CHAPTER III

A MERRY CHRISTMAS

Of all Polly's new friends, not one took a warmer interest in the

young idea-vendor than that first customer of hers, Miss Beatrice

Compton. Miss Beatrice was a warm-hearted and enthusiastic girl, who

never did anything by halves; and when she talked of Polly, of Polly's

skill and of Polly's originality, when she extolled Polly's eyes and

Polly's hair, Polly's wit and Polly's sweetness, few listeners

remained quite unmoved and incurious. Among the many who were thus

stirred to seek out this youthful paragon, was Miss Compton's

brother-in-law, Mr. Horace Clapp. Nor was an idle curiosity his only

motive in taking the step. Beneath the pretext he found for paying the

visit lurked a rather shamefaced purpose of doing this "plucky little

genius" a good turn.

It happened, therefore, one morning in December, that Polly came home

from her marketing to find a stranger sitting in her porch. A

dog-cart, driven by a groom in livery, was passing and repassing her

door; and one look at the occupant of the porch sufficed to fix the

connection between the two. He was a well-dressed man of thirty or

more, who rose as she opened the gate and saluted her as if she had

been a duchess.

"Miss Polly Fitch?" he inquired, as he stood before her, hat in hand.

It was noticeable that no one ever omitted the "Polly" from the girl's

name. It seemed as much a part of her as the ruddy hair and the dimple

in her chin. That dimple, by the way, should have been mentioned long

ago; but that, in its turn, was so essential a feature, that one would

as soon think it necessary to state that Polly's nose had an upward

tilt as that her chin had a dimple. Any one who had ever heard of

Polly must know that her nose would tilt and her chin have a dimple.

Polly had a large market-basket on her arm, and as she felt in her

pocket for the key to the front door, her visitor took possession of

the basket. She was a good deal impressed by the attention from so

magnificent a personage, and one, moreover, of advanced years. She

began to think that she must be mistaken about his being thirty; why,

that was Cousin John's age, and Cousin John was quite an oldish man.

She motioned her visitor to enter, and it must be admitted that there

was no oppressive reverence in her tone as she said:

"If you would tell me _your_ name, now we should be starting fair!"

"My name is Horace Clapp. Did you ever hear of me?"

"No, I don't think so. Ought I to have?"

"Well, no, there's no obligation in the matter. I only had an idea

that I was a local celebrity, like you."

"Like me?"

"Yes! You're a surprise to the town and so am I."

"What have you done to surprise the town?" asked Polly, filled with

curiosity.

"I've only got rich very fast."

"Why, so have I!" said Polly. "We _are_ a good deal alike."

"Really? Then you will be in an even better position to advise me than

I thought for."

"I _supposed_ you had come for an idea," said Polly, as naturally as

if her wares had consisted in tape and buttons.

Offering her visitor the only fairly comfortable chair in the room,

she seated herself by the window, near which was one of the draped

barrels with her work-basket on top.

"You won't mind my sewing, please," she said, picking up a bit of

embroidery; "I can think better that way."

The new customer meanwhile was wondering whether Miss Polly would

guess that he had come partly from curiosity, and partly with that

other far more daring motive of finding a way to do her a service.

And yet, who could tell? Perhaps she _could_ give him a hint; perhaps

she _was_ the youthful sibyl people seemed half inclined to believe

her.

"Miss Polly," he said, leaning forward in his chair, with his elbows

on his knees,--"Miss Polly, I've got an awful lot of money, and I

don't know what to do with it."

Mere words had not often the power of staying Polly's needle, but at

this astounding declaration she actually let her work fall in her lap,

and gazed with wide-eyed wonder at the speaker.

"Yes," he went on, "I really want to do some good with it, and I've

tried in lots of ways and I've never hit it off. I should just like to

tell you about some of the things I've made a fizzle of in the last

year,--if it wouldn't bore you?"

"Oh, no, it wouldn't bore me; nothing ever does. Only,--I can't

understand it. Why, I think I could give away _a thousand dollars a

year_ just there at home, where we used to live, and every dollar of

it would be well spent!"

"Yes, Miss Polly," he said very meekly, "but, you see, what I've got

to consider is _two hundred thousand_ dollars a year!"

He looked positively ashamed of himself, and Polly did not wonder. She

had given a little gasp at mention of the sum; then she shook her head

with decision. Polly knew her limits.

"I haven't any ideas big enough for that" she said. "I should as soon

think of advising the President of the United States!"

"Well, if you won't advise me about mine, perhaps you will tell me

what you are going to do with your own riches. You said you were

getting rich, did you not? You know," he added, "it isn't necessary to

make the map of a State as big as the State itself."

"You have ideas, too," Polly remarked appreciatively, resuming her

embroidery.

"But you have not told me how you are going to use your riches."

"Oh, I'm going to use mine for education."

"Going up to the college?" he asked.

"Oh, no; there'd be no good in my knowing a lot. I've been nearly

through the Fieldham High School already, and the little that I've

learned doesn't seem to stick very well. No, indeed! I'm going to--"

she paused with a feeling of loyalty to Dan--"I'm only going to help

on the general cause of education," she finished demurely.

As she made this sphinx-like remark, Mr. Horace Clapp wished she would

relinquish the pursuit of wealth long enough to put her work down and

let him see exactly what she meant.

"I think that is the best use to put money to," he said gravely, "but

I'm not in the way of knowing about people who need help. Couldn't you

tell me of somebody, some young man who wanted to go to college, or

some girl who would like to go abroad? Of course, I could found a

scholarship, or endow a 'chair,' but one likes a bit of the personal

element in one's work."

Polly's heart gave a thump. Here was a chance for Dan; a word from her

was all that was needed to make his path an easy one. Had she a right

to withhold that word,--to cramp and hinder him? She did not speak for

a good many seconds; she simply plied her needle with more and more

diligence, while her breath came fast and unevenly. Suddenly a furious

blush went mounting up into her temples and spread itself down her

neck. Her visitor thought he had never seen any one blush like that,

and it somehow struck him that his little plan was swamped. Quite

right he was, too. Polly blushed to think that she had thought of Dan

in such a connection for a single instant.

It was very unreasoning, this impulse of rebellious shame: are we not

admonished to help one another? And what could the helpers do if all

their benefactions were indignantly thrust back? Very unreasoning

indeed, but natural!--natural as the colour of her hair and the

quickness of her wit, natural as all the graces and virtues, all the

misconceptions and foibles, that went to make up the personality of

Polly Fitch,--of Polly Fitch, the daughter of Puritan ancestors; men

and women who could starve, body and mind, but who never had learned

to accept a charity.

Before the flush had died away, Polly was quite herself again, and

looked up so brightly and sweetly that Mr. Clapp took heart of hope.

"You do know somebody like that; I'm sure you do!" he said

insinuatingly.

"I?" said Polly. "I know hardly anybody. But I'm sure the president of

the college could tell you of a dozen boys who would be grateful for

help."

And so Mr. Horace Clapp's little plan had come to nought, and he took

his leave more than ever convinced that it is a very difficult thing

to spend one's money in a good cause. As he stood a moment, waiting

for his dog-cart, a boy came down the street with a parcel under his

arm.

"Say, Mister, do you know whether Daniel Fitch lives here?" he asked.

"Daniel Fitch?" thought Mr. Clapp, as the boy turned in at the gate.

"Daniel Fitch? Where have I heard that name? Oh, yes, Beatrice said

there was a brother; runs errands for Jones, the druggist. Plucky

children! It would be pleasant to give them a lift!"

As for Polly, she had not a twinge of regret. In fact, she rather

enjoyed dwelling upon the splendour of the opportunity she had thrust

from her, the better to glory in her escape. And she looked forward

with entire confidence to the time when she should test Dan's feeling

on the point.

On Christmas Eve they hung up their stockings, fairly bulging with

materialised jokes and ideas which the morning was to bring to light,

and we may be sure that they did not wait for the lazy winter sun to

put in an appearance before beginning their investigations. Amid

shouts of merriment the revelations of a remarkably inventive Santa

Claus were greeted, while Polly held her climbing excitement in check

until the hour should be ripe for greater things. But when, at last,

just as the sun was peeping in at the kitchen window, Dan's ferret

fingers penetrated the extreme toe of his sock, she grew so agitated

that she quite forgot to make a certain witty observation she had been

saving up for that particular moment. And so it came about that an

unwonted silence reigned as the unsuspecting Dan drew forth a small

flat parcel labelled: "A Merry Christmas from Polly."

Within was their familiar bank-book, wrapped about with a less

familiar sheet of note-paper bearing the following inscription:

"An Idea! Namely, to wit: That Daniel Reddiman Fitch, Esq., lay aside

his character of Mercury, and become a student at Colorado College!

