"She has an instinct for good literature. Professor Green tells me her
taste is unerring. He says it is because her preference is for the
simple, and the simple is always the best. Little Otoyo has the same
feeling for the best in poetry. Haven't we missed that little Jap,
though? I'll be so glad to have her back. I fancy I shall have some
tutoring to do in spite of myself to get Otoyo Sen up with her class."
Otoyo Sen, the little Japanese girl who had played such a close part in
the college life of our girls, had been back in Japan, and had not been
able to reach America in time for the opening weeks of college, due to
some business engagements of her father. But she was trusting to Molly
and her own industry to catch up with her class, and was hurrying back
to Wellington as fast as the San Francisco Limited could bring her.
Molly had been writing every moment that she could spare from her hard
reading, and now she had two things she really wanted to show Professor
Green--a story she had worked on for weeks until it seemed to be part of
her, and a poem. She had sent the poem to a magazine and it had been
rejected, accompanied by a letter which she could not understand. At all
times in earlier days she had gone frankly to the professor's study to
ask him for advice, but this year she could hardly make up her mind to
do it.
"He is as kind as ever to me, but somehow I can't make up my mind to run
in on him as I used to," said Molly to herself. "I know I am a silly
goose--or is it perhaps because I am so grown up? It is only five o'clock
this minute, it gets dark so early in November, and I have half a mind
to go now." The temperament that goes with Molly's coloring usually
means quick action following the thought, so in a moment Molly had on
her jacket and hat. "Nance, I am going to see Professor Green about some
things I have been writing. I won't be late, but don't wait tea for me.
Melissa may be in to see us, but you will take care of her, I know."
There was a rather tired-sounding, "Come in," at Molly's knock on
Professor Green's study door.
"Oh, dear, now I am going to bore him!" thought the girl. "I have half a
mind to run back through the passage and get out into the Cloister
before he has a chance to open the door and see who was knocking. But
that would be too foolish for a postgraduate! I'd better run the risk of
boring him rather than have him think I am some one playing a foolish
Sophomore joke, or even a timid little Freshman, afraid to call her soul
her own."
"Come in, come in. Is any one there?" called the voice rather briskly
for the usually gentle professor. And before Molly could open the door
it was actually jerked open. "Dearest Molly!--I mean, Miss Molly--I
thought you were going to be some one else. The fact is, I have had a
regular visitation from would-be poets this afternoon, and, as it never
rains but it pours, I had a terrible feeling that it was another one. I
am so glad to see you; not just because you are not what I feared you
were, but because you are you."
Molly blushed crimson and tried to hide the little roll of manuscript
behind her, but the young man saw it and kicked himself mentally for a
rash, talking idiot.
"I can't come in, thank you. I just stopped by to--to----I just thought I'd
ask you when your sister was coming."
"Oh, Molly Brown, what a poor prevaricator you do make! You know
perfectly well you have written something you want me to see; and you
also know, or ought to know, that I want to see what you have written
above everything; and what I said about would-be poets had nothing to do
with you and me. The fact is, I am a would-be myself and have been
working on a sonnet this afternoon instead of looking over the thousand
themes that I must have finished before to-morrow's lecture. I had just
got the eighth line completed when you knocked, and the six others will
be easy. Please come in and take off your hat, and I'll get Mrs. Brady
to make us some tea; and while the kettle is boiling you can show me
what you have been doing, and when I get my other six lines to my sonnet
done I'll show it to you."
Molly of course had to comply with a request made with so much
kindliness and sincerity. Mrs. Brady came, in answer to the professor's
bell which connected his study with his house, and was delighted to see
Molly, remembering with great pleasure the Christmas breakfast the young
girl had cooked for Professor Green the year before. Molly had a way
with her that appealed to old people as well as young, and she had won
Mrs. Brady's heart on that memorable morning by telling her that she,
too, boasted of Irish blood.
"And I might have known it, from the sweet tongue in your head," Mrs.
Brady had replied.
The old woman hastened off to make the tea, and Molly reluctantly
unrolled her manuscript.
"Professor Green, I want you to think of me as some one you do not know
or like when you read my stuff."
"That is a very difficult task you have set me, and I am afraid one that
I am unequal to; but I do promise to be unbiased and to give you my real
opinion, and you must not be discouraged if it is not favorable,
because, after all, it is worth very little."
