HOME SWEET HOME
"Joy cometh in the morning." At Dolittle Cottage white-faced,
sad-hearted girls had crept up-stairs to bed, and some of them had slept
and waked moaning, and others had lain wide-eyed and still through the
long hours, thankful for the relief of tears which now and then ran down
their hot cheeks and wet their pillows. But when the dawn came, nature
had its way, and the last watcher fell into the heavy sleep of
exhaustion.
Apparently they all waked at once. Down-stairs was a clamor of uplifted
voices, strange, choking cries, sounds that almost made the heart stop
beating. And then above the tumult, a shrill fretful pipe that to the
strained ears of the listeners was the sweetest of all sweet music.
"Make Hobo stop, Aunt Peggy. He's a-tickling me with his tongue."
Pandemonium reigned in Dolittle Cottage. There was a wild rush of
white-robed figures for the hall, just as a girl in a dress that had
once been white, and with dark circles under her eyes, came flying up
the stairs. Peggy forgot her aching limbs and weariness in the transport
of that moment. And then there was a little time of silence, broken only
by the sound of happy sobbing, and everybody was kissing everybody else,
without assigning any especial reason, and laughing through glad tears.
The appearance of Mrs. Cole, with Dorothy in her arms, was the signal
for another outbreak, and perhaps Dorothy's manifest ill-humor was
fortunate on the whole, for something of the sort was needed to bring
the excited household down to the wholesome plane of every-day living.
Camping out did not agree with Dorothy. She had caught a slight cold
from her wetting, and her night's rest had been far from satisfactory.
And now to be seized and passed from hand to hand like a box of candy,
while people kissed and cried over her, was too much for her long-tried
temper. She screamed and struggled and finally put a stop to further
affectionate demonstrations by slapping Amy with one hand, while with
the other she knocked off Aunt Abigail's spectacles.
"She's tired to death, poor little angel," cried Mrs. Cole, generously
ignoring the fact that Dorothy's conduct was the reverse of angelic.
"She wants to get to bed and to sleep, and so do the rest of you, before
Lucy and me have the lot sick on our hands."
"Oh, I couldn't sleep," protested Peggy, "and I want to wait till Jerry
comes, and find out if he stopped Joe from sending that telegram."
"And we're dying to hear everything that's happened," Amy cried, "and,
besides, I'm afraid to go to sleep for fear I'll dream that this is only
a dream."
But Mrs. Cole was firm, and Lucy Haines, who had come to the cottage
before sunrise, added her entreaties to the older woman's insistence.
Then everybody discovered that Peggy was very pale, and Dorothy did some
more slapping, and Mrs. Cole's motion was carried. Although every girl
of them, and Aunt Abigail as well, had protested her utter inability to
sleep, it was not fifteen minutes before absolute quiet reigned in the
second story of the cottage. Wheels ground up the driveway again and
again, and penetrating, if kindly, voices made inquiries under the open
windows, but none of the sleepers waked till noon.
Jerry Morton, coming to report the success of his mission, was more than
a little disappointed not to secure an immediate interview with Peggy.
But Lucy, who was peeling potatoes in anticipation of the time when
hunger should act as an alarm clock, in the hushed second story, bade
him sit down and wait. "I know she'll want to see you. She was so
worried for fear the news would get to her mother."
"Well, it came mighty near it, I can tell you. Joe was just ahead of me.
When I got in he was saying to the operator, 'Rush this, will you?' and
I grabbed his coat and said nix." Jerry's tired face lighted up with
satisfaction, and Lucy regarded him rather enviously. It seemed to her
that Jerry was getting more than his share. He had found the castaways,
and had spared Friendly Terrace the shock of the mistaken news, while
Lucy with equally good will, was forced to content herself with peeling
potatoes and like humble services.
"How did you ever come to think of looking for them?" she asked, wishing
that the happy idea had occurred to her, instead of to Jerry.
"I didn't. 'Twas just a stroke of luck." Jerry told the story of his
night's wandering, a recital as interesting to himself as to Lucy, for
as yet he had hardly had time to formulate the record of what had
happened. Before they had exhausted the fascinating theme there were
sounds overhead which told that the late sleepers were at last astir.