"P. S.--An examination of the within balance will assure the said Dan

that there is nothing to prevent his thus delighting the heart of his

faithful Polly."

A glance at the balance recorded, a reperusal of the "idea," and the

impressive silence was broken into a thousand fragments.

"For you see, Dan," Polly explained, when, at last, she had secured a

hearing, "I shouldn't know what in the world to do with so much

money,--some rich people don't, they say,--and I've got plenty of

ideas to last us for years to come. Then, just as they begin to give

out, you'll have got to be a mining engineer, with your pockets

cram-full of money, and you'll have to support me for the rest of my

life. So I don't see but that I'm getting the best of the bargain,

after all!"

It all seemed perfectly natural to Dan. This sister of his had always

lent a hand when he needed it. Of course he would accept her help, and

let the future, the glorious, inexhaustible future straighten out the

account between them. He did not express himself even in his inmost

thoughts in any such high-flown manner as this. He simply gave an

Indian war-whoop, administered to Polly a portentous hug, and declared

for the hundredth time, "Polly, you _beat the world!_"

When everything was thus amicably settled and Dan had agreed to "give

notice" in his capacity as Mercury, the following day, Polly said:

"You won't mind being poor, will you, Dan? You don't wish we were

rich, do you?"

"Rich? Why, we _are_ rich!"

"But, Dan, if any one came along and offered you a lot of money, say a

thousand dollars a year, you wouldn't take it, would you?"

"Do you mean a stranger, Polly, some one we hadn't any claim on?"

"Yes; but somebody who had such a lot he wouldn't miss it. Would you

take it, Dan? Say, would you take it?"

"What a goose you are, Polly! Of course I wouldn't take it! I would

rather go back to the Augæans for the rest of my life!"

On the evening of that momentous Christmas Day, our two young people

had out their Latin books and began industriously to polish up their

somewhat rusty acquirements in that classic tongue. A year ago they

might not have regarded this as precisely a holiday pastime, but their

ideas had undergone a great change since then.

They sat at the little centre-table, the ruddy head and the black one

close together in the lamp-light, reading their Cicero. A rap at the

door seemed a rude interruption; yet so unusual was the excitement of

an evening visitor that they could not be quite indifferent to the

event,--the less so when the visitor proved to be Polly's client of

the cumbrous income.

"Good evening, Miss Polly," he called, from the door, and Polly

fancied that his voice had a particularly cheerful ring in it. As he

spoke, he glanced at Dan, who had opened the door.

"This is my brother, Dan. Won't you come in, Mr. Clapp?"

"With all the pleasure in the world, for I have come in the character

of Santa Claus."

"Have you indeed?" thought Polly to herself; "we'll see about that!"

Perhaps there was something in her manner that betrayed her thoughts,

for her visitor said, with evident amusement:

"You take alarm too easily, Miss Polly. I should as soon think of

offering a gift in my own name to,--to any other extremely rich young

woman."

"I was glad to hear that your brother's name was Dan," he continued

with apparent irrelevance, as he took his seat. "And more delighted

still when I found out his middle name. Didn't it strike you," he

asked, turning abruptly to Dan, "that your employer, Mr. Jones, was

developing rather a sudden interest in your antecedents?"

"Yes," Polly thought, "he is pleased about something."

"Why, yes," Dan answered, with boyish bluntness. "But what do you know

about it?"

"Only that it was I that put Jones up to making his inquiries."

"You?" Dan looked half inclined to resent the liberty. But Polly saw

that there was something coming.

"Would you mind telling us what it's all about?" she asked. "You look

as if you knew something nice."

"I do; it's one of the nicest things I ever knew in my life. I didn't

tell you the other day, did I, that I had made most of my money in

mines?"

"No," said Polly, wondering why he should want to tell them how he

made "his old money."

"Well, that is the case; nearly all in one mine, too. It's a great

placer mine up north. I don't suppose you know much about placer

mines?"

Polly, disclaiming such knowledge, tried to look politely interested,

while Dan's interest, fortunately for his manners, was very genuine.

Was he not to be a mining engineer, and did he not want to learn all

he could?

"Well," Mr. Clapp went on, "a placer mine is one where the gold lies

embedded in the soil and has to be washed out, and if there doesn't

happen to be running water near by it costs an awful lot to bring it

in."

"Yes," said the polite Polly, with a vision of a fire-brigade running

about with buckets in their hands, as they used to do in Fieldham.

"What they call hydraulic mining," Dan put in.

"Yes, that's it. Big ditches to be dug, and all that sort of thing.

Well, this 'Big Bonus Mine' was discovered twenty years ago. A company

was started and the stock was put on the market at a dollar a share.

The management made a mess of it, as a management usually does, and it

fizzled out. It was believed that the thing was chock-full of gold,

but they couldn't get it out."

Polly was beginning to be interested; she usually did find things

interesting when she gave her mind to them.

"Well, what did they do?" asked Dan.

"They gave it up for a bad job, and tried to forget all the money they

had put into it."

"Then where did your money come from?"

"Out of the 'Big Bonus Placer Gold Mine!' We scoop it right out

to-day."

"I wish you'd go ahead!" said Dan, for the guest had paused, and was

examining the _Cicero_.

"Well, hydraulic mining improves, like every thing else, and three

years ago a new company was formed. Luckily the old company had not

gone into debt; perhaps they could not borrow money on their elephant.

However that may be, they agreed to put half their stock back into the

treasury, and it was sold at fifty cents a share, which gave us money

to work with."

"And it was a howling success!" cried Dan. "I remember; I've heard all

about it."

"Yes, we've paid out two dollars a share in dividends in the last six

months, and the stock is held at fifteen or sixteen dollars a share

to-day. The beauty of it is," Mr. Horace Clapp added, glancing quietly

from Dan to Polly, "I am convinced that you are both stockholders."

"We?" they cried in a breath.

"Yes! For Jones tells me that your father was a doctor; that his name

was Daniel Reddiman Fitch, and that he once lived in Bington, Ohio."

"Yes," said Polly; "that was when he was first married; before old

Doctor Royce died, and left an opening in Fieldham, so that Father

came back home again."

"The name of such a stockholder stands on our books, but we haven't

heretofore been able to trace him."

"That's why old Jones pumped me so," Dan remarked, giving his mind

first to the more familiar aspects of the case.

"What a pity he never knew!" said Polly, with glistening eyes. "He was

always so poor."

"Your father's original holdings were five thousand shares, so that

you are the possessors of twenty-five hundred shares. If you sell it

pretty soon, as I think you may as well do, you will have something

over forty thousand dollars to invest; for there is, in addition to

the stock, five thousand dollars in back dividends due you."

Dan and Polly looked at each other almost aghast; but that was only

for a moment.

"Why, Dan, you can have a saddle-horse of your own!" cried Polly.

"And so can you!"

"And we can--O Mr. Clapp, how rude we are!"

Mr. Clapp looked as if it were a kind of rudeness that he was enjoying

very much. As he rose to go, he said:

"Don't you think I'm a pretty good sort of a Santa Claus after all,

Miss Polly?"

Polly seized his outstretched hand.

"I didn't believe any one person could be so rich, and so good, too!"

she declared.

"And, O Dan!" cried Polly, the minute they were alone together, "let's

send a New-Year's box home. There'll be just time enough. We can get

one of those great carriage rugs for Uncle Seth, and a China silk for

Aunt Lucia."

"And I'll send Cousin John's boys some Indian bows and arrows."

"And Cousin Martha a dozen Chinese cups and saucers."

"And the old Professor a meerschaum pipe."

"And Miss Louisa Bailey, and dear Mrs. Dodge, and the Widow

Criswell,--what _shall_ we send the Widow Criswell, Dan?"

"Some black-bordered pocket-handkerchiefs!" cried the irreverent Dan.

Before going to bed they stepped out on the porch to bid the Peak

good-night.

"Going to be a fine day to-morrow, Polly."

"All the days are fine in Colorado," said Polly.

"You forget the blizzard last month."

"Oh, but it was _such a dear blizzard_ not to do you any harm when it

caught you out!"

Dan grew thoughtful.

"Do you ever think, Polly, that we should never have come out here if

it hadn't been for you?"

"You know it was 'Pike's Peak or bust!' with both of us, Dan."