"I think it is worth a lot. This first thing is something I have been
working on very hard. It is called 'The Basket Funeral.' I remembered
what you told me about trying to write about familiar things, and then,
on reading the 'Life and Letters of Jane Austen,' I came on her advice
to a niece who was contemplating a literary career. It was, 'Send your
characters where you have never been yourself, but never take them.' I
had never been out of Kentucky, except to row across the Ohio River to
Indiana, when I came to Wellington, and so I put my story in Kentucky
with Aunt Mary as my heroine. Now be as hard on me as you want to. I can
stand it."
There was perfect silence in the pleasant study while Edwin Green
carefully perused the well-written manuscript. An occasional involuntary
chuckle was all that broke the quiet when one of Aunt Mary's witticisms
brought back the figure of the old darkey to his mind. When he had
finished, which was in a very few minutes, as the sketch was a short
one, he carefully rolled the paper and remained silent. Molly felt as
though she would scream if he did not say something, but not a word did
he utter, only sat and rolled the manuscript and smiled an inscrutable
smile. Finally she could stand it no longer.
"I am sorry to have bothered you, Professor Green. I know it is hard for
you to have to tell me the truth, so I won't ask you." She reached for
the roll of paper, her hand shaking a little with excitement.
"Oh, please excuse me. Do you know, I took you at your word and forgot I
knew you, and forgot how much I liked you; forgot everything in fact but
Aunt Mary and the 'Basket Funeral.' My dear girl, you have done a
wonderful little bit of writing, simple, natural, sincere. I
congratulate you and envy you."
And what should Molly do, great, big, grown-up postgraduate that she
was, but behave exactly as the little Freshman had four years before
when this same august professor had rescued her from the locked
Cloisters: she burst into tears. At that crucial moment the rattle of
tea cups was heard as Mrs. Brady came lumbering down the hall, and Molly
had to compose herself and make out she had a bad cold.
"Have some hot soup," said the young man, and both of them laughed.
"It was natural for me to blubber, after all," said Molly, after Mrs.
Brady had taken her departure. "When you sat there so still, with your
lips so tightly closed, I felt exactly as I did four years ago, shut out
in the cold with all the doors locked; and when you finally spoke it was
like coming into your warm pleasant study again with you being kind to
me just as you were to the little scared Freshman. Do you know, I like
my picture of Aunt Mary, too, and when I thought you didn't like it I
felt forlorn indeed."
"I notice one thing, Miss Molly Brown of Kentucky doesn't cry until
everything is over. The little Freshman didn't blubber while she was
locked out, but waited until she got into the pleasant study, and now
the ancient postgrad is able to restrain her tears until the awful ogre
of a critic praises her work. Now let's have another cup of tea all
around and show me what else you have brought."
"I hesitate to show you this more than the other thing, after your
cutting remarks about would-bes. But I want you to read this so you can
tell me what this letter means that I got from the editor of a magazine,
when he politely returned my rejected poem."
"Read me the poem yourself. Would you mind? Poetry should always be read
aloud, I think; and afterward I will see what I think the editor meant."
[Illustration: "Read me the poem yourself. Would you mind?"--Page 218.]
"All right, but I am afraid it is getting late and Nance will worry
about me."
The study was cosy indeed with its rows and rows of books, its
comfortable chairs and the cheerful open grate. This was his one
extravagance in a land of furnace heat and drum stoves, so Edwin Green
declared. "But somehow the glow of the fire makes me think better," he
said in self-defence.
Molly read any poetry well, her voice with its musical quality being
peculiarly adapted to it. This was her poem:
"My thoughts like gentle steeds to-day
Rest quiet in the paddock fold,
Munching their food contentedly.
Was it last night? When up--away!
Through spaces limitless, untold,
Like storm clouds lashed before the wind,
Nor strength, nor will could check nor hold,
Manes flying--through the night they dashed
'Til the first glimmering sun's ray flashed
Its blessed light; 'til the first sigh
Of dawn's awak'ning stirred the leaves.
Then back to quiet fold--the night was done--
Bend patient necks--the yoke--and day's begun."
"Let me see it. Your voice would make 'Eany, meany, miney, mo' sound
like music. I should have read it first to myself to be able to pass on
it without prejudice."
He took the poem and read it very carefully. "Miss Molly, you are aware
of the fact that you may become a real writer? How old are you?"