They kept open house at Dolittle Cottage that afternoon. The country
community, aroused by the news of the supposed tragedy, and then by the
word that all was well, gave itself up to rejoicing. Vehicles of every
description creaked up the driveway, bringing whole families to offer
their congratulations. Though farm work was pressing, Mr. Silas Robbins
drove over with his wife and daughter, and patted Peggy's shoulder, and
pinched Dorothy's cheek. Luckily a morning in bed had done much to
restore Dorothy to her normal mood, and though she bestowed a withering
glance upon the gentleman who had taken this liberty, she did not
retaliate in the fashion Peggy feared.
"Couldn't think of letting _you_ get drowned, you know," remarked
Mr. Robbins with ponderous humor. "A girl who can speechify the way you
can, might get to be president some day, if the women's rights folks
should win out. I don't say," concluded Mr. Robbins, with the air of
making a great concession, "that I mightn't vote for you myself."
Mr. Smart, too, dropped in to secure additional information for the
write-up, which he informed Peggy would appear in the next issue of the
_Weekly Arena_. "Though but a country editor," said Mr. Smart
feelingly, "I believe that the Press ought to be reliable, and I'm doing
my part to make it so. No yellow journalism in the _Arena_." And he
showed a little natural disappointment on discovering that even this
assurance did not reconcile Peggy to the prospect of figuring as a
newspaper heroine.
One of the surprises of the day was Mrs. Snooks' appearance. Never since
her education had been taken in hand by the occupants of Dolittle
Cottage, had she darkened its doors. But now she came smiling, and with
an evident determination to regard bygones as bygones. For when she had
expatiated at some length on the effect of Elisha's harrowing news upon
her nerves, and had repeated in great detail what she had said to Mr.
Snooks, and what Mr. Snooks had said to her, she gave a crowning proof
of magnanimity.
"Now, I've got to be getting back home. Mr. Snooks is a wonderful
good-natured man, but he likes his victuals on time, same as most
men-folks. I wonder if you could lend me a loaf of bread? I was just
that worked up this morning that I didn't get 'round to set sponge."
The bread-box was well filled, thanks to Mrs. Cole, and Peggy insisted
on accompanying Mrs. Snooks to the kitchen and picking out the largest
loaf. She also suggested that Mrs. Snooks should take home a sample of
the new breakfast food they all liked so much. As they parted on the
doorstep Peggy was sure that the last shadow of their misunderstanding
had lifted, for Mrs. Snooks turned to say, "I got a new cooky cutter
from the tin peddler the other day--real pretty. And any time you'd like
to use it, you're perfectly welcome."
Even then the surprises of the eventful day were not over. For late in
the afternoon, when the kindly strangers occupying the porch chairs were
just announcing that they guessed they'd have to move on, two figures
came up the walk at a swinging pace. Ruth who was a little in the
background was the first to notice them, and she was on her feet in a
moment, with a glad cry. There was a general movement in the direction
of the new arrivals, but Ruth was the first to reach them.
"Oh, Graham! Oh, Graham! You don't know--"
"Yes, I've heard all about it," Graham said in a voice not quite
natural. The two boys on their way back to the city had stopped for
dinner at the farmhouse where Peggy had taken breakfast, and had been
favored with all the details of what Jack called the "near tragedy,"
though his effort at facetiousness was far from expressing his real
feelings.
It was distinctly disappointing to the girls to find that their visitors
planned to continue their trip next morning. "My vacation's up
Saturday," explained Jack Rynson. "And Graham thinks he's loafed as long
as he should."
"And Elaine is going to-morrow," sighed Peggy. "I almost wish--" She
checked herself abruptly.
"Dear old Friendly Terrace," Amy murmured. "Seems as if we'd been away a
year."
"Well, we'll be starting in ten days or so," said Priscilla, with an air
of trying to make the best of things.
Peggy flashed a surprised glance about the circle. "Girls, why, girls! I
believe we'd all like to go home to-morrow! Then let's."
There was no doubt as to the popularity of the suggestion. The strain of
those few hours when shadows darker than those of night hung over
Dolittle Cottage, had implanted in the hearts of all the longing for
home. In the clamor of eager voices there was no dissent, only
questioning whether so hasty a departure were possible. And when this
was decided in the affirmative, hilarity reigned.
"You must all stay to supper," Peggy declared, overflowing in joyous
hospitality. "There won't be enough of anything to go around, but
there's any amount of things that must be eaten." Graham and Jack
accepted the invitation as a matter of course, and Lucy and Jerry
yielded, after considerable insistence on Peggy's part. And on the faces
which surrounded the dinner-table, lengthened for the occasion by an
extra leaf, there was little to call to mind the black dream of the
night.