Dan looked critically from the great Peak, gleaming there in the

starlight, to Polly's uplifted face, and then, as they turned to go

in, he exclaimed, for the hundred-and-first time:

"Polly, _you beat the world!_"

NANNIE'S THEATRE PARTY

CHAPTER I

NANNIE'S THEATRE PARTY

"Yes, my dear, I went to the the_ett_er myself once when I was quite a

girl, younger 'n you be, I guess. 'Twas Uncle 'Bijah Lane that took

me, 'n' he was so upsot by their hevin' a fun'ral all acted out on the

stage, that he come home and told Ma 'twa'n't no fit place for young

girls to go to, 'n' I ain't never ben inside a the_ett_er sence. Doos

seem good to see play-actin' agin after all these years, I declare it

doos!"--and Miss Becky took up her sewing, which she had laid down in

a moment of enthusiasm.

"If you liked it half as well as I like to do it, Miss Becky, you'd

like it even better than you do now," replied Lady Macbeth, with a

cheerful gusto, somewhat at odds with her tragic character.

Nannie Ray, herself still very new to the delights of theatre-going,

had recently seen a great actress play Lady Macbeth, and, fired with

the spirit of emulation, she had been enacting the sleep-walking scene

for the benefit of her country neighbour. Miss Becky Crawlin lived

only half a mile down the road from the old Ray homestead, where the

family were in the habit of spending six months of the year. She and

Nannie had always been great cronies, Miss Becky finding a perennial

delight in "that child's goin's on."

The "child" meanwhile had come to be sixteen years old, but no one

would have given her credit for such dignity who had seen the

incongruous little figure perched upon the slippery haircloth sofa,

twinkling with delight at Miss Becky's encomiums. She wore a

voluminous nightgown, from under the hem of which a pink gingham

ruffle insisted upon poking itself out; her long black hair hung over

her shoulders in sufficiently tragic strands; her cheeks, liberally

powdered with flour, gleamed treacherously pink through a chance

break in their highly artificial pallor, while portentous brows of

burnt cork did their best to make terrible a pair of very girlish and

innocent eyes. A touch of realism which the original Lady Macbeth

lacked was given by a streak of red crayon which lent a murderous

significance to the small brown hand.

"I declare!" her admiring auditor went on, stitching away to make up

for lost time, "I can't see but you do's well's the lady I saw--only

she was dressed prettier, and went round with a wreath on her head. A

wreath's always so becomin'! We used to wear 'em May Day, when I was a

girl. They was made o' paper flowers, all colours, so's you could suit

your complexion, and when it didn't rain I must say we looked reel

nice. 'Twas surprisin', though, how quick a few drops o' rain would

wilt one o' them paper wreaths right down so's you could scurcely tell

what 'twas meant for."

"Tell me some more about the girl with the wreath, Miss Becky," said

Lady Macbeth, longing to curl herself up in a corner, but too mindful

of her tragic dignity to unbend.

"Well, she looked reel pretty, but she didn't hev _sperit_ enough to

suit my idees. She was kind o' lackadaisical and namby-pamby, 'n' when

her young man sarsed her she didn't seem to hev nothin' to say for

herself. I must say 'twas a heathenish kind of a play anyway, 'n' I

ain't surprised that Uncle 'Bijah got sot agin it. The language wa'n't

sech as I'd ben brought up to, either."

Lady Macbeth had leaned forward and was clasping her knees, thus

unconsciously widening the expanse of pink gingham visible beneath the

white robe. She was glad she had modified her Shakespeare to suit her

listener, though "Out, _dreadful_ spot!" was not nearly as

bloodcurdling as the original.

Miss Becky, meanwhile, had not paused in her narration.

"There was a long-winded young man," she was saying, "him that sarsed

his girl, 'n' he went slashin' round, killin' folks off in a kind of

an aimless way, an'----"

"It must have been _Hamlet_ that you saw!" cried Nannie, much excited.

"Oh, I do so want to see _Hamlet_!"

"Yes, _Hamlet_; that was it. And then there was a ghost in it that

sent the shivers down my back; 'n' a king 'n' queen; 'n' the king

looked for all the world like Deacon Ember, Jenny Lowe's grandpa, that

died before you was born; 'n' I declare, I _did_ enjoy it! 'Twas jest

like bein' alive in history times! Why, I ain't had sech shivers down

my spine's the ghost give me, sence that day, till I seen you standin'

there tryin' to wash your hands without any water, 'n' your eyes

rollin' fit to scare the cat!"

"Would you like to have me do it again for you, Miss Becky?" asked

Nan, springing to her feet with renewed ardour. And straightway she

stationed herself at the end of the little room and began propelling

herself forward with occasional erratic halts.

The September sunshine came slanting through the tiny panes of glass

at the window, and touched with impartial grace the youthful figure

of distracted mien, the worsted tidies on the haircloth sofa, and the

neat alpaca occupant of the stuffed "rocker." Again the sewing was

forgotten, and Miss Becky's glittering spectacles were fixed upon the

tragic queen. As the queer little figure stalked solemnly down the

room, eyes fixed in a glassy stare, hands wringing one another

distressfully; as a moving wail rent the air, to the effect that "all

the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand," a most

agreeable succession of shivers made a highway of Miss Becky's spine.

"Why don't you ever go to the theatre now, Miss Becky?" Nannie asked,

when, having laid aside her tragic toggery, she came in her own person

to take her leave. "I should think you'd like to go again."

"Oh, yes, I should be reel tickled to go again, but I ain't got nobody

to go with, and, well--there's other reasons besides."

[Illustration: "All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little

hand."]

Nannie blushed to think how inconsiderate she had been to force her

old friend to allude, even indirectly, to her poverty, and she walked

up the dusty road to her own gate, filled with compunction. Just

outside the gate was a little wilderness of goldenrod and asters. She

thought what a pity it was they should get so gray with dust. Poor

things, they could not help it; they had to stay where chance had

planted them unless somebody picked them and carried them away, and

even then they left their roots behind them. Somehow they made her

think of Miss Becky, living her little narrow, stationary life all

alone in the old tumble-down farmhouse. And just at this point in her

reflections a delightful scheme came into her head.

Now, Nannie was the recipient of a slender monthly allowance intended

for gloves and ruchings, postage stamps, and the like, and, having

spent the last four months far from the allurements of city shops, she

happened at this juncture to be in funds. Her stock of gloves, to be

sure, was pretty well exhausted, and Christmas was only a few months

away. But Miss Becky was nearer still, and Nannie had no hesitation

between the two claims. As a natural consequence it happened that,

one pleasant day early in October, Miss Becky, in her best black

bonnet, found herself steaming up to Boston, about to do Nannie "a

real favour" by chaperoning her to the theatre. Miss Becky was so much

impressed by the gravity of her responsibility that she hardly took in

the fact that she was going to the theatre herself!

They were to see _The Shaughraun_--a play which her best friend had

assured Nannie was "just great"; and as the train rushed up to town

the young hostess was at a loss to decide whether she was happier on

her own account or on Miss Becky's. To be sure, she was just a little

disappointed about Miss Becky, who seemed curiously silent and stiff;

and when they came out of the station and walked up the crowded city

street, the old lady held her by the sleeve and looked bewildered and

frightened.

"How long is it since you've been in Boston?" Nannie asked, looking up

into the anxious old face framed in the black silk bonnet which

looked twice as old-fashioned as ever before.

"Not sence Sophia was married 'n' we came up to select her weddin'

gownd. I was quite a girl then, an' I guess I felt more at home in a

crowd than I do now. We don't often hev much of a crowd out our way."

They were among the first to take their seats at the theatre. Mr. Ray

had got places for them only three rows back from the stage, and, once

established there, Nannie felt that they were in a safe haven, where

her guest could grow calm and responsive again.

At first Miss Becky was almost too overawed to speak, but after a

while she got the better of the situation and began telling Nannie all

about Sophia and her "true-so," and how they got lost on their way to

the station and almost missed their train, which was the only train

"out" in old times.

"I do hope we sha'n't miss our train to-night, my dear! It doos seem's

though we might 'f they don't begin pretty soon," and the old

lady--for a very old lady she seemed to have become all of a

sudden--fidgeted in her chair, and looked over her shoulder to see if

the seats were not filling up.

"We sha'n't lose our train, Miss Becky," Nannie assured her. "You know

it doesn't go until half-past five o'clock, and the play is always

over before five. And even if we did miss it we could take the

seven-fifteen."

"Oh, dear, no! I sh'd feel reel bad to miss the train. Why, it gits

dark by six o'clock, 'n' 'twouldn't be safe for us to be goin' round

the city streets after dark. We might git garroted or, or--_spoken

to!_ Dear me! I _wish_ they would begin!"

"If it gets late, Miss Becky, we won't wait for the end of the play,"

said Nannie, while a very distinct pang seized her at thought of

missing anything.

