CHAPTER I

[Illustration:

“That was his sleeping room when he lived here.”

_Frontispiece._ _Page 36._

The Abandoned Farm.

]

The Abandoned Farm

and

Connie’s Mistake

By

Mrs. Mary J. Holmes

Author of “Tempest and Sunshine,” “Lena Rivers,” etc.

[Illustration: logo]

G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

THE ABANDONED FARM, Copyright, 1902 and 1905

CONNIE’S MISTAKE, Copyright, 1901 and 1905

BY MRS. MARY J. HOLMES

(_Issued October, 1905_)

The Abandoned Farm

Connie’s Mistake

CONTENTS

PART I

THE ABANDONED FARM

CHAPTER PAGE

I. ALEX. MARSH 9

II. ALEX.’S LETTERS 16

III. ALEX. AND THE PLEDGERS 23

IV. THE ABANDONED FARM 31

V. SHERRY 39

VI. THE INTERVIEW 48

VII. MAPLEHURST 57

VIII. THE ARRIVAL 65

IX. THE FIRST EVENING AT MAPLEHURST 75

X. THE CEDAR CHEST 87

XI. THE FANCY DANCE 97

XII. THE SOMNAMBULIST 112

XIII. FINDING THE WRONG 130

XIV. RIGHTING THE WRONG 141

PART II

CONNIE’S MISTAKE

I. THE 4 CORNERS 153

II. KENNETH AND HARRY 160

III. EXPECTING CONNIE 170

IV. CONNIE 179

V. CONNIE’S CHRISTMAS 187

VI. THE MORRISES 199

VII. GOOD-BYE 209

VIII. AFTER MANY YEARS 216

IX. THE HOUSE PARTY 224

X. AT INTERLAKEN 243

XI. CONNIE’S ARRIVAL 255

XII. CONNIE’S ILLNESS 260

XIII. CONNIE’S SECRET 270

XIV. MRS. HARRY MORRIS 278

XV. THE PHOTOGRAPH 286

XVI. KENNETH AND HARRY 293

XVII. LIFE AND DEATH 306

XVIII. WINDING UP 313

The Abandoned Farm

CHAPTER I

ALEX. MARSH

Breakfast was late at the Marsh’s. It was usually late, and this morning

it was later than usual. Alex. Marsh, his sister Amy and cousin Ruth had

been to the opera the night before, and to Delmonico’s after it was

over, so that it was one o’clock before they were home and in bed. And

it was much later before Alex. was asleep. He did not care for operas,

or music of any kind; a good play suited him better, and he had only

gone to escort his sister and cousin and their friend, Miss Ross. Opera

music had no charm for him, and he was feeling bored and wishing he was

at home, and was listlessly looking over the house and counting the

familiar faces by way of passing the time, when his attention was

attracted to a box opposite the one in which he was sitting. It was

occupied by a plain, old-fashioned looking couple, whom he had sometimes

seen in the park, driving in a turnout as plain and old-fashioned as

they were,—a covered buggy, with the top thrown back, and a white horse

minus a check rein, and sporting a tail such as nature intended a horse

to have, instead of a short stub, telling of cruel pain in the past and

inconvenience when flies and gnats are clamoring for horse flesh. The

couple seemed out of place in the park, and they seemed quite as much

out of place in this box, whose price for an evening Alex. knew.

“I wonder who the old duffers are and if they enjoy this sort of thing,”

he was thinking, when a young girl came hurrying in and changed the

aspect of the “duffers” at once.

It would seem as if she had dropped something and stepped back to find

it, for she held towards the woman a light, thin scarf with a smile and

a nod, then, winding it around her neck, she sat down and began to look

about her with an eagerness and curiosity which made Alex. think she was

new to operas and probably to the city.

“Some country cousin, I dare say,” he thought, as he watched her,

fascinated by her fresh, young face, which one moment he decided was

only rather pretty, and the next thought beautiful, with the smiles and

dimples and bright brown eyes, which seemed to be taking in everything

and to be delighted with it. The ladies in his box were in evening

dress, too low in the neck and too high on the arms to suit his ideas.

“I’ll speak to Amy and have her piece her gown up and down both before

she wears it again,” he thought, as he looked at her, and then turned a

second time to the girl.

Her dress was of some dark stuff, high necked and long sleeved, with

nothing airy or festive about it except the light lace scarf she had

knotted around her neck. But there was something about her which

attracted him, and he watched her all through the first act, of which he

did not hear a word; and saw her evident pleasure in and appreciation of

what seemed to him so tiresome. How could she be pleased with that

screeching and the talk which no sane people ever talked in real life.

Amy and Ruth pretended to be delighted with that sort of thing, but he

fancied it was a good deal of pretence, because it was fashionable. And

yet this girl evidently liked it, and her face shone and her eyes

sparkled, and her dimples came and went, while he looked at her through

his glass, bringing her so close to him that he could see how fair she

was without powder, such as Amy and his mother kept on their toilet

tables. She did not glance at him, but kept her eyes upon the stage,

turning but once to the woman beside her, who was nodding in her chair.

“Good, sensible old lady! I’d like to go to sleep myself,” he thought,

as he saw the laugh on the girl’s face, and the hand she laid on the arm

of the sleeping woman, who started up, and, bracing herself stiff and

straight, gave her attention to the play until the close of the first

act, when there came a diversion which nearly startled Alex. from his

seat.

“By all the saints, if there isn’t Craig Saltus shaking hands with the

duffers, and,—yes,—with the girl, too!” he said, under his breath, as a

young man entered the opposite box and, after greeting its occupants,

sat down by the girl and began talking to her as if he had known her all

his life, while she did not seem in the least elated because one of the

most fastidious young men in New York was beside her. Money, family,

polished manners and an unspotted reputation,—all belonged to Craig

Saltus, who had but one drawback. A fall when a child had resulted in a

lameness which debarred him from most of the amusements in which young

men delight. He could not ride,—he could not row,—he could not

dance,—and at evening entertainments, which he rarely attended, he was

obliged either to stand, which was rather painful, if he stood any

length of time, or sit beside some dowager listening to her tiresome

talk. And yet, cripple as he was, he could have his choice of almost any

girl of his acquaintance; and he knew it, but treated them all alike,

with a courteous attention which meant nothing. And here he was with

these plain people, staying through the second act and looking more at

the girl than at the actors, until Alex., forgetting his own

delinquencies in that direction, began to be vexed and wonder why, when

a fellow came to the opera, he didn’t feel enough interest to pay

attention to it, and not be watching an unsophisticated girl to see how

she took it.

When the curtain went down a second time, Craig rose and, shaking hands

again with the “duffers” and the girl, left them, and a few moments

later appeared at the entrance of the box where the Marshes were

sitting. Instantly there was a flutter of excitement among the ladies,

who had failed to see him in the opposite box. Amy, who had her own

views with regard to him and did not think his lameness a very great

drawback when pitted against his millions and position, was delighted to

meet him, and asked where he had kept himself that they had seen so

little of him recently.

“I have been in the country, where mother and Rose stayed later than

usual,—it is so delightful there when the leaves begin to change,” he

replied, adding: “We only came to town yesterday, and to-morrow morning

we are off for Europe on the _Etruria_, which sails so early that we

must be on board to-night. How long we shall stay abroad is uncertain.

It will depend on mother’s health. We go for her. And now I must say

good-by, as I have other calls to make.”

He turned to go, when Alex. detained him a moment.

“Who were the people you were with just now,—the old couple and the

girl?”

Amy and Ruth were both talking to Craig, who answered, hurriedly and

very low:

“Why, don’t you know Joel Pledger and his wife? I thought everybody knew

him. The girl is their grand-niece, come to see the city for a few

days;—beautiful, isn’t she?—and now I really must go. Good-by again.”

He was gone, and Alex. sat down, disappointed and annoyed that he had

learned so little. Craig had said Joel Pledger, but Alex. understood him

_Old_ Pledger, and he repeated to himself “Old Pledger! as if that would

tell me who he is, or as if I cared. It’s the girl whose name I want.

Why couldn’t he have told it instead of saying their grand-niece from

the country and that she was beautiful? Of course she is. Anybody can

see that. Old Pledger! That’s a good name for him; I don’t believe

though, that the girl is a Pledger. The name don’t suit her. I wonder

how I can find out who she is, and why need Craig have been in such an

awful hurry. Old Pledger! That don’t sound as if he thought a great deal

of him. Well, he’s only her great-uncle.”

By this time the opera was beginning to have some interest for Alex. The

prima donna was excelling herself, and the house was ringing with

applause, the girl clapping with the rest, and actually making Old

Pledger move his cane up and down a little briskly, while the old lady

only showed occasional signs of nodding and was promptly pulled up by

the girl. For the remainder of the evening Alex. paid pretty good

attention to the play, turning his eyes occasionally to the girl, whose

interest never flagged, and whose cheeks were like roses and whose eyes

were shining with excitement when the performance was over. Alex. had a

glimpse of Old Pledger’s stooping shoulders and Mrs. Pledger’s

three-years-old bonnet and big-sleeved sacque, and the girl with her

wrap on her arm, and then he went out into the crowd, which jostled and

surged and pushed him until he found himself close to the Pledgers, and

saw the girl in her golf cape, with the high collar drawn up around her

ears, for the wintry night was cold. His ladies wore soft, fur-lined

opera cloaks, and he did not suppose they owned a golf cape, or would

wear one on such an occasion if they did. Well, it didn’t matter what

they wore. A golf cape looked well on the slim, straight figure, which

was finally lost in the throng.

“Going home in a street car or on the elevated. I’d give a good deal to

know where they live. I’ll find out if I can,” he thought, as he

followed his party to their carriage and was driven to Delmonico’s.

Here he met several acquaintances, and in the talk and excitement he

forgot Old Pledger and the girl until he was home and in bed, when they

came back to him with a persistency which kept him wakeful as he

wondered who the deuce the Pledgers were and how he could find out.

CHAPTER II

ALEX.’S LETTERS

After waiting an hour for her young people, Mrs. Marsh sat down to

breakfast alone, and was finishing her coffee when Alex. came in. He had

thought of the Pledgers while dressing, and laughed at himself for being

so interested in a strange girl. “I don’t quite understand it, although

it is like me to be attracted by every new face if it is at all out of

the common,” he thought, “and she was rather uncommon in that expensive

box with Old Pledger and his wife, who looked like a muff, and the girl

so fair, and without the flumadiddles Amy and Ruth and the rest of ’em

wear to such places. And then she had a striking face, though I might

not know it again if I saw it.”

He was dressed by this time, and, going to the dining-room, kissed his

mother, and, seating himself at the table, looked at the letters lying

by his plate. There were two,—one a bill from his tailor, which gave him

no concern, as he had money enough to pay it.

“Ball is in a hurry for his cash. I must see to it to-day,” he said, and

took up the second letter, which bore in a corner the address of Sanders

& Brown, Attorneys, Denver. “I don’t know Sanders & Brown, nor any one

else in Denver,” he said, breaking the seal and beginning to read:

“DENVER, _December 18, 18—_.

“MR. ALEXANDER MARSH—DEAR SIR: It is our duty to inform you that your

great-uncle, Amos Marsh, for many years our client, died suddenly at

his ranch two weeks ago.”

Here Alex. stopped reading and said: “Great-uncle, Amos Marsh! I didn’t

know I had one. Have I or had I a great-uncle Amos?”

He was speaking to his mother, who had torn off the envelope of a Denver

paper received with Alex.’s letter, and was intent upon a marked column,

which read as follows:

“It is with keen regret that we record the death of our old and highly

esteemed citizen, Amos Marsh, who was found dead in his bedroom at his

ranch, where he was spending a few days. Heart failure was the cause

of his death.”

The article then went on to enumerate the many virtues of the deceased,

who was noted for his kindness to every one and his charities to the

poor, and his great activity for one of his age. A few of his

peculiarities were mentioned, and among them his living alone when in

town, with no other company than a dog and a cat, and no one to care for

him but a Chinaman. His reticence with his friends and his habit of

talking to himself were spoken of, and the notice closed with a second

eulogy upon him as a good and upright man, who would be greatly missed.

Mrs. Marsh read the article through before she replied to her son.

“Yes, you did have an uncle Amos, but he is dead. There is quite a long

obituary of him in this paper.”

She held it toward Alex. But he did not take it. He had run his eyes

rapidly over the rest of the letter, which made him hold his breath with

surprise. After announcing the death of their client, the lawyer, Mr.

Brown, went on to say that for a long time they had urged Mr. Marsh to

make his will, but he always refused, giving as a reason that if he made

it he must explain some things he would rather not explain to the world.

He would leave the explanation in writing to the proper person. That

Alex. was the person intended was proven by the fact that when Mr. Marsh

was found dead in his bedroom there was on the table before him a

partially written page of foolscap, addressed to Alex., which Mr. Brown

enclosed in the letter. It had slipped to the floor, but Alex. did not

notice it, and read on:

“He told us that his nearest of kin lived in New York, naming you and

your sister, and that his property would go to you as the children of

his nephew, Henry Marsh, and he always talked as if he expected you to

have a farm, or, at least, live on it for a while. He did not leave a

large fortune,—he spent so freely for the good of others. There are

several thousand dollars in banks and railroad stocks, the interest of

which he never cared to use. He was saving it for a particular

purpose, he said. He owned quite a valuable ranch, the income from

which supported him as his wants were very few. He had a house in

town, and an abandoned farm in New Hampshire, among the White

Mountains, where he lived a long time, but which he left years ago and

came to Denver. For a while it was rented, but so many repairs were

demanded and he had so much trouble with his tenants, that he decided

to close the house and let the farm run. He went East two years ago,

visited the old place, and when he came back he seemed brighter and

happier than we had ever seen him, and talked more about you having

the farm, or, at least, living there for a time.

“‘I’ve made it right,’ he said, ‘and Alex. will see to it,’ though

what he meant we do not know. He was always a little obscure in his

talk. Queer, or luny, people called him, but he was a good man. Please

write us with regard to your wishes, or come to Denver, if possible,

and look into the matter.”

Alex. read the letter through twice to himself and once aloud to his

mother and to Amy and Ruth. The young ladies had come into the breakfast

room languid and tired, until Alex. began to read the letter, when they

became alive and interested at once, Amy looking over her brother’s

shoulder as he read, and making sundry comments.

“A ranch in Colorado and an abandoned farm in New Hampshire! How

delightful and romantic, and we the heirs! It is like a romance. What is

this paper on the floor? Isn’t it the one they found on his table?”

She picked up the half sheet of foolscap and handed it to Alex., who

unfolded it reverently, as if he felt the touch of the fingers, which

must have stiffened in death in the act of writing. There was no date,

and the writing was cramped and quite illegible and not very plain in

its meaning. But Alex. deciphered it and read aloud:

“NEPHEW ALEXANDER: That was your grandfather’s name, and a good one.

They say you are honest, with fewer tricks than most young men in the

city. I inquired two years ago. I was there and saw your house, but it

wasn’t for me to go in. I’ve kept track of my family, what there is

left; nobody now but you and your sister. When your father was a boy

he came to the farm in New Hampshire and staid a week, but he found me

poor company and never came again. If he had and was older, I was

going to——; but no matter, I’ve fixed it, and leave it for you to do

right for me. Something tells me you will. I am too old to face it,

God knows, and he has forgiven me. I am an old man. The doctors say I

am not long for this world. I am ninety now, and sitting here alone

with no soul in the house; things come back plainer,—folks I knew

years ago, and one is standing by the door and looking at me as if he

was not satisfied the way I’ve fixed it, and wants me to put it down

again, but I can’t to-night, my head is so queer. My candle is nearly

out, and I can’t see. To-morrow I’ll try and write again and tell you

why you must go to the farm and do right.”

Here there was evidently an effort to write a word with a pen which had

no ink in it, and then the hand must have grown powerless and dropped,

clasping the side of the table as they found it, and the old man was

dead. Alex.’s voice shook as he read this letter, while even the

loquacious Amy was silent, wondering what it all meant.

“There’s something on the other side of the sheet,—some words,” she said

at last, and turning the paper over, Alex. saw, written very plainly,

the name “Crosby,” and after it another name he could not make out,

except that the first was “Joel.”

“Can you tell me what that last name is?” he asked his sister.

She could not, and Ruth next tried her skill.

“The first letter is certainly ‘P,’ though a very queer one,” she said.

“Can it be ‘Pleasure’?”

“‘Pleasure’? No. There’s a ‘g,’ or a ‘y’ in it. Try again,” Alex. said,

and Ruth tried again with better success.

“It must be ‘Pledges,’” she suggested.

“‘Pledges,’” Alex. repeated, and taking the paper from Ruth, he made

“Pledgers” distinctly from the irregular letters. “‘Pledgers,’ that’s

funny,” he said, with a thought of Old Pledger and the girl.

Neither Amy nor Ruth saw anything funny in the names. They were too much

absorbed in what the old man had written, and asked Mrs. Marsh what she

knew of him. She knew very little, except that he once lived on a farm

among the New Hampshire hills, and her husband, when a boy, had spent a

week with him, but was glad to get away.

“Since your father died I have scarcely given the man a thought,” she

added. “I did hear, in a roundabout way, that he had gone West; I

fancied him dead long ago. He was said to be very eccentric,—half crazy,

or something.”

She was not one to care much for people not in her sphere, and Amos

Marsh evidently was not, or had not been while living. Now, however, he

became an object of importance. He had left her children his money, and

although they were not in need of it, as the Marsh fortune was a large

one, she was glad for the addition, and, with Amy, began to wonder how

much there was in the banks and how much the ranch and house in Denver

were worth. She scarcely thought of the farm, which was uppermost in

Alex.’s mind, as he sat looking at the papers in his hand.

“Heard I was honest, with fewer tricks than most city young men! I am

much obliged to his informant. Who was it, I wonder?” he thought, then,

as his eyes fell upon the last words his uncle had written, he said

aloud: “It looks as if he had done some wrong which I am to right; but

how can I, when I don’t know what it is?”

“Probably nothing but a whim,” Ruth said. “Evidently he _was_ half crazy

as people thought. Think of his fancying some one standing in the door

as he wrote and seeing things at the farm! It makes one feel creepy.

Maybe the old house is haunted.”

“Oh, how delightful!” Amy cried. “I hope it is. A family ghost adds so

much _éclat_ to one.”

Alex. did not reply. He was thinking of the two names, Crosby and Joel

Pledger. Where did they live, if still alive? Possibly in New York, as

his uncle was there so recently. “I’ll look in the directory,” he

thought. “Joel Pledger is not a common name, and if I find it I’ll

follow it up and see if he ever heard of Amos Marsh. Jolly, what if it

should be Old Pledger in the box? I’ve had queer feelings about him ever

since I saw him and about the girl.”

An hour later Alex. was poring over a city directory, going through the

list of Crosbys and Pledgers and marvelling to find so many, especially

Pledgers. He had only expected to find a few, but it seemed to him there

was a legion. There were Toms and Johns and Henrys and Elis, and at last

Joel,—the only one so far as he could see in the list,—and he lived far

down town in a most unfashionable part of the city, where Alex. had not

been in years. But he was going there now, and, telling his mother not

to wait lunch if he happened to be late, he left the house and, walking

to Sixth Avenue, took a down-town car in pursuit of Joel Pledger and the

girl!

CHAPTER III

ALEX. AND THE PLEDGERS

He had no difficulty in finding the place, and was rather surprised that

the street was so clean and well kept. He had an idea that the side

streets down town must be untidy, with a second-class air about them.

This street was decidedly clean, with a kind of old-time look, as if

old-fashioned but highly respectable people lived there,—not people like

his mother and Amy and Ruth, but nice people such as the Pledgers and

the girl who was visiting them from the country. He guessed there might

be boarding-houses there, for occasionally he caught a whiff from a

basement of something cooking, which confirmed him in his belief. In the

centre of the block was the number he was looking for, and to make sure

he was right he ran up the steps and read upon a brass plate, “Joel

Pledger.” The house was three-storied, with a brick front and an air of

great respectability, although very different from the tall, brown stone

building far up the avenue where Alex. lived.

“This is the place, and I don’t believe it is a boarding-house either,”

he said; “but what reason have I to think this Joel Pledger ever knew

Uncle Amos? None whatever, and I don’t know why I came here.” Then he

thought of the girl, and knew that in some way she was connected with

his interest in the Pledgers. “I’m a fool, but I’ll follow it up now I

have commenced,” he said, as he retraced his steps towards his own home,

which he reached just in time for lunch.

The day was fine and warm for winter, and after lunch he proposed a

drive in the park, but there was an afternoon tea on hand for the

ladies, and he decided to go alone and drive himself in his light buggy

behind his thoroughbred bay, with high check and bobtail. The sun was so

bright and the air so balmy that it seemed to him everybody was out, and

he met many of his acquaintances in their elegant turnouts, and was

thinking what a gay scene it was, when suddenly, at a bend in the road,

he came upon Whitey, and behind him Old Pledger and the girl, her eyes

shining and her face fresh and bright with the cool air blowing upon it.

“By George, this is luck!” Alex. thought, involuntarily pulling the

reins of his horse as if to stop her.

Then, remembering himself, he kept on until he reached a convenient

place to turn round, and letting the bay mare have her head, he soon

overtook Whitey, jogging on always at the same pace and caring as little

for the high steppers around him as did his master. To keep behind the

slow vehicle was not an easy matter, for the bay fretted and tossed her

head, and would have whisked her tail if she had one to whisk. But Alex.

kept her well in hand and followed on, wondering if the “old duffer”

would never leave the park. He did leave it at last, and Alex. left it,

too, and drove down Fifth Avenue and into Sixth, and still on into a

cross street, where Whitey stopped before the respectable looking house

with a brick front, a brass plate and “Joel Pledger” upon it. Alex. had

been sure he would stop there, and was glad, for the bay mare was

getting restless and pulling hard at the bit, and the moment she felt

the reins loosened she dashed on over the rough pavement with a clatter,

scarcely allowing Alex. time to turn his head and make sure that the

girl was going up the steps. He knew now where she was stopping and

where Joel Pledger lived, but was it the Joel his uncle Amos knew?

“I’ll find out to-morrow, and if it isn’t, maybe I’ll see the girl,” he

thought; and the next morning about eleven o’clock he was ringing the

bell at No. 28, noticing, while he stood waiting, how clean everything

was around the door and the narrow windows on the sides. “It takes ’em a

long time to get here. They must have a mighty lazy maid,” he thought,

giving a second pull at the old-fashioned bell.

He was taking out his card for the servant girl, when the door opened

and he was confronted by Mrs. Pledger herself, a tall and portly woman

of sixty-five, her lips shut tightly together and a look as if she

scented a peddler or an agent, both her abominations. But Alex.’s face

and manner disarmed her. He was neither an agent nor a peddler, and her

lips relaxed a little of their tightness, and in response to his

interrogatory, “Mrs. Pledger?” she replied:

“Yes, I am Mrs. Pledger; walk in and take a chair.”

