They were all in the "long parlor" after tea. It was a beautiful
room, extending the length of the house, and it was large enough to
contain four windows and two fireplaces. The paper on the walls was
old-fashioned--indeed, it had been there when the children's
grandmother was a girl, and the furniture was of equally early date.
It was all handsome, but shabby-looking. A few dollars wisely spent
would have made a vast difference in its appearance; but,
unfortunately, there were never any dollars to spare.
However, the room was comfortable, and the Franklins thought it the
dearest place in the world. They all loved their home.
Jack had resumed the argument.
"Nonsense, nonsense, Jack!" said Mr. Franklin. "It is absurd for a
boy like you to ask me for so much money. Incubators are of no good,
anyhow. Give me a good old-fashioned hen."
"Perhaps, papa," said Cynthia, demurely, "Jack will give you a good
old-fashioned hen if you let him buy an incubator to raise her with."
Mr. Franklin laughed. Then he grew very grave again, even
stern-looking, though he was a very kind-hearted man and a devoted
father.
Jack pursued the advantage given by Cynthia's remark.
"There's no doubt about my making something of it. I _wish_ you
would let me try, father! I'll pay back whatever you lend me.
Indeed I will. It's only forty dollars for the machine."
"You speak as if forty dollars grew on every bush. I tell you I
haven't got the money to spare. Look at the place, going to rack and
ruin! Now let me hear no more about the incubator business, Jack, my
boy. I know your intentions are good. You want to make some money
to help your poor old father, I have no doubt; but if you were to
argue from now until the year 2000 you could not make me believe
there was money in poultry, nor in anything else connected with
farming."
Mr. Franklin was very determined. He could seldom be induced to
change his mind, and his prejudices were very strong. Jack's face
fell. It was of no use; he would have to give it up.
Presently Aunt Betsey spoke. She had been an attentive listener to
the conversation, and now she settled herself anew in her
rocking-chair, and folded her hands in the way she always did when
she had something of especial importance to say.
"How much money do you need, Jackie? Forty dollars, did you say?"
"Forty for the incubator," said Jack, rather shortly. He felt like
crying, though he was a boy, and he wished Aunt Betsey would not
question him.
"And then you must buy the eggs," put in Cynthia.
"And what do the chicks live in after they come out?" asked Miss
Trinkett, who knew something about farming, and with all her
eccentricities was very practical.
"They live in brooders," said Jack, warming to his beloved subject.
"If I could buy one brooder for a pattern I could make others like
it. I'd have to fence off places for the chicks to run in, and that
would take a little money. I suppose I'd have to have fifty-five or
sixty dollars to start nicely with and have things in good shape."
"Nephew John," said Miss Betsey, solemnly, turning to Mr. Franklin,
"I don't wish to interfere between parent and child, it's not my way;
but if you have no other objections to Jackie's hen-making machine--I
forget its outlandish name--I am willing, in fact I'd be very
pleased, to advance him the money. What do you say to it?"
Jack sprang to his feet, and Cynthia enthusiastically threw her arms
about Aunt Betsey's neck.
"You dear thing!" she whispered. "And you look sweet in your new
hair." Upon which Miss Trinkett smiled complacently.
Mr. Franklin expostulated at first, but he was finally persuaded to
give his consent. After all, Aunt Betsey could do what she liked
with her money, and Jack's object was a good one. So it was finally
settled.
"I will lend you seventy-five dollars," said Miss Trinkett. "You may
be obliged to pay more than you think, and it's well to have a little
on hand in case of emergencies. I must say I don't like the idea of
the machine, but you seem to know what you are talking about. It
does depress me to think of all those poor little chicks running
about without any mother! Who's to teach them to scratch for worms?
Who's to call them in at night, or when it rains? Poor little
orphans, it does seem cruel!"
Jack was afraid that his aunt's feelings would overcome her to such
an extent that she would withdraw her offer, and he hastened to
reassure her. He had been to a large poultry farm the week before,
and he was confident that all the dwellers there were very happy and
seemed to enjoy their independence.