"I think that _would_ be better!" Miss Becky cried, with evident

relief. "Don't you think it might be better to go out a little early,

anyway? They'll be such a crowd when everybody tries to go out to

once that we might git delayed. _My!_ what a sight of people there is

already! And up in the galleries, too! Ain't you 'most afeared to stay

in sech a crowd?"

"Oh, no, Miss Becky. It's just like this always, and nothing ever

happens."

"Them galleries don't look strong enough to hold many people. Why,

Nannie, see! They ain't any _pillows_ under 'em! What do you suppose

keeps 'em up?"

"I don't know, I'm sure; but they're safe enough."

At this point the orchestra struck up a popular tune and silence fell

upon Miss Becky. She sat, stiff and severe, gazing straight before

her, and when Nannie ventured to make a remark she received only a

reproving look in reply.

How strange it was, Nannie thought! She had meant to give Miss Becky

such a treat, and here sat her guest, looking anxious and

distressed--yes, more anxious and distressed than she looked a year

ago when her cow died. But then the play had not begun yet, Nannie

reflected, with a gleam of hope. When the play had once begun, Miss

Becky would forget all her worries and be as "tickled" as she had

counted on her being. And when once the curtain had gone up, Nannie at

least had no more misgivings. Her fancy was instantly taken captive,

first by the charming young officer and his pretty Irish sweetheart,

then by the fine old priest, then by Con himself,--dear, droll,

happy-go-lucky Con, with his picturesque foibles, his bubbling humour,

and his phenomenal virtues. From the moment of his entry, with

"Tatters" just not at his heels, Nannie was all smiles and tears.

Miss Becky, meanwhile, sat erect as a ramrod, a look of perplexity

screwing her wrinkles all out of shape. Her bonnet had got somewhat

askew from her constant effort to keep an eye on those unsupported

galleries, and there was a general air of discomfort about her, which

was the first thing that struck Nannie when, as the curtain fell upon

the first act, she turned to look at her.

"Aren't you enjoying it, Miss Becky?" she asked, with quick anxiety.

"Oh, yes, I'm hevin' a reel pleasant time. 'T ain't through yet, is

it?"

"Why, no; it's only just begun. There's lots more! May Colby says that

Con gets them all out of all their troubles and almost gets killed

himself!"

"I sh'd think 't would take a long time. Are you sure 't ain't most

five o'clock?"

"Oh, no; it's only three. See! And my watch is fast, too. Wasn't it

funny about the letter?"

"Well, I didn't quite understand about that. What made 'em laugh so?"

"Why, that was because he couldn't read, and so he had to make it all

up out of his head."

"Well!" declared Miss Becky, with strong disapproval, "I don't think

he'd ought to hev deceived his mother that way; do you?"

This was a poser; but at that moment the orchestra came to the rescue

with a new tune, and Nannie was spared the necessity of replying.

After that the play became every moment more exciting and the central

figure more entirely captivating, and even between the acts Nannie

was preoccupied and unobservant. They had got to the prison scene,

with all its ingenious intricacies of plot and stage machinery; Con

had accomplished the rescue, and was scrambling over the rocks, when

suddenly the sharp report of a rifle rang out, followed by another,

and then another, in quick succession.

Instantly Nannie felt her arm clutched, and she heard Miss Becky

saying: "You must come right away, this very minute!"

"Oh, please not, Miss Becky," she implored.

But there was a resolute gleam in Miss Becky's eye.

"Come right along, child," she whispered, hoarsely, "come right along

with me!"--and poor Nannie, to her consternation and chagrin, found

herself absolutely obliged to follow.

The whole row of people stood up to let them pass, and every kind of

look--glances of amusement and curiosity, of annoyance and of

sympathy--followed the oddly assorted pair, as they made their way

out of the slip and then up the aisle.

Once outside the door, the tension of Miss Becky's face relaxed, but

she did not waver in her determination.

"There, child!" she cried, as they walked down the slight incline of

the long passageway to the street. "There! I am glad I had strength

given me to do my duty by you!"

"But, Miss Becky, there wasn't a bit of danger," Nannie protested,

bravely keeping the tears back in her cruel disappointment. "Really,

there wasn't. Won't you _please_ go back with me, and just stand

inside the door and see the end of it? I'm sure they'd let us stand

inside the door."

"Nannie Ray," Miss Becky replied, looking very fiercely at the girl's

flushed cheeks and imploring eyes, "if you knew as much about firearms

as I do, you wouldn't ask such a thing. But there! It's jest because

you're young and inexperienced that your ma wanted me to come and look

after you. I guess she'll be thankful she was so foresighted when she

hears of the danger you was in."

In her exultation and relief of mind, Miss Becky marched on,

regardless of jostling crowds and thronging teams. Her whole attitude

had changed. She was no longer the timid, shrinking old woman; she was

the responsible guardian, aware of the importance of her charge, and

nothing was ever to convince her that she had not as good as saved

Nannie's life on that occasion.

Then Nannie, as became a hostess, accepted the situation with the best

grace in the world.

"I tell you what let's do, Miss Becky," she said. "Let's go and get

some ice-cream. That is, if you like it."

The stern old face relaxed.

"Oh, yes; I like ice-cream, especially vanilla. But--do you think

we've got time enough?"

"We've got an hour and a quarter before the train goes. Let's come in

here and get it."

From the crowded street they passed in at the doorway and walked

between marble counters to what seemed to Miss Becky a scene in

fairyland. Ascending two or three broad steps, on each side of which

an antlered stag kept guard, they stepped upon a great carpeted space,

lighted from above,--a space in the middle of which was a fountain,

springing high into the air, and splashing back into a round basin

lined with shining shells and pebbles, over and among which goldfish

swam and dove like animated jewels. Ferns and palms grew all about the

basin, and in among the greenery was a little table where Nannie and

her guest sat hidden safe away from the world.

"Well, this doos beat all!" the old lady exclaimed, gazing at the

fountain with an expression of rapt delight--just the expression that

Nannie had counted upon seeing among the wrinkles.

"Do you like it?" she asked, all her disappointment and chagrin

forgotten.

"Like it? Why, it's the most tasty place I was ever in! It's better

than any play; it's like bein' in a play yourself! Jest see them

pillows supportin' that gallery! 'N' them picters of tropical fruits!

'N' this ice-cream! Why, it's different from what we hev at the

Sunday-school picnics! 'Pears to me it's more creamy!"

Now, at last, Miss Becky had lost all thought of the passage of time.

She took her ice-cream, just a little at a time, off the tip-end of

her spoon, and with every mouthful the look of content grew deeper.

One of the little cakes that were served with the ice-cream was a

macaroon with a sugar swan upon it--"a reel little statoo of a swan,"

Miss Becky called it. She could not be persuaded to eat it, but she

studied it with such undisguised admiration that Nannie ventured to

suggest that she take it home with her. Again Miss Becky was

enchanted. She wrapped it in her pocket-handkerchief, and placed it

carefully in her reticule, whence it was to emerge only to enter upon

a long and admired career as a parlour ornament.

"And now, Miss Becky," Nannie queried, as they sat there embowered in

palms and ferns, listening to the plash of the fountain, "didn't you

enjoy the play at all?"

"Oh, yes," said Miss Becky, "I had a very pleasant time before they

got so reckless with their guns. But--I wonder whether they take sech

pains with the the-etter's they used to? Why, when I went with Uncle

'Bijah Lane that time, they all wore the most beautiful clothes. Even

the men was dressed out in velvets and satins, and they wa'n't anybody

on the stage that didn't make a good appearance."

"But, you know, this was a different sort of play, Miss Becky. The

folks in _The Shaughraun_ weren't kings and queens, but just every-day

people."

"Well, s'posin' they was! I don't see no excuse for that man Con goin'

round lookin' so slack. I sh'd think he might at least git a whole

coat to wear when he 'pears before the public!"

"I'm afraid you're sorry you came," said Nannie, very meekly, feeling

quite ashamed of her poor little party.

"Oh, no, I ain't! Why, child, I'd hev come _barefoot_ to see this

place here, with the founting a-splashin' and the fishes a-gleamin'!

_Barefoot_, I tell ye!"

It was a forcible expression, yet Nannie was not quite reassured. She

still demurred.

"But the play was the principal thing, you know."

"The play? Well, I don't know," said Miss Becky, thoughtfully. "I

don't know's I'm so terrible sot on the the_ett_er's I thought for.

I'd a good deal ruther hev you come over 'n do that sleep-walkin'

piece for me. I don't want nothin' better'n that. 'F I can see you act

that once in a while, 'n' hev this here Garding of Eden to think

about,--a founting playin' right in the house, 'n' all,--I ain't

likely to want for amusement."