It was an unusual supper in many ways. There were only half a dozen ears
of corn, and the lima beans served out a teaspoonful to a plate. It was
understood that whoever preferred sardines to corned beef might have his
choice, but that it was a breach of etiquette to take both. However,
since several varieties of jellies and preserves graced the table, and
there was an abundance of Mrs. Cole's delicious bread, both white and
brown, there was no danger that any one would rise from the meal with
his hunger unsatisfied.
Peggy was busy planning while she ate. "Oh, dear, what in the world am I
going to do with Hobo? I won't leave him without a home, that's sure.
And I don't know what Taffy'll say to me if I bring back another dog."
"I'll take him off your hands," said Jack Rynson.
Peggy leaned toward him with shining eyes. "Really? And would you like
him? For I don't want you to take him just to oblige me."
Jack made haste to defend himself against such a charge. His home, it
seemed, was on the outskirts of the city, and his mother sometimes
complained that it was lonely, and would be glad, Jack was sure, of a
good watch-dog. "And I'll get Graham to give him a certificate on that
score," concluded Jack, with a meaning smile in the direction of his
friend, who was always easily teased by references to the time when Hobo
had rushed to the defence of Graham's sister against Graham himself.
"Oh, that's such a load off my mind," Peggy declared. "He can go with
you to-morrow, can't he? And now there's one thing more, and that's his
name."
"Yes?" Jack looked a little puzzled.
"I named him myself, and I've been ashamed of it ever since. For he
never was a tramp dog, really. He wanted a home all the time, and people
of his own to love and protect and be faithful to. And, if you don't
mind, before he goes I'd like to change his name to Hero."
The emphasis on the last word roused Hobo, who was sleeping in the next
room. Perhaps his ear was not sufficiently trained to the niceties of
the English language to distinguish between this name and the other by
which he had been addressed all summer. Be that as it may, in an instant
he was at Peggy's elbow, looking up into her face, and wagging his tail.
"I believe he knows," cried Peggy, while the table shouted. The new name
was unanimously endorsed, and with his re-christening, Peggy's canine
protege discarded the last survival of his life as a wanderer.
"And now about the chickens," continued Peggy, whose face had lost its
look of weariness in overflowing satisfaction. "I'm going to give them
to you, Lucy. I'm sorry there's only three of them, but--"
"Two," Amy interrupted in a plaintive undertone from the other side of
the table.
Peggy stared. "What! Has anything happened to Freckles?"
"No, he's all right. And so's the yellow hen, of course. But, Peggy, the
other chicken has disappeared. Lucy noticed this morning that it was
gone, and when all those people were here, she and I hunted everywhere.
And the old hen keeps on scratching and clucking just the same."
Peggy's countenance reflected the disgust of Amy's voice. "It isn't much
of a gift, Lucy. That yellow hen is really the worst apology for a
mother I ever imagined. Freckles is a nice chicken, but he's got some
very bad faults. He _will_ come into the house whenever the screen
door is left open, and he seems to have a perfect mania for picking
shoe-buttons and shoe-strings. I suppose it's because of the way he's
been brought up, but he's so fond of human society that he makes a
perfect nuisance of himself."
"Chicken pie would cure all those faults," suggested Graham, and they
all laughed again at Peggy's expression of horror. "Didn't you tell me
they'd bring forty cents a pound," the young man persisted, teasingly.
"Yes, but that was before I got acquainted with them. I couldn't turn
even the yellow hen into chicken pie, much as I dislike her. The wonder
to me," Peggy ended thoughtfully, "is that anybody ever makes money out
of raising chickens."
Between the supper and the early bedtime there was much to be done.
Trunks were packed, except for the bedding and similar articles, which
could not be dispensed with before the morning. The remnants of the
groceries were bestowed on Mrs. Snooks, and some matters which the girls
did not have time to attend to were left in charge of the capable Mrs.
Cole. Against everybody's protest, Peggy insisted on running over to the
Cole farmhouse to say good-by. Graham acted as her escort, and the two
were admitted by Rosetta Muriel, at the sight of whom Peggy gave an
involuntary start.
"Do you like it?" asked Rosetta Muriel, immediately interested. The fair
hair which she usually arranged so elaborately, was parted and drawn
back rather primly over her ears, giving her face a suggestion of
refinement which was becoming, if a little misleading.
Peggy was glad she could answer in the affirmative. "Indeed, I do. The
simple styles are so pretty, I think."