"That's just it," said Miss Betsey, solemnly, as she looked from one
to the other. "They get very independent without an older person to
look after them. I only hope it won't come into this family, that
independent feeling."
The next day Miss Trinkett departed, although urged to stay over
Sunday.
[Illustration: "MISS TRINKETT TOOK AN AFFECTIONATE FAREWELL THE NEXT
DAY"]
"No," she said; "if it were any other day but Saturday I might stay,
but I don't like to be away Sunday night on Silas's account. You
know he might get out of the way of coming so regular, and I scarcely
like to risk it. You have to be careful with men-folks, my dears, as
you'll know when you've seen as much of them as I have. They're
terribly set in their ways."
And then she kissed them all good-bye, promising to send Jack the
money by an early date.
"And a book on raising poultry that my father used to consult," she
added; "I always keep it on the table in the best parlor. I'll send
it by mail. It's wonderful what things can go through the
post-office nowadays. These are times to live in, I do declare, what
with chicks without a mother and everything else."
Aunt Betsey was true to her word. During the following week a
package arrived most lightly tied up, and addressed in an
old-fashioned, indefinite hand to "Jackie Franklin, Brenton, Mass."
Within was an ancient book which described the methods of raising
poultry in the early days of the century, and inside of the book were
seventy-five dollars in crisp new bank-notes.
The incubator was sent for, and very soon Jack was embarked in the
poultry business. There was much to be done, and Cynthia acted as
partner, assistant, and slave. Even Edith, for all her early
disapproval, was much interested. Mr. Franklin scoffed, but awaited
with curiosity the first hatch, while as for Janet and Willy, they
were beside themselves with an interest which, though well-meant, was
often troublesome.
Jack was tremendously in earnest with his scheme, and even his father
was impressed.
It was a week or two after the installation of the incubator that
Edith was seized with what Cynthia called "one of her terribly tidy
fits."
"I am going to do some house-cleaning," she announced one beautiful
Saturday morning, when Cynthia was hurrying through her Monday's
lessons in a wild desire to get to the river. "Cynthia, you must
help me. We'll clear out all the drawers and closets in the 'north
room,' and give away everything we don't need, and then have Martha
clean the room."
"Oh no!" exclaimed Cynthia; "everything in this house is as neat as a
pin. And we haven't got anything we don't need, Edith. And I can't.
I _must_ go on the river."
"You can go afterwards. You can spend all the afternoon on the
river. This is a splendid chance for house-cleaning, with the
children off for the morning. Come along, Cynthia--there's a dear."
Cynthia slowly and mournfully followed Edith up the stairs. She
might have held out and gone on the river, but she knew Edith would
do it alone if she deserted her, and Cynthia was unselfish, much as
she detested house-cleaning.
"I am going to be very particular to-day," said Edith, as she wiped
the ornaments of the room with her dusting cloth and laid them on the
bed to be covered, and took down some of the pictures.
"More particular than usual?"
"Yes, ever so much. I've been thinking about it a great deal. In
all probability I shall always keep house for papa, and I mean to be
the very best kind of a housekeeper. I am going to make a study of
it. The house shall always be as neat as it can possibly be, and the
meals shall be perfect. If we only had a little more money I would
take some cooking lessons. I wonder if I could earn some money to do
it. Can you think of any way, Cynthia?"
"Not a way," returned Cynthia, with decision, "and I'm terribly sorry
you are going to be tidier than ever. There will be no peace for any
of us. What difference does it make whether there are three specks
of dust behind the left-hand corner of that picture? No one would
ever be any the wiser."
"Oh, Cynthia, that is a horrible idea, only to have things clean
where they are going to be seen!" cried Edith, taking down the
picture and looking carefully for the three specks of dust. "And I
wish you would not use a feather-duster. That is one of my firm
theories, never to use a feather-duster."
"I wish you didn't have so many theories," grumbled Cynthia,
good-naturedly, as she exchanged the censured feathers for a cloth.