The best bonnet was still very much askew, but the pleasant old face

within, whose wrinkles had resumed their accustomed grooves, was

irradiated with a look of unmistakable beatitude; and somehow it was

borne in upon Nannie that her theatre party had been a success after

all.

OLIVIA'S SUN-DIAL

CHAPTER I

OLIVIA'S SUN-DIAL

"It's all we need to make it the prettiest garden in Dunbridge."

"Hm! And why must we have the prettiest garden in Dunbridge?"

"Why shouldn't we?"

Here was a deadlock--a thing quite shockingly out of place in a

garden, and one's own particular garden at that!

Olivia Page could make almost anything grow, as she had abundantly

proved, but even her garden-craft could hardly suffice for the setting

of a sun-dial on a pedestal of snow-white marble over there where the

four triangular rose-beds converged to a circle, and where the south

sun would play on it all day long.

For a year Olivia had dreamed of this, and, since she was not a

churlishly reticent young person, it was not the first intimation her

father had received of her desire. Not until to-day, however, had she

asked outright for what she wanted.

"I wish you would say something more," she remarked, glancing sidewise

at the professor's deeply corrugated countenance, which, for all their

intimacy, was sometimes difficult to decipher. She had heard of girls

who could twist their parents round their fingers; she wondered how

they did it.

The two were sitting on the white half-circle of a bench that stood at

the west boundary of the old tennis-court, just where one end of the

net used to be staked up. Excepting for that break, three sides of the

garden were fenced in by the high wire screen originally designed to

keep the tennis balls within bounds, and now doing duty as a trellis

over which a luxuriant woodbine clambered, waving its reddening

tendrils in the light September breeze. Wide flowerbeds bordered the

entire court, the central turf being broken only by the cluster of

rose-beds at the further end. From the white bench one looked across

the grass to a broad flight of veranda steps, flanked on the right by

a mass of white boltonia, while on the left a superb growth of New

England asters reared their sturdy heads.

The garden had been a great success this year, quite the admiration of

the neighbourhood. Really, Papa must be proud of it, and it was all

Olivia's doing. Who would ever guess that it had had its modest

beginnings in half a dozen tin cracker-boxes with holes bored in the

bottoms, where, in March, two years ago, she had planted queer little

brown seeds as hard as pebbles, which Nature had straightway taken in

hand, softening and expanding them down there in the dark, till they

came alive, and began feeling their way up to meet the sun. Ah, the

bliss of seeing those first tiny shoots turn into stems and leaflets,

ready to play their part in the great spring awakening! Would Olivia

ever love any flowers quite as she had loved those first seedlings,

especially a certain pentstemon, which blossomed "white with purple

spots," exactly as the seed-catalogue had promised?

Yes, the garden was a great success, and just now it was at one of its

prettiest moments, gay with autumn colours; the rudbeckia in its

glory, and the great pink blossoms of the hibiscus spreading their

skirts for all the world like ladies in an old-time minuet, while over

yonder the soldier spikes of the flame-flower threatened to set the

woodbine afire. Olivia loved the Latin names, but somehow "tritonia"

did not seem to express those spikes of burning colour. And the roses!

How lovely those late hybrids were! Why, the way that Margaret Dickson

drooped her head above the pansies, still blooming freely at her feet,

was enough to melt the heart of a Salem gibraltar! A pity that the

professor's attention seemed for the moment to be riveted upon the toe

of his boot!

"I wish you would say something more," Olivia repeated.

"Something different, you mean," and Doctor Page smiled, benignly and

stubbornly.

"For instance, you might tell me why you are opposed to it."

"You wouldn't understand."

"I might; you said, only the other day, that I sometimes displayed

almost human intelligence!"

The professor liked to have his jokes remembered; but still he seemed

inclined to temporise.

"I might say that we couldn't afford it. It is generally conceded that

Alma Mater is not a munificent provider."

"Yes; and you might say that my great-grandfather was not an East

India trader--only you don't tell fibs."

"Or that a sun-dial is an anachronism."

"You are too good a Latin scholar for that."

"So a subterfuge won't do? Very well; then you'll have to put up with

a psychological proposition."

"How interesting!"

The professor glanced at the expectant young face turned toward him,

and he could not but admit that his estimate of its owner's

intelligence had been well within the truth.

"You think a sun-dial would make it the prettiest garden in

Dunbridge?"

"I'm sure it would."

"And that is what you are aiming at?"

"Yes."

"Now, I have noticed that when you have got what you are aiming at you

lose interest in it."

"O Papa!"

"There was tennis," he went on, marking off the list on a combative

forefinger, "and cookery; there was the Polyglot Club, and the

Sketching Club, and----"

"But, Papa! They were every one of them good things, and I got a lot

out of them; truly, I did."

"No doubt; but as soon as you could play tennis, or sketch a pine

tree, or toss an omelette a little better than the other girls, you

had squeezed your orange dry."

"But, Papa! I've stuck to gardening for more than two years!" Olivia's

tone seemed to give those years the dignity of centuries.

"True; but you haven't got your sun-dial. You will consider that the

finishing touch, and then before we know it you will be wanting to

turn the whole thing into a sand-garden for the little micks at the

Corners."

"Not such a bad idea," Olivia admitted unguardedly.

"There you are! The mere mention of a new scheme is enough to set you

agog!"

But this was not their first fencing match, and Olivia had learned to

parry.

"I thought you believed in people being open-minded," she ventured

demurely.

"And so I do; but not so open-minded that for every new idea that

comes in an old one goes out."

"Oh, the sun-dial hasn't got away yet," she laughed, springing to her

feet and going over to the court-end of the garden, where she placed

herself in the exact centre of the converging rose-beds.

"There!" she cried; "don't you see how my white gown lights up the

whole place? It's just the high light that it needs."

And so it was: a fact of which no one was better aware than the

professor. As he, too, rose and sauntered toward the house he could

not deny that Olivia's ideas were usually good. The only trouble was

that she had too many of them; and here was the kernel of truth that

gave substance to his whimsical argument. The beauty of the garden was

not lost upon him, nor yet the skill and industry of the young

gardener. But more important than either was the advantage to the

girl's health. Olivia was sound as a nut; of course she was! There

could be no doubt of that. But--so had her mother seemed, until that

fatal winter ten years ago. He did not fear for Olivia; why should he?

Only--well, this out-of-door life was a capital thing for anybody. No,

he could not have her tire of her garden.

At the foot of the veranda steps Dr. Page paused and glanced again at

his daughter. She had left the rose-beds and was already intent upon

her work, pulling seeds from the hollyhocks over yonder. She made a

pretty picture in her white gown, standing shoulder-high among the

brown stalks, her slender fingers deftly gleaning from such as showed

no rust. The child was really very persistent about her gardening; she

had fairly earned an indulgence. Perhaps, after all, she might be

trusted. He moved a few steps toward her.

"Olivia," he said,--and the first word betrayed his relenting,--"Olivia,

your sun-dial scheme is not such a bad idea. I should rather like that

white-petticoat effect myself. Supposing we say that if between now and

next June you don't think of anything you want more, we'll have it."

"Oh, you blessèd angel! What could I want more?"

"Time will show," the blessèd angel replied, retracing his steps

toward the house--unaided by angelic wings!

"Yes," Olivia called confidently. "It's the sun-dial that time will

show, and afterward--why, the sun-dial will show the time!"--and

although he made no sign, she knew there were little puckers of

amused approval about her father's mouth.

As if she could ever want anything more than a sun-dial! she thought,

while she passed along the borders, harvesting her little crop. She

had finished with the hollyhocks, and now she was bending over a bed

of withered columbines. And there were the foxglove seeds still

clinging. Really, it was almost impossible to keep up. How brilliant

the salvia was to-day, and what a brave second blossoming that was of

the delphinium, its knightly spurs, metallic blue, gleaming in the

sun!

"No," she declared to herself, "there will never be anything so much

worth while as the garden. Why, of course there won't; because Nature

is the best thing in the world--the very best."

"Plase, ma'am, will ye gimme a bowkay?"

Olivia turned, startled by a voice so near at hand, for she had heard

no footfall on the thick turf. There, in the centre of the grass-grown

space, stood two comical little midgets, their smutty yet cherubic

faces blooming brightly above garments highly coloured and earthy,

too, as the autumn garden-beds.

[Illustration: "Please ma'am, will ye gimme a bowkay?"]

"Dear me!" Olivia laughed, "how things do sprout in a garden! Did you

come right up out of the ground?"