"Almost twenty."
"Well, I consider that a pretty good poem for almost twenty. I bet I
know what that saphead of an editor had to say without reading his
letter. Didn't he say something about your having only thirteen lines?"
"Oh, is that what he meant? I have puzzled my brains out over his note.
I didn't even know I had only thirteen lines. Of course I knew it wasn't
exactly sonnet form, but somehow I started out to make fourteen lines
and thought I had done it. Here is his cryptic note."
"Dear M. B.: We are sorry to say we are too superstitious to print
your poem. Are the poor horses too tired to go a few more feet? If
you can urge them on, even if you should lame them a bit, we might
reconsider and accept your verses.
"The Editor of ----"
"Fools, fools, all of them are fools! Don't you change it for the whole
of the silly magazine. It is a good poem, and its having thirteen lines
is none of his business. Haven't you as much right to create a form of
verse as Villon or Alfred Tennyson? That editor would have rejected
'Tears, idle tears,' because it hasn't a rhyme in it and looks as though
it might have."
The professor was so excited that Molly had to laugh.
"You are certainly kind to me and my efforts. I must go now. Please give
my love to Mrs. Brady and thank her for her tea. You never did tell me
when you expect your sister."
"Bless my soul," said Edwin Green, looking at his watch, "she will be
here in a few minutes now!"
"Don't forget to let me see your sonnet, and please put all the lines
in. I am so glad your sister is to be with you, and hope to see her
often."
And Molly flew away, happy as a bird that her writing was coming on, and
that she felt at home again with the most interesting man she had ever
met.
CHAPTER IV.--A BARREL FROM HOME.
Christmas was upon our girls almost before they had unpacked and settled
down to work. Mid-year exams. had no terrors for our two post-graduates,
but they were working just as hard as they ever had in their collegiate
course.
"I don't know what it is that drives us so, Nance, unless it is that we
are getting ready for the final examination at Judgment Day," said
Molly. "I am so interested, I never seem to get tired these days; and I
don't even mind the tutoring that has been thrust upon me. Now that I
shall not have to teach for a living, I really believe I should not mind
it very much."
Otoyo Sen was safely sailing under Molly's tutelage through her senior
year. She spoke the most correct and precise English unless she was
embarrassed or upset in some way, and then, like Melissa Hathaway, she
spoke from the heart, and little Otoyo's heart seemed to beat in adverbs
and participles. She and Melissa had struck up the closest friendship.
"We might have known they would," said the analytical Nance. "They are
strangely alike to be so different."
"Now, Nance, how Bostonesque we are becoming! I have never asked a
Bostonian a question that I have not been answered in this way, 'It is
and it isn't,'" teased Molly.
"Well, they are alike in being foreign, for Melissa is as foreign from
us as is Otoyo. Then they are both scrupulously courteous until their
amour propre is stepped on, and then you realize that they are both
medieval. They are certainly alike in pride and in fortitude and
perseverance and family feeling. You know perfectly well that the real
Melissa that is so covered up by this educated Melissa would take a gun
and shoot every living Sydney she could get at if her grandmother told
her to! I hope to goodness modernism will never get to the old woman and
she will learn that women can do anything men can, or she will make
Melissa take the place of the sons she mourns. On the other hand, little
Otoyo would commit hara-kiri without winking an eyelash if
honorable-father told her to."
"You have so convinced me of their similarity that I see no room for
difference. They will look to me exactly like twins after this," laughed
Molly; and both the girls could hardly restrain their merriment, for at
that moment the so-called twins came in to call: Melissa, tall and
stately as "the lonesome pine," with all doubts as to her fine figure
removed now, thanks to Nance's skillful reformation of the blue
homespun; and little Otoyo looking more like a mechanical toy than ever,
since she had taken on a little more of the desirable flesh, according
to the taste of her countrymen.
"Melissa and I have determined to move into a suite together," said
Otoyo, as they entered. "Miss Walker said it is not usually for a
Freshman and Senior to be so intimately, but since there is a suite
vacant in the Quadrangle and more visits for singletons than suites, she
is willing."
"You are excited over it, I know, you dear little Otoyo," said her
tutor, "or you would not be so adverbial, and you must mean 'calls for
singletons' instead of 'visits.'"
"Oh, you English and your language, made for what you call puns!"