"Then another thing," pursued Edith, from the closet where she was
lifting down boxes and pulling out drawers. "I am going to be lovely
with the children. They are to be taught to obey me implicitly, the
very minute I speak. I am going to train them that way. I shall say
one word, very gently, and that will be enough. I have been reading
a book on that very subject. The eldest sister made up her mind to
do that, and it worked splendidly."
"I hope it will this time, but things are so much easier in a book
than out of it. Perhaps the children were not just like our Janet
and Willy."
"They were a great deal worse. Our children are perfect angels
compared to them."
"Here they come now, speaking of angels," announced Cynthia, as the
tramp of small but determined feet was heard on the stairs and the
door burst open.
"Edith, we've come home. We're hungry!" cried Janet.
"Edith, we want sumpun to do," said Willy, in a somewhat whiny voice.
"Dear me, you don't mean to say you are back!" exclaimed Edith. "I
thought you were going to play out-of-doors all the morning."
"We're tired of it, and we're terrible hungry."
"An' we want sumpun to do."
"If this isn't the most provoking thing!" cried Edith, wrathfully,
emerging from the closet. "I thought you were well out of the way,
and here I am in the midst of house-cleaning! You are the most
provoking children--don't touch that!"
For Janet had seized upon a box and was investigating its contents.
"Go straight out of this room, and don't come near me till it is
done."
"We won't go!" they roared in chorus; "we're going to stay and have
some fun."
Edith walked up to them with determination written on her face and
grasped each child tightly by the hand. The roars increased, and
Cynthia concluded that it was about time to interfere.
"Come down-stairs with me," she said, "and I'll give you some nice
crackers. And very soon one of the men is going over to Pelham to
take the farm-horses to be shod. Who would like to go?"
This idea was seized upon with avidity. The three departed in search
of the crackers and quiet reigned once more. When Cynthia came back
Edith said nothing for a few minutes. Then she remarked:
"Those children in the book were not _quite_ as provoking as ours,
but I suppose I ought to have begun right away to be gentle.
Somehow, Cynthia, you always seem to know just what to say to
everybody. I wish I did! Janet and Willy both mind you a great deal
better than they do me."
She was interrupted by a shout of joy from Cynthia.
"Edith, Edith, do look at this! Aunt Betsey's extra false front!
She left it behind. Don't you know she told me to put it away? It's
a wonder she hasn't sent for it. There, look!"
Edith turned with a brush in one hand and a dust-pan in the other,
which dropped with a clatter when she saw her sister.
Cynthia had drawn back her own curly bang, and fastened on the smooth
brown hair of her great-aunt. The puffs adorned either side of her
rosy face, and she was for all the world exactly like Miss Betsey
Trinkett, whose eyes were as blue and nose as straight as those of
fourteen-year-old Cynthia, who was always said to greatly resemble
her.
"You're the very image of her," laughed Edith. "No one would ever
know you apart if you had on a bonnet and shawl like hers."
"Edith," exclaimed Cynthia, "I have an idea! I'm going to dress up
and make Jack think Aunt Betsey has come back. He'll never know me
in the world, and it will be such fun to get a rise out of him."
"Cynthia, don't use such horrible slang! You know papa hates it.
And you would never be able to make Jack think you are Aunt Betsey."
"Yes, I will. You'll see. Come along, Edith, help me! We'll finish
the house-cleaning afterwards. I'll help all the afternoon. Don't
you know that old dress of grandmother's? Where is it?"
"In the camphor closet, and it will smell horribly."
"No matter, Jack won't notice. And that old bonnet we used to dress
up in. That's the very thing."
Cynthia's enthusiasm was contagious, and Edith, leaving
bureau-drawers standing open and boxes uncovered, hurried off to find
the desired articles.
Cynthia was soon dressed in exact reproduction of Aunt Betsey's usual
costume, with a figured black-lace veil over her face, and, as luck
would have it, Jack was at that moment seen coming up the drive. She
hastily descended to the parlor, where she and Edith were discovered
in conversation when Jack entered the house.
"Holloa, Aunt Betsey!" he exclaimed, as he kissed her unsuspectingly.
"Have you come back?"