"Plase, ma'am, a bowkay! Me mudder's sick an' me fader's goned away."

The speaker, a boy of five, stood holding by the hand something in the

way of a sister, about two sizes smaller. At Olivia's little joke,

which they did not in the least understand, they had both grinned

sympathetically, showing rows of diminutive teeth as white and even as

snow-berries.

"Bless your little hearts, of course you shall have a bouquet! Come

and choose one,"--and taking a hand of each Olivia led them slowly

along the brilliant borders.

They were a bit shy at first, but they soon picked up their courage,

and Patsy fell to accumulating a mass of incongruous blossoms whose

colours fought each other tooth and nail. Little Biddy, more modest,

as beseemed her inferior rank in the scale of being, fixed her heart

upon a single flame-flower which absolutely refused to reconcile

itself with the ingenuous pink of her calico frock.

"How long has your mother been ill?" Olivia asked of the boy, who by

this time was quite hidden behind a perfect forest of asters and

larkspur and lobelia cardinalis.

"Me mudder's always sick. She coughs an' coughs, and den she lays on

de bed long whiles."

"And she likes flowers?"

"Yes, ma'am; me an' Biddy picked a bowkay outen a ashba'l oncet, an'

me mudder sticked it in a tumbler an' loved it. Come, Biddy, make de

lady a bow!" Upon which the small Chesterfield stood off a few steps

and gave an absurd little bob of a bow which Biddy gravely endeavoured

to imitate.

"I think I'll go with you," said Olivia, open-minded as ever to a new

interest; and hand in hand and chattering amicably, the three moved

across the turf and down the long gravel walk to the dusty street.

Surprising how short the distance was between the sweet seclusion of

the old tennis-court and the squalid quarter where these little human

blossoms grew!

Olivia was thinking of that as she stood on the veranda an hour later,

looking down upon the flowery kingdom to which all her interest and

ambition had been pledged. Yes, it was lovely, lovely in the long

afternoon light, and it would have been lovelier still with the

gleaming marble she had dreamed of. She really tried to keep her mind

upon it, to forget the little drama over there in the stuffy tenement.

But no; she was too good a gardener for that. Was not a whole family

broken and wilting for lack of means to transplant it?

The doctor had ordered Mrs. O'Trannon to Colorado, and Mike had

dropped his work as "finisher"--whatever that might be--and had gone

out to prepare the way for the others to follow. He had found no

chance to work at his trade, but he had got a job on a ranch, where

the pay was small, but the living good. A fine place it would be for

the invalid and the children, when once he could get together the

money to send for them. But meanwhile here they were, and the winter

coming on.

As Olivia stood looking down upon her beloved garden, she could not

seem to see anything but brown stalks and dead blossoms. All that

lavish colour looked fictitious and transitory; she had somehow lost

faith in it.

Mrs. O'Trannon had been pleased with the flowers; she had grown up on

a farm, she said. Sure she never'd ha' got sick at all if she'd ha'

stayed where she belonged. But then, where would Mike have been, and

the babies? And where would Mike be, and the babies, Olivia thought

with a pang,--where would they be if the mother wilted and died? She

turned, suddenly, and passed in at the glass doors and on to her

father's study.

At sight of the kind, quizzical face lifted at her entrance, Olivia

winced a bit. About an hour and a half it must be, since he said it,

and he had given her a year! As if that made any difference! she told

herself, with a little defiant movement of the chin, as she crossed

the room and seated herself at the opposite side of the big

writing-table where she could face the music handsomely.

"Well, Olivia; changed your mind yet?" the professor inquired, struck,

perhaps, by the resolution of her aspect.

"Yes," she answered, in an impressive tone, "I've thought of something

I should prefer to a sun-dial."

Dr. Page took off his glasses and laid them upon his open book. He did

not really imagine that she was serious--such a turn-about-face was

too precipitate even for Olivia; but it pleased him to meet her on her

own ground.

"And what is it this time? A sixty-inch telescope? Or a diamond

tiara?"

"Well, no. Those are things I had not thought of--before! It's a kind

of gardening project--a little matter of transplanting."

"Will it cost a hundred and fifty dollars?"

"About that, I should think, to do it properly and comfortably.

And--it can't wait till June. It's the kind of transplanting that has

to be done in the autumn."

Then, dropping the little fiction, and resting her chin upon her

folded hands, the better to transfix her father's mocking

countenance,--"Papa," she said, "there's a poor family down at the

Corners,--our neighbours, you know,--and the mother is dying for want

of transplanting, just like the beautiful hydrangea--you

remember?--that I didn't understand about till it was too late. I

never knew what too late meant, till I saw that splendid great bush

lying stone-dead on the ground when we came home from the Adirondacks

last year. A great healthy hydrangea dying just for lack of the right

kind of soil! And now, here is this good human woman, that might live

out her life and bring up her little family, and be happy and useful

for years to come. Such a nice woman she must be to name her babies

Patsy and Biddy, when she might have called them Algernon and

Celestina, you know, and just spoiled it all!--and such a nice, kind

husband to take care of her on a big ranch where there's good air,

and lots to eat, and plenty of work and not too much, and--why Papa!

they might have a garden out there! who knows? What a thing that would

be for the prairie! A real New England garden!"

"With a sun-dial?" the professor interposed.

For an instant Olivia's face fell, but only for an instant.

"I've been thinking," she said, with a very convincing seriousness,

"that perhaps a sun-dial is not so important, after all. At any rate

it's not so important as the mother of a family; now, is it, Papa?"

"That depends upon the point of view," the professor opined. "As a

high light among the rose-bushes I should be constrained to give my

vote for the sun-dial."

Olivia sprang to her feet.

"That means that you are coming straight over with me to see Mrs.

O'Trannon," she cried, "and that you are going to have the whole

family packed off to Colorado quicker'n a wink! Come along, please!

There's plenty of time before dinner!"

* * * * *

"It's just another of Nature's miracles!" Olivia observed, as she and

her father stood one morning in late October watching the workmen pack

the sods about the beautiful pedestal, now securely planted upon its

base of cement and broken stone. "It always makes me think of the

wonderful things that came up in those tin cracker-boxes you used to

make such fun of. There really doesn't seem to be any place too

unlikely for Nature to set things going in."

The marble was but roughly hewn, in lines that held the suggestion of

an hourglass. The top only was smoothly finished, while here and there

on the curving sides the hint of a leaf, a blossom, a trailing vine,

came and went with the point of view, like cloud-pictures or the

pencillings of Jack Frost. It was as if a 'prentice-hand had tried to

express the soul of an artist, too self-distrustful to work more

boldly.

"Funny, how things come into your head," Olivia went on. "Do you know,

Papa, that day when I was helping Mrs. O'Trannon with her preposterous

packing and suddenly came upon this miracle hidden away under an old

bedquilt, the only thing I could think of was the way my first

pentstemons came out, 'white with purple spots,' exactly as I had

chosen them by the seed-catalogue. And to think that she had bought it

for a dollar of that poor stone-cutter's widow that was moving

out--bought it to make pastry on because the top was smooth and cold!

And then had never had time to make but one pie in the three years! I

wish you could have heard her tell about it. 'Faith, it cost me a

dollar, me one pie did, an' Mike says it's lucky it was that I didn't

make a dozen whin they come so high! Silly b'y, that Mike!' O Papa,

isn't it heavenly that they're together again?"

"So you think there is nothing Nature can't do?" Dr. Page mused, with

apparent irrelevance. "How about the sun-dial itself?"

"Oh, Nature will attend to that, too."

"She will, will she? And in what particular tin cracker-box should you

look for it to come up?"

"It wouldn't be polite to say," Olivia declared, looking with

unmistakable significance straight into her father's face.

"Saucebox!" he chuckled.

And when, in early June, the brass disk of the sun-dial had begun its

record of happy hours, and still Olivia toiled with unabated zeal at

her garden, the rose of health blooming ever brighter in her face, a

great sense of satisfaction and approval took possession of her

father's mind. But he only remarked, in a casual manner, as they sat

together on the white bench one fragrant sunset hour:

"After all, I'm not sure but Nature's biggest miracle has been

performed in the saucebox."

And Olivia, smiling softly, answered: "I told you, you know, that

there isn't any place too unlikely for Nature to set things going

in!"

BAGGING A GRANDFATHER

"I'll warrant that 'he, she, or it' will come! Di usually bags her

game!"

The speaker, Mr. Thomas Crosby, must have had implicit faith in his

daughter's prowess to venture such a confident assertion as that, for

he was quite in the dark as to who "he, she, or it" might be.

