III.

Old Aunt Cynthia Dallett sat in her high-backed rocking-chair by the

little north window, which was her favorite dwelling-place.

"New Year's Day again," she said, aloud,--"New Year's Day again!" And

she folded her old bent hands, and looked out at the great woodland

view and the hills without really seeing them, she was lost in so deep

a reverie. "I 'm gittin' to be very old," she added, after a little

while.

It was perfectly still in the small gray house. Outside in the

apple-trees there were some blue-jays flitting about and calling

noisily, like schoolboys fighting at their games. The kitchen was full

of pale winter sunshine. It was more like late October than the first

of January, and the plain little room seemed to smile back into the

sun's face. The outer door was standing open into the green dooryard,

and a fat small dog lay asleep on the step. A capacious cupboard stood

behind Mrs. Dallett's chair and kept the wind away from her corner.

Its doors and drawers were painted a clean lead-color, and there were

places round the knobs and buttons where the touch of hands had worn

deep into the wood. Every braided rug was straight on the floor. The

square clock on its shelf between the front windows looked as if it had

just had its face washed and been wound up for a whole year to come.

If Mrs. Dallett turned her head she could look into the bedroom, where

her plump feather bed was covered with its dark blue homespun winter

quilt. It was all very peaceful and comfortable, but it was very

lonely. By her side, on a light-stand, lay the religious newspaper of

her denomination, and a pair of spectacles whose jointed silver bows

looked like a funny two-legged beetle cast helplessly upon its back.

"New Year's Day again," said old Cynthia Dallett. Time had left nobody

in her house to wish her a Happy New Year,--she was the last one left

in the old nest. "I 'm gittin' to be very old," she said for the

second time; it seemed to be all there was to say.

She was keeping a careful eye on her friendly clock, but it was hardly

past the middle of the morning, and there was no excuse for moving; it

was the long hour between the end of her slow morning work and the

appointed time for beginning to get dinner. She was so stiff and lame

that this hour's rest was usually most welcome, but to-day she sat as

if it were Sunday, and did not take up her old shallow splint basket of

braiding-rags from the side of her footstool.

"I do hope Abby Pendexter 'll make out to git up to see me this

afternoon as usual," she continued. "I know 't ain't so easy for her

to get up the hill as it used to be, but I do seem to want to see some

o' my own folks. I wish 't I 'd thought to send her word I expected

her when Jabez Hooper went back after he came up here with the flour.

I 'd like to have had her come prepared to stop two or three days."

A little chickadee perched on the window-sill outside and bobbed his

head sideways to look in, and then pecked impatiently at the glass.

The old woman laughed at him with childish pleasure and felt

companioned; it was pleasant at that moment to see the life in even a

bird's bright eye.

"Sign of a stranger," she said, as he whisked his wings and flew away

in a hurry. "I must throw out some crumbs for 'em; it's getting to be

hard pickin' for the stayin'-birds." She looked past the trees of her

little orchard now with seeing eyes, and followed the long forest

slopes that led downward to the lowland country. She could see the two

white steeples of Fairfield Village, and the map of fields and pastures

along the valley beyond, and the great hills across the valley to the

westward. The scattered houses looked like toys that had been

scattered by children. She knew their lights by night, and watched the

smoke of their chimneys by day. Far to the northward were higher

mountains, and these were already white with snow. Winter was already

in sight, but to-day the wind was in the south, and the snow seemed

only part of a great picture.

"I do hope the cold 'll keep off a while longer," thought Mrs. Dallett.

"I don't know how I 'm going to get along after the deep snow comes."

The little dog suddenly waked, as if he had had a bad dream, and after

giving a few anxious whines he began to bark outrageously. His

mistress tried, as usual, to appeal to his better feelings.

"'T ain't nobody, Tiger," she said. "Can't you have some patience?

Maybe it's some foolish boys that's rangin' about with their guns."

But Tiger kept on, and even took the trouble to waddle in on his short

legs, barking all the way. He looked warningly at her, and then turned

and ran out again. Then she saw him go hurrying down to the bars, as

if it were an occasion of unusual interest.

"I guess somebody is comin'; he don't act as if 't were a vagrant kind

o' noise; must really be somebody in our lane." And Mrs. Dallett

smoothed her apron and gave an anxious housekeeper's glance round the

kitchen. None of her state visitors, the minister or the deacons, ever

came in the morning. Country people are usually too busy to go

visiting in the forenoons.

Presently two figures appeared where the road came out of the

woods,--the two women already known to the story, but very surprising

to Mrs. Dallett; the short, thin one was easily recognized as Abby

Pendexter, and the taller, stout one was soon discovered to be Mrs.

Hand. Their old friend's heart was in a glow. As the guests

approached they could see her pale face with its thin white hair framed

under the close black silk handkerchief.