"There was a picture of Adelaide Lacey in the paper, with her hair done
this way. She's going to marry a duke, you know." It was characteristic
of Rosetta Muriel thus to excuse her lapse into simplicity, but though
the ingenuous explanation was the truth, it was not the whole truth.
Even Rosetta Muriel was not quite the same girl for having come in
contact with Peggy Raymond, and her poor little undeveloped, unlovely
self was reaching out gropingly to things a shade higher than those
which hitherto had satisfied her.
The news of the hasty departure was magically diffused. Amy said
afterward that she began to understand what they meant when they talked
about wireless telegraphy. For as the stage rattled and bumped along the
dusty highway the next morning, figures appeared at the windows,
handkerchiefs fluttered, and hands were waved in greeting and farewell.
In many a harvest field, too, work halted briefly, while battered hats
swung above the heads of the wearers, as a substitute for a good-by. And
at the station, to the girls' astonishment, quite a company had
collected in honor of their departure.
Graham and Jack had deferred their start till they had put the girls on
the train, and they regarded the gathering in amazement. "Sure they're
not waiting for a circus train?" Graham demanded. "Are you responsible
for all this? Rather looks to me, Jack, as if we weren't quite as
indispensable as we fancied."
The stage was never early, and the girls hardly had time to make the
rounds before the whistle of the train was heard. "Come back next
summer," cried Mrs. Cole, catching Peggy in her arms, and giving her a
motherly squeeze. "I declare it'll make me so homesick to drive by the
cottage, with you girls gone, that I shan't know how to stand it."
Peggy was saying good-by all over again, but she saved her two special
favorites for the last. "Now, Lucy," she cried, her hands upon the
shoulders of the pale girl, whose compressed lips showed the effort she
was making far self-control, "you must write me now and then. I want to
know just how you're getting along."
"Yes, I'll write," Lucy promised. "But you mustn't worry about me. I'm
not going to get discouraged again, no matter what happens." The train
was coming to a snorting halt and Peggy had time for just one more word.
"Good-by, Jerry. Don't forget."
The girls scrambled aboard, followed by a chorus of good-byes. "What's
this? Old Home week?" asked an interested old gentleman, dropping his
newspaper and crossing the aisle, to get a better view of the crowd on
the platform. And, meanwhile, Amy was tugging at the window, crying
excitedly, "Oh, help me, quick, Peggy, or it'll be too late."
The window yielded to the girls' combined persuasion. Amy's camera
appeared in the opening, and a little click sounded just as the train
began to move. "Oh, I hope it'll be good," cried Amy, whose successes
and failures had been so evenly balanced that her attitude toward each
new effort was one of hopeful uncertainty. "It would be so nice to have
something to remember them by." But Peggy, looking back on the station
platform, was sure that she needed no aid to remembrance, Amy's camera
might be out of focus, and the plate blurred and indistinct, as so often
happened, but the picture of those upturned, friendly faces was printed
upon Peggy's heart, a lasting possession.
"Well, old man!" It was Jack Rynson speaking over Graham's shoulder.
"Guess we might as well start. Come on, Hobo--beg pardon, Hero." And the
dog who had whimperingly watched the train which bore Peggy out of
sight, only restrained by Jack's hand on his collar from rushing in
pursuit, yielded to the inevitable, and followed his new master with the
curious loyalty which does not change, no matter how often its object
changes.
The people were breaking up into groups of twos and threes, and moving
away, but Lucy Haines and Jerry stood motionless, their gaze following
the vanishing speck which was the south-bound train. Then slowly Lucy's
head turned. She had never been friendly with Jerry Morton. She had
shared the disapproval of the community, intensified by her inherent
inability to understand the temperament so unlike her own. Yet all at
once she found herself feeling responsible for him. To be helped means
an obligation to help, at least to unselfish natures.
She went toward Jerry half reluctantly. But when she was near enough to
see that he was swallowing hard, apparently in the effort to remove some
obstruction in his throat which would not "down," the discovery seemed
to create a bond between them. Her voice was eager and sympathetic as
she said: "It's fine that you're going to start school again, Jerry. And
if I can help you with anything, I'll be glad to." She hesitated, and
then, in spite of her natural reserve, she added: "We mustn't disappoint
her, either of us."
Jerry had to swallow yet again before he could reply. But his answer
rang out with a manful sincerity which would have gladdened Peggy's
heart had she heard it.
"Disappoint her! Not on your life!"
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