It was a cozy November evening, when open fires and friendly

drop-lights are in order, and the three grown-folks of the family were

enjoying these luxuries. Mr. Crosby was supposed to be reading his

paper, but he had a sociable way of letting fall an occasional item of

interest, or of letting fall the paper itself, at the first hint of

interest in the remarks of his wife and daughter.

Only within a very short time had there been three grown-folks in the

family, unless, indeed, we count Rollo, the Gordon setter, who had

attained his majority years ago. Di, who was but just turned sixteen,

really did not like to remember how very recently she had been sent to

bed at eight o'clock!

Could Mr. Crosby have guessed the scheme which was occupying the

active brain of the young person engaged in embroidering harmless

bachelor's buttons upon a linen centrepiece, he would have been very

much astonished,--whether pleasurably or otherwise, events alone must

show. And since events had been taken in hand by Di the revelation was

not likely to be long delayed.

The incident which had elicited her father's declaration of confidence

was a request on Di's part to be allowed the privilege of inviting a

guest of her own choosing to the Thanksgiving dinner. The family party

was to be materially reduced this year, for Mrs. Crosby's mother and

sister, their only available relatives, were at that moment sojourning

in Rome, where, if they were sufficiently mindful of current maxims

to do as the Romans do, they were very unlikely to meet with any

satisfactory combination of turkey and plum-pudding. It was with that

fact in view, that Di felt a fair degree of assurance in preferring

her request. They all liked each other, of course, better than they

liked anybody else, but, really, one must do something a little out of

the common on Thanksgiving day.

"Certainly," Di's mother had agreed; "you shall invite any one you

choose. I have been wishing we could think of some one to ask, but

people all have their own family parties on Thanksgiving day. Is it to

be one of your girl friends?"

"That is my secret," Di had replied, sedately; "but, whoever it is,

he, she, or it is a very important personage, and will have to be

treated with great consideration!"

"And how is that very _un_important personage, Di Crosby, going to get

hold of so great a dignitary?" Mrs. Crosby had laughingly inquired. At

which juncture Mr. Crosby had expressed his belief that Di would bag

her game.

That the prospective dinner should be incomplete was all the harder,

considering the fact that the Crosbys were, by good rights, the

possessors of that most desired ornament of such an occasion,--a _bona

fide_ grandfather. Not only was old Mr. Crosby living, and in

excellent health, but his residence was not above a dozen blocks

removed from his son's house. And yet no grandfather had ever graced

their Thanksgiving feast.

Family quarrels are an unpleasant subject at the best, and since Di

herself had never learned the precise cause of the long estrangement

between father and son, in which the old gentleman had decreed that

his son's wife and children should share, it is hardly worth while to

recount it here. Suffice it to say, that it was a very old quarrel

indeed, older than Di herself, and one to which Mr. and Mrs. Crosby

never alluded.

It was six years ago, when Di, the eldest of the children, was ten

years of age, that she had come home from school one day, breathless

with excitement.

"Mamma!" she cried, bursting into the room where her mother was

changing the baby's frock: "Mamma! Have I got a grandfather?"

Mrs. Crosby glanced furtively at the round eyes of the baby, and took

the precaution of smothering him in billows of white lawn before

replying, rather softly: "Yes, dear; Papa's father is living. Why do

you ask?"

"I saw him to-day."

"You saw him? Where?"

"On the street."

"How did you know it was he?"

"Sallie Watson asked me why I didn't bow to my grandfather."

"And what did you say?"

"I said: 'Never you mind!' And then I ran home all the way, as tight

as ever I could run! Mamma, why don't we ever see him?"

The baby's head was just emerging from temporary eclipse, and Mrs.

Crosby's voice dropped still lower, as she answered:

"Because, dear, _he doesn't wish it_."

There was something so gently conclusive in this answer that little Di

was silenced. Yet the look in her mother's face had not escaped her; a

wistful, hurt look, such as the child had never seen there before. And

in her own mind Di asked many questions.

What did it all mean? How did it happen that her grandfather did not

wish it? Why was he so different from other girls' grandfathers? There

must be something very wrong somewhere, but where was it? Since it

could not possibly be with her father or mother, it must be that her

grandfather was himself at fault.

The object of Di's perplexities, Mr. Horatio Crosby, lived all alone

in a very good house, and was in the habit of driving about in a very

pretty victoria; people bowed to him, people who were friends of Di's

father and mother, and must therefore be creditable acquaintances. All

this she soon discovered, for, having once come to know her

grandfather by sight, she seemed to be constantly crossing his path.

Little by little, as she grew older, Di picked up certain stray bits

of information, but she never tried to piece them together. She felt

that she would a little rather not know any more. A quarrel there had

certainly been, some time in the dark ages before she was born, and

the old man had proved himself obstinate and implacable. Friendly

overtures had been made from time to time, but he had set his face

against all such advances, and now, for many, many years,--as many as

three or four, little Di had gathered,--the friendly overtures had

ceased.

One gets used to things, and Di got used to having a grandfather who

did not know her by sight. She was sure he did not know her, because

once, when she was twelve years old, he had stopped her on the street

to tell her that she had dropped her pocket-handkerchief. It had been

very polite of the old gentleman, and she had been glad not to lose

her handkerchief. Yet, as she thanked him, she gave him one searching

look, and she told herself that he had a very cross expression, as

well as a very harsh voice.

This uncomplimentary verdict was largely due to the fact that, at this

period, Di had quite made up her mind that her grandfather was a

hateful, unreasonable old despot, and that it served him right never

to come to the family parties, nor to have any Christmas presents, nor

to have seen the baby, which Mamma said was the prettiest of all her

babies, and which Di considered the most enchanting object on the face

of the earth.

But again many years had passed,--four, in this instance,--and there

came a time, only a few weeks previous to the opening of our story,

when Di found herself constrained to modify her view of her

grandfather.

It happened that she had gone with her drawing teacher, Miss Downs, to

an exhibition of paintings. Among the pictures was a very striking one

entitled _Le Grandpère_. It represented an old French peasant, just

stopping off work for the day, with a flock of grandchildren clinging

about his knees. Miss Downs called Di's attention to the wonderful

reach of upland meadow, and the exquisite effect of the sunset light

on the face of the old man; but, to Di, the meadow and the sunset

light were unimportant accessories to the central idea. It was the

grandfather himself that commanded all her attention,--the look of

blissful indulgence on the old man's face; his attitude of protecting

affection towards one young girl in particular, on whose head the

toil-stained hand rested.

"Yes," she said, after several minutes of rapt contemplation: "Yes;

the sunset is very nice, and the fields; but, oh, the old man is such

a darling!"

As she spoke she turned to see how her teacher took her remark, and

found herself face to face, not with Miss Downs, but with her own

grandfather! She gave a little gasp of surprise, which he appeared not

to notice.

"So you think him a darling, do you?" he asked, and somehow his voice

did not sound quite as harsh as it had done four years ago.

Miss Downs had passed on, and there was no one standing near them, no

one at all in the gallery who shared Di's knowledge of the strange

situation. She felt sure that the old man had no suspicion of her

identity.

"Yes, I do," she answered boldly.

"What makes a darling of him?" the old gentleman inquired.

Di felt that this was her opportunity, and that she was letting it

slip. But she could not help herself, and she only answered rather

lamely:

"Oh, nothing, except that he is _such a good grandfather!_" Upon which

she beat a hasty retreat, and fled to the protection of Miss Downs,

whom she found in an adjoining room.

It was perhaps twenty minutes later that Di and her teacher passed the

picture again, and, behold, there was the old gentleman standing, lost

in thought, exactly on the spot where she had left him. He did not

seem to be looking at the picture, but Di felt certain that he was

thinking of it. And, suddenly, it passed through her mind like a flash

that he was sorry.

"Yes; he's sorry," she said to herself. "He's sorry, and he doesn't

know how to say so!"

The more she thought of it in the days that followed,--and she seemed

to be thinking pretty much all the time of the old man and the look on

his face as he stood before the picture,--the more convinced she

became that he was sorry and did not know how to say so.

"And he ought not to have to say so," she told herself. "He's an old,

old man, and he ought not to have to say that he is sorry."

The old, old man--aged sixty-five--might have taken exception to that

part of her proposition touching his extreme antiquity, but we may be

pretty sure that he would have cordially endorsed her opinion that the

dignity of his years forbade his saying that he was sorry.

In those days Di used to walk often past her grandfather's house. It

was a very big house for a single occupant. Even the stout footman,

whom she had once seen at the door, did not seem stout enough, nor

numerous enough to relieve the big house of its vacancy. There were

heavy woollen draperies in the parlor windows, but not a hint of the

pretty white muslin which a woman would have had up in no time. Once

she passed the house just at dusk, after the lights were lighted.