"There she is at her window smilin' away!" exclaimed Mrs. Hand; but by

the time they reached the doorstep she stood waiting to meet them.

"Why, you two dear creatur's!" she said, with a beaming smile. "I

don't know when I 've ever been so glad to see folks comin'. I had a

kind of left-all-alone feelin' this mornin', an' I didn't even make

bold to be certain o' you, Abby, though it looked so pleasant. Come

right in an' set down. You 're all out o' breath, ain't you, Mis'

Hand?"

Mrs. Dallett led the way with eager hospitality. She was the tiniest

little bent old creature, her handkerchiefed head was quick and alert,

and her eyes were bright with excitement and feeling, but the rest of

her was much the worse for age; she could hardly move, poor soul, as if

she had only a make-believe framework of a body under a shoulder-shawl

and thick petticoats. She got back to her chair again, and the guests

took off their bonnets in the bedroom, and returned discreet and sedate

in their black woolen dresses. The lonely kitchen was blest with

society at last, to its mistress's heart's content. They talked as

fast as possible about the weather, and how warm it had been walking up

the mountain, and how cold it had been a year ago, that day when Abby

Pendexter had been kept at home by a snowstorm and missed her visit.

"And I ain't seen you now, aunt, since the twenty-eighth of September,

but I 've thought of you a great deal, and looked forward to comin'

more'n usual," she ended, with an affectionate glance at the pleased

old face by the window.

"I 've been wantin' to see you, dear, and wonderin' how you was gettin'

on," said Aunt Cynthy kindly. "And I take it as a great attention to

have you come to-day, Mis' Hand," she added, turning again towards the

more distinguished guest. "We have to put one thing against another.

I should hate dreadfully to live anywhere except on a high hill farm,

'cordin' as I was born an' raised. But there ain't the chance to

neighbor that townfolks has, an' I do seem to have more lonely hours

than I used to when I was younger. I don't know but I shall soon be

gittin' too old to live alone." And she turned to her niece with an

expectant, lovely look, and Abby smiled back.

"I often wish I could run in an' see you every day, aunt," she

answered. "I have been sayin' so to Mrs. Hand."

"There, how anybody does relish company when they don't have but a

little of it!" exclaimed Aunt Cynthia. "I am all alone to-day; there

is going to be a shootin'-match somewhere the other side o' the

mountain, an' Johnny Foss, that does my chores, begged off to go when

he brought the milk unusual early this mornin'. Gener'lly he 's about

here all the fore part of the day; but he don't go off with the boys

very often, and I like to have him have a little sport; 't was New

Year's Day, anyway; he 's a good, stiddy boy for my wants."

"Why, I wish you Happy New Year, aunt!" said Abby, springing up with

unusual spirit. "Why, that's just what we come to say, and we like to

have forgot all about it!" She kissed her aunt, and stood a minute

holding her hand with a soft, affectionate touch. Mrs. Hand rose and

kissed Mrs. Dallett too, and it was a moment of ceremony and deep

feeling.

"I always like to keep the day," said the old hostess, as they seated

themselves and drew their splint-bottomed chairs a little nearer

together than before. "You see, I was brought up to it, and father

made a good deal of it; he said he liked to make it pleasant and give

the year a fair start. I can see him now, how he used to be standing

there by the fireplace when we came out o' the two bedrooms early in

the morning, an' he always made out, poor's he was, to give us some

little present, and he 'd heap 'em up on the corner o' the mantelpiece,

an' we 'd stand front of him in a row, and mother be bustling about

gettin' breakfast. One year he give me a beautiful copy o' the 'Life

o' General Lafayette,' in a green cover,--I 've got it now, but we

child'n 'bout read it to pieces,--an' one year a nice piece o' blue

ribbon, an' Abby--that was your mother, Abby--had a pink one. Father

was real kind to his child'n. I thought o' them early days when I

first waked up this mornin', and I could n't help lookin' up then to

the corner o' the shelf just as I used to look."

"There's nothin' so beautiful as to have a bright childhood to look

back to," said Mrs. Hand. "Sometimes I think child'n has too hard a

time now,--all the responsibility is put on to 'em, since they take the

lead o' what to do an' what they want, and get to be so toppin' an'

knowin'. 'Twas happier in the old days, when the fathers an' mothers

done the rulin'."

"They say things have changed," said Aunt Cynthy; "but staying right

here, I don't know much of any world but my own world."

Abby Pendexter did not join in this conversation, but sat in her

straight backed chair with folded hands and the air of a good child.

The little old dog had followed her in, and now lay sound asleep again

at her feet. The front breadth of her black dress looked rusty and old

in the sunshine that slanted across it, and the aunt's sharp eyes saw

this and saw the careful darns. Abby was as neat as wax, but she

looked as if the frost had struck her. "I declare, she's gittin' along

in years," thought Aunt Cynthia compassionately. "She begins to look

sort o' set and dried up, Abby does. She ought n't to live all alone;

she's one that needs company."