He walked in and took a chair in what he was sure was the best room, and

at which he looked curiously, contrasting it with the grand rooms at

home, where one article of furniture must have cost nearly as much as

every article here would sell for. And yet there was an air of comfort

about it, with its cushioned easy-chairs, its wide sofa, its footstools

and rugs, made by hand he was sure, and the centre-table, with some

books and a vase, with a few roses filling the room with perfume.

Somebody liked flowers. Probably the girl and not Mrs. Pledger, whose

personal appearance did not bear much relation to hot-house roses, and

who was habited in a dark calico with a wide apron, suggestive of the

kitchen, from which she had come in answer to Alex.’s summons. She was

the most indulgent of mistresses, and her maid of all work went and came

about as she pleased. On this particular occasion she had gone to see

her cousin off by steamer, and Mrs. Pledger, in the basement, was

preparing their twelve o’clock dinner when Alex.’s ring called her

upstairs.

“Did you want to see me or Joel?” she asked, as Alex. sat wondering what

he was to say and why he was there.

It seemed such a flimsy reason, but he must say something, and he began:

“You will do as well as your husband, and I really think I ought to

apologize for intruding upon you, an entire stranger, who may not be the

one I want at all.”

“Suppose you tell me what you do want, and not beat around the bush. We

can get at it better,” Mrs. Pledger said, her lips beginning to tighten.

Alex. braced up at once and began:

“I want to know if you ever knew my great-uncle Amos Marsh? I’ve had a

letter from him, and he’s dead.”

“Dead! How you talk! Amos Marsh dead! That beats me! When did he die,

and what ailed him?” Mrs. Pledger exclaimed.

She knew him then, and Alex. hastened to explain, saying nothing at

first of the property, but speaking of the letter to himself, in which

Mr. Joel Pledger was mentioned.

“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Pledger said, with emotion. “Remembered us, the dear

old man. I knew he would. What did he say?”

This was more than Alex. had reckoned on. Uncle Amos had merely written

Joel Pledger’s name, but the woman expected something more, and Alex.

wished awfully to lie and say something complimentary, but he didn’t. He

said hurriedly:

“He wrote such a nice letter that it made me wish to find you and a Mr.

Crosby. Do you know him, and do you know anything about the farm where

Uncle Amos used to live? I believe it belongs to me and my sister now

that he is dead.”

“I rather think I do know something about it. I don’t know who would if

I don’t. I was there a great deal when I was a little girl. Eli Crosby

was my half brother, twenty years old when I was born. I am sixty-five;

he’d be eighty-five if living. We are a long-lived race,” was Mrs.

Pledger’s reply.

She was warming to the subject, and Alex. tried to follow her as she

told rapidly that Amos Marsh, who lived near the farm, spent half his

time there,—he and Mr. Crosby were such fast friends and both such good

men,—not an enemy in the world. Then she told how surprised people were

when her brother sold his farm to Mr. Marsh, who went there at once to

live, and how shocked was the whole community when, not long after the

sale, Mr. Crosby was killed on the railroad.

“Mr. Marsh lived on alone,” she said, “and naturally he grew a little

queer,—used to talk to himself, and the neighbors said he was off. He

talked a good deal to my brother, Mr. Crosby, when nobody was near him,

and they say he did this till he died. At last he rented the place and

went to Denver, and we saw no more of him till two years ago, when he

spent a few days in New York and stopped with us. He was straight enough

then in his mind, but kept talking about the time he lived on the farm.

He asked about your family, of which he’d kept track, but we couldn’t

tell him much, being we are in different spheres,—you in the smart set

and we just plain folks, living in the house we bought when we was

married. We was quite up town then compared to what we be now, but I’ve

never cared to change. I like it here; folks know me, and I know folks.

There is Miss Walker next door, has lived here just as long as we have,

and Miss Brown the other side. Joel was first in a bank, then he was

_the_ bank, then he got into Wall Street, was lucky always, till we are

forehanded enough and could live up town in a brown stone if we wanted

to. But, land sake, I’m happier here. Everybody knows us, or leastwise

Joel. He frequently lends money on good security, you know.”

“Yes,” Alex. interposed, not caring to hear more of her family history,

and anxious to ask an important question. “Yes, but about Uncle Amos,

who lived on the farm. Wasn’t he a good man?”

“One of the best the Lord ever made. No one ever said a word against

him,” was the hearty response, which lifted a load from Alex.’s mind.

There was no wrong of any account he was to right. It was all a fancy of

a morbid old man, who, from living alone, had dwelt upon and magnified

some trivial circumstance, making a mountain of a mole hill. If he ever

found a wrong he should right it, of course, but he should not hunt for

or advertise it, and he was glad, for he hated trouble and didn’t know

how to right wrongs, and he now began to think of the _girl_, and wonder

how he could manage to see her.

Suddenly from the basement below there came a faint odor of something

burning, and stepping to the door, Mrs. Pledger called:

“Sherry, Sherry, won’t you go down to the kitchen and shove back the

chicken stew? It is bilin’ over.”

“Yes, auntie,” came in a clear, young voice, and Alex. heard the swish

of a gown on the stairs and through the hall down to the basement.

He did not sit where he could see the girl, but he arose as if to go,

and, stepping near the door, waited for her to come back. But she didn’t

come back, and as Mrs. Pledger, too, arose, as if expecting him to go,

he left the house, forgetting to inquire for any Crosbys who might be

living and would be her relatives and friends of Amos Marsh.

“Well, no matter,” he thought. “They have nothing to do with it. I’ve

found that Uncle Amos was a good man, who never could have done anything

really wrong, and I’ve learned that her name is ‘Sherry.’ Pretty, but

odd for a girl. I wish I could have seen her.”

If Alex. had looked back in time he might have seen a girl’s face close

against the window of the dining-room, where Sherry was trying to get a

glimpse of him, while Mrs. Pledger was saying: “A very nice mannered

young man, but I don’t see why under the sun and moon he was so anxious

to know if we ever knew Amos Marsh, and if he was a good man. Good

indeed! The Lord never made a better!”

CHAPTER IV

THE ABANDONED FARM

There are many of them scattered through New England, some on hillsides,

some in valleys, some on public highways and some among the mountains,

where rocks and ferns seem the only products of the soil. There are

houses with slanting roofs, big chimneys, high window stools and small

panes of glass; houses whose owners lived their quiet, monotonous lives,

with no thought of change for themselves. They were content to till

their barren fields, with only an occasional thought of the far West and

the capabilities it held for them if they were younger and could get

there. Their sons did get there when the fathers and mothers were laid

away to rest, and the old homesteads and farms were left for other and

distant fields. A few of the houses are in a fair state of preservation,

but they look desolate and dreary, with no sign of life around or in

them, except the rats or the squirrels, which, finding ingress through

some broken window, make themselves a nest in the garret, where they

hold high carnival through the winter until the warm sunshine of spring

calls them back to their woodland home. After a lapse of time the

strongest built house begins to show signs of decay, and nowhere was

this more apparent than in the house to which Alex. came on a February

day, a few weeks after his receipt of Amos Marsh’s letter. He had been

to Denver and consulted with the lawyers, had visited the ranch and the

house where his uncle had lived when in town, and had appropriated the

Scotch collie, who had been his uncle’s companion since he was a puppy.

He was a fine specimen of canines, with his intelligent face, his long

wool and shaggy mane, and Alex., who was fond of dogs, fancied him at

once. “Laddie” was his name, but Alex. rechristened him “Sherry,”

greatly to the disgust of Chinaman Lee, who had been Mr. Marsh’s

servant, and who said, “Sherry bad name; he not come for Sherry; he no

like wine.”

Alex. laughed and patted the big fellow, who took kindly to him, and if

he did not answer at once to Sherry, he soon learned the whistle with

which his new master called him. Alex. would like to have taken the cat,

but as that was impracticable he left it for Lee, with many injunctions

that it should be well cared for, and with his dog started for home,

turning aside from the main route to see the farm, about which he had a

great deal of curiosity. At the station, which was a mile from the

house, he took the only available conveyance, a box sleigh, drawn by a

spavined horse and driven by a loquacious man, who informed him that his

name was Bowles—“a carpenter by trade in the summer and a

jack-at-all-trades in the winter, when folks didn’t have much tinkerin’

of houses to do.”

“Know the Marsh place? You bet,” he said, slapping the reins on Spavin’s

back with an injunction to “ca-dap.” “I used to tinker there by odd

spells before the old gent went away, and he left me to look after

things,—kind of an agent. Nice man? Wall, I guess he was ’bout as good

as they make ’em; never heard a breath against him. Little queer

sometimes, and talked to himself a good deal; but, land sakes, there was

nobody else to talk to half the time, he lived alone so much. It beats

all how curis some folks is about an old house,—real old like this one

which must have heard the thunder of the Revolution, if it had thundered

this way. The grandees who come to the mountains in the summer drive up

here, rafts of ’em, and, oh, my suz, what a time the women make over the

old place, and how they want to buy things if they was for sale. Why, I

could have sold an old chest in the garret a dozen times. It’s full of

clothes, women’s clothes, and when I told ’em that they was crazy to see

’em. But I said no;—they wasn’t mine to sell, nor to show. I’ve been a

faithful steward, I have. And you are goin’ to take the place? Well, I’m

glad to have somebody see to it besides me. It’s a sin the way things

has gone on sence he quit rentin’ it square. Old mother Chase and her

brood squatted on it one winter. I let ’em in, to be sure, at a nominal

rent, but, land sakes, I never got a cent, and they split up the back

room floor for wood and half the suller stairs, and then decamped in the

night. Farmer Jones kept his cows there in the summer, and somebody else

their horses,—in the pasture, I mean,—and I can’t collect a cent. ’Twas

the finest farm in these parts once, and might be again with a little

care. Going to farm it yourself?”

Bowles glanced sidewise at the young man beside him, wrapped in a

fur-lined coat, and thought how unlike he looked to a farmer.

“I don’t know,” Alex. said. “Is the house greatly out of repair?”

“Well, I’d laugh,” was the reply, as Bowles slapped Spavin’s back again

and told him to “ca-dap!” “Out of repair? What can you expect of a house

standin’ empty for years? It wants shinglin’ all over; leaks like a

sieve; suller wall cavin’ in in two or three places; jice rotted here

and another there; cistern gone; conductor pipes bust; eaves rotted; two

chimneys down, tother ready to tumble; door-jams settled; winder lights

smashed, and some frames tetotally gone; roof sagged in, the middle

pillars on piazza ready to fall, and floors givin’ away, and——”

“Oh, please stop,” Alex. exclaimed. “You horrify me. It will take

thousands to bring it up.”

“No, sir-ee,” Bowles replied, beginning to see a chance for himself.

“Lumber is cheap here, and labor, too. I’m a carpenter, I told you, and

I’ll take the job reasonable. You’ll have to have it shingled, though,

and a suller wall built and a cistern and jice and jams and winders.”

He was going on with the list of needs again, when Alex. stopped him a

second time by asking, “Is that the place?” as they came in sight of a

great square house, standing on a rise of ground a little back from the

road.

“Yes, yes, that’s it! Here we be,” Bowles said, reining up before the

gate, or rather where the gate used to be.

It lay on the ground now, covered with snow, as was everything as far as

the eye could reach, and Alex. involuntarily thought of the lines he had

learned when a boy,

“On Linden, when the sun was low,

All bloodless lay the untrodden snow.”

The snow around him was certainly bloodless and lay white and glistening

in the wintry sunshine, glints of which were falling on Mount Washington

in the distance and on the hills and tree tops nearer by.

“It’s a beautiful view and must be lovely here in summer,” Alex.

thought, as he went up the walk and the ricketty steps on to the piazza,

where a board gave way under him and he came near falling.

“Take care, or you will break your neck. I come nigh breakin’ my laig on

one of them rotten boards,” Bowles said, putting out a hand to steady

the young man.

There was neither lock nor bolt to the door, and they soon stood in the

long, wide hall, with a fireplace in a corner, a door at the farther end

opening on to another piazza and stairs which led straight to the upper

hall, where there was a scampering of little feet as of many animals

running over the floor.

“Rats or squirrels,” Bowles said. “The house is full of ’em.”

It was a chilly, grewsome kind of place, and Alex. shivered as he went

through room after room,—twelve downstairs and as many more upstairs,

besides the attic. They visited that last, and saw where the rats had

been and where the squirrels lived, and Alex. sat down near a big chest

pushed into a corner and looked about him. Scattered through the garret,

which was very large, were piles of old furniture, which would delight

relic hunters, and he did not wonder that guests from the hotels had

tried to buy them.

“There used to be some pillers here and blankets and things loose,”

Bowles said; “but, my land, old mother Chase took ’em. Wonder she didn’t

bust open that chist. Guess ’twas too strong for her. That is the one I

told you some of the quality wanted to buy.”

Alex. glanced at it now, and saw that it was one of those old-fashioned

cedar chests in which housewives of years ago kept their linen and parts

of their wardrobe.

“It’s full of things,” Bowles went on; “women’s clothes, all flowered

like and silky. He aired ’em when he was here and took as much pains

with ’em as if the woman who used to wear ’em was alive,—Mr. Marsh, I

mean.”

“Oh, yes,—my uncle. He came here, did he?” Alex. asked, and Bowles

replied:

“Yes, and stopped two days with me, but stayed over here most of the day

time and wrote letters or something in that chamber where there is a

chair and table. That was his sleeping-room when he lived here, and he

looked sorry when he went through it, and said, ‘The vandals haven’t

left me much.’ Wall, there wasn’t much to leave after the auction. You

see, he had a vendue before he left and sold a good deal. What he didn’t

sell was put up here, and some has been stole, but there are piles left.

This chist is too heavy to carry off, and I’ve kept a sharp look out,

too, bein’ here every week. He was in here a good deal airin’ things,

and when I ast him whose flowered gown that was on the line, he said,

‘Miss Crosby’s, who used to live here.’”

“Crosby,” Alex. repeated; “that’s the man who first owned the farm?”

“Yes, before I was born, I guess,” Bowles said, “and he and his wife are

buried acrost the road. There’s a big monument to their memory,—put up

by Mr. Marsh. Mabby you didn’t notice it as we drove up,” and then

thinking he heard some one below he started down, followed by Alex.,

glad to escape from the cold garret, which affected him unpleasantly.

The place was certainly frightfully run down. “But it had great

capables, and might be made a first-class summer house,” Bowles said, as

they drove back to the station. Some such idea was in Alex.’s mind, and

kept growing until, by the time he reached home, it was a fixed fact

that he would try the “capables.” He was very fond of the country, and

would like to live there half his time, and he meant to bring up the

farm to what it used to be, and make over and modernize and add to the

house, if necessary, until it could accommodate twenty or more people.

He would call it “Maplehurst,” because of the maples which skirted the

road leading to it, and he would fill it with his friends and his

mother’s and Amy’s and Ruth’s for one summer, at least, and see how it

worked. Some should be invited for a week, some for two, some for four

and some for the entire season. In short, it was to be a grand house

party, such as the English had, only it was to last longer. It would

cost a great deal, of course, but he guessed he could stand it for once,

and he was planning drives and picnics and excursions to Mount

Washington when his train stopped at the Central Station, and he hurried

home, full of his scheme, of which his mother and Amy did not at first

approve. Their preference was for Saratoga and Newport and similar

places, rather than a house in the country miles from anywhere. But his

enthusiasm conquered their scruples, and they began at last to look

forward with a good deal of interest to the summer they were to spend at

Maplehurst when Alex.’s plans were perfected.

CHAPTER V

SHERRY

It was the last of May, and more than a year since the cold February day

when Alex. went up the mountain road to the tumbledown house, which was

now a fine mansion,—the pride of its owner and the wonder of the people

in the neighborhood, who were waiting developments. All through the

previous summer and autumn the work of repairs and additions had gone

on, with Bowles as head carpenter and Alex. there half the time giving

directions and hurrying on the work. The roofs and chimneys and cellar

walls and cisterns and windows had all been attended to. The piazza had

been extended on three sides of the house and a bowling alley and

billiard-room added. The barn and stables had been enlarged to

accommodate the horses Alex. meant to have, with carriages and tally-ho

for the use of his guests. Two grooms had been hired, with a chef and

housekeeper and maids for the kitchen, and a head waiter. Invitations

had been given to and accepted by people anxious to try this new

departure, which promised so much.

“And now there’s nothing but the table waiters,” Alex. said. “I must

advertise for these, and I want four to begin with, nice, pretty

girls,—salesladies, I suppose, and stenographers and typewriters, and,

possibly, teachers, who will be glad of a change.”

“And put on airs, and think they must sit with us when their work is

done, and perhaps practise on the piano. I’ve heard of such things,” Amy

said, with a toss of her head.

She was prouder than her brother, and did not believe in waitresses who

might put on airs and sit with the family. She wanted girls who would

keep their places. Alex. laughed, and said he’d advertise any way, and

see what came of it. Two days later there appeared in the leading papers

an advertisement to the effect that four or five capable young girls

were wanted as table waiters during the summer at Maplehurst, among the

White Mountains; the work would be light and the highest wages given.

Those wishing for the place were to apply to the housekeeper, Mrs.

Groves, No. — West Twenty-fourth Street, and, if accepted, were to

report at Maplehurst the last week in June.

The morning after the advertisement was inserted a New York paper found

its way to Buford, a little inland town in Massachusetts, where there

was a very aristocratic look in the one long, broad street, and an air

of sleepiness everywhere. There didn’t seem, however, to be anything

drowsy about the young girl who had been for the daily mail, finding

only the morning paper, which she read as she walked along the

elm-skirted street towards home.

“Oh, mother and Katy, just listen to this!” she cried, sitting down in

the doorway and reading the advertisement. “I mean to apply. I am told

many young ladies do this very thing just for the excitement and a

little money. It will be such a lark, and it’s where our

great-grandfather Crosby used to live. You know Aunt Pledger wrote us

that a Mr. Marsh was fitting it up for a big house party and calling it

Maplehurst. I’ve always wanted to see the swell world without being

seen,—have wanted to know how they demean themselves towards each other

every day, and how they treat their employees, and here’s my chance. The

highest of wages, too, though I don’t care so much for that as for the

fun. Yes, I mean to apply.”

She was very much excited, but her ardor was slightly dampened by her

more practical sister Kate, who exclaimed:

“Fanny Sheridan Sherman! Are you crazy? Applying for a place as waitress

in a hotel, or boarding-house, or whatever it is! Have you no pride, and

what do you think Aunt Pledger would say, and how would she like her New

York friends to know her niece was a waiter?”

“Aunt Pledger!” and Fanny, or Sherry, as she was usually called, laughed

a low, rippling laugh as she leaned against the door-jamb and fanned

herself with the paper. “I have never been able to make you understand

that Aunt Pledger isn’t a swell woman, if she does live in New York. Her

house is away down town on a side street, and her furniture the same she

had when she was married years and years ago. She keeps one girl,

Huldah, and she is gone half the time, leaving Aunt Pledger to open the

door herself and do lots of things. I know she has plenty of money, but

is close, and she don’t care what we do to get a living, if it is

respectable and we don’t come upon her. When father died last summer and

she came to the funeral, didn’t she ask us both what we intended to do,

or what we could do, and when I told her I couldn’t do a blessed thing,

unless it was housework, didn’t she say, ‘Better that than do nothing

and expect to be cared for by others. Young people succeed better who

rely on themselves.’ I believe she was afraid we might ask her for help.

Little we would get. I know she had me in New York two weeks, and took

me everywhere, and she was very kind to me. But that was the first

attention she ever showed us, and I don’t believe she would have done

that if it hadn’t been for Miss Saltus, whom she met on some charitable

work, and who spoke of us and said, ‘The next time either of your nieces

are in New York let me know; I’d like to call upon them.’ After that

Aunt Pledger invited me and did the handsome thing, for she never does a

thing by halves, and then Mr. Saltus came to us in the opera-box and was

glad to see me, and that helped. She is an awful good woman, of

course,—goes to church twice every Sunday, rain or shine, and half

supports a society for the prevention of cruelty to children and

animals; but she believes in letting people take care of themselves, if

they can. Her pride will not be hurt because I hire out as a waitress. I

don’t know enough to teach as you do, but I can wash dishes and wait

upon table, and earn some money and not let you be the only

bread-winner. Then I shall enjoy immensely being Mr. What’s-his-name’s

waitress, and know I am somebody else just as good as he is. He is the

man who came to Aunt Pledger’s when I was there, and asked if she ever

knew old Mr. Marsh. I nearly broke the window trying to see him as he

left the house.”

“Young?” Kate asked, and Sherry replied:

“Yes, and good looking, judging from the back of his head and the fit of

his coat. Uncle Pledger knows about him as he does about all the smart

set, although he’s not in it. He is just an old-time New Yorker, who has

lived in the city fifty years and seen the rise and fall of everybody,

and knows everybody by reputation. He might live uptown in one of those

handsome brown stones, but, like Aunt Pledger, prefers to stay where he

is, leaving the city to roll on as it pleases.”

Here Sherry laughed as she recalled her own and Katy’s ideas of Aunt

Pledger’s house and style before her visit there the previous year. Born

in Buford and the daughter of a clergyman, she knew little of the world

except what she had seen at boarding-school, where, with Katy, she had

spent a year. Of fashionable society she knew nothing, except as it was

partially represented by the Saltus family, who owned a large house just

outside the village, where they spent their summers. Between the

Saltuses and Shermans a strong friendship had sprung up, and Sherry was

right in her surmise that it was to Rose Saltus she owed her invitation

to visit her aunt. With Kate she had talked a great deal of her New York

relative,—had wondered why they were never asked to visit her and why

she never visited them, or paid them any attention except to send

herself and Kate and their mother each a handkerchief and their father a

book at Christmas. For the rest of the year she ignored them entirely.

“Another handkerchief? Yes, and here’s the mark she forgot to take off:

twenty cents! I have six of them now, all the same size, quality and

price,—half cotton,” was Sherry’s contemptuous comment when the last

batch of handkerchiefs arrived with the twenty-cent mark upon them.

Sherry was the outspoken one of the family, to whom the most latitude

was allowed by her rather stern father while he was living. He had

wanted a boy, whom he was to call Sheridan, after his favorite general.

But she proved to be a girl, and was christened Fanny Sheridan, and grew

up a bright, lighthearted, impulsive girl, fond of excitement and

adventure, making friends wherever she went and feeling herself

everybody’s equal. To see New York had been the dream of her life, and

when Mrs. Pledger’s invitation came she was delighted, for now she

should see life as it ebbed and flowed in a great city. She had heard

that her Uncle Pledger was a millionaire, and had expected a grandeur

which would quite overshadow her own home. Of just what she thought of

the reality she never said much until the morning when she received

Alex.’s advertisement, and Katy suggested that Aunt Pledger would feel

hurt to have her grand-niece a waitress. Mr. and Mrs. Pledger had been

very kind to her, and gone far out of their way to entertain her. They

had never been to an opera in their lives until they took her there; and

when the questions of seats came up they hired an expensive box, Mr.