"Yes, Jackie," said a prim New England voice with a slightly
provincial accent. "I thought I'd like to hear about those little
orphan chicks, and so I said to Silas, said I, 'Silas--'"
Edith darted from her chair to a distant window, and Cynthia was
obliged to break off abruptly, or she would have laughed aloud.
Jack, however, took no notice. The mention of the chickens was
enough for him.
"Don't you want to come down and see the machine? I say, Aunt
Betsey, you were a regular brick to send me the money. Did you get
my letter?"
"Yes, Jackie, and I hope you are reading the book carefully. You
will learn a great deal from that book about hens."
"Yes. Well, I haven't got any hens yet. Look out for these stairs,
Aunt Betsey. They're rather dangerous."
This was too much for Cynthia. To be warned about the cellar stairs,
over which she gayly tripped at least a dozen times a day, was the
crowning joke of the performance. She sat down on the lowest step
and shouted with laughter. Jack, who was studying his thermometer,
turned in surprise.
"Why, I didn't know Cynthia was here. Why--why, Aunt Betsey, what's
the matter? And where is Cynthia? And Edith! Are you all crazy?"
For the dignified Edith was sitting on the top step, also bent double
with laughter.
It was too good. Cynthia tossed up her veil, and turned her crimson
face to her brother.
"Oh, Jack, Jack, I have you this time! This pays off a hundred old
scores. Oh, oh, oh! I never dreamed you would be so taken in!"
And she danced up and down with glee.
Jack's first feeling was one of anger. How stupid he had been! Then
his sense of the ludicrous overcame him, and he joined in the mirth,
laughing until the tears rolled down his face.
"It's too good to be wasted," he said, as soon as he could speak.
"Why don't you go and see somebody? Go to those dear friends of Aunt
Betsey's, the Parkers."
"I will, I will!" cried Cynthia. "I'll go right away now. Jack, you
can drive me there."
"Oh no!" exclaimed Edith. "They would be sure to find you out, and
it would be all over town. You sha'n't do it, Cynthia."
"They'll never find me out. If Jack, my own twin brother, didn't,
I'm sure they wouldn't. I'm going! Hurry up, Jack, and harness the
horse."
Jack went up the stairs like lightning, and was off to the barn. All
Edith's pleadings and expostulations were in vain. Cynthia could be
very determined when she pleased, and this time she had made up her
mind to pay no attention to the too-cautious Edith.
She waved farewell to her sister in exact imitation of Aunt Betsey's
gesture, and drove away by Jack's side in the old buggy.
"Mrs. Parker is so gossipy, I shall be sure to hear something funny,"
she remarked to Jack. "I must tell her all about the new false
front, and what 'Silas' said, and all. It will be such fun! I wish
you could go in too, Jack, but you'd be sure to laugh and spoil it
all. You couldn't help it. Oh, here we are, turning in already!
I'm so excited I can scarcely speak."
They drew up at the door, and Jack with great politeness assisted
"Aunt Betsey" from the carriage. He ran up the steps and rang the
bell for her, and then, taking his place again in the buggy, he drove
off to a shady spot at a little distance, and waited for his supposed
aunt to reappear.
"Don't be too long," he had whispered at parting.
It seemed hours, but it was really only twenty minutes later, when
the front door opened and the quaint little figure descended the
steps amid the voluble good-byes of Mrs. Parker.
"So glad to have seen you, my dear Miss Trinkett! I never saw you
looking so well or so young. You are a marvel. And you won't repeat
that little piece of news I told you, will you? You will probably
hear it all in good time. Good-bye!"
It was a very quiet and depressed Aunt Betsey who got into the
carriage and drove away with Jack, very different from the gay little
lady who had entered the Parkers' gates.
"Well, was it a success? Did she know you? Tell us about it," said
Jack, eagerly.
"Jack, don't ask me a word."
"Why? I say, what's up? What's the matter? Did she find you out?"
"No, of course not. She never guessed it. But--but--oh, Jack, she
told me something."
"But what was it?"
"I--I don't believe I can tell you!"