Through the long windows she looked into the empty room. Not so much

as a cat or a dog was awaiting the master. In the swift glance with

which she swept the interior she noted that the fireplace was boarded

in. That seemed to Di indescribably dreary. Perhaps her grandfather

did not sit here; perhaps he had a library somewhere, like their own.

But, no; there was the portly footman entering with the evening paper,

which he laid upon the table before coming to close the shutters.

"He's too old to say he is sorry," Di said to herself, as she turned

dejectedly away; "a great deal too old--and lonely--and dreary!"

And it was on that very evening that she made her little petition to

her mother, and that her father declared that Di was sure to bag her

game.

Old Mr. Crosby, meanwhile, was too well-used to his empty house and to

his boarded-in fireplace to mind them very much, too unaccustomed to

muslin curtains to miss them. Yet he had not been on very good terms

with himself for the past few weeks, and that was something which he

did mind particularly.

The result of his long cogitation in front of the grandfather picture

had been highly uncomplimentary to the artist. He pronounced the

homespun subject unworthy of artistic treatment, and he told himself

that it merited just that order of criticism which it had received at

the hands of the young person with the rather pretty turn of

countenance, who had regarded it with such enthusiasm. Nevertheless,

he did not forget the picture,--nor yet the young person!

It was the afternoon of Thanksgiving day, and there was a light fall

of snow outside. He remembered that in old times there used always to

be a lot of snow on Thanksgiving day. Things were very different in

old times. He wondered what would have been thought of a man fifty

years ago,--or seventeen years ago, for the matter of that,--who was

giving his servants a holiday and dining at the club. As if those

foreign servants had any concern in the Yankee festival! But then,

what concern had he, Horatio Crosby, in it nowadays? What had he to be

thankful for? Whom had he to be thankful with? He was very lucky to

have a club to go to! He might as well go now, though it was still two

or three hours to dinner time. He would ring for his overcoat and

snow-shoes.

His hand was on the bell-rope--for Mr. Horatio Crosby was

old-fashioned, and had never yet admitted an electric button to his

domain.

At that moment the door opened softly--what was Burns thinking of, not

to knock?--and there stood, not Burns, not Nora, but a slender

apparition in petticoats, with a dash of snow on hat and jacket, and a

dash of daring in a pair of very bright eyes.

"Good afternoon, Grandfather," was the apparition's cheerful greeting,

and involuntarily the old gentleman found himself replying with a

"Good afternoon" of his own.

The apparition moved swiftly forward, and, before he knew what he was

about, an unmistakable kiss had got itself applied to his countenance

and--more amazing still--he was strongly of the impression that there

had been--no robbery!

Greatly agitated by so unusual an experience, he only managed to say:

"So you are----?"

"Yes; I am Di Crosby,--your granddaughter, you know, and--this is

Thanksgiving day!"

"You don't say so!" and the old man gazed down at her in growing

trepidation.

"Let's sit down," Di suggested, feeling that she gained every point

that her adversary lost. "This must be your chair. And I'll sit here.

There! Isn't this cozy?"

"Oh, very!"

The master of the house had sufficiently recovered himself to put on

his spectacles, the use of which was affording him much satisfaction.

He really did not know that the young girl of the day was so pretty!

"I don't suppose you smoke a pipe," Di remarked, in a strictly

conversational tone.

"Well, no; I can't say I do. Why?"

"I only thought I should like to light one for you. You know," she

added, confidentially, "girls always light their grandfathers' pipes

in books. And I've had so little practice in that sort of thing!"

"In pipes?"

"No--in grandfathers!"

There came a pause, occupied, on Di's part, by a swift, not altogether

approving survey of the stiff, high-studded room. This time it was the

old gentleman who broke the silence.

[Illustration: "'Good afternoon, Grandfather,' was the apparition's

cheerful greeting."]

"I believe you are the young lady who admired that old clodhopper in

the picture," he remarked.

"Oh, yes; he was a great darling!"

"He wasn't very handsome."

"No, but--there is always something so dear about a grandfather!"

"Always?"

"Yes; always!" and suddenly Di left her seat, and, taking a few steps

forward, she dropped on her knees before him.

"Grandfather," she said, clasping her small gloved hands on his knee,

"Grandfather!"

She was meaning to be very eloquent indeed,--that is, if it were to

become necessary. She did not dream that that one word, so

persuasively spoken, was more eloquent than a whole oration.

"Well, Miss Di?"

"Grandfather, I've a great favour to ask of you, and I should like to

have you say 'yes' beforehand!"

He looked down upon her with a heart rendered surprisingly soft by

that first word,--and a mind much tickled by the audacity of the rest

of it.

"And are you in the habit of getting favours granted in the dark?" he

inquired.

"Papa says I usually bag my game!"

Now old Mr. Crosby had been a sportsman in his day, and he was

mightily pleased with the little jest. But he only asked:

"And what's your game in this instance, if you please?"

"You!"

"Oh, I! And you want to bag me? Bag me for what?"

"For dinner!"

"Oh, for dinner!"

"Yes! We are all by ourselves to-day, and you'll just make the table

even. There's only Papa and Mamma, and Louise, and Beth, and Alice,

and the baby." Somehow the succession of sweet, soft names sounded

very attractive to the crabbed old man.

"The baby is six years old," Di continued, unconsciously adding

another touch to the attractiveness of the picture.

"And what is her name?"

"_His_ name is Horatio. I never liked it very well; it seemed too long

for a baby. But, do you know?--I think I shall like it better now."

She was still kneeling before him, with her small gloved hands clasped

on his knee. It was clear that she had not the faintest idea of being

refused. Yet even had she been somewhat less confident, she might well

have taken heart of hope, for, at this point, he gently laid his

wrinkled hand upon hers.

"You _will_ come to dinner?" she begged, apparently quite unconscious

of the little caress. "We dine at five on Thanksgiving day, and you

and I can walk over together. They will all be so surprised,--and so

happy!"

"Then they are not expecting me?" and the old man gave her a very

piercing look, which did not seem to pierce at all.

"No; they didn't know who it was to be. I only said it was a very

important personage."

"Coming in a bag!" he suggested.

"Oh, that's only a sportsman's expression!"

"Indeed! And is it customary nowadays to go a-hunting for your

Thanksgiving dinner?"

Di's eyes danced. This was indeed a grandfather worth waiting for! But

she only answered demurely:

"That depends upon your quarry!"

Lucky Di, to have hit upon that pretty, old-fashioned word! She had,

indeed, read her Sir Walter to good purpose.

Now, Mr. Horatio Crosby had held out stoutly against every appeal of

natural affection, of reason, of conscience. He was not a

quick-tempered man like his son; he was not, like his daughter-in-law,

easily rebuffed; but there was about him a toughness of fibre which

yielded neither to blows nor to pressure, and which, for many years,

neither friend nor foe had penetrated. And here was this young thing

simply ignoring the hitherto impenetrable barrier! The clear young

eyes looked straight through it, the fresh young voice made nothing of

it, the playful fancies overleapt it. A quarry, indeed! Where had the

child got hold of the word?

Of a sudden the old man bent forward and lightly touched the laughing

face in token of surrender.

"It's an old bird you've winged, little girl," he said, as he rose to

his feet and stepped once more to the bell-rope; and this time he

really rang for his coat and overshoes.

* * * * *

"And so you've named this little chap Horatio?"

Dinner was over,--a very pleasant, natural kind of dinner, too, in

spite of the difficulty some of the family had found in eating

it,--and they were all gathered about a roaring woodfire, fortifying

themselves, with the aid of coffee, cigars, and chocolate-drops,--each

according to his kind,--for a game of blind-man's-buff. The small

scion of the house was seated on his grandfather's knee, playing with

his grandfather's fob, after the immemorial habit of small scions.

"Of course we named him Horatio!" It was Mrs. Crosby who answered,

and, as her father-in-law looked across at her face with the

firelight playing upon it, he seemed to remember that he had always

wished for a daughter.

"And what do you call him for short?"

"Just Horatio!" piped up little Alice, who was sitting on the rug at

the old gentleman's feet, gently pulling Rollo's long-suffering ears.

"Yes," said Mr. Thomas Crosby; "we have always been proud of the

name."

Then Di, perceiving a slight unsteadiness in the voice in which this

was said, stepped behind her grandfather's chair, and, dropping a

small kiss on the top of his head, looked across at her father, and

exclaimed:

"Oh, Papa! To think of our having bagged a grandfather!"

* * * * *

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