Pledger saying he’d do the whole thing or nothing, and he guessed he

could afford to have a spree now and then. He had his spree and slept

through half of it, but was glad Sherry enjoyed it, and was proud that

Craig Saltus came into the box to call, and hoped those high bucks, the

Marshes, saw him. If he was not in the smart set he knew everybody who

was, and from having lived in New York so long both himself and wife

were as good as encyclopedias with regard to the history of many of the

people, and it was his boast that he had at some time loaned money to

more than half of his more intimate acquaintances to tide them over some

difficulty. He was proud of himself as a money lender,—proud that he

could afford to wear plain clothes, live far down town and drive old

Whitey. Sherry, however, did not seem quite in keeping with the old

horse and buggy. Something in her face made him think of the grand

turnouts and the ladies who graced them; and when the drive in the park

was suggested, he thought to have a handsome carriage and “show her off

with the best of ’em.” But his more frugal wife suggested that this

would be quite an expense after the opera box, and though Sherry might

grace any carriage he could hire, he would be out of place in his old

gray coat and hat. So the carriage was given up and the drive taken

behind Whitey. Sherry enjoyed it immensely, and saw Alex. Marsh, who

Uncle Pledger told her “was a swell man, but about as good as they made

’em,” and knew that he drove behind them on their way home, and called

afterwards to inquire about his Uncle Amos, who owned the farm where her

great-grandfather once lived, but she thought no more about him.

Since that time her father had died, leaving his family, as clergymen’s

families frequently are left, with little to depend upon besides their

own exertions. They owned the house they lived in; there had been a life

insurance, and Kate was teaching in a graded school. Sherry, who was the

cleverest of housekeepers, and saved her delicate mother in every

possible way, was doing nothing, and had puzzled her brain until it

ached over the problem as to what she could do. She wanted to see the

world and to earn some money at the same time, and here was her chance.

The waitress part did not disturb her at all. She would still be Fanny

Sheridan Sherman, although she did not intend to make any capital out of

that or expect any favors. She would go like the rest of the girls and

be one of them. She was rather self-willed when her mind was made up,

and overcoming her mother’s and sister’s scruples, she wrote to Mrs.

Groves in New York, asking for a situation as waitress at Maplehurst.

“I hope you told her about Aunt Pledger, and that you were a clergyman’s

daughter and a lady,” Katy said, and Sherry replied:

“Indeed I didn’t! I just asked for the place and signed myself ‘Fanny S.

Sherman.’ I’m going to be Fanny up there and leave Sherry behind with

the rest of me.”

In a few days Mrs. Groves’ answer came, very stiffly worded, to the

effect that Mrs. Groves would see her on a certain day at a certain

hour, and would expect references as to character and ability.

“I told you so,” Katy said. “References from the last lady you worked

for.”

“Which is mamma. I can manage that,” Sherry answered, not at all

disheartened by Mrs. Groves’ requirements, and with the understanding

that she should spend the night with Mrs. Pledger, she left home on the

morning of the day appointed by Mrs. Groves for the interview.

CHAPTER VI

THE INTERVIEW

Sherry did feel a little shaky as she went up the steps to No. — West

Twenty-fourth Street and touched the bell. The _lark_ did not look quite

so funny as it had at first. But with her usual strong will, she put

aside any regret she might have felt. It was too late to go back; there

was nothing to do but go forward. Her ring was answered, and she was

soon face to face with Mrs. Groves, a woman of fifty-five or sixty, who

had forgotten her youth, if she ever had any, and thought of nothing

except to maintain her position with dignity and discharge her duties

conscientiously. She felt it an honor to be chosen as the matron at

Maplehurst by the Marshes, and did not shrink at all from the

responsibility of choosing the waitresses. She had already dismissed a

dozen or more as wholly unfitted for the place, and her forehead was

puckered in a frown when Sherry’s card was handed to her.

“Fanny Sheridan Sherman,” she read. “A pretentious name. I remember her

writing to me. Show her in.”

This last to the bell boy, who pushed aside the portière and Sherry

entered and bowed to the lady rustling in black satin, with a bit of

Duchess lace at her throat and gold-rimmed eye-glasses on her nose.

There was no servility in Sherry’s manner or appearance of timidity. She

was always self-possessed, and never more so than now, when answering

Mrs. Groves’ questions.

“What is your name? Oh, yes, I know,—Fanny Sheridan Sherman. Fanny will

be sufficient, if I take you. Superfluities like Miss, as some girls

like, will not be permitted.”

Sherry bowed and said she was twenty years old, that her home was in

Buford, Massachusetts, that she had never been in service and had no

references.

“No references!” Mrs. Groves repeated, rather severely, and Sherry

replied: “None except what mother might give you. I have never worked

out, but have done a good deal at home.”

“What can you do?”

“All that is required of a waitress, I think,” Sherry said. “You can try

me, and if I do not suit you can dismiss me.”

“Are you willing to wear a cap?” was Mrs. Groves’ next question.

Two or three applicants for the place had refused caps and been promptly

dismissed by Mrs. Groves, who looked curiously at Sherry, waiting for

her answer.

“Why, yes, I’ll wear a cap if you wish it and think I’ll do my work any

better.”

“It isn’t that,” Mrs. Groves said. “It is not a matter of work. It is a

badge,—a sign,—a distinction——”

“Yes, I know,” Sherry replied. “I know what the cap means. I’ll wear

it,” and she laughed inwardly as she saw herself in a cap waiting upon a

table and imagined Katy’s indignation when she heard of it.

Something of the laugh showed in her eyes, and Mrs. Groves saw it and

was puzzled. This was no ordinary girl seeking a situation, and she

might make trouble with that high head and that look in her eyes which

she could not fathom. But she must begin to make a choice. Alex. had

said to her, “Get nice-looking girls, not low-down truck. You know I

want everything first-class.” Sherry certainly was first-class and nice

looking and not “low-down truck,” and Mrs. Groves decided to take her on

trial. “It is settled then, and you will be at Maplehurst the last week

in June, where I shall meet you and the other girls and break you in,”

she said, after a little further questioning, which elicited nothing

from Sherry with regard to Mrs. Pledger, or her father having been a

clergyman and her family one of the best in Buford, three points upon

which Katy had laid great stress.

She was equal to herself and going to run herself, and when she said

good-morning to Mrs. Groves she left that lady in a very perplexed state

of mind as to whether she had done well to engage a girl with Sherry’s

face and manner, and who had never been in any kind of service.

“I can dismiss her if I do not like her,” she thought, and as she was

the first she had accepted, she wrote her down in her book, “Fanny

Sherman, Buford, Massachusetts, No. 1. Seems capable but airy, with her

head too high. There is something behind, but trust me to manage her!”

Mrs. Pledger was not expecting Sherry, but she was thinking about her as

she sat darning Joel’s socks in her basement kitchen and watching the

soup simmering on the range. As usual, Huldah was out; she generally was

in the afternoon, and evening both, for that matter. Mrs. Pledger’s

humanitarian principles carrying her so far as to think a poor girl who

worked in the basement all the morning should have a good share of the

rest of the day for fresh air and recreation.

“Now, for the land’s sake, who can that be, and Huldah gone!” she said,

as Sherry’s ring echoed through the house. “Miss Ellett, I do believe,

and she’s come for my subscription to the Humane Society. She always

catches me in my everyday clothes. I’ll whip off my big apron anyway.”

She took off her apron, and hurrying up the stairs opened the door to

Sherry.

“For goodness’ sake,” she exclaimed, “where did you drop from? Think of

angels,—you know the rest, and I was thinking of you. Come in and take

off your things. Have you come shopping?” she continued, with a feeling

of disquiet as she thought that if Sherry went shopping she must go with

her and see that she did not spend her money foolishly.

“Shopping!” Sherry repeated. “No, indeed! I’ve nothing to shop with, but

I’m going to have as much as forty dollars. Think of it!” and very

rapidly she told of her plan and asked what her aunt thought of it.

“And so you are going out to work?” Mrs. Pledger said, and her under jaw

dropped a little, as if she did not quite know whether she liked it or

not.

She had been much pleased with Sherry during the two weeks she had been

her guest, and had often thought of inviting her again for a longer

visit and including Kate in the invitation. But the habits of years are

not easily broken, and she shrank from anything which would change her

quiet ways as two young girls would do.

“Too much trouble, and costly, too,” she said to herself, thinking of

the expense when Sherry was with them the previous year.

They had done the handsome thing then, and it must suffice for a while

at least. And still Mrs. Pledger often found herself thinking of the

girl who had filled the house with so much brightness, and was making up

her mind to take her to some cheap watering place when Sherry appeared

and made the startling announcement that she was going as a waitress for

the summer to Maplehurst!

“You don’t mean it!” she said, and Sherry replied, “I do, most

certainly. I want to do something; and lots of nice girls go as

waitresses to these places, and it don’t hurt them any. Nothing hurts

that is respectable, and I shall still be Fanny Sherman, and I want to

see the world away from Buford.”

In her admiration of the girl Mrs. Pledger came near offering to take

her to some fashionable watering place where she could see the world far

better than at Maplehurst, but the expense came up as a hindrance.

Perhaps it was just as well to let her try her wings a little, and the

Marshes were sure to recognize in her a superiority over the other girls

and treat her accordingly, she thought, and suppressed her first impulse

and began to speak of Maplehurst as it was when she was there as a girl.

“A grand old house, with big rooms and wide halls and fine views,” she

said. Sherry’s great-grandmother, Mrs. Crosby, was a beautiful lady,

with lovely clothes. “Her wedding dress was a cream brocade,” she

continued, “with roses scattered over it, and would almost stand alone,

and there was some rich lace with it and some jewels, and she looked

like a queen at a reception your uncle gave. All the élite of the

different hotels were there, with an ex-governor, and we lighted a

hundred wax candles, and the affair was long talked of as the great

Crosby party. Your grandmother died the next winter, and Uncle Crosby

had her gowns and laces and jewels put away in a big cedar chest, where

she kept her best linen. I was there once for a day after I was married.

Mr. Marsh owned the place then. He had bought it of your grandfather

Crosby, who soon after was killed in a railway accident. They are both

buried in a little enclosure on the hillside opposite the house,—Mr. and

Mrs. Crosby, I mean,—and Mr. Marsh erected a monument to their memory.

You’ll see it, and the chest, if it hasn’t been taken away. It is more

than thirty years since I was there. The place has been rented since and

abandoned, and there’s no telling what is there and what isn’t. The

gowns and things belong to you and Kate. Mr. Marsh told me I could have

them, but as I was Mr. Crosby’s niece, not Mrs. Crosby’s, they didn’t

belong to me, I said; if Cousin Henry,—that was your father,—ever

married, they should go to his wife and children if he had any, I said.

‘All right,’ he answered, but most likely forgot it, he was so

absent-minded and queer. Did your mother ever get anything?”

“Never that I know of. I think, though, I have heard that father

received something when studying for the ministry. Mr. Marsh sent it,

perhaps,” was Sherry’s reply, and Mrs. Pledger went on:

“That would be like him. People wondered what became of the money he

paid Mr. Crosby for the farm. Probably your grandfather spent it or gave

it away. He was very free handed, and there was barely enough to pay

funeral expenses and outstanding debts. If you find the chest, ask Mr.

Marsh to open it. The key used to hang on a big tack driven in the back

of the chest. It may be there now, though it’s a miracle if it is. The

things belong to you and Katy. Tell Mr. Marsh I said so. He has heard of

your uncle if he hasn’t of me. Everybody knows Joel by reputation and he

knows everybody. The Marshes are first class people,—not fast,—at least

the young man isn’t. He is a friend of Craig Saltus, you know.”

Mrs. Pledger had talked very rapidly, while Sherry listened with

absorbing interest, more glad than ever that she was going to what was

once her great grandfather’s home, and in which she felt she had some

rights, especially in the cedar chest, if it was still in existence. She

doubted, though, if she should speak of her relationship to Mr. Crosby

or the Pledgers.

“I am going just like the other girls, a common waitress, to see how it

seems,” she said to her mother and Kate when, on her return from New

York, she repeated the particulars of her interview with Mrs. Pledger

and Mrs. Groves, the latter of whom she did not quite like. “She acted

as if there was an immeasurable distance between us, and said that at

Maplehurst I would be known as No. 1 among the waitresses, because she

had accepted me first, and I am to wear caps. She laid great stress on

that.”

“The snob! I hope you told her you’d never wear that badge of

servitude,” Kate said, with a stamp of her foot.

Caps were not common in Buford. Even the Saltus servants did not wear

them, and Kate was hot with indignation. But Sherry only laughed, saying

she would as soon wear a cap as not, but when Kate asked suddenly, “Did

you tell her that you sometimes walked in your sleep?” she was startled,

and replied: “Why should I, when I haven’t walked for years, and why did

you put it into my mind to think about it? Perhaps I shall now get up

some night and frighten them to death.”

“I hope you will. That would be jolly. Caps and snobs!” Kate said, but

Sherry’s face was clouded by this reminder of a disagreeable habit of

her childhood, which she believed she had outgrown, but which might come

back if she allowed her thoughts to dwell upon it.

Her will and nerves, however, were strong, and in the weeks which passed

before she was due at Maplehurst she had so much to think about that the

sleep-walking was nearly forgotten, or remembered only as something

which had been, but would never be again.

CHAPTER VII

MAPLEHURST

It was the first day of July, and Maplehurst was in a state of great

excitement, for sixteen people were coming by the afternoon train, and

among them Alex., his mother and sister and cousin. Mrs. Groves, with

her staff, had been there a week or more, and had carefully drilled her

subordinates with regard to their duties, especially the waitresses.

There were four of them, all from Boston, except Sherry,—one a

saleslady, one a stenographer and one from a restaurant, who felt that

she knew quite as much as Mrs. Groves, if not more, because she had been

in a restaurant three or four years. But that dignitary soon set her

right by telling her that waiting upon every sort of people in a

restaurant or hotel was very different from waiting upon such guests as

were coming to Maplehurst. Sherry had listened very respectfully to the

directions, but there was a look upon her face which said that she, too,

had an opinion as well as Polly, the girl No. 4. She had dined once or

twice in great state at the Saltuses’ in Buford, and she remembered what

she had seen and knew that in some respects it differed from Mrs.

Groves’ rules, and when they were told that in no event were they to

take in or out more than one dish at a time, she ventured to say,

“Excuse me, Mrs. Groves, but that will take so long and necessitate a

great many steps, as the kitchen is so far from the dining-room, and

there is the anteroom between, and are there not different ways of

serving?”

The look on Mrs. Groves’ face would have disconcerted one less

self-contained than Sherry, whose expression did not change at all at

the lady’s reply: “There can be but one right way. I have told you what

that is, and as for _steps_, you are hired to take them if you walk

miles in doing it.”

Sherry bent her head with what she meant to be a civil bow, but Mrs.

Groves fancied she saw in it signs of insubordination, and resolved to

hold a tight rein on No. 1, who evidently was above her business, and

who looked too much like a lady, and was quite too pretty in her black

dress and white apron with ruffled shoulder straps and the cap set so

jauntily upon her curly hair. On her arrival at Maplehurst Mrs. Groves

had found a box of caps sent by Amy Marsh, who had selected them, and

for which Alex. had paid. He was shopping with his sister, who had asked

his opinion with regard to different styles.

“Great guns! I don’t know about styles of caps. Must they wear them?” he

said.

“Our maids do,” Amy answered. “Why shouldn’t these?”

“Oh, ah, well—er—I suppose they must if you and mother say so. But I

fancy these are different,—picked, you know,” Alex. said; “salesgirls

and schoolma’ams and that sort of thing, you know. Mrs. Groves writes

that one is an awful high stepper. She may not take to caps. Some

don’t.”

“She will take what we choose,” Amy replied, and her brother answered:

“Well, then, get the most becoming and least objectionable. They are all

young girls of twenty or thereabouts, and I won’t have them looking like

grandmothers. How will this do?” and by chance Alex. selected the

smallest and daintiest and prettiest of them all, as well as the most

expensive.

But expense was nothing to him. He was always wanting a good time for

himself and others, and meant to have it at Maplehurst. “A jam up good

time for the whole of us, hired help and all,” he said to himself, using

a bit of slang which horrified Amy, but which she forgave because he was

her big, unselfish, good-natured brother, giving the good time to

others, if there was but one to be had. His mother had hired Mrs.

Groves, and he had left the selection of his staff entirely to her,

feeling no particular interest in any except the four waitresses—his

quartette he called them. He was somewhat particular about these, as he

would see them three times a day. He wanted them near the same age and

size and good-looking. “Not so good as to detract from the young ladies,

but good,” he said to Mrs. Groves, who felt that she had filled the bill

well, possibly a little too well with No. 1, who certainly was handsome,

and whose manner would always be that of a lady whatever she was doing,

and who would be noticed wherever she was. The quartette had come to

Maplehurst on the same train and had been received by Mrs. Groves, who

had assigned them their rooms, one to each, greatly to Sherry’s

satisfaction. She did not mean to be proud or exclusive, but she wanted

a room to herself, where she could sometimes be alone. For the rest she

meant to be one with her companions,—Susie, the saleslady, Annie, the

stenographer, and Polly, the restaurant waitress; Nos. 2, 3 and 4, as

Mrs. Groves designated them. They were bright, good girls, glad for this

outing and inclined to be very friendly with Sherry, whom they at once

recognized as a little different from themselves and treated her

accordingly.

Sherry had been nearly a week at Maplehurst, and had been drilled daily

and made to wait upon Mrs. Groves as she was expected to wait upon the

coming guests. She proved the most apt of all the girls, and for this

reason was assigned to the Marsh table.

“You will have Mr. and Mrs. Marsh, and Miss Marsh, and their cousin,

Miss Doane, who lives with them, and two or three more, the Saltus

family later on, perhaps, and you must be very particular as the

Saltuses live in even greater style than the Marshes,” Mrs. Groves had

said, and at the mention of the Saltuses the hot blood had flamed into

Sherry’s face and then for a moment left it very white as she wondered

what they would say to find her there,—a machine, as Mrs. Groves had

said she must be, never smiling, and never seeming to see or hear what

was being done and giving no sign that she had ever seen them before

unless they made some advances.

“Never mind. I am in it and shall go through it,” she thought with the

first real twinge of regret she had felt for the _lark_ in which she was

engaged.

She had been all over the house, from the basement to the attic, where

she had found the chest standing just where it had stood for years. It

had a great fascination for her, seeming to link her with the past of

years and years ago, when her great-grandmother had come there a bride

and brought it with her. Seating herself on a stool near it Sherry sat

for a long time wondering what was in it, and looking through the window

off upon the lovely panorama of sunshine and cloud, of steep wooded

hills and the green valley, and in the distance Mount Washington, blue

and hazy in the summer light. Across the road on a knoll was the little

cemetery, the mass of evergreens bringing out in sharp contrast the

whiteness of the marble shaft Mr. Marsh had erected to the memory of his

friends, Mr. and Mrs. Crosby. The yard had a neglected look, and the

fence around it was broken in some places, but that afternoon she saw

men there at work and heard that Mr. Alex. had ordered a new fence to be

built and the undergrowth of bush and bramble to be removed.

The next day she went to the two graves, sunken so low as to be even

with the ground. The lettering on the stone was somewhat blurred by the

storms which had swept along the mountain road, but she managed to read,

“Frances, beloved wife of Peter Crosby, who died in her bloom, being

only twenty-five years and six months old, October 10th, 18—.”

“Her name was Frances, which is the same as Fanny,” she said. “I must

have been named for her,” and she began to feel a great deal of interest

in the woman who had slept on the hillside so many years. “There ought

to be something planted around the graves,” she thought, as she looked

at the bare spot.

It would be easy to transplant some of the many rose bushes in the

Maplehurst premises, and she could do it or ask to have it done, if it

did not necessitate her telling why she was interested in the graves.

She did not intend to tell anything about herself. Polly, No. 4, had

quizzed her a good deal.

“I know you are somebody else besides a waiter like me. You are made of

different stuff. Come, now, ain’t you?” she had said, but Sherry did not

enlighten her. She was simply Fanny, or No. 1, and Mrs. Groves was

calling her, saying it was time for the drill. “Dress parade,” No. 4

called it, saying that she had been put through her paces until she

didn’t know her left hand from her right, and whether she was to pass

things over the heads of the guests or in front of them. She was full of

life and fun, and made faces at Mrs. Groves’ back, and mimicked her

voice and manner perfectly.

“‘Now, young women,’” she would say, “or young _persons_, I suppose we

are, ‘remember and pass to the left; take from the right. Never speak

unless spoken to. A sociable waitress is bad form. Step softly and slow.

Bring in and take out one thing at a time. Don’t stare, or seem to see

anybody. Mr. Alex. is very particular to have his guests served

properly.’ Mr. Alex.! I am anxious to see him. I suppose he is a great

swell, but not greater than I have waited on in Boston, and who didn’t

feel too big to say, ‘How are you, Polly? Mind and bring my soup hot, or

tea or coffee, and get me some cream.’ I know a thing or two about a

table as well as old mother Groves with her silk gown and gold glasses.

Why, she was once waiter in a second-class restaurant in New York. I

know it from a woman who was with her. Now she is matron of Maplehurst

and feels big, but I don’t care for her. I shall say ‘good-morning’ if

anybody says it to me,” and Polly executed a part of the skirt dance to

finish her speech.

Naturally Nos. 1, 2 and 3 laughed at her performance, and shared her

opinion of Mrs. Groves and her desire to see Alex., who had been held

before them as one sure to detect the slightest departure from the

deference due him and his guests from his employees. Of the four Sherry

cared the least, and yet on the day when he was expected with his party

she began to feel a little nervous, and to wonder what he would think of

his quartette and of her. They were standing now in a row before Mrs.

Groves, who was very imposing in her black satin dress, her old lace,

gold-bowed spectacles, and her bunch of keys jingling at her side.

“Now, young women,” she said, “I expect you to do your best, and

remember it does not matter that you are clerks,”—she would not say

salesladies and stenographers and restaurant waiters,—“and—” she paused

and glanced at Sherry, not knowing where to place her.

Polly, who admired Sherry greatly and styled her the Duchess, spoke up

and said, “A real lady.”

Mrs. Groves frowned, and continued: “No matter what you have been, real

ladies, or what, you have hired out to do certain duties, and I expect

you to do them to the satisfaction of Mr. Marsh, whose orders I am

carrying out. If not, you will be dismissed.”