At this moment Abby looked up with new interest. "Now, aunt," she

said, in her pleasant voice, "I don't want you to forget to tell me if

there ain't some sewin' or mendin' I can do whilst I 'm here. I know

your hands trouble you some, an' I may's well tell you we 're bent on

stayin' all day an' makin' a good visit, Mis' Hand an' me."

"Thank ye kindly," said the old woman; "I do want a little sewin' done

before long, but 't ain't no use to spile a good holiday." Her face

took a resolved expression. "I 'm goin' to make other arrangements,"

she said. "No, you need n't come up here to pass New Year's Day an' be

put right down to sewin'. I make out to do what mendin' I need, an' to

sew on my hooks an' eyes. I get Johnny Ross to thread me up a good lot

o' needles every little while, an' that helps me a good deal. Abby,

why can't you step into the best room an' bring out the rockin'-chair?

I seem to want Mis' Hand to have it."

"I opened the window to let the sun in awhile," said the niece, as she

returned. "It felt cool in there an' shut up."

"I thought of doin' it not long before you come," said Mrs. Dallett,

looking gratified. Once the taking of such a liberty would have been

very provoking to her. "Why, it does seem good to have somebody think

o' things an' take right hold like that!"

"I 'm sure you would, if you were down at my house," said Abby,

blushing. "Aunt Cynthy, I don't suppose you could feel as if 't would

be best to come down an' pass the winter with me,--just durin' the cold

weather, I mean. You 'd see more folks to amuse you, an'--I do think

of you so anxious these long winter nights."

There was a terrible silence in the room, and Miss Pendexter felt her

heart begin to beat very fast. She did not dare to look at her aunt at

first.

Presently the silence was broken. Aunt Cynthia had been gazing out of

the window, and she turned towards them a little paler and older than

before, and smiling sadly.

"Well, dear, I 'll do just as you say," she answered. "I 'm beat by

age at last, but I 've had my own way for eighty-five years, come the

month o' March, an' last winter I did use to lay awake an' worry in the

long storms. I 'm kind o' humble now about livin' alone to what I was

once." At this moment a new light shone in her face. "I don't expect

you 'd be willin' to come up here an' stay till spring,--not if I had

Foss's folks stop for you to ride to meetin' every pleasant Sunday, an'

take you down to the Corners plenty o' other times besides?" she said

beseechingly. "No, Abby, I 'm too old to move now; I should be

homesick down to the village. If you 'll come an' stay with me, all I

have shall be yours. Mis' Hand hears me say it."

"Oh, don't you think o' that; you 're all I 've got near to me in the

world, an' I 'll come an' welcome," said Abby, though the thought of

her own little home gave a hard tug at her heart. "Yes, Aunt Cynthy, I

'll come, an' we 'll be real comfortable together. I 've been lonesome

sometimes"--

"'Twill be best for both," said Mrs. Hand judicially. And so the great

question was settled, and suddenly, without too much excitement, it

became a thing of the past.

"We must be thinkin' o' dinner," said Aunt Cynthia gayly. "I wish I

was better prepared; but there 's nice eggs an' pork an' potatoes, an'

you girls can take hold an' help." At this moment the roast chicken

and the best mince pies were offered and kindly accepted, and before

another hour had gone they were sitting at their New Year feast, which

Mrs. Dallett decided to be quite proper for the Queen.

Before the guests departed, when the sun was getting low, Aunt Cynthia

called her niece to her side and took hold of her hand.

"Don't you make it too long now, Abby," said she. "I shall be wantin'

ye every day till you come; but you must n't forgit what a set old

thing I be."

Abby had the kindest of hearts, and was always longing for somebody to

love and care for; her aunt's very age and helplessness seemed to beg

for pity.

"This is Saturday; you may expect me the early part of the week; and

thank you, too, aunt," said Abby.

Mrs. Hand stood by with deep sympathy. "It's the proper thing," she

announced calmly. "You 'd both of you be a sight happier; and truth

is, Abby's wild an' reckless, an' needs somebody to stand right over

her, Mis' Dallett. I guess she 'll try an' behave, but there--there 's

no knowin'!" And they all laughed. Then the New Year guests said

farewell and started off down the mountain road. They looked back more

than once to see Aunt Cynthia's face at the window as she watched them

out of sight. Miss Abby Pendexter was full of excitement; she looked

as happy as a child.

"I feel as if we 'd gained the battle of Waterloo," said Mrs. Hand. "I

've really had a most beautiful time. You an' your aunt must n't

forgit to invite me up some time again to spend another day."