"I am glad you call them puns instead of visiting them on us," said
Nance, dodging a soft cushion hurled by Molly. "Did you girls hear the
news? I am to stay at Wellington for Christmas and my father is coming
down here to spend it with me. I can't think when father has taken a
holiday before, and I am as excited about it as can be. He needs a rest,
and he needs some fun. I wish he could have come last year before the
old guard disbanded."
"But listen to me," put in Molly. "I have some news, too, that I was
trying to keep for a surprise, but I am a sieve where news is concerned:
Judy Kean is to be here for Christmas, too. She writes that as her
mother and father are in Turkey she will have to have some turkey in
her, and she can think of no place that she would rather have that
turkey than at Wellington with us. Dear old Judy, won't it be fun? And
she will help to whoop things up for your father, Nance. She expected to
be studying art in Paris by now, but Mr. Kean insisted on a year of
drawing in New York before Paris, and that makes her in easy reach of
us. We shall have to stop work and go to playing. I declare I have grown
so used to work--I don't believe I know how to play."
"Mees Grace Green is going to have an astonishment party for her
brother, the young student medical," said Otoyo, the ever-ready news
monger.
"A surprise party for Dodo," shrieked the girls with delight. "Otoyo,
Otoyo, you are too delicious."
"Also, Mr. Andy McLean will be home with his honorable parents for
making holiday, having done much proud work in the law school at Harvard
University."
Nance smiled. Her private opinion was that Mr. Andrew McLean and his
proud work were the cause of Otoyo's very mixed English.
"Also," continued Otoyo, "Mr. Andrew McLean will bring with him
honorable young Japanese gentleman, who has hugged the Christian faith
and is muchly studying to live in this country, whereas his honorable
father has a wonderful shop of beautiful Japanese prints in Boston. My
honorable father is familiar with his honorable father, namely, Mr.
Seshu."
"Oh ho, and that is the reason of the many mistakes," said Molly, in an
aside to Nance. "I thought at first it was Andy's return, but I bet the
little thing is contemplating something in connection with the honorable
Mr. Seshu. I wonder if her father has written her about this young Jap."
During all this chit-chat Melissa had sat perfectly quiet, but her quiet
was never heavy nor depressing. She looked calmly and interestedly on
and listened and smiled and sometimes gave a low laugh, showing that her
humor was keen and ready. Otoyo was a never-failing source of delight to
her, and when the little thing spoke of hugging the Christian faith a
real hearty laugh came bubbling up. But she put her arm affectionately
around her little friend and smothered her laugh in Otoyo's smooth black
hair, that always had a look of having just been brushed, no matter how
modern and American was the arrangement.
And very modern and American were all of Otoyo's arrangements now. Her
clothes bore the stamp of the best New York shops, with the most
up-to-date shoes and hats, and she endeavored in every way to be as
American as possible. She even tried to use the slang she heard around
her, but her attempts in that direction were very laughable.
In due time the holidays arrived, and with them came our own Judy full
of enthusiasm for her work at the art school; came young Andy with his
Japanese friend from the law school. Andy looking older and broader and
more robust, not half so raw-boned as he used to be, and the young
Japanese gentleman, on first sight, so like Otoyo that it was funny--but,
on further acquaintance, it proved to be a racial likeness only; came
Nance's father, a staid, quiet gentleman with his daughter's merry brown
eyes and a general look of one to be depended on; came George Theodore
Green, familiarly known as Dodo, no longer so shy, but with much more
assurance of manner, as befitted a medical student from Johns Hopkins.
Miss Grace Green had secretly sent out invitations for the surprise
party for Christmas Eve, and all the girls were very busy getting their
best bibs and tuckers in order to do honor to the occasion. Molly had
seen a good deal of Miss Green since she came to Wellington to keep
house for her brother, and they had become fast friends. Miss Green
often asked her to come in to afternoon tea, and then they would have
the most delightful talks in the professor's study, and he would read to
them. Sometimes Molly would be prevailed upon to read some of her
sketches, always of Kentucky and the familiar things of her childhood.
She lost her shyness in doing this, and felt that it rather helped her
and gave her new ideas for more things to write about.
"Judy, please help me unpack this barrel from home," called Molly the
day before Christmas. "I know you will want to help carry some of the
things to the Greens for me. I almost wish I had sent the barrel there,
as so many of the things are to go to them. We shall be laden down, I am
sure."