“Who will take our places?” Polly asked; and Mrs. Groves replied,

“Plenty are ready to jump at the chance. Don’t think we are dependent on

you.”

Polly, who knew the difficulty there was to get help anywhere, shrugged

her shoulders in a way which brought a sourer look than usual to Mrs.

Groves’ naturally sour face.

“Mr. Marsh can command the best of help,” she said, “and expects the

best of service, and so does his family. Mrs. and Miss Marsh are more

particular than he,—that is,—more exacting. Ladies always are of their

servants.”

Sherry felt for a moment as if she hated Mr. Marsh and his family, but

she gave no sign of any emotion, and when, with a wave of her hand, Mrs.

Groves signified that the conference was ended, she walked away with her

companions and went to her room to wait for the expected arrival.

CHAPTER VIII

THE ARRIVAL

From the stable-yard there came a blast from an Alpine horn as the

cortege started for the station. There was a long wagon for baggage, an

open brougham, two buggies and the gayly colored tally-ho, for whose

appearance, with the two grooms and four big black horses, the people

who lived along the road were watching. It was nearly car time, and

Sherry soon heard the rumble among the hills and saw the wreaths of

smoke curling up in front of the station where the train was stopping.

On a balcony opening from the hall in which the rooms of the quartette

opened, Nos. 2, 3 and 4 had assembled, and Sherry finally joined them

and stood waiting till the four black horses came prancing up the hill,

the clinking of their silver-tipped harness, the blowing of the horn by

one of the grooms and the chatter and laughter of the young people,

nearly drowned by the barking of the huge dog, who ran sometimes in

front of the horses, again under them and again at the side of the road,

jumping and rolling over and shaking his handsome head and long mane in

token of his delight with the freedom and freshness of the country. It

was the dog Alex. had brought from Denver, changing his name from Laddie

to Sherry, to which the dog had become so accustomed that he had

seemingly forgotten his old name. Occasionally, to test him, Alex. would

call “Laddie, Laddie,” when the dog would plant his fore feet firmly on

the ground and, lifting up his head, seem to be intently listening to

something heard long ago and forgotten. But he would never move from the

spot where the sound reached him, no matter how many times “Laddie” was

repeated. Call him “Sherry,” and he always came with a bound, oftentimes

putting both paws upon the shoulder of his master.

So many things to interest him had come into Alex.’s life since the

night of the opera, when he saw Sherry Sherman in old Pledger’s box,

that he did not think of her now as much as formerly. Who she was, or

where she was, he had no idea, and the only link between her and himself

was the dog he had named for her, and who was now barking himself nearly

wild in his joy at being free to run as far as he pleased and thrust his

nose into every suspicious looking hole along the road, hoping to

unearth a woodchuck, or rabbit, or something stronger, it mattered

little to him in his exuberance of spirits. As the gay cavalcade swept

up the hill, Alex. swung his hat with a cheer for Maplehurst, which was

at once taken up by the party, who shouted themselves hoarse as they

drew up before the door, where Mrs. Groves was standing to receive them.

“That’s him. I didn’t s’pose first-class folks made such a row as that,

and Mr. Marsh is yelling, too, and he looks real good and not at all as

if he would eat us,” Polly whispered, her attention concentrated upon

Alex., as was that of her companions.

What they saw was a fair-haired, fair-faced young man, who, as Polly

suggested, looked as if he was real good. All his life he had been

having good times and helping others to have them, and he was having one

now as he stood up in the tally-ho hurrahing for Maplehurst. Behind the

tally-ho was the brougham, with Mrs. Marsh and the elderly ladies, while

the open buggies contained husbands and fathers of some of the party. It

was a gay gathering of well-bred, fashionable people, who, like Alex.,

were having a good time, and Mrs. Groves felt the importance and pride

of her position, and bowed low as they descended one by one and began to

fill the piazza and the hall, and to exclaim with delight at the beauty

of everything.

“Oh, this is lovely! This is paradise! I wish I was to stay all summer

instead of two weeks. I hope he will invite me,” Sherry heard as she

came down from the balcony and stood at the far end of a side piazza,

with a catch in her breath as she thought that her place was with the

merry group rather than as a menial waiting for orders from Mrs. Groves.

Just then she was startled by a loud, peremptory call of “Sherry,

Sherry, come here!”

Without dreaming that anything or anybody could be meant but herself,

she started swiftly in the direction of the sound, and was met and

nearly knocked down by a dog who planted his forefeet on her shoulders

and stood shaking his head at her with a bit of stick in his mouth.

While the rest of the party had been going into ecstasies over the house

and the view the dog had been making observations, too, and spying a

hole under a rock across the road had at once started for the spot and

commenced digging, eager to do battle with anything which might be

hiding there. Fearing for the safety of his pet’s long fur, Alex. called

quickly, “Sherry, Sherry, come here!”

Obedient to the call the dog came, but picked up as he came a chip,

which he hoped some one might throw for him to catch. Seeing Sherry

running down the long piazza, he scented fun in that direction and made

for her, while Alex. called again, “Sherry, come here,” and hurried

around the corner in time to keep the girl from falling, the force was

so great with which the dog leaped upon her. She was fond of dogs, but

this one frightened her, and her face was very white as she looked up at

Alex., and her breath came quickly as she said, “Please call him off.”

She swayed a little, and Alex. put one arm around her, while with the

other he grasped his dog by the mane, and said: “Down, Sherry, down! It

is only play. He is very good-natured. I hope he has not frightened

you,” and he looked anxiously into the face which struck him as one he

had seen before.

“Just at first he startled me, he came so swiftly. What did you call

him?” Sherry said; and Alex. replied, “Sherry,—odd, I know, but pretty;

don’t you think so? I am his master, Alex. Marsh, and you are——?”

Sherry hesitated a moment and then answered, with a laugh, “The girls

call me Fanny, and Mrs. Groves, No. 1. I am your waitress.”

“By George!” Alex. said, under his breath, and in his surprise letting

go of the dog’s mane.

Not till that moment had he noticed Sherry’s dress, the white apron and

cap, which told her position, and which he recognized as one of the lot

he had bought in New York.

“By George!” he said again, because he had nothing else to say, while

Sherry’s beautiful eyes twinkled with a look of half scorn and amusement

at his discomfiture. “Fanny! Yes, that’s so. I ought to have known. I

beg your pardon.”

“For mistaking me for a lady?” Sherry said, and now there was scorn and

sarcasm both in her voice, which made Alex. wince and feel small, while,

for want of something better to do, he wrenched the chip from his dog’s

mouth and sent it out upon the grass, followed swiftly by the delighted

animal.

It seemed scarcely a second before he was back to where Alex. still

stood looking curiously at Sherry and stammering he scarcely knew what

except that he hoped she liked it at Maplehurst, and was comfortable and

not overworked. He wanted everyone to have a good time, and if there was

anything he could do for her she must let him know.

Mrs. Groves, who hated dogs, had heard the clatter of Sherry’s feet and

seen him as he disappeared around the corner. She was very careful to

have the piazzas kept clean and had had them scrubbed that morning, and

here was that huge creature careering over them like mad. His place was

at the stables with the horses, where a kennel had been built for him,

and she started after him, shooing him as if he had been a hen and

shaking her satin skirt at him, but stopped suddenly as she caught sight

of Mr. Alexander Marsh talking to No. 1, who stood before him with what

Polly, if she had seen her, would have called her grandest Duchess

manner, and was actually smiling in his face, and showing her fine teeth

and dimples. Mrs. Groves had been constantly expecting something out of

the common from Sherry; but nothing quite so barefaced as thrusting

herself upon Mr. Marsh’s notice before he had been there half an hour,

and every thread in her satin gown rustled and the keys at her side gave

out individual jingles as she said, “Young woman, this is not your

place; you are wanted in the house to take towels to the rooms in

corridor 2.”

Sherry looked at her in surprise, as this was the first intimation she

had had that taking towels to the rooms was a part of her duties. Nor

was it, and Mrs. Groves had only thought of it as a means of getting rid

of her. But Sherry made no protest except with her eyes, which flashed a

moment with a look Mrs. Groves had seen before and did not like. Then

she said, very respectfully, “Yes, madam,” and with a bow to Alex.,

walked away, followed by the dog, who was so persistent in letting her

know what he wanted that when she reached the end of the piazza she took

the stick from him and threw it into the yard, as Alex. had done. There

were leaps and bounds, and Mrs. Groves was nearly thrown off her feet as

the dog rushed by her to the door through which Sherry had disappeared,

shutting it after her. Finding no one there, he looked around with

surprise and disappointment, and then came back to Alex. and Mrs.

Groves, signalling to the latter that he wished her to continue the

play. He might as well have signalled the Sphinx for any response he

received, except a frown, as she held her dress away from him.

“He is so glad to be in the country again that he is nearly crazy,”

Alex. said.

Mrs. Groves bowed and continued the conversation the dog had

interrupted. She had commenced by saying: “I knew she had a great deal

of assurance, but I did not think she would go so far as that.”

“As what?” Alex. asked, and Mrs. Groves replied:

“Thrust herself upon your notice the first thing.”

“She did nothing of the sort,” Alex. answered quickly. “My dog nearly

knocked her down, as he did you, and I apologized for him, and told her

who I was and asked who she was. She said she was sometimes ‘Fanny’ and

sometimes ‘No. 1.’ She is a deuced pretty girl any way. Who is she and

where did she come from?”

Mrs. Groves frowned. Alex., with his democratic notions, would spoil the

servants if she did not keep a tight rein.

“She is Fanny Sherwood, or Sherman, or something like that,” she said.

“I don’t try to remember their last names. I call the waitresses Nos. 1,

2, 3 and 4, and she is No. 1, because I hired her first.”

“Do they like it?” Alex. asked, and Mrs. Groves replied: “I don’t

consult their wishes. I tell you, Mr. Marsh, you must be strict these

days with your help, or they will run over you and expect to be Miss

Brown, or Smith, or whatever their names chance to be, especially if

they are clerks, or typewriters, or teachers.”

“And what is No. 1?” Alex. asked.

“Nothing, so she says,” Mrs. Groves answered. “Poor, no doubt, and

wanted an easy job and some money. I can’t say that she does not do her

work well, but there is something about her which tells me that she’s a

high stepper and must be curbed.”

“So she is the high stepper you wrote about? Well, don’t draw the bit

too tight,” Alex. said, laughingly. “I want everybody to have a good

time,—help and all. I could not enjoy myself if they were being ground

down like machines,—so treat them well, Mrs. Groves,—treat them well,

and if No. 1 wants to step high, let her, provided she does not kick

over the traces.”

“Which she will, if you have your way,” Mrs. Groves replied.

“Well, let her kick,” was Alex.’s rejoinder.

He was beginning to feel a good deal of interest in No. 1, who, with a

dozen fresh towels on her arm, was going towards corridor No. 2.

“What are you doing? The racks are full of towels,” a chambermaid said

to her.

“Obeying Mrs. Groves’ orders,” was Sherry’s reply, as she went on and

knocked at the first door in the corridor.

It chanced to belong to Amy Marsh, who, thinking it one of her friends,

called out familiarly, “_Entrez_, if you can get in.”

The tone of her voice changed very materially when she saw who it was.

“Oh,” she said, “I thought Martha was the maid on this floor.”

“She is, but Mrs. Groves sent me,” Sherry answered, laying a part of her

towels on the already well-filled rack.

“Yes; well, now you are here, I wish you would put up some of my things,

which I have scattered everywhere in unpacking my trunk to get my dress

for dinner,” Amy said.

“When I have disposed of these I will help you,” Sherry replied, leaving

the room, while Amy looked after her curiously.

The girl’s personality was beginning to impress her. “I wonder who she

is,” she thought. “Not an ordinary, sure; but some saleslady, I dare

say, or teacher. They usually carry their chins in the air, and hers is

very high. No matter, I mean to make her useful.”

Amy’s room was littered with the different articles she had dragged from

her trunk, and these on her return Sherry began to put away, while Amy

questioned her as to her name, and where she had lived, and in what

capacity she was at Maplehurst.

Sherry told her she was waitress No. 1, that her name was Fanny, that

she came from the country and was neither a saleslady, nor typewriter,

nor teacher. Amy did not ask her last name. Like Mrs. Groves, she did

not care. Fanny was enough, and as she seemed willing, notwithstanding

the way she held her head and chin, she asked her to button her dress

and fasten her collar and see if her skirt hung right. And Sherry did

what was required of her and did it so well that Amy said to her, “Seems

as if you must be a lady’s maid, you are so handy. Are you?”

“No, I have not that honor. I was never any one’s maid but my mother’s

and sister’s. I am glad if I pleased you,” Sherry answered, and her chin

certainly did take an upward tilt, and there were red spots on her

cheeks as she left the room and went down to receive Mrs. Groves’ last

directions before dinner.

Numbers 2, 3 and 4 were already in the anteroom looking a little

anxious, except Polly, who said she didn’t care a rush for all the

gentry at Maplehurst; she had seen a thing or two in Boston, had waited

on a Governor, and could teach madam herself. Further remarks were

prevented by the appearance of madam, who began: “Now, young women, this

is your first dinner, and everything depends upon the way you acquit

yourselves. If you are very awkward and make mistakes I may have to fill

your places. Mr. Marsh is very particular about his table service. When

the gong sounds you are to walk in slowly side by side with your trays,

and take your places at your respective tables, behind the chair at the

head, and don’t on any account ever put your hand on the chair or stand

lopsided on one hip. Remember!”

With this injunction she went out, leaving Nos. 1, 2, 3 and 4 waiting

for the gong, with Polly taking a few steps of the Highland Fling as she

waited.

CHAPTER IX

THE FIRST EVENING AT MAPLEHURST

“Now then,” Polly said, when the Fling was finished, “the time for

action has come. So, heads up, heels together, toes out, shoulders back,

and when the gong sounds, forward march, like soldiers going to battle.

There she goes!” and she sobered down as the musical gong echoed through

the house, and the four girls, with faces not quite straight, marched

into the dining-room and took their places, while on the stairs and in

the hall there was a rustle of muslin dresses and ribbons and merry

laughter, and then the gay company came in, preceded by the head-waiter,

a mulatto, who had arrived that morning and whom Mrs. Groves had not

dared take in hand.

He knew his business, and gave her to understand that he did, and with

great dignity assigned the party their seats. The Marshes were nearest

the door, and Polly, who was on the side with Sherry, gave her a comical

smirk and wink as Alex. took the chair behind which Sherry was standing.

It was to have been Mrs. Marsh’s seat, but as there was a window at her

back which would bring her directly in a draught she exchanged with

Alex., who started a little when he saw Sherry pulling his chair out for

him. Friendliness and familiarity were a part of Alex.’s nature, and

neither his mother nor sister could make him understand the distance

there was between him and his inferiors. Pleasant words cost nothing,

was his theory, and they came naturally to him for every one he met. Had

it been Polly behind his chair he might only have nodded to her, and

would have recognized her fitness to be there. But Sherry, with her head

and chin so high, her grand Duchess manner, and the look in her face as

if she thought it a big joke, was different. He had met her before, and

something in her eyes made him say, involuntarily, “Hello,” as to an old

acquaintance whom he was surprised and pleased to meet again; then,

seeing the look of astonishment on Amy’s and his mother’s face, he said,

“I hope you are over your fright.”

Sherry inclined her head and passed him the menu for his choice of soup.

But her eyes met his with a laugh she could not repress. Her eyes were

always betraying her, and they flashed upon Alex. a look which made him

feel hot and cold, and wonder again where he had seen her or some one

very like her. He might have asked her had they been alone, but the

dignity with which his mother straightened herself and the expression on

Amy’s face subdued him, and he sat quite still, watching Sherry as she

took the orders and went down the long dining-room in the direction of

the kitchen.

“Alex.,” Amy exclaimed, “are you crazy, hallooing the waitress and

talking to her as if you knew her?”

“I do know her,” Alex. replied. “I may almost say I have had her in my

arms.”

“What do you mean?” Amy and Ruth and his mother asked in a breath, and

Alex. replied: “My dog nearly knocked her down, and I got to the spot in

time to save her, and, by George, neither of you have more an air to the

purple born than she has. She is not a common personage, and ought to be

sitting with us instead of waiting upon us.”

“Don’t be foolish, nor talk so loud; here she comes,” Amy said, as

Sherry appeared with Mrs. Marsh’s soup and then went back for another

dish.

“Well, just look at her and see how she carries herself. All the fellows

are watching her, and Charlie Reeves, I know, is dying to be at our

table,” Alex. said; then, as it was some little time before his soup

came to him, he began to wonder at the delay and why the girls all

walked as if in a slow drill when he was so hungry, and there was

Charlie Reeves eating dry bread he was so famished.

The dinner progressed slowly, as it must if Mrs. Groves’ orders were

followed, and Alex.’s impatience increased, and but for his mother he

would have gone into the kitchen to see “why they were so infernally

slow, and why they couldn’t bring and carry more than one thing at a

time.”

“It is hot here as a furnace, and we shan’t get through till dark. I’m

going to tell her to hurry anyway,” he said.

“Tell whom?” Amy asked, and he replied, “Why, Miss—what’s her name? You

know.”

“You mean No. 1,” Amy said, and Alex. replied: “No. 1 be hanged! That’s

no name for a girl. She has another, of course. What is it? She told me.

Fanny? Yes, Fanny! Pretty name, too, and there she comes with one plate

of salad, where she might have brought two or three, and by George if

there isn’t——”

The rest of his sentence was a loud, “Sherry, you wretch! what are you

doing here? Go back!”

Every one in the room was startled, and no one as much as Sherry. She

had seen the dog looking in at her from the kitchen door, but had no

idea he was following her, and Alex.’s sharp outcry, “Sherry, you

wretch!” unnerved her completely. She did not think of the dog, or that

he was meant. It was herself. She had done something wrong, and every

object in the room began to swim before her and the strength in her arms

to leave her. There was a crash, and tray and salad were on the floor,

with the dog sniffing at them, and Alex. was bending over the débris,

his hair once touching Sherry’s as he picked up the tray and she the

broken plate.

“What is it?” he asked, looking at her white face.

“I was so stupid,” she said, “and thought you meant me.”

“You!” Alex. exclaimed, in surprise. “Why should you think that? It was

the dog. Didn’t you know he was following you?”

“No,” Sherry answered, and the “no” was like a sob, for she was very

near crying.

“Alex., do sit down and let the girl attend to her business,” Mrs. Marsh

said, a little sharply, and Alex. sat down, while Sherry, more mortified

than she had ever been in her life, took out the broken plate and

resumed her duties, while a maid from the kitchen was sent to remove the

salad from the floor.

In spite of his master’s commands that he should “get out,” the dog

stretched himself by the window, watching every move of Sherry, and

occasionally putting out his big paw to touch her dress as she passed

him, and once making a motion to follow her. But Alex. kept him down,

and the long dinner came to an end just as the sun was dipping behind

the high hills around Maplehurst, and shedding a few farewell rays on

Mount Washington. The guests hurried to find a cool place on the piazzas

or under the great maple, where there were seats around the trunk and

chairs scattered over the rugs spread upon the ground.

“Now we will have a good time smoking and talking, and by-and-by we will

have some iced lemonade, and if anyone wants a drive there are plenty of

lazy horses in the stables and lazy grooms to harness them; and there

are three or four wheels, if you would like a spin along the road. I’ve

had a path scooped pretty smooth for a mile or two.”

Alex. was distributing palm leaf fans as he said this, and bidding his

guests have a good time. He was a prince of hosts, and it did one good

just to see how happy he was, moving among his guests, who certainly had

a good time watching the lights and shadows as the sun went down and the

moon came up and threw its silvery rays upon the valley and hills and

mountains. And while the party was having its good time in the cool of

the early night, the great, kind-hearted Alex. did not forget that there

was another party probably not having as good a time at the rear of the

house. In his journey to the kitchen, ordering iced lemonade and tea and

biscuits, he had heard the clatter of dishes and seen Nos. 1, 2, 3 and 4

hurrying with their work as if they, too, were anxious for the fresh air

and the moonlight. Conspicuous among them was Sherry, her face still

very pale and with an expression which made Alex. sorry for her. He was

apt to be sorry for people not having as good times as he did, and these

dish washers certainly were not.

They ought to be out-doors getting some fresh air after such a tramp as

they had at the dinner, walking miles, he believed, when half a one

would have answered. Fanny wasn’t used to it, he knew, and she was so

tired that she dropped her tray.

If Alex. had questioned himself closely he would have found that a great

share of his concern was for Fanny, whose white face haunted him, and

after revolving matters for a few minutes he came to a decision that

dinner should not again be dragged out so long. The guests wanted to get

through and the waitresses wanted to be through. They were human,—yes,

very human,—and Sherry’s face came before him the most human of all, as

it looked up from the débris on the floor, the lips quivering and tears

in the great brown eyes.

“I’ll fix it so everybody will have a good time. I’ll see that Groves

woman. She is the high cockalorum who orders things, and, by George, I

hate to tackle her; there is something in her steel-gray eyes which

makes a fellow feel small. I’ll see the _chef_ first. We are here for a

good time and not to spend half of it at the table.”

When Alex. reached this decision the fans and tongues were in full sway

on the piazzas and under the maple, and the iced lemonade had been

brought out and the clatter of dishes had ceased, and he saw one or two

white figures flitting towards an old woodbine-covered arbor, which was

at a little distance in the rear of the house, and supposed to belong to

the help. Nos. 2, 3 and 4 had started for it the moment their work was

done, but Sherry lingered behind. She must see Mrs. Groves, who had not

yet heard of the accident, as she was not in the kitchen when it

happened, and no one had reported it. She had gone to the piazza seldom

used by the guests, as it looked towards the stables. Her first dinner

had been a great success, and so far as she knew Nos. 1, 2, 3 and 4 had

done credit to her training. There had been no confusion or hurry, and

it had occupied nearly two hours, as it ought. There had been seven

courses, and to-morrow an eighth was to be added. On the whole, she was

satisfied. It was better to be matron here than waitress at an

eating-house on the Central Railroad, where she once was, and of which

she had no very pleasant reminiscences. She was happy and was fanning

herself complacently when Sherry appeared, and in a straightforward way

told what she had done, but gave no reason for doing it. She dropped the

tray and broke the plate and was sorry,—that was all, and she waited for

Mrs. Groves to speak, standing very erect, with her hands locked

together and the fingers working a little nervously.

Mrs. Groves was both angry and surprised, and she looked at Sherry as if

the offence were so great that she could hardly do it justice.

“Broke a salad plate, and one of the best set!” she began at last, in a

voice which made Sherry tremble for what might be coming next. “What

possessed you to be so careless? Looking at the guests, no doubt,

instead of attending to your business. I ought to discharge you, and

will if such a thing occurs again. I shall deduct the price of the plate

from your wages. Of course you expect to pay for it?”

“Certainly,” Sherry answered, “and for the whole set, too, if you cannot

match it.”

“Have you any idea how much the whole set cost?” Mrs. Groves asked, and

Sherry replied: “A great deal, I suppose. Fifty dollars, perhaps.”

“Fifty dollars!” and Mrs. Groves’s lips curled in scorn. “The plate was

part of a dinner set which cost more than you can earn in several

summers. It is not likely you can match it. You can only pay for the

plate. I will see Mr. Marsh about it. Hereafter be more careful, and

keep your eyes and mind on your business.”

Before Sherry could reply Alex. appeared upon the scene. He had

interviewed the cook first and told him there were to be no more dinners

two hours long, with his guests waiting half that time for dishes to be

brought.

“’Tain’t my fault, sir,” the _chef_ said to him. “Everything is ready to

your hand, but Mrs. Groves orders us that only one thing shall go in or

out at a time and the girls must walk as if they was attendin’ their own

funerals. Lord, sir, the way she’s drilled ’em is enough to kill cattle.

You better see her.”

“I will,” Alex. answered, and, with a slight tremor, he started to find

the lady who, the _chef_ said, was on the back piazza.

As Alex. reached the corner near which Mrs. Groves was sitting he caught

the sound of Sherry’s voice, and, stopping, heard what passed between

her and Mrs. Groves, his blood boiling as he listened and all his dread

of Mrs. Groves disappearing.

“She will do nothing of the sort,” he said, coming forward. “Excuse me,”

he continued, “I was coming to find Mrs. Groves and could not help

hearing the conversation. Pay for a broken plate! I hope I am not so

small as that.”

Mrs. Groves took off her eye-glasses and looked at the young man, while

she said: “But, Mr. Marsh, it was one of the most expensive set, not a

Haviland, and the servants ought to pay for what they break. They always

did in General Walker’s family, where I lived three years.”

“I don’t care a picayune what they do in General Walker’s family, or

whether the plate was Haviland, or Royal Worcester, or Dresden, or what

it cost.” Alex. began gathering courage from Sherry’s eyes, which fairly

danced and seemed to him to show different colors, a trick they had of

doing when she was greatly pleased or excited.

She was both now, and the color came back to her face in bright waves as

Alex. went on: “I shall have none of my broken ware paid for by my—” he

was going to say “servants,” as Mrs. Groves had put that word into his

mind, but a glance at Sherry stopped him, and he said, “By any young

lady in my employ.”

Sherry’s eyes were like stars as they beamed upon him, while Mrs. Groves

gave a kind of gasp, as if either the heat or the “young lady” were too

much for her. With a wave of her hand she adjusted her glasses, and

taking it for granted that she was dismissed, Sherry left Alex. to have

it out with Mrs. Groves. There was an attempt on her part at an argument

that the plate should be paid for as a warning to the other girls;

otherwise every dish in the house might be broken or nicked before the

season was over.

“Let them be nicked and broken. I can get more,” Alex. said, rather

hotly for him, “and another thing I must speak of, I can’t have the

dinners so long. Two mortal hours we were at the table to-night, and

half that time we were waiting for plates and things to come in and go

out one at a time. At this rate the day will be spent at the table.”

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Groves asked.

“Why, it is like this,” Alex. replied. “If four fresh plates are needed

don’t bring them one at a time at a snail’s pace. It takes forever.”

“Do you want a big tray piled with dishes, as at a hotel or restaurant?”

Mrs. Groves asked, and Alex. replied: “Of course not; there is a medium,

and I want to save time as well as steps for these girls, who must have

been fagged to death. The one who was just here, Fanny, I believe, is

her name, was white as a sheet when she dropped her tray. I thought she

was going to faint. Evidently she is not used to the work.”

There was a call for Alex. from one of the guests, and, with a bow, he

walked away, feeling uncomfortable, as he always did when he had made

anyone else so; but glad that the interview was over and he had taken

the dragon by the horns.

Sherry meantime had gone to the summer-house, where she found Nos. 2 and

3 sitting upon the steps, and Polly, lying upon a seat inside, her feet

crossed and her hands clasped under her head.

“Hello, No. 1,” she said, as Sherry appeared. “You still live, I see.

What did she say? Did she give you the bounce?”

“No, only a promise of it if I offend again,” Sherry replied, as she

took a seat upon the steps and began to inhale deep breaths of the cool

air from the hills and to fan herself with her apron.

“I was never so dead tired in my life,” Polly began. “I wonder if any of

you can guess how far we walked during the dinner. I have a pedometer my

brother gave me, and I thought I’d wear it and know. Guess now.”

No. 3 said it seemed ten miles, No. 2 twenty, and Sherry fifty, judging

from her feelings when she dropped the salad.

“All wrong, of course,” Polly said, sitting up and producing the

pedometer. “It is six rods from the tables through the long dining-room

and anteroom to the supplies in the kitchen,” she said, “and we went

forward and back, forward and back, like you do in a cotillion, till we

walked nearly two and a half miles,—enough to make a minister swear or

sweat this hot day.”

“Oh-h!” came simultaneously from the three girls on the steps, each

feeling more tired than before, and each thinking with dread of the next

day and the miles which lay before her.

Naturally there was a discussion with regard to the guests and the

Marshes and Alex., whom Polly pronounced “O. K.” She was the slangy one

of the quartette, and kept them amused and laughing until the stable

clock struck eleven, when they started for the house, which the _chef_

was beginning to shut up.

When alone in her room, Sherry stood a long time looking out upon the

hills and valley bathed in the moonlight, and listening to the voices in

front of the house calling good-night as the guests separated to their

rooms. Alex. seemed to be everywhere, and the last Sherry heard he was

saying to Charley Reeves, “Good-night, old chap, I hope we shall all

have a good time. I mean you shall.” In Alex.’s voice there was a

richness and a heartiness which always rang true, and Sherry’s last

thought as she fell asleep was, “If all the world were like Mr. Marsh

there would be no lack of good times.”

CHAPTER X

THE CEDAR CHEST

The next day was passed much as days in a mountain-house party are

usually passed. The weather was perfect. A slight shower in the early

morning had cooled the air and freshened the foliage and grass, and the

valley lay basking in the glorious sunshine of a summer day. There were

drives along the mountain road and wheeling on the smooth path by its

side. Three or four of the older guests went to Mount Washington. At

four o’clock the tally-ho was brought out, and the Alpine horn went

echoing up and down the hills as the gay party swept by. They were

certainly having a good time, and were loud in their protestations of

delight when they at last met together in the drawing-room waiting for

the summons to dinner. Thanks to Alex.’s instructions, this was not more

than half as long as the first had been, and Polly’s pedometer

registered only a mile and a quarter when it was over. Sherry was not

tired at all, but came near forgetting herself once or twice in her

absorption in the conversation at the different tables, which she could

hear as they were near each other. Some of the party had explored the

attic and examined the quaint old furniture, and expressed interest and

curiosity in the chest, wondering what it contained.

“I can tell you in part,” Alex. said. “It is the wardrobe of a lady who

lived here a hundred years ago, for what I know. She is buried in that

little cemetery across the road. My great-uncle, Mr. Marsh, used to air

them, Bowles told me, and he talked a good deal about a flowered silk

that would stand alone.”

“Oh-h!” and a chorus of voices broke in together. “Just the things for a

masquerade, or costume party, or tableaux. Can’t we get into the chest?”

Sherry held her breath as she listened to Alex.’s reply.

“Why, yes. I don’t know where the key is, but we can wrench off the

padlock. I suppose the chest belongs to me if the house does.”

“Certainly it does,” his mother said, while Charley Reeves, who sat at

the table nearest to Alex., asked:

“Who were the aborigines, anyhow?”

“Crosbys,” Alex. answered. “They owned the place first years and years

ago, and if I knew where any of the descendants were living I should

feel inclined to send them the old chest, if they cared for it. It seems

as if the clothes should belong to them. I have no use for them. There

is a relative of the Crosbys in New York,—a woman without sentiment, I

should say, who would not care for such old truck. It is young people

who go in for relics. Mrs. Pledger seems like one herself. Maybe you

have heard of Joel Pledger? Almost every one has, though his name was

new to me till recently.”

“Joel Pledger,—old Pledger, the money lender? I rather think I have,”

Charley replied. “He helped me through a tight place when I was in

college and the governor in Europe. The interest he charged, though, was

frightful. But I paid it, or father did. He has been a good Samaritan to

a lot of college boys, but always got good interest. They say he is rich

as Crœsus. Do you know him?”

“No, I’ve seen him. Drives a queer old rattle-trap in the Park when he

might have his carriage, they say. I’ve met Mrs. Pledger, who would have

given me the family history if I’d had time to listen,” Alex. said, with

a thought of the girl whom Mrs. Pledger called Sherry, and who was now

standing by him with his coffee, her hand shaking so that a part of it

was spilled in the saucer.

Alex. did not care for the spilled coffee. His thoughts were on the

Pledgers, or rather the girl, and he wondered if Charley had ever seen

or heard of her. He would _finesse_ and find out, and he said:

“These Pledgers have no children, I believe, or young people, who would

like the chest?”

“None that I know of,” Charley answered. “I’ve not the pleasure of Mrs.

Pledger’s acquaintance. I was in the house once to see Joel, but she was

gone; regular old crow’s-nest, and a maid who hollered up the stairs,

‘Mr. Pledger, here’s a gentleman come to see you in a carriage.’ I did

hear, though, a rumor of a deuced pretty girl who visited them once.

Maybe she is a Crosby, with a right to the chest.”

“By George! I never thought of that,” Alex. said to himself, beginning

to feel unwilling to have the chest opened and its contents appropriated

by strangers, and to wonder if he ought not to write to Mrs. Pledger and

ask if the girl was a Crosby.

He never dreamed that she was there close to him, her face so white that

his mother noticed her at last and asked if she were ill.

“Oh, no,” Sherry answered, pulling herself together and trying to seem

natural, as she attended to her duties with her ears strained to catch

every word of the conversation concerning the chest.

All the guests were talking of it now, saying they must have it opened

and see what ladies wore sixty or seventy years ago. Alex.’s spirits had

gone down with thoughts of the girl, but the pressure was so great that

he agreed to see what they could do to-morrow, and with this the party

left the dining-room.

The next morning was rainy, precluding any outdoor amusements, but just

the time for an inspection of old Mrs. Crosby’s wardrobe, some of the

young people said, as they gathered at the breakfast table. Sherry, who

was at her post, was feeling wretchedly, and could scarcely keep on her

feet. The night before, when no one saw her, she had gone to the attic

and looked at the chest and tried to move it from the wall, thinking she

might find the key, if it was still where Mrs. Pledger had said it was

kept years ago. But it was heavy, and she had returned to her room with

a feeling that she ought to prevent its contents from being desecrated

by stranger hands. Her great-grandmother’s bridal dress was probably

there, and Sherry tried to fancy her as she must have looked on that

night of the great Crosby party. It was a long time before she could

sleep, she was so excited about the chest and what she had heard of the

Pledgers, and what Charley Reeves had said of the “deuced pretty girl”

who had visited the “old crow’s nest,” where the maid “hollered up the

stairs.” She was the girl, no doubt, but the compliment paid her was

lost in the sting of the maid and the “crow’s nest,” and she tossed from

side to side until at last she fell asleep and dreamed that her

grandmother came to her clad in heavy brocade silk, with jewels in her

ears and knots of old point lace on her sleeves and at her bosom and on

the shoulders, and on her head a white bonnet with pink bows and wide

ribbon strings.

“Come,” she had said, beckoning to Sherry, who went with her to the

attic, where together they drew the chest a little from the wall, and

her grandmother showed her the key to the padlock hanging on a tack

which had been driven into the wood, just as Mrs. Pledger had said it

was.

Then she woke suddenly, bathed in perspiration, and with a feeling that

she had really been to the attic and found the key. She did not try to

sleep again and rose early, with a nervous headache, a sense of

depression unusual to her and a sensation of trying to recall something

which came almost within the grasp of her memory and then eluded it. Her

dream was still so vivid that she half resolved on going to the attic to

see if the key was really hanging behind the chest. By this time there

was a good deal of stir in the house. Servants were moving about. She

might be seen and her actions wondered at. She would wait developments,

but her nervousness increased and her face grew whiter when at breakfast

she heard plans for opening the chest.

“Let’s go and have a look at the old thing. I don’t suppose the party

across the road under the sod will care, do you?” Charley Reeves said

when breakfast was over, and with Alex. at their head some of the guests

were soon climbing the narrow stairs to the attic. “Jolly, what a big

room this is! I wonder you don’t have it finished up for a dancing

hall,” Charley said.

“What would I do with the trunk?” Alex. asked.

“Sell it at auction. Every article would bring a thundering price if you

labelled it a century old, as it must be,” Charley replied, sitting down

in a carved chair, the back of which gave way and sent him to the floor

amid the jeers of his companions.

Picking himself up, he went with the others to the chest, where Alex.

was standing with a puzzled look on his face. When he saw it the day

before he was sure it was close against the wall and a little under the

rafters, where it would be out of the way. Now one end of it was moved

five or six inches. Somebody must have been there, and who? Not one of

his guests, surely, and if some one else had a curiosity with regard to

its contents, it was time he opened it and saw for himself what it

contained. A thought of the pretty girl who had visited the Pledgers had

haunted him continually since Charley had spoken of her, and he could

not shake off a feeling that if she were a Crosby or a remote

connection, she had a better right to the chest than himself and the gay

crowd clamoring to have it opened.

“I guess I’ll have to do it,” he thought, taking hold of one end and

finding it heavier than he had anticipated.

“Where’s the key?” Charley asked, and Alex. replied:

“Lost or stolen. I must go for something to pry off the padlock.”

Sherry’s room was in the hall from which the stairs led to the attic and

only three doors from it. She had gone up to bathe her throbbing head,

and as her door was open she heard what Alex. said.

“I have half a mind to tell him to look behind the chest. I believe the

key is there, my dream was so vivid,” she thought, and stepped into the

hall just as Alex. came down the stairs.

“Oh, Fanny,” he said, “if you are going to the kitchen, won’t you please

send Mark up with a wrench, file and screw-driver? I am going to open

the chest.”

Sherry’s impulse to speak of the key left her suddenly, as she thought

she would probably be questioned as to how she knew it was there, and,

bowing to Alex., she went to the kitchen and found the file and wrench,

but not Mark, the boy of all work.

“I’ll take them myself,” she said, and, returning with them, she met Amy

in the hall just going to the attic and gave them to her.

Her head was still aching, and she had that strange feeling or fatigue

she had felt in the early morning.

“I’ll rest a minute,” she thought, sitting down in her room near the

open door, where she could hear distinctly what was said in the attic.

Ruth Doane was saying to Amy: “I was right when I thought I heard some

one up here last night dragging something on the floor. The chest has

been moved from the wall.”

“No!” Amy exclaimed in surprise, while Sherry felt as if a heavy blow

had been struck her. Her dream was true in part.

She had not seen her grandmother, but she had been in the attic. The

habit of her childhood, which she hoped she had outgrown, had come back,

and she knew why she felt so weak and depressed. She had always felt

this way after walking in her sleep. She had dreaded these fits of

somnambulism, and rejoiced when they left her, and she could not

understand why they had returned, unless induced by the unusual strain

upon her nerves since coming to Maplehurst and from thinking so much of

the chest.

“Yes, it was that,” she said to herself. “It was in my mind when I went

to sleep, and that is why I got up. I must have had a great deal of

strength to move that chest. But it seems I did it. I was always strong

when I was in this sleep. Did I really find the key, and where did I put

it if I did? I used to hide things. Oh, this is dreadful!”

In a dazed kind of way she began to look for the key, a cold, clammy

sweat breaking out through every pore when she found it in her work-box.

For a moment she recoiled from it as from something uncanny, then,

picking it up, she whispered: “I must take it to them and tell them, and

that it is my great-grandmother’s chest.”

She heard the rasping sound of the file as she began to ascend the

stairs, and tried to hurry, when she was suddenly stopped by Alex.’s

voice, sounding just as it did in the dining-room when she dropped the

salad and saying nearly the same words: “Sherry, go down. You are not

wanted here.”

But for the railing on the side of the staircase she would have fallen,

she grew so faint and dizzy.

“Yes, I’ll go,” she thought, feeling her way back to her room, where she

shank into a chair, with her hands over her eyes and her brain in such a

whirl that she did not think of the dog until she felt his paws on her

shoulders and his hot breath on her face.

Uncovering her eyes, she saw him looking at her, with an expression so

human and full of pity that she put her arms around his neck, and

burying her face in his long mane began to cry.

“You dear old dog,” she sobbed; “it was you he meant and not me. I might

have known it, but I couldn’t think, I feel so queer.”

The dog’s answer was a low whine as he capered round her with little

barks of joy.

“Hush, hush,” she said, trying to quiet him. “They must not know I am

here unless I take the key, as I suppose I ought.”

Just then there came to her cries of delight. The chest was opened and

the young ladies were going into raptures over its contents, while

Charley Reeves was careering around the attic with a white silk bonnet

on his head ornamented with pink satin bows and long streamers of wide

ribbon for strings. It was Mrs. Crosby’s wedding bonnet of a fashion

seventy years back, and the young ladies were wild over it, as they were

over everything.

“They do not need the key,” she thought. “I’ll keep it, and before I go

away I’ll give it to Mr. Marsh and tell him the truth.”

Dropping it into her work-box, she went downstairs, followed by the dog,

who made many ineffectual attempts for her to play with him, as she had

often done during her leisure hours.

“Not now, doggie,” she said, patting his head. “I can’t call you Sherry,

but next time I hear your master do so I trust I shall have sense enough

to know he does not mean me. Three times and out!”

She was beginning to feel better and went about her work with her usual

energy, although still depressed when she thought of the return of the

somnambulistic habit and what it might lead to.

CHAPTER XI

THE FANCY DANCE

“What do you think _has_ happened and is going to happen?” Polly said,

as they were laying the tables for lunch.

Polly generally managed to know what was going on, and was bursting with

her news, which she began to impart. They had opened the old chest, she

said, and it was full of brocades and laces and mulls, though she didn’t

know what that was,—some kind of muslin, she believed,—and pongees and

high-heeled, pointed slippers and jewelry and a fine white gown and

piles of bed and table linen. The gowns were spread out in Miss Marsh’s

room and smelt like dead folks, and they were all in there screeching

with delight, and telling what they meant to do, and trying the length

of the gowns to see who they would fit, “and, oh, dear Suz, such times

as we are going to have! And, oh, I forgot the queer part. Somebody had

moved the chest in the night. Miss Doane heard ’em walking softly, as if

in their stocking feet, and heard the scrape on the floor. Mother Groves

will be asking us next if we were up there. Let her. I can prove an

alibi. Here she comes!”

Polly stopped, silenced by the appearance of Mrs. Groves, who came to

look over the tables and see that everything was in order. Since Alex.’s

interference with the length of the dinner that lady had subsided a good

deal.

If Mr. Marsh was going to run things, he could run them, she confided to

the _chef_, who replied:

“’F I’se you, I’d let him. Girls is a ticklish lot to manage. Better

give ’em a long rope.”

And Mrs. Groves had given them quite a length of rope, but kept her eyes

pretty close on Sherry, whose chin in the air still annoyed and

irritated her. On this occasion she stopped to find fault with some

trivial arrangement which she wished changed, and then, as Polly had

predicted, said to them: “Young women, someone, I hear, was in the attic

last night and moved the cedar chest; for what purpose I don’t know,

unless to get into it. I took you all for honest girls, and shall be

sorry to find I was mistaken. No. 4, were you in the attic last night?”

“No, ma’am!” and Polly squared her elbows as for a fight.

“No. 3, were you there, or do you know who was?” Mrs. Groves continued,

while No. 3’s denial was as prompt as that of No. 4.

“No. 2, what do you know of it? Were you there?” was Mrs. Groves’ next

question.

“If I were I did not know it, and went in my sleep,” was the reply of

No. 2, for which Sherry blessed her, as it made her answer easy.

She was very white, with a look of defiance in her dark eyes, and

another,—a strange, far-off look such as they always had after one of

her somnambulistic fits. Mrs. Groves noticed it, and hesitated a little

before she said, “Fanny, were you there?”

The _Fanny_ was a great concession,—made Mrs. Groves hardly knew why,

except that with all her dislike of the girl she had a kind of respect

for her.

“If I were there I was asleep and did not know it,” Fanny answered, with

a decided upward tilt of her chin, and a flash in her eyes as she

continued fearlessly: “If you and Mr. Marsh think either of us would be

guilty of trying to break open a chest which did not belong to us, you

should dismiss us at once.”

She looked like a young queen as she stood there with that strange

shifting light in her eyes, and for a moment Mrs. Groves herself was

quelled.

“Mr. Marsh has said nothing to me about it,” she answered. “My

information came from another source, and as matron here it is my duty

to inquire into things and keep order if I can.”

Sherry bowed her head, while Mrs. Groves departed, with Polly taking a

few mimicking steps behind her.

“Oh, Polly!” Nos. 2 and 3 began, when Mrs. Groves was gone. “How did you

hear all the stuff you are telling us? You surely have listened.”

“Not a bit of it,” Polly answered. “I was in my room near the attic

stairs, and heard the squeals as they took out the things, and saw them

bring ’em down to Miss Marsh’s room, and Mr. Reeves had put on a white

bonnet with pink strings and a pair of stays, which looked like a

saddle, and I heard ’em say the things were nearly a hundred years old,

and belonged to that lady buried across the road. If I’se her, I’d

appear to ’em, making fun of my clothes. They are to have a fancy dance

and wear her things as far as they go. But, for the land’s sake, what’s

the matter?” and she turned to Sherry, whose face was white as the lunch

cloth and who was clutching a chair for support.

“Nothing much,” Sherry answered. “I did not sleep well and have a

nervous headache. Go on and tell us of the fancy dance. When is it to

be?”

Polly didn’t know. “We shall hear about it at lunch,” she said, and they

did. The young people were all talking of the chest, wondering who could

have moved it, and why, but soon dropping that for the more absorbing

topic of the fancy dance to come off within a week, as at the end of

that time some of them were to leave. People were to be invited from the

different hotels in the vicinity; there was to be a string band from

Fabyan’s, and the young ladies were to draw lots as to which should wear

the dresses unearthed in the cedar chest, and which were in a good state

of preservation. Twice a year they had been aired as long as Amos Marsh

lived at Maplehurst, and on the occasion of his last visit there he had

had them out, as Alex. remembered having been told by Bowles, who drove

him from the station when he first visited the farm. The man had spoken

of a “flowered silk,” and when, after lunch, Alex. went to Amy’s room to

see the finery, he recognized the “flowered silk” in the heavy brocade

at which the girls were looking with eager eyes, each hoping the right

to wear it would fall upon herself. The lots were drawn and the brocade

fell to Amy.

“Eureka!” she cried, holding the dress at arm’s length and pirouetting

around the room. “I am in luck, but it needs a great deal of fixing to

fit me, and who can do it?” Then, remembering how handy Sherry had been

in helping her on the first night of her arrival, she continued: “I

believe that girl who waits on us is just the one. I’ll have her up.

Call her, Alex.”

He called her, and Sherry came, wondering why she was sent for, and

starting when she saw the display on chairs and tables and the bed, the

lovely brocade and the lace trimming, yellow with age, but showing how

costly it must have been. The room was full of the sickly odor of

clothes which had been long shut from the air, and Sherry felt it and

held fast to the brass rod of the bedstead, while Amy explained what was

wanted and asked if she could do it. Sherry knew she could, for she and

Katy had always made their own dresses, but her first impulse was to

decline. Then, remembering that she was there to obey, she signified her

willingness to do what she could. “But not to-day, please,” she said.

“My head aches; to-morrow I shall feel better.”

“To-morrow, then,” Amy replied; “and, by the way, we shall need you all

day, and I will see that No. 4 waits upon us. Her table is next to

ours.”

That night Sherry slept a quiet, dreamless sleep, and Miss Doane was not

disturbed by noises over her head in the attic where the cedar chest

stood open, with piles of things in it as yet untouched. The dresses

were what were wanted for the present, and after breakfast Sherry

presented herself in Amy’s room and asked what she was to do.

“Make this fit me. It is too big in some places and too small in

others,” Amy said, putting on the brocade and examining herself before

the mirror.

To Sherry it seemed like a wrong to the dead woman as she pinned and

unpinned and ripped and basted and tried on, and when it came to the

lace, which Amy said must be cut in two or three places to produce the

desired effect, she ventured to say: “Can’t we arrange it in some other

way? It seems a pity to cut it, and I keep thinking of the lady who used

to wear it.”

Amy looked at her, wondering what possible interest she could have in

the lady who used to wear it.

“Oh, she was dust and ashes long ago. She don’t mind,” she said, “and as

the dress is now mine I want it as I like. So cut the lace here and

here.”

Sherry hesitated a moment, and then her scissors slashed through the

expensive material, which had cost a fabulous sum and been the wonder

and admiration of the neighborhood. It was a hard day for Sherry,

working on the old dresses and listening to the talk in which she could

take no part. She was for the time being only a seamstress, whose duty

was to be silent. The young ladies were well-bred and kind-hearted, and

would not willingly injure the feelings of any one, but reared as they

had been they felt there was an immeasurable distance between themselves

and the girl who sat all day long in their midst, unnoticed except when

wanted for advice or for some change in the dresses. She was very

pretty, they thought, and very ladylike, and certainly understood her

business.

“You must have worked in a dressmaking establishment, you are so deft

with your needle and have such good taste,” one of them said to her, and

she replied:

“I have made my own dresses, with my sister’s help.”

Amy, who had felt a good deal puzzled by Sherry, now began to question

her.

“You have a sister?”

“Yes.”

“And a mother?”

“Yes.”

“Is your father living?”

“No.”

“And your home is in the country?”

“Yes.”

“Where, if I may ask?”

If Mrs. Groves could have seen Sherry then, she would have thought her

head and chin higher than ever in the air. She was resenting being

catechised so closely, but answered the last question promptly:

“In Buford, Massachusetts.”

“Buford?” Amy repeated. “Why, the Saltuses’ summer home is in Buford.

Did you ever see them, Mr. Craig Saltus and his sister? You must have

heard of them.”

“Yes, I have heard of them.”

“Is their place a very fine one?”

“Yes, very fine.”

“Inside as well as out? Perhaps, though, you were never inside. Were

you?”

“Yes.”

“And have met Miss Saltus?”

“Yes.”

“I hear that she is very familiar with the country people. Invites them

and accepts their invitations.”

As this was not a direct question Sherry did not feel called upon to

answer. Her eyes were blazing with scorn at the questioning, which might

have gone on if Ruth Doane had not called to her cousin and said: “For

Heaven’s sake, Amy, don’t spend any more time talking of the Saltuses

when we have so much to do; and I want to know if I can have this lovely

scarf. See how it becomes me.”

She was draping around her head and neck a beautiful scarf of Spanish

lace which Mrs. Crosby had brought from abroad and which was very

becoming to Ruth’s dark style of beauty.

“Yes, you can have it,” Amy said, and as she could learn nothing in

particular from Sherry she gave her up, but said to one of her friends:

“Rose Saltus and I are great friends, although not at all alike. I hoped

she might be here this summer, but she has to stay with her mother. But

her brother Craig is coming soon. I hope he will be here for the party,

though he can’t dance. What a pity he is so lame!”

Sherry was interested now, and her cheeks burned as she thought of Craig

Saltus recognizing her as an acquaintance and friend, as she knew he

would. She had heard from Mrs. Groves something about the Saltus family

coming, but time had passed and they had not come, nor had she heard of

them again until now, when she felt every nerve quiver with apprehension

and dread. Rose Saltus had been very kind to her and so had Craig, and

she wondered what he would say when he found her there.

“He will think me an impostor, and I begin to feel like one,” she

thought, half resolving to leave before Craig Saltus came.

But something kept her, and for three days Polly waited upon her table,

while she worked on the costumes, in which she became a good deal

interested, especially the brocade which Amy was to wear, and which was

made to fit her perfectly, thanks to Sherry’s deft fingers and taste.

She had cut out a piece here and added a gore there, and made the waist

lower so as to show Amy’s fine neck, and with every swish of her

scissors she had felt she was inflicting bodily pain upon the

great-grandmother she had never seen or scarcely heard of until

recently. When the dress was done, Amy, who was about her size and

figure, had asked her to put it on, that she might see how it looked and

if there were any changes to be made. And Sherry put it on, and stood as

a model while Mrs. Marsh and the young ladies and Alex. and Charley

Reeves were called in to see what a beautiful dress it was.

“By George!” was all Alex. said, and then walked out.

He did not think it just the thing for Amy to make a model of Sherry to

be gazed at, and when Charley Reeves said to him, “I say, Marsh, No. 1

is a stunner,” he felt for a moment as if he hated Charley for speaking

thus of Sherry. What business had he to call her a stunner or speak of

her as No. 1? He never did. He always called her Fanny and had a growing

conviction that she was out of place as a waitress. When he could get

time he’d find out somehow. Just now he was too busy with his

preparations for the ball, which was to excel anything ever seen in the

neighborhood. He had heard from Bowles, who had it from his grandfather,

of the great Crosby party, talked of so long by the people. Just what

they did at that party neither he nor Bowles knew.

“It was up to snuff,” Bowles said; “with grandees from all over, and

dancing till four in the morning, and some of the grandees rather noisy

with too much wine.”

Alex. did not mean to have anything of that sort. Otherwise everything

should be first class; and he was busy everywhere and tired to death, he

said, when the day came for what he called his “blow out.”

“You will have to help me dress,” Amy said to Sherry on the day of the

party, and after dinner, which was served earlier than usual, Sherry

found herself acting in the capacity of maid to Amy, whose hair she

arranged and whose dress she put on, adjusting a ribbon here and a knot

of lace there, fastening a brooch of pearls and rubies at her throat and

long pendants in her ears.

“How do I look?” Amy asked, when her toilet was completed.

“I think you will be the belle of the evening,” Sherry answered, and

Amy, who was beginning to be strangely drawn towards this girl whom she

could not understand, said, next: “You will want to see the dance. There

will be a crowd looking in at the windows from the piazza, and if you

like come in and sit by the door.”

It was a good deal for Amy to unbend in this way, and she felt chagrined

that Sherry did not seem more impressed with the permission to sit by

the door.

“Thanks. You are very kind,” was all she said, as she left the room.

“She is an enigma,” Amy thought. “I mean to ask Craig Saltus about the

family. He must have heard of them. Let me see,—Sherman is her name, I

believe, though I only know her as Fanny, or No. 1. Queer fad of Mrs.

Groves to designate them by numbers. This girl is certainly superior to

the rest and has done my dress beautifully.”

It was time now for the expected guests to arrive, and pleased with

herself, Amy went down to meet them. The night was fine. There was no

moon, but the stars were out in full force, and the lanterns on the lawn

and the reflectors on the piazza made it almost as light as day on three

sides of the house, which presented a fairy scene after the dancing had

commenced. As Amy had predicted, there were many lookers on. Young

people from the different farmhouses in the neighborhood came to see the

sight, and with the servants of the house crowded around the windows,

watching the dancers, and occasionally, as the music became more and

more exhilarating, taking a few steps themselves. Sherry was not with

them, nor in the chair where Amy had told her she could sit and look on.

With the first strain of music a wave of homesickness swept over her,

and she would have given much to have been with her mother and Katy. It

was a mistake coming here as she did. She was feeling it more and more,

and had had hard work to keep back her tears ever since the guests began

to arrive and she was free to do what she pleased. Going to the far end

of the piazza, which looked towards the stables, she sat down in the

shadow and listened to the sounds of revelry as they came to her from

the other side of the house. If there was one thing she liked more than

another it was to dance, and she kept time to the music with her hands

and feet, until at last, as the strains of her favorite waltz came

floating on the night air, she sprang up and began to whirl round and

round half the length of the piazza and back to her chair, where she

stopped a moment to take breath and then began her solitary dance again,

shutting her eyes as she felt a little dizzy, and seeing nothing until

she found herself in the arms of a young man coming from the opposite

direction.

Alex. was having a good time, and, satisfied that his “blow out” bade

fair to equal the Crosby party and that everybody was having a good

time, he had started for the kitchen to tell the _chef_ that

refreshments were to be served in half an hour. As he turned on to the

side piazza, his nearest route to the kitchen, he caught the notes of

the soft-toned, even-timed waltz, which was his favorite as well as

Sherry’s, and saw the white figure coming towards him in the half

shadows on that side of the house. Thinking it was his cousin Ruth, he

began to whirl until he caught the figure in his arms, held it close to

him and kept on till he reached a side light and saw that it was Sherry.

Wrenching herself from his arms, while her eyes flashed and her lips

quivered, she said, “Mr. Marsh, how dare you insult me?”

“By George!” Alex. exclaimed, holding her hands in spite of her efforts

to draw them from him. “I beg your pardon. I thought you were Ruth. You

are about the same size, and that waltz got into my head. I meant no

disrespect. I hope you will excuse me.”

He was apologizing to her as to a lady, and the angry look in her eyes

began to soften and the tears to fill them. She couldn’t keep them back,

and as Alex. held her hands they dropped upon her cheeks and stood upon

her lashes.

“Fanny,” Alex. said, soothingly. “Don’t cry. You make me feel like a

cad. I never insulted a woman in my life. I certainly would not begin

with you. Why do you cry?”

“I don’t know, unless I am a little homesick,” Sherry replied, getting

her hands free and wiping her tears away, while Alex. thought how

beautiful she was, seen under that light.

As she met his look of admiration, which she could not mistake, she

stepped back and continued: “I like to dance, and that waltz brought

things back and made me think of home.”

“Yes, I see,” Alex. answered. “Of course you like to dance. Suppose we

take another turn across the piazza.”

He held out his arms, but Sherry shook her head. She knew what was

proper better than he, and said, “I think you’d better go. Your guests

will be missing you.”

“Let them miss me,” Alex. said, with a feeling that he would rather stay

there and talk to this girl, who fascinated and puzzled him, and whose

face grew each moment lovelier as her smiles came and went and her eyes

beamed upon him. “Fanny,” he said, impulsively, “haven’t I seen you

before?”

Sherry shook her head, and he continued: “Then I have dreamed of you, or

some one like you. I have it,” and he snapped his fingers exultingly; “I

saw a girl at the opera with old,—I beg your pardon,—with the Pledgers

more than a year ago. She was very like you. Queer, isn’t it? Where is

your home?”

Before she could answer him there was a loud call for “Alex., Alex.,

where are you? We want you in the Lancers.”

“I must go, as I have to see the _chef_. I’d forgotten him entirely. You

are sure you have forgiven me? I couldn’t help it, and you waltz as if

you had been at it all your life,” Alex. said, offering her his hand, in

which for answer she laid hers, blushing and withdrawing it quickly as

she felt his fingers closing over it with a warm pressure.

The next moment he was gone, and when Sherry next saw him she, with Nos.

2, 3 and 4, was waiting upon his guests, while her cheeks burned as she

recalled the waltz upon the piazza and felt again the pressure of

Alex.’s hand and heard the tone of his voice as he called her Fanny and

told her not to cry.

It was late before the party broke up, and later still before Alex. fell

into a disturbed sleep, in which he dreamed of the lovely face which had

looked at him so wistfully that he would liked to have kissed it. Other

faces which had been close to his and other forms which had been in his

arms, with no attempt to withdraw from them, were also in his dreams, as

he lived over the events of the night, but Sherry was always to the

front, and he was beginning a second waltz with her when Amy pounded at

his door, telling him that breakfast had been over an hour and that some

of them were going for a drive.

CHAPTER XII

THE SOMNAMBULIST

The day after the dance passed rather quietly, as the young people were

tired and preferred lounging upon the piazzas or under the trees to any

great exertion. The costumes taken from the cedar chest had been

carefully folded and returned to it, ready for the next time, Amy said.

The folding and putting away had fallen to Sherry, who took the dresses

and jewelry to the attic, laying them carefully in the chest and pausing

a moment to open what proved to be the family Bible of Eli Crosby, and

which was near the bottom.

“Oh, I wish I could have this,” she thought, and was about to examine it

further when Amy came up the stairs, and she closed the book hastily,

noticing, as she did so, that it contained two or three loose papers.

“Some business papers of grandfather Crosby’s, I dare say,” she thought,

and all day her mind was upon the cedar chest and its contents.

As the afternoon drew to a close a thunder storm came up and the night

shut in hot and sultry. The young people were tired, and after a few

ineffectual efforts to enjoy themselves, as Alex. wished them to do,

they retired to their rooms, and at a very early hour quiet had settled

upon the house. Alex. was sleeping soundly when there came a knock upon

his door and Amy’s voice called to him, “Alex., Alex., are you awake?”

“Yes,—no. What is it? Is the house on fire?” he answered drowsily; and

Amy continued in a whisper, “Dress you and come quick. There’s some one

in the attic.”

“Nonsense!” Alex. said, springing up and soon joining his sister, who

explained that she and Ruth had heard footsteps going up the stairs and

then had heard them overhead.

They could not be mistaken. There was some one in the garret, probably

the same who had moved the chest,—a burglar, perhaps, and she advised

Alex. to bring his revolver or call Charley Reeves.

“Nonsense!” he said again, going with his sister and Ruth to the hall,

at the end of which were the attic stairs, where they stopped to listen.

There certainly was some one in the attic moving cautiously, when he

moved at all, and Alex. at once started to go up. But Amy held him back.

“Don’t, don’t,” she whispered. “You might get hurt. Whoever is there

must come down. We can sit here and wait. You have your revolver?”

“Revolver. No,” Alex. answered, sitting where Amy bade him sit on a

bench against the wall, which here made a little curve or alcove, so

that while they could see distinctly any one coming down the stairs they

could not be seen.

“There, he is coming,” Amy and Ruth both exclaimed, clutching Alex. and

holding their breath as footfalls were heard upon the stairs and a

glimmer of a light began to show itself in the darkness of the hall.

Amy and Ruth were trembling violently, while Alex. felt a little nervous

as the light grew brighter and the steps came nearer. Then, with a

smothered exclamation, he rose to his feet as Sherry came into view,

carrying the brocade dress and the box of jewelry in one hand and in the

other a candle, which she held raised directly in front of her, while

she seemed to be looking steadily at it. She had on her dressing-gown

and slippers, and her hair was falling over her shoulders. Her face was

very pale, with a fixed and strained expression upon it, as if she were

in pain or feeling her way over some dangerous place.

“It is Fanny. Who would have thought her a thief?” Amy gasped, while

Alex.’s “Sh-sh!” came warningly.

“Don’t you see she is asleep?” he said, and Amy continued, “Let’s wake

her, then.”

“No, wait,” Alex. answered, curious to know if Sherry would return to

the attic for more goods.

She entered her room and they heard her moving around.

“Hiding the things,” Amy said excitedly, but Alex. kept her quiet until

Sherry reappeared, candle in hand, and went to the attic again.

She was not gone long, and when she came back she had the old Bible

under her arm and walked very slowly, saying, as she was opposite them,

“I’m so tired and this is heavy, but it is mine.”

“Hers,” Amy repeated, in so loud a tone that Sherry stopped as if to

listen, but neither turned her head nor her eyes.

Then she went into her room and shut the door.

“Aren’t you going in to wake her now?” Amy asked, and Alex. replied,

“Certainly not. It would frighten and mystify her.”

“Yes, but my dress and jewels! She is welcome to the old Bible,” Amy

continued; and Alex. replied, “They are safe. When she finds them in the

morning she will put them back or bring them to us, and feel crushed and

humiliated, no doubt. Go to bed, and hold your tongues. No one but

ourselves need know what we have seen. The poor girl has had her mind so

full of the dresses and is so tired working on them as she did and then

waiting upon us so late last night that she is walking in her sleep. Not

the first time probably.”

He was ready to find excuses for her, and told his sister a second time

to hold her tongue. It was not in Amy’s nature to hold her tongue when

there was an occasion to loosen it, and the occasion came at once. Mrs.

Groves, whose room was at the end of the hall, and who boasted that she

slept with one eye open, had heard the sound of voices, and coming from

her room to investigate, met Amy and Ruth.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Why are you here in your

dressing-gowns, and what’s that light doing at this time of night?”

She pointed to the light shining over the open transom of Sherry’s door,

and started in that direction.

“Don’t go there,” Amy said in a mysterious whisper, and then the whole

story came out, Mrs. Groves listening with an incredulous sneer and look

of exultation.

“I always mistrusted her and believed there was some mystery back of

her, but didn’t think she’d be up to quite so barefaced an act.”

“But Alex. thinks she’s asleep,” Amy said, and Mrs. Groves replied:

“That’s a ruse to cover up the theft if discovered. She told one of the

maids yesterday that she was homesick and believed she should go home.

If she is asleep she will see the things in the morning and either take

them back or tell you about it. If she does neither, depend upon it they

are in her trunk and she is going to leave.”

This seemed feasible, and with their minds a good deal unsettled with

regard to Sherry, Amy and Ruth returned to their rooms. Early the next

morning they stole up to the attic, finding Mrs. Groves there before

them, looking into the chest, diving to the bottom and pulling the

articles out. With an ominous shake of the head she said to them: “I

told you so; they are not here, and she has been down more than an hour.

She must have seen them. They are in her trunk. Sleep-walking!

Fiddlesticks! I walked just as much.”

“Seems as if she wanted to prove the girl guilty,” Amy said, as she went

down to the piazza, where she found Alex. and told him of Mrs. Groves’

suspicions.

“Don’t you believe her,” he said. “She has never liked the girl. She is

always finding fault with her because she seems superior to the others,

and is glad of a chance to hurt her.”

And still he felt anxious, knowing Sherry must see the articles if they

were in her room, and wondering what she would say. He found her

standing by his mother’s chair as usual when he went in to breakfast,

and noticed how pale she was, with dark rings around her eyes, and how

languidly she moved, as if very tired. Mrs. Marsh knew the story by this

time, and half the guests besides, and Sherry felt instinctively that

she was an object of more interest than usual as she waited upon the

table. For aught she knew she had slept soundly. She had not dreamed,

and could not account for her headache and weakness and the dreadful

nausea which sometimes nearly overmastered her. A great aversion to the

place had taken possession of her, with a desire to leave it.

“I don’t think it agrees with me,” she thought. “I’ll make that an

excuse and give notice this very day. I’ve had enough of it.”

“I expected it,” Mrs. Groves said, when some time during the morning

Sherry announced her wish to leave, saying she was not feeling well and

had not for some days.

“Mountain air is usually thought very healthy,” Mrs. Groves said with a

snap in her voice, “and your duties certainly are not so very great that

you need to complain.”

“I am not complaining of the work,” Sherry replied. “That is easy

enough. But something ails me and I want to go home.”

“I expected it,” and Mrs. Groves’ lips shut firmly together. “Will you

go to-day?”

“Oh, no,” Sherry answered, a good deal disturbed by Mrs. Groves’ manner,

which had never been quite as aggravating as it was now. “I will stay

till you fill my place.”

Mrs. Groves had not expected this. She thought Sherry would be glad to

go at once before her theft was discovered, and she was anxious to be

rid of her.

“No necessity for your waiting a day. We can manage very well. Polly is

good for two tables, and some from the Reeves’ table leave to-morrow,

but keep your place till after lunch,” was Mrs. Groves’ vinegary

response, and Sherry left her with a feeling that she had been

dismissed, rather than dismissed herself, and also with a feeling of

uncertainty as to whether she really wished to go.

There had not been as much fun in her lark as she had anticipated,

but,—and she colored to the roots of her hair as she thought of Alex.,

whom she might never see again. But what did it matter? She could never

be more to him than a girl whom he had employed, and to whom he had been

kind, as he was to every one. She would go home, and start that

afternoon if her head stopped aching. It was throbbing painfully, and

black specks were floating before her eyes, sometimes obscuring her

vision and again making her see double. “There is something the matter,

and the sooner I get home the better,” she thought, and finding a cool

place on the piazza, she sat down to rest until it was time for lunch,

the last meal at which she would serve.

Meanwhile Mrs. Groves had been busy. Sherry’s offer to stay until her

place was filled did not look like guilt, but Mrs. Groves’ mind was

unchanged, and she hastened to report to Amy that No. 1 had given notice

and was going that afternoon.

“That proves her guilt conclusively, and I told you so. Better see to it

at once before she gets away. She ought to be made an example as a

warning to the other girls,” and her head and chin and the flabby flesh

under it shook as she said it.

“What would you propose if we found the missing articles in her trunk?

You would not have her arrested here?” Amy asked.

Her sympathy was a good deal with Sherry, whose look of suffering

appealed to her.

“Of course I would not have her arrested, although she deserves it,”

Mrs. Groves replied. “Take the things away, and let her know that we all

know her for what she is,—a thief!”

The word had an ugly sound to Amy, and still uglier to Alex. when

applied to the girl in whom he found he had so great an interest. He

fully believed in the sleep-walking, and had hoped that the articles

would be returned to the chest, or that Sherry would speak of them.

Neither had happened, and urged by Amy he made up his mind to ask her if

she ever walked in her sleep.

“It is just to the girl to give her a chance to defend herself against

Mrs. Groves, who, I must say, is very bitter against her. I’ll do it,”

Alex. said; “but will wait till after lunch, when Craig Saltus will be

here. He must know of the girl’s family in Buford, where he has a

country house. I’ll ask him about them. Craig always braces me up.”

Craig had written that he would arrive on the eleven o’clock train, but

Sherry knew nothing of it till lunch time, when she was rather late at

her post. Her head was still aching frightfully with that nausea so hard

to bear. Two or three times she had sat down overcome by dizziness

before she could rally sufficient strength to go to the dining-room,

where the sight and odor of the food nearly overmastered her as she

moved slowly up to her table after all were seated, seeing the back of a

strange man, but never dreaming who it was until she stood beside him.

“Why, Miss Sherman, you here! This is an unexpected pleasure. Alex.

never told me,” Craig exclaimed, offering her his hand, and as quickly

as he could, on account of his lameness, getting upon his feet and

beginning to pull out the vacant chair next to him.

Then sense and sight for a moment forsook Sherry, who would have fallen

if Alex., too, had not risen and taken her arm.

“There is a mistake, and there has been one all the time,” he said to

Craig, who was looking at one and then another, but mostly at Sherry,

whose white apron and cap struck him at last.

He knew what they meant, but why was she wearing them, and why did Mrs.

Marsh and Amy and Ruth seem so bewildered and Alex. so nervous, and why

was Sherry so white?

An awful dizziness was coming over her again, and the black specks were

thick before her eyes. Turning to No. 4, she said:

“Polly, will you take my place? I must have air.”

She was white as a corpse, and the rings around her eyes grew darker as

she left the room, with Alex. beside her.

“What is it, Miss Sherman?” he said, adopting the name Craig had given

her. “Why have you never told us you were Craig Saltus’ friend?”

“I don’t know,” Sherry answered faintly, as she sat down on the side

piazza, where she had waltzed with Alex., and where the dog came

bounding to her and began to lick her cold hands. “Go back,” she said to

Alex. “I shall be better alone. By and by I’ll tell you why I was so

foolish.”

Alex. went back, finding his mother and Amy and Ruth in a state of great

excitement, and Craig quite as much surprised, as each listened to the

other and told what they knew of the young lady,—Miss Sherry Sherman,

Craig called her, repeating to Alex. what he had already said to the

ladies.

“One of the very best families in Buford,” he said. “We know them well;

and Rose is very fond of Sherry and her sister Katy.”

“Sherry,” Alex. exclaimed. “I thought her name was Fanny.”

“So it is in part,” Craig answered; “Fanny Sheridan Sherman, but she is

called Sherry in Buford.”

“Craig,” Alex. gasped, a light beginning to break upon him, “is she

related to old Pledger?”

“To Joel Pledger? Yes. You saw her in the box with him, you know, and

asked me who she was.”

“But you didn’t tell me her name. You said his grand-niece,” Alex.

replied. “She interested me then. She has puzzled me ever since she came

here. Why did she come?”

This question no one could answer, although Craig tried to do so.

“I think she is a little erratic by nature,” Craig said. “I know she is

fond of adventure, and probably the fancy struck her, as it does many

young girls, to have some diversion in this line. You must have seen she

was a lady?”

“Always,” Alex. exclaimed. His interest in Sherry increased tenfold now

that he knew she was the girl seen in old Pledger’s box and never

forgotten.

Amy said nothing. She was thinking of the dress and the jewelry, and

wondering how they were to approach the subject. Questioning Fanny

Sheridan Sherman, daughter of a clergyman and friend of Craig Saltus,

was different from questioning No. 1. Alex. too, was worried, but it

must be done, and the sooner it was off his mind the better. Going to

the piazza, where he had left Sherry, he found her still there, with her

eyes closed and the traces of tears on her face.

“Miss Sherman,” he began, drawing a chair beside her, “I can’t tell you

how surprised I am, and glad that—” he began to stammer, not knowing how

to finish the sentence, for Sherry’s eyes were open now and fixed upon

him. “Yes, I’m glad,” he went on, “and when you are feeling better you

will tell me about it. Now I must speak of something else,—something

imperative. Did you ever walk in your sleep?”

Instantly a look of terror leaped into Sherry’s eyes, and her hands

grasped the arms of the chair in which she was sitting.

“Yes,” she answered, “when I was a child. I hoped I had outgrown the

habit, but it came back to me some days ago and I took the key.”

“What key?” Alex. asked, and Sherry told him the story of the key,

leaving out her dream of her grandmother and only saying, “I dreamed

some one told me where it was.”

Alex. was more puzzled than ever. Why was she so interested in the chest

and its contents? He would ask her later. He must get over the most

important part at once, and he said: “The brocade and jewelry and Bible

disappeared last night. Do you know where they are?”

For a moment he thought Sherry had fainted, she sat so still and looked

so white, and he put his hand on the one of hers nearest to him, and as

she opened her eyes and looked at him he said, “Don’t feel so badly; try

and remember.”

Then she rallied and said in a choking voice: “No, I don’t know where

they are. Did I walk in my sleep, and is that why I feel so dizzy and

tired this morning, just as I used to feel? _Did_ I walk in my sleep?”

Alex.’s hand was still on hers, and he felt her cold fingers closing

tightly round it; and there was the pallor of death on her face as he

told her what he saw.

“Oh,” she gasped, “this is dreadful! You saw me, and it must be true;

but I do not remember dreaming at all as I usually do. I must have put

the things in my closet. I did not see them as I opened the door this

morning to hang up my dress. Your sister and Miss Doane saw me last

night, too? Will you ask them to go with me to my room?”

“Let me see you there first,” Alex. suggested, and Sherry did not refuse

his help.

Her strength seemed to have left her, and her feet dragged heavily as

she climbed the back stairs.

“Sit here till I return,” Alex. said, placing her in a chair near the

door and hurrying off for his sister and cousin, whom he found talking

to Craig Saltus and telling him of last night’s adventure.

“I remember hearing that she walked in her sleep when a child,” he said.

“She was little more than that when we first went to Buford. The whole

town knew of it and were interested. She and Rose were great friends,

and Rose had her once to spend the night with her, and she scared us all

by getting up at midnight and starting for home.”

This swept away any doubt Amy and Ruth might have had with regard to

Sherry, and they went with Alex. to her room, where she was sitting with

her head dropped as if asleep, but she roused up when they came in, her

lips quivering with a pitiful smile as she said: “I didn’t know what I

was doing. I have no remembrance of it. I never used to have when I

woke. There was only a sick, dizzy, tired feeling, as if I had walked

miles, or been terribly frightened. It is dreadful, and you saw me with

them. They must be in the closet. Please look. I can’t.”

Amy and Ruth did the searching, while Alex. stood by Sherry, whose face

was spotted when they brought out the brocade, which was hanging inside

the closet where it could not be seen, if one merely opened the door as

Sherry had done in the morning. The jewelry and Bible came next, and the

three were placed upon the bed just as Mrs. Groves appeared in the

doorway. She had been that morning to see a friend who was to leave that

day and had just returned. Consequently she had not heard of Mr. Saltus’

arrival, or of the scene at the table, nor of all that followed, filling

the entire staff in the kitchen with wonder. She had started directly

for her room, and hearing voices as she passed Sherry’s door, looked in

with a sinister expression on her face as she saw the articles on the

bed and Sherry sitting white and limp in a chair, with Alex. standing

over her as if to prevent her escape.

“So you’ve found ’em,” she said. “I thought you would. Were they in her

trunk?”

Instantly the terrible truth flashed upon Sherry that this woman

believed her a thief, and it roused all her strength and courage.

Springing to her feet and confronting her foe, she began: “And do you

dare insinuate that I took the things knowingly and meant to carry them

off? It is a fitting end to all the little mean tyrannies you have

heaped upon me ever since I came. I have tried my best to serve you

well, and you reward me by intimating that I am a thief. Oh, I can’t

bear it. Will no one stand between me and this dreadful woman?”

She was terribly excited, and her hands went up, beating the air

frantically for a moment; then she stretched them toward Alex., as if

asking for help, which he promptly gave. Taking her hands in his, he

turned to Mrs. Groves and exclaimed: “Woman, leave this room at once,

and never again be guilty of such an insinuation against Miss Sherman.”

And Mrs. Groves left, so astonished and shocked that she fairly ran

through the hall to her own room, where she sat down more shaken up than

she had ever been in her life. Was the world turning topsy-turvy and she

turning with it? And was Alex. Marsh crazy, and why should that girl

dare to talk so to her, Mrs. Groves, matron of Maplehurst, whom all the

servants held in awe, if not in fear? What did it mean? She heard what

it meant when Amy came to her after the interview with Sherry was over.

“Well, I never!” Mrs. Groves exclaimed, when the story came to an end.

“Been masquerading as somebody else, has she? Do you call that honest

and aboveboard?”

Amy had undertaken Sherry’s championship, and she meant to carry it

through.

“Certainly,” she replied. “She told you her name was Fanny Sherman, from

Buford, didn’t she?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Groves admitted rather reluctantly, and Amy continued: “That

was true, and if she wished to hire out as a waitress she had a right to

do so. She has made a good one, and I am sorry for her. We are all

sorry.”

Mrs. Groves dared not say to Amy all that was in her mind. She did not

like Sherry, and she did not mean to like her if she belonged to a

hundred good families and Craig Saltus had known her all her life. But

she was quelled, and with her head high in the air excused herself, as

she must see to some of her household affairs.

“I hope the girl is not going to be sick here. The land knows we have

enough to do, and we are awful short with her being off.”

Amy did not reply, and Mrs. Groves departed for the kitchen, talking to

herself as she sometimes did when excited. Returning to Sherry’s room,

Amy began to fold up the dress, which still lay upon the bed, and as she

did so she said to Sherry: “May I ask why you are so interested in the

chest?”

Sherry hesitated, and then replied, “Because I think it belongs to Katy

and me.”

“Belongs to you!” Amy repeated. “What do you mean?”

Sherry felt that she could not talk much longer before her strength gave

out. There were lumps in her throat and a buzzing in her ears, and she

saw things through a cloud of spots. Everything was slipping from her.

She must explain quickly if she explained at all, and she began very

rapidly:

“It was my great-grandmother’s, Mrs. Crosby. She is buried across the

way, and because she once lived here I had a fancy to come when I saw

Mr. Marsh’s advertisement; mother and Katy opposed me, but I was

self-willed; the romance of the affair appealed to me. I wanted to see

Maplehurst. I could not come as a guest and so I came as a waitress. I

knew many young ladies did such things, and I thought I’d try it. Aunt

Pledger of New York, who used to be here, told me of the chest and its

contents, and said they were mine and Katy’s, if still in existence. I

did not stop to reason that when Mr. Marsh gave the house to your

brother he probably gave him all there was in it. I was a foolish girl

from the beginning. I thought it would be fun to come to my

grandfather’s old home _incog_. It has been anything but fun, and now it

has come to this! Seeing the dresses and cutting into them worked on my

brain and brought back the trouble of my childhood, making me seem like

a thief. _She_ thinks so, Mrs. Groves. She has never liked me. All the

rest have been most kind.”

Sherry’s voice was now a whisper, for the lumps in her throat were

choking her and rising higher and higher, until with her last words she

broke into hysterical sobs, while her tears ran like rain through the

fingers she pressed upon her face.

“Oh, Sherry, Sherry!” Alex. said, calling her by the name he thought the

sweetest in the world. “Don’t cry like that! You frighten me. It is all

right; everything is right. The chest is yours and everything in it.

Don’t cry! Speak to her!”

He turned to Amy and Ruth, who stood appalled, not knowing what to say.

Amy’s wits came first, and going up to Sherry she said: “We are

surprised, but we believe you and are sorry you are taking it so hard.

You are tired and overwrought. Lie down. Rest will do you good.”

Telling Ruth to put the dress and jewels and Bible back in the chest,

Amy made Sherry lie down, spread a wet towel on her hot face and head,

closed the blind to shut out the light, and then, with Alex., left the

room, saying to him, when he suggested sending for a physician: “Wait

awhile, she may be better to-morrow, and she does not want it talked

about.”

CHAPTER XIII

FINDING THE WRONG

That night Nos. 2, 3 and 4 took turns caring for Sherry, who had grown

weak so fast that she could scarcely lift her head from the pillow. They

knew now something of her story, and the most exaggerated rumors were

afloat concerning her antecedents and why she was there.

“I never believed she was like us, or like _me_, anyway,” Polly said.

“She had an air about her different, and that old hen of a Groves was

always naggin’ her. I hate her!”

It was Polly who stayed the longest with Sherry, and who said to Alex.

in the morning, “I think she’s awful sick and needs some one with her

all the time. I’d stay with her if I didn’t have to wait upon the table.

Mrs. Groves is crosser than a bear because there are only three of us,

and Mr. Saltus here.”

Alex. did not reply, but it was a troubled face he took to his guests.

He could not feel merry with that sick girl upstairs, and many times

during the morning he stole to her door to inquire how she was.

As the day wore on Sherry did not rally, but lay with closed eyes,

noticing no one except Alex. At the sound of his voice she always looked

up and smiled, saying once when he asked if she wished anything, “I want

Katy.”

They sent for Katy, who, on her way to Maplehurst, stopped in New York

and told Mrs. Pledger of Sherry’s illness.

“For gracious’ sake!” that good woman said. “Sherry sick! I shall go

with you and take a trained nurse. It will cost something, of course,

for they ask abominable prices, but for once I can afford it, and Sherry

must not die for want of care. I have taken a great fancy to her.”

One of the best trained nurses in New York was found, and the three,

Mrs. Pledger, Katy and the nurse, reached Maplehurst one afternoon,

greatly to the disgust of Mrs. Groves, who did not yet believe Sherry’s

illness serious. She was nervous and tired and wanted to be let alone

instead of having so much coddling. The girls, Nos. 2, 3 and 4, could

sit up with her nights by turns, and if necessary _she_ would for one

night stay with her. She thought this a concession worthy of a martyr’s

crown. She did not know Katy had been sent for, and great was her

surprise and consternation when the ’bus from the station deposited

three women at the door, one of whom, Mrs. Pledger, at once took

possession of everything pertaining to Sherry, even overshadowing the

nurse in her orders and putting Mrs. Groves quite in the background. The

kitchen was invaded at all hours, first by the nurse, who came in the

discharge of her duties, and next by Mrs. Pledger, who came because she

must see what was going on and give her opinion. Katy stayed mostly with

Sherry, who had smiled in token that she knew her and Mrs. Pledger, and

had then fallen into a stupor from which it was hard to rouse her. Even

Alex.’s voice failed. A slight movement of her head was all the response

she gave when asked if she knew him. She was very ill, and a doctor from

Bethlehem came every day, and most of the guests departed and a great

hush fell upon the house where there had been so much hilarity. Alex.’s

good times were slipping away, but he did not care. It had come to the

point where Sherry was more to him than all the good times in the world,

and if she died he would never know another, he said to himself, as he

hovered near her door, or sat with Craig Saltus, who at his request

remained at Maplehurst, and with whom he talked freely of Sherry and his

feeling for her. He had been interested in her when he saw her at the

opera. He had been interested in her ever since she came to Maplehurst.

He had stood between her and Mrs. Groves two or three times. He had

waltzed with her on the piazza and felt a stir in his pulse such as no

other girl had ever awakened, and when in her abasement at Mrs. Groves’

cruel blow she had stretched out her hands to him as if for help and he

had taken them in his, the work was completed and he knew that he loved

her. Several times a day he went to the door of her room to see if

anything was wanting, and the rest of the time he sat upon the piazza or

under the maple tree, sometimes with Craig Saltus and sometimes with

only the dog lying at his feet in a most subdued state, never even

noticing when a rabbit ran across the road to its home in the hillside.

The dog had been to Sherry’s room during the first of her illness and

looked at her with wondering eyes. Then, failing to get any notice from

her, he had gone downstairs and out into the yard where Alex. was

sitting, and lifting up his head gave vent to his feelings in a howl

which made Alex.’s blood curdle as he grasped the dog’s throat and

stopped him, talking to him as if he could understand that quiet was

necessary if he would have his mistress live. He called Sherry his

mistress, and the dog seemed to comprehend and never again gave vent to

a sound which superstitious people, and some who are not superstitious,

think a portent of evil. Every morning, however, he went to the door of

Sherry’s room, gave a low “woof-woof” by way of greeting, and then

trotted back, sometimes to his kennel, but oftener to Alex., who felt

his sympathy and was glad of his companionship.

From the first Mrs. Pledger had taken to Alex. as a young man “with as

little nonsense as was often found in a city prig.” Every day she

reported Sherry’s progress, and was the first to take the good news to

him that the crisis was passed and Sherry much better. Then, sitting

down beside him she began to talk of her uncle Crosby and his wife who

died so young.

“I don’t remember just how old she was,” she said. “Twenty-four or five.

It must be recorded on the grave-stone and in the family Bible in the

chest, which is nearer. I’ll go and see.”

Mrs. Pledger was never quite happy unless she knew the exact date of the

age she was hunting up. Leaving Alex. she went to the attic, and taking

the Bible from the chest turned to the record of deaths. As she did so

two papers fell out. Ruth had seen them when she carried the Bible back,

but feeling that they did not concern her, had not glanced at them. Mrs.

Pledger was of a different temperament. She wanted to know what they

were, especially the one so yellow and tender that it almost came to

pieces in her hand. It proved to be a deed given by Eli Crosby to Amos

Marsh more than fifty years before. The other paper, which was much

fresher, was a sheet of foolscap folded like a letter, marked “Private”

and directed to “Alexander Marsh.” But for the “Private” Mrs. Pledger

would have opened it, but that deterred her, and she took both papers to

Alex., who was in his usual seat under the maple. For a few minutes Mrs.

Pledger stood, hoping Alex. would open the letter, but he didn’t, and

she turned to go, then stopped and said:

“I forgot to tell you that she was twenty-five and six months.”

Alex. scarcely heard her or knew whom she meant. He was looking at the

deed with a presentiment as if that yellow document were a message of

evil to him. In the excitement of the good times he had been having at

Maplehurst he had scarcely thought of the wrong he was to right, though

he had fancied it had something to do with the farm. Of course he should

right it if he ever found what it was, he said, and had dismissed it

from his mind. Now, however, it came back to him with this time-worn

deed, which he read twice, wondering why it remained in Mr. Crosby’s

possession when by right it belonged to his Uncle Amos, who should have

kept it with his papers.

“Possibly the letter will throw some light on it,” he thought, and

opening it at last he read it, while the cold sweat came out on his

forehead and hands, making him shiver, although the day was hot.

“Nephew Alexander,” it began, “I’m here in what was once my home,

so-called, though never mine by right. I’m a wicked old man on the verge

of the grave, and I cannot die till I have confessed a secret which I

have borne for years because I had not courage to face the world which

thinks me so good. I’m not good. I’m false to the core, and this is my

story:

“Eli Crosby and I were fast friends. What one knew the other knew. If

one wanted a favor the other granted it, and we helped each other over

difficulties. He was a good man, free as water with his money, and when

a friend asked his name to a note of four thousand dollars he gave it

against my advice. Then, as some ugly rumors reached him, he came to me

and said, ‘I’ll bet I’ll have to pay that note, and if so it will take

my farm. I’ve nothing else. What shall I do?’

“I thought a moment, and said: ‘Deed it to me and give out that you have

done so, but keep the deed yourself. The farm will be as much yours as

it is mine, and when the trouble is over, if there is trouble, I will

deed it back and no harm will be done.’

“I don’t think he was quick to grasp an idea, but I made him understand,

and when he hesitated and asked if it wasn’t a fraud, I said: ‘If it is

it is often practised, and may save your farm.’

“He went through the form, the deed was drawn but was never delivered to

me, but kept in his family Bible, where it is now. As God is my witness,

I meant fair and honest at first. His wife was dead. I never married.

Both of us were alone, and at his request I came to live with him as at

my own home and called it mine. Three months after the transaction he

went West and was brought back dead,—killed on the railroad. Two months

later I heard the note was paid, and then the devil entered into me. I

liked the farm, and did not want to give it up, or tell of the

fraudulent sale, as I would have to do. Eli’s only daughter had married

and died, leaving a son, who had been sent through college and given a

few thousand dollars, all Eli could spare. Where he was I didn’t know.

Eli was not quite pleased with his daughter’s marriage, and after

sending her boy to college, did not try to keep track of him. To make

the story short, I did not tell that the place was not legally mine, and

when people wondered what Eli had done with the price of the farm I knew

no more than they did. There was a little from the sale of some of his

effects, and a little in a bank. To this I added a thousand dollars, and

sent it to the young man, Eli’s grandson, who, by inquiry, I found was

studying for the ministry. Then I settled down to enjoy my farm, but

never knew a moment’s real happiness. That deed haunted me and Eli

haunted me, too, till I could endure it no longer. As I would not add

another sin to my soul by selling the farm when I could not give a clear

title, I abandoned it and went to Denver. I saved all I could and put it

in banks, feeling that some time I should make restitution. Eli’s

grandson was the Rev. Henry Sherman, who preached in Buford, Mass. I

kept track of him after I found where he was. He is dead, but he has a

widow and two daughters living. The farm is rightfully theirs, and the

money too, the way I figure it. The ranch and Denver house are really

mine. I bought them with means honestly my own.

“I might write all this to Harry’s widow, but I’d rather tell you, my

own kin. I have been to New York and seen Joel Pledger, whose wife was

Eli’s half sister. I’ve known her since she was a child. She was here

once. I asked about you and your family. Joel knows everybody, whether

dead beats or honest men. He spoke well of your reputation:

‘Fashionable, but not fast,’ he said.

“I am on my way home and have stopped at the old farmhouse, which is

more haunted than ever. Rats and noises everywhere. Some things I left

have been stolen, but, for a wonder, nobody has broken into the chest.

It is heavy to handle. I found it under the rafters just where I pushed

it when I left. The Bible is in it and the deed, and I made up my mind

to write the whole thing out and put it in the Bible, with the deed. I

am sure you will find it some day. It is hardly in nature that you will

not open the chest, you or your mother or sister. Bowles, the man who

has had things in charge, has looked after them pretty well and knows

there are women’s clothes in it,—Mrs. Crosby’s clothes, which I have

taken out and aired. I shall hang the key on a little nail at the back

of the chest, where it has hung for years. Somebody will find it.

“Sometimes I think I’ll go back to New York and tell you everything or

hunt up those Shermans and tell them. But I can’t, I can’t; so I write

the story and pray God you may find it when I am gone. My lawyers have

urged me to make a will, but don’t you see, I’d have to tell why the

farm and the money in the bank was not mentioned. I’m a coward, but am

trying to make restitution and right the wrong. The old place does not

seem worth much in the present condition of the house, but, much or

little, it is theirs. Forgive your old uncle, and find those girls.

“AMOS MARSH.”

This was the letter, and for a few minutes Alex. felt as if all power to

move had left him. There was a blur before his eyes, and still the glare

of sunlight hurt them, and he closed them to shut it out. Then he opened

them and looked around him—at the handsome house, where he had had such

good times and hoped to have more; at the stretches of pasture, where

his cows were feeding; at the meadows and fields, where his men were

gathering a late growth of hay, and at the wooded hills in their cool

summer dress. “It is a goodly heritage, but not mine,” he said, with a

groan, just as Amy came out and sat down beside him, asking why he

looked so sad, and if they could not have out more of their friends now

Sherry was better.

“Read that,” he said, giving her the letter.

She read it, growing white and rigid as she read, and saying in a

whisper: “Oh, Alex., Maplehurst is not ours! It is theirs!” and she

nodded towards the room where Sherry lay in a sleep which was giving

back her strength, while Katy sat beside her.

“Yes, it is Sherry’s,” Alex. replied, thinking only of her, and feeling

the pain grow less because it was Sherry and not a stranger who was to

take Maplehurst from him.

“What will you do?” Amy asked, and Alex. replied, “Make reparation, of

course.”

He had met the wrong and would right it as soon as Sherry was able to be

told. It was well for Alex. that Craig Saltus was still there, for in

him he found a tower of strength and a safe adviser. Craig had studied

law a little and knew what was to be done and how to do it.

“It is hard on you,” he said to Alex., after he had heard the story, and

Alex. replied: “Yes, but it would be harder if any one but Sherry were

the usurper.”

Craig looked at him a moment, and then said: “I think I know what you

mean. I have guessed it all along and am glad for both of you. Sherry is

the finest specimen of sweet young girlhood I ever knew. Too impulsive,

perhaps, and fond of adventure, as was proven by her coming here as she

did. I may tell you now that I don’t know what I might have done but for

my infirmity, which will keep me from ever marrying.”

Alex. began to protest, but Craig stopped him. “I know my value in one

way, but hold myself too high ever to ask anyone to marry a cripple. If

she said yes, it would be for my money. I wish you success.”

He walked away and sat down alone for a moment to think of the happiness

which was probably in store for Alex. and could never be his.

Then he began to feel how much Sherry had been in his mind since he

first met her in Buford,—a merry, sunny-faced girl, no more impressed

with him because of his money than with the poorest men of her

acquaintance. He had felt shocked to find her at Maplehurst as other

than a guest, but her illness had followed so quickly that he had

scarcely given anything else a thought, and now this affair of the deed

was crowding it entirely from his mind. He had seen Alex.’s growing

interest in Sherry, and had said to himself: “She is worthy of him, and

I am glad for his sake that she is one of the heirs of Maplehurst.”

Everything he could do to adjust matters Craig resolved to do, and at

once set himself about it so quietly and thoroughly that Alex. left

everything in his hands and devoted himself to Sherry, waiting anxiously

for the day when it would be safe to tell her.

CHAPTER XIV

RIGHTING THE WRONG

Mrs. Pledger heard the story with ejaculations of surprise and

incredulity. That Mr. Marsh could have been guilty of a fraud she would

not believe until she read his letter.

“Well, if that don’t beat me! Who can we trust, I’d like to know,” she

said; then, as her loyalty to the dead asserted itself, she continued:

“Well, I don’t care. He was a good man, and repented and God forgave

him, and he is in heaven with Eli, who did a mean trick putting the farm

out of his hands. I’m glad for the girls. Have you told Katy?”

He had not, but he did the next day. Katy was of a very different

temperament from Sherry and received the news almost as if she had

expected it.

“I am glad for Sherry and me,” she said, “but sorry for you, who have

put so much expense on a place which did not belong to you, and I don’t

see how we can pay you either, unless you rent the place for summer

boarders until you are paid.”

Alex. knew her scheme was impracticable, but it was like her sense of

justice.

“That can’t be,” he said. “You would not like to turn Maplehurst into a

boarding-house. Sherry would not like it either. How is she to-day?”

“Better, but very weak,” was Katy’s reply. “She must not be excited in

the least the doctor says. You must wait.”

And Alex. did wait very impatiently for Sherry’s convalescence. It

progressed rapidly when once it began, and she was at last well enough

to take a drive with him along the regular highway for a mile or two,

when he turned into a grassy road leading into the woods, where in a

clearing picnics had been held. The tables and seats were still there,

and on one of the latter he sat down with Sherry, asking if she were

tired from the drive.

“Tired!” she said, with a merry laugh. “No. It is so nice to be out

again, to feel that I am getting well, that I could shout for joy; it is

so lovely here in the shade, with the sunshine trying to find us through

the trees, that I wish it might go on forever.”

Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were shining and there was a ring of

gladness in her voice which made Alex. take one of her hands in his and

hold it fast while he said, “I am glad you are so happy, and I think I

can make you happier. I have brought you here to tell you something

which will surprise you.”

Was it his love he was going to declare? It seemed like it, and Sherry’s

whole soul sprang to meet it. During her convalescence she had learned

to love the master of Maplehurst, and with her woman’s intuition guessed

that he loved her. She could flirt with the young men at Buford, and

keep half a dozen in her train, each thinking he was the favored one.

But with Alex. it was different. She must deal fairly with him, and her

eyes were cast down as she asked:

“What do you wish to tell me?”

She expected a declaration of love and was not prepared for the story

Alex. told her, making her feel as if her blood were leaving her drop by

drop until she was cold as the stones around her. Then she cried,—not a

low cry, but loud with sobs, which shook her whole body and made Alex.

pass his arm around her, and draw her head down upon his shoulder, where

she let it lie. Through all the telling his love for her had shown

itself, and it was to that she was responding, rather than to the story

she heard of the sudden prosperity which was hers.

When her sobs had ceased Alex. said to her: “Have you nothing to say to

this good fortune? Don’t you understand that Maplehurst is yours?”

Then she lifted up her head and dashing the tears away turned her bright

eyes upon him and said: “I won’t have it! I’ll never take it from you,

never! I give it back,—my share of it, and I’ll make Katy give hers,—and

you must take it.”

Alex. had not intended to speak of the subject uppermost in his mind so

soon, but something in Sherry’s face wrung it from him, and drawing it

closer to him, he said: “I can only do that by taking you with it.”

“Take me, then!” was Sherry’s prompt answer, as she hid her face in his

bosom and began to cry again.

After that it was very easy, and they sat for an hour or more talking of

the past when Alex. first saw her at the theatre and again in the Park;

of his call on Mrs. Pledger and learning that her name was Sherry; of

the dog named for her, and the share she had in his thoughts until she

came to Maplehurst.

“Don’t talk about that,” Sherry said, with a sound of more tears in her

voice. “It was a foolish girl’s quixotic idea. I wish I could blot it

out.”

“I don’t,” Alex. replied. “I am glad of it, as it brought you to me, who

might never have found you, or the letter either, which takes Maplehurst

from me and gives me you in return, a priceless payment, for which I can

never be sufficiently thankful; and now, Sherry, kiss me in token that

you are mine.”

Only the birds singing in the trees heard or saw the reply, but Alex.

was satisfied, and a great light of pride and joy was in his eyes when

on his return to the house he said to his mother and sister:

“Congratulate me, Sherry is to be my wife.”

They were expecting it, and if in their hearts there was a wish that it

was otherwise they did not show it. They would a little rather that

Alex.’s wife had never been a waitress, but that could not be helped.

The circumstances made a difference. It was a girlish escapade over

which they would laugh when they talked of her to their friends. That

she would be a leader in any society they knew, and remembering

Maplehurst, made up their minds that Alex. had done well, and that in

all probability they could come again to this charming spot, which had

never seemed so lovely as when they thought it lost. It had been thought

desirable to keep the story of the finding of the deed and letter from

the household generally until Sherry knew of it. Now that secrecy was no

longer necessary, Mrs. Pledger took it upon herself to carry the news to

the employees. She and Katy had heard of the engagement from Alex., and

Sherry had been kissed and congratulated and made to lie down, as Mrs.

Pledger said she did the first thing after Joel had proposed and left,

she was so wobbly in her knees.

“I’m going to tell ’em,” she said to Alex., as she heard the clatter of

dishes in the servants’ dining-room, where they were having their lunch.

Nos. 2 and 3 had gone, as their services were not needed, but Polly was

still there and listened open-mouthed until it came to the engagement,

when she gave a shout and insisted upon three cheers from her

companions, which they gave with a will, bringing Mrs. Groves to the

door, asking: “Why this noise? Are you crazy?”

“Yes,” Polly answered, “crazy with joy! No. 1 is the owner of

Maplehurst. They have found papers in the chest proving it, and she is

to marry Mr. Marsh! He proposed this morning. Hurrah!”

Mrs. Groves’ chin dropped, but not until she said to Mrs. Pledger: “And

so she’s got him at last. Perseverance sometimes has its reward.”

Mrs. Pledger was angry, and replied: “Reward or not, my niece is worthy

of Mr. Marsh, and you know it, and have known it all the time that she

was your superior, and that is why you badgered her so much. That is the

way of some mean minds. Sherry is now the mistress of Maplehurst, and I

don’t believe _you_ will come here another year. Good-morning!”

She made a mocking curtesy and left Mrs. Groves more discomfited than

she had ever been in her life. She had looked forward to several seasons

at Maplehurst, with the fine salary she received. But that was now

impossible. “New lords, new laws,” she said to herself. “I must stand

it. I wish I had been a little softer to the girl,” and calling to No. 4

reproved her sharply for some trifling omission on the table. Polly, who

felt intuitively that Mrs. Groves’ day was over, went on humming to

herself and took her time to make the required change.

The next day Mrs. Pledger started for New York, enjoining upon Katy and

Sherry that they spend a few days with her on their way to Buford. To

Alex. she said: “An old woman’s advice is not good for much, but I’m

going to give it just the same. Don’t put off the wedding. Marry as soon

as Sherry is well,—say the last of September, and if you will be happier

to own Maplehurst with all its jimcracks buy Katy’s share. She will

sell. I’ve sounded her. Sherry’s is the same as yours now. Have another

house party next summer, but don’t put that Groves woman at the head.

They all hate her like pizen. Put me at the head, if you like. I can

save you dollars and run things as well as she has.”

Alex. laughed and said he would remember her advice, especially with

regard to the wedding, which he would like to have at once. As to

Maplehurst, it would take some time to settle everything and know what

belonged to the Crosby heirs and what to him, but Craig Saltus and a

first-class lawyer in New York were seeing to that. Relieved of care in

that direction, Alex.’s good times came back like good measure pressed

down and running over, and the world had never been so bright as during

the two weeks he stayed at Maplehurst, while Sherry was recovering her

strength and growing each day more beautiful, it seemed to him.

Sometimes he drove with her through the lovely country, but oftener sat

by her under the maple tree watching the kindling light in her eyes and

the dimples coming and going with her blushes, as he told his love over

and over again, dating its beginning at the time he saw her at the

opera, and its rapid growth when he waltzed with her on the piazza and

nearly bumped his head against hers as they bent over the salad plate,

and its completion when she turned to him for help against Mrs. Groves’

insinuations.

Alex. was very happy, and it was with regret that he at last left

Maplehurst to accompany Katy and Sherry to Buford, where Mrs. Sherman

received him as her future son-in-law, and the people came flocking in,

ostensibly to see Sherry after her illness, but really to see Alex. He

had in mind a trip to Europe for the winter, and as he had a dread of

the sea he insisted that their marriage should take place before the

autumnal storms came on.

“No need for finery. We can get that in Paris,” he said, and with his

push and breeziness he carried his point, and invitations were issued

for the last of September.

It was a large wedding, for all Buford was invited, with many of Alex.’s

acquaintances from New York. Among the guests were Nos. 2, 3 and

4,—“treated just as good as anybody,” Polly said, when discussing the

affair with her friends. “Say,” she whispered to Sherry, when presented

to her by an usher, “say, be you going to Maplehurst next summer?”

“Perhaps,” Sherry answered, and Polly continued, “Well, remember _me_,

will you, and let me wait on your table; but for pity’s sake don’t have

that old cat Groves there! If you do, excuse me!”

She curtesied and passed on to make room for others. Mrs. Groves had not

been included in the list of guests, and she gnashed her teeth when she

heard of the grand wedding and who were there.

“Evidently my connection with the Marshes is ended,” she said, “and I

working like a slave to please them! I call that the basest ingratitude,

and all on account of that girl who made me so mad with her chin in the

air and her way of looking at me.”

The next day Mrs. Groves advertised for a position as housekeeper in

some hotel, or as a chaperone to a party of young ladies during the next

summer.

The winter which followed the wedding was passed mostly in Italy. April

and May were given to Paris and Switzerland, and one day in June the

Buford _Gazette_ announced the return of Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Marsh,

who were to reopen their country house at Maplehurst and entertain a

large house party. All the necessary steps had been taken with regard to

the place. Alex. had paid Mrs. Sherman and Katy the money left by Amos

Marsh in banks and stocks,—a sum sufficient to insure their independence

the rest of their lives. The wrong had been righted. Maplehurst was

virtually his, Sherry was his, and he was steeped in times so good that

he occasionally trembled lest the cup he was drinking should be dashed

from his thirsting lips. Sherry would prefer a more quiet life than

Alex. who is the happiest when a great many people around him are having

a good time as well as himself. And he had it last summer. Maplehurst

was full, and Sherry as the mistress was the star around which everyone

revolved. The Marshes were there, and Sherry’s mother and Katy and Mrs.

Pledger. Nos. 2 and 3 were missing. One was married, and one slept under

the flowers in Mount Auburn, but Polly was there and was advanced to

Mrs. Groves’ place, which she filled admirably and satisfactorily to all

parties. The dog was there, too, and Alex. tried to change his name back

to Laddie, but couldn’t.

“One Sherry is enough for me,” he said, but the dog was obstinate,

paying no attention when called by the old name.

He was Sherry, and whenever he heard the name, whether addressed to him

or to his mistress, he pricked up his ears and started for the stick he

expected thrown for his diversion.

As I write the last page of this story a fierce blizzard is sweeping

over the hills and mountains of New Hampshire and the highways are

blocked with snow. Alex. and Sherry are in Florida, but invitations are

already out for a large house party in July, when there will again be

sounds of revelry by day and night at Maplehurst, which is now cold and

silent in the grip of midwinter, with no sign of life except when Bowles

goes up to see that all is safe.

THE END.

CONNIE’S MISTAKE

CHAPTER I

THE 4 CORNERS

Those who have lived on the mountain roads between Springfield and

Albany, have heard of THE 4 CORNERS, famous for the sign-post with its

white lettering on a black background, the figure “4” large and

conspicuous in the centre, instead of the word itself. Why it was

painted thus no one knows. It has been there since the oldest inhabitant

can remember, and when a high wind blew the post down and broke it

another was put in its place and the old board retained. It is a

reminder of past glories, and gives the Corners a kind of distinction,

the people think, and they are very proud of their figure “4” and the

sign-post, although few come there now inquiring the way to Albany, or

other towns whose names are upon the board. Should you wish to visit

“The 4 Corners” on a summer morning, take a Boston and Albany train for

the way station, Millville, a town hemmed in by hills which look like

mountains, and mountains which seem no higher than the hills. There is

no daily public conveyance there now for The Corners two miles away, for

the glory of the place was crushed beneath the wheels of the first

locomotive which climbed the steep grade of the mountains and consigned

stage coaches and the goodly cheer of the wayside inns to oblivion. Very

few except those who live in the vicinity of The 4 Corners visit it, but

sometimes you will find behind the station an old sorrel horse and a

buggy, the latter with its square box seat telling of many years of

service, and the former, the horse, sleek and fat and lazy, and

untrammeled by check rein of any kind, seemingly asleep and paying no

heed to the rush and roar and smoke of the train as it dashes by. But in

his younger days, when he first saw and heard it, he started off at

break-neck speed towards his home, which he reached with a broken thill

and three wheels, the fourth having been left by the big gate as he

entered the yard. Possibly Dr. Stannard may be there with one or the

other of his horses, Pro and Con, named to suit a fancy of his. Failing

old Sorrel and Pro and Con, there is a livery stable across the broad

common where a conveyance can be had, and within fifteen minutes after

you signify your wish to go to The 4 Corners, you will be driving along

a road as smooth as an asphalt pavement, unless the wheels of your

vehicle run into a rut full of stones washed down from the hills or up

from the earth by some heavy fall of rain.

It is one of the pleasantest bits of road in all that section of

country, winding up and up, with level stretches like plateaus between

the ascents, and with delightful views of wooded hills, green in their

summer dress, and mountains, purple with the haze which rests upon them

when in the valley below the air is quivering with the heat of July and

August. To your right you get glimpses of a pond where the white lilies

grow in abundance, and whose waters help to turn the machinery of the

manufacturing town at the foot of the hill. It is not a large place, but

with its white houses and green blinds it makes a pretty picture, and

you keep looking back at it as you bowl along the smooth road between

hedges of blackberry bushes and low alders and red sumachs. Suddenly, at

a turn in the road and a rise steeper than any before it, you reach a

level plain, which seems to stretch away mile upon mile in every

direction, and you look off upon farmhouses dotting the landscape, some

red, some white and more brown and weather beaten. The doors and windows

are flung open wide to admit the sunshine and the air, and the inmates

are busy, some in the fields, some indoors, while others, in the early

morning, when the whistle blew in the valley below, took their tin pails

and hurried away to the great factory, whose chimney and roof and upper

windows can be seen from the plateau.

“This is The 4 Corners. Where will you get out and shall I wait for

you?” Jehu asks, and as your errand is not to any particular place, you

tell him to put you down by the steps of the little church, the first

building you come to. “Fifty cents,” he says, when you ask his price,

and you pay it with alacrity and think it cheap when you remember the

hills you have come up and look at the moist state of the horse, panting

under the elm tree, with his head low down. “Allus in a chronic tucker,”

Jehu says, when you call his attention to the animal, and suggest that

he must at some time have been overworked or he would not tire so

easily. “Mebby so. Bought him of a pedlar,” he says. “But now he’s in

clover. It’s the marster’s religion to be good to hosses. I b’lieve

he’ll go ridin’ into Heaven behind the finest span on the road. None of

your yanked up heads, with straight checks and cut-off tails for him.

No, marm. He says the Lord made a hosses’ tail like a woman’s hair, for

ornament, and to brush off the flies, and if a hoss wants to see what is

goin’ on behind him he’s goin’ to let him have a chance to see. Henriet

ain’t abused. She’s had nervous prostration and is kep’ for short runs,

that’s all,” and with his shirt sleeve he wipes the white drops from the

neck of the horse, who rubs against him with a little whinny which no

horse gives except he is well cared for and content.

You say you will walk back to the station, and when Jehu and Henriet

disappear you seat yourself upon the steps of the church and begin to

look about you, wondering if this is not the place in which to lay the

first scene in the story you are going to write. The church seems very

old, and looking over the door you see the date 1820, and begin to

speculate upon the number of people who have gone in and out and

worshipped inside its walls since its doors were thrown open to the

public. There is a graveyard behind it, and you know that many of the

worshippers are sleeping there, for the yard is full and the road

leading into it is grass-grown like a lawn, showing that few wheels

enter there now. There is a little red schoolhouse not far away, and

near the schoolhouse is a small building, which serves the treble

purpose of a dry-goods store, grocery and post-office, but there are no

customers at this hour of the day, and there will not be many until

afternoon, when Jehu and Henriet bring up the mail, then the proprietor

will for a time be very busy, and sugar and tea and tobacco will be

given out with the evening papers and the few letters which find their

way to that office. From where you sit you can see the broad roads which

cross each other at right angles and make The 4 Corners, one going north

and south and the others continuing on towards Albany in one direction

and towards Boston in another. This last was the great thoroughfare over

which the stages came from the east and the west, before the limited

express or fast mail or engine of any kind thundered through the

peaceful country, bringing the mountaineers rather unwillingly into

closer proximity with the outer world. When the surveyors first appeared

in the vicinity of The 4 Corners, there was a council of war among the

inhabitants. They didn’t want a railroad cutting up their farms and

gardens and ruining Stannard’s Inn, which was famed as the best kept

house in the State. But the railroad came two miles from Stannard’s Inn,

which gradually became a thing of the past. The stage coaches came no

more, for the cars carried the people where they wished to go and “The 4

Corners were nowhere,” the boy Ephraim Stannard said, as he saw the last

stage that would ever stop at his father’s door roll down the hill, the

driver blowing a farewell blast on the bugle with which he was wont to

announce his approach.

A few changes were made, and then what had been Stannard’s Inn was

transformed into the comfortable farmhouse which you see to your right

in the southeast angle of The 4 Corners as you sit on the steps of the

church. It is very large, with a wide hall in the centre and a big

fireplace at the end, the glory and pride of the family, who would

almost as soon part with an arm or foot as have the great chimney

removed, with its fireplaces in so many rooms and its link with the

olden time before stoves were in fashion or furnaces had been thought

of. It was built by a Stannard some years before the church, and has

been owned by the Stannards ever since. They are a thrifty race, and the

Stannard farm is the finest in the neighborhood. Ephraim Stannard, the

boy who watched with a swelling heart the last stage roll away is the

owner, and a deacon in the church on whose steps you are sitting while

you inspect The 4 Corners and the house which was once Stannard’s Inn.

Diagonally across the corner on the northwest angle is another and far

more pretentious house, with gables and a bay window and a conservatory

and a terraced garden down the hill behind it. This was once the Morris

place, and Mrs. Morris and Mrs. Stannard were sisters, and both came, in

their young womanhood, as brides to The 4 Corners, one as the wife of

plain, honest-hearted Ephraim Stannard, a farmer, the other the wife of

reckless, good-for-nothing Charles Morris, who broke her heart in two

years and buried her in the yard behind the church and raised a tall

monument to her memory, ran a wild career for a time and then died

suddenly, leaving his only son, Charles Harold, to the care of his aunt,

Mrs. Ephraim Stannard. For a while the Morris house was rented, but as

time passed on and the village around the station grew in importance,

few, who could afford to pay the rent, cared to live at The 4 Corners,

and it was at last untenanted, while the decay of time crept over it

until it would cost more to repair it than Ephraim Stannard, who had it

in charge, felt warranted in putting upon it. The repairs, however, were

made later on with a lavish hand, and you wonder that so much money

should have been expended upon the place, and who the owners are. The

windows and blinds are open, and a turbaned negress is sweeping the

piazza. Otherwise you see no sign of life, and you hear later that the

family are at the sea-shore. Around the farmhouse everything is quiet,

except the motherly hen clucking to her brood of chickens and wandering

unmolested through the yard. It seems a lonely place, but the view is so

fine in every direction, the air so pure and the sky so blue, that you

decide at last that no better spot can be found for the first scene of

your story, which is to open years prior to the July morning when

Henriet and Jehu took you up the old stage hill to The 4 Corners.