MEG AS SCHOOL-MISTRESS
Upon arriving in Redfords, Meg Heger had at once given the letter which
had been marked "Important! Rush!" to the innkeeper, who was about to
start for the station to meet the eastbound train. He promised the girl
to attend to putting the letter on the train himself, and thus assured
that she had served her neighbors to the best of her ability, Meg went
across the road to the school, only to find that her good friend, Teacher
Bellows, was not to be there that day as he had been sent for by a dying
mountaineer in his capacity as preacher, and had left word that he wished
Meg to hear the younger children recite, and dismiss them at two, which
was an hour earlier than usual.
Nothing pleased the girl more than to have an opportunity to practice the
art of instruction, since that was to be her chosen life work, and a very
happy morning she had with the dozen and one pupils, queer little
specimens of childhood, although, indeed, several of them were beyond
that, being long, lanky boys and girls in their teens. They, one and all,
loved Meg devotedly and considered it a rare treat to have her in charge
of the class. This happened quite often, as, in his double capacity as
preacher as well as teacher, the kindly old man had various calls upon
his time; some of them taking him so far into the mountains that he was
obliged to be gone for days at a time.
Meg had a charming way, quite her own, of teaching, with story and word
pictures. Even the master had to concede that she was more fitted by
nature than he was to instruct the child mind. At two o'clock, when the
young teacher dismissed her class, they flocked about her as she crossed
the road to the inn.
The tallest among her pupils, a rancher's daughter, who was indeed as old
as Meg, put an arm lovingly about her as she said, "When yer through with
yer schoolin', don't I hope yo'll come back to Redfords an' be our
teacher."
The mountain girl laughed. "Why, Ann Skittle!" she teased. "You will be
married, with a home of your own, by the time that I am ready to teach.
You are seventeen, now, aren't you?"
Ann's sunburned face flushed suddenly and her unexpected embarrassment
caused Meg to believe that she had guessed more accurately than she had
supposed. "Yeah, I'm seventeen. But I'll be eighteen before snowfall, an'
then Hank Griggs an' me's goin' to be married. He's pa's hired man. A new
one from Arizony."
"Then why should you care whether or not I teach the Redford school?" Meg
turned at the lowest step of the inn porch to inquire. Her dark eyes
seemed always to hold a kindly interest in whatever they looked upon,
were it a hurt little animal or, as at that moment, a girl who had not
been endowed with much natural intelligence.
Ann Skittle, again visibly embarrassed, stood looking down, twisting one
corner of her apron as she said in a low voice: "Me an' Hank is like to
have kiddies an' I'd be wishin' you could teach 'em."
Suddenly Meg leaned over and impulsively kissed the flushed face of her
surprised companion. "Of course you'll have little ones, dear," she said,
and in her voice there was a note of tenderness. "No greater happiness
can come to any girl than just that; to be a mother and to have a
mother." She turned away to hide the tears that, mist-like, always rose
to her own eyes when she thought of the mother whom she never knew. Ann,
calling goodbye, walked away toward the corral back of the school where
her pony had been for hours awaiting her.
When Meg entered the front room of the inn, her smile was as bright as
ever. Mrs. Bently often said that it didn't matter how gloomy the day
might be, when Meg appeared with "that lighten' up" smile of hers,
somehow it seemed as though the sun had burst through, and even if things
had been going wrong, they began to go right then and there. "Mrs.
Bently," the girl said, "Pa Heger told me not to come home today without
the County Weekly News. It's days overdue."
The comely woman's face brightened.
"Wall, I've found that newspaper at last," she announced. "That man of
mine didn't have on his specks when he was sortin' the mail, I reckon.
Anyhow he stuck that paper o' yer pa's 'way over into Mr. Peters' box.
'Twas fetched clear out to his ranch and fetched back agin."
"Thanks." Meg said brightly, as she took the paper. "It won't matter any.
I don't suppose there's any startling news in it."
Half way up the mountain road Meg drew rein and listened. There was not a
breath of wind stirring. The sun beat down relentlessly and heat
shimmered from the red-gold dust of the road ahead. The only sounds were
the humming, buzzing and wing-whirring of the multitudinous insects all
about her. Then again she heard the sound which had first attracted her
attention. A pitiful little gasping cry. Leaping from her pony, she
commanded: "Pal, stand still for a moment. One of our little brothers is
calling for help."
Although the faint cry had instantly ceased, Meg remembered the direction
from which it had come and climbed agilely down the rocks to find that
one, having been dislodged, had caught a Douglas squirrel's tail and had
held it captive so long that the creature was nearly starved.
"You poor little mite," Meg said with tender sympathy as she stooped,
and, after removing the heavy stone, lifted the small creature in her
hands. She held it, unresisting, for a moment against her cheek, then put
it into one of her saddle bags. Peering in, she said assuringly, "Don't
be frightened. I'm going to take you to the hospital, but as soon as you
are stronger, you shall have your freedom." The bead-like eyes that
looked up out of the dark depths of the bag seemed to be more
appreciative than fearful. There was a quality in Meg's voice when she
spoke to the sad and wounded that soothed and comforted even though the
words were not understood. "I'll take the newspaper out," she thought;
"then his bed will be more comfortable." And, as she did so, she chanced
to see a name which attracted her attention. It was a name which had
come, within the last three days, to mean much of possible comradeship to
her. It was "Daniel Abbott." Opening the paper, the girl expected merely
to read an article telling of the arrival of the Abbott family at their
cabin on Redfords Peak, but, to her dismay, the story that newspaper
contained was of an entirely different nature. It was a list of the
properties in the county that were tax delinquents. Meg learned from the
short paragraph that the ten acres and "cabin thereon" belonging to one
Daniel Abbott, having been for three weeks advertised as delinquent, was
to be sold for taxes on August the tenth at five o'clock unless the
aforesaid taxes, amounting to the sum of twenty-five dollars, should be
paid before that hour.
The girl stared at the printed page, unable at first to comprehend its
meaning. Then she glanced at the sun. It was at least two-thirty. But
what could it mean? Surely the young man with whom she was talking but
yesterday, when the children had brought him to see the baby lions,
surely he had known of this and had paid the taxes. Refolding the paper,
Meg started leisurely up the mountain road, but something seemed to be
urging her to at least tell Dan Abbott what she had seen. Perhaps he had
not paid the back taxes, and, if not, she might be instrumental in saving
his cabin home for him, and yet, even as she thought of it, she was
assailed with doubt. It would be impossible to reach Scarsburg, the
county seat, before five unless one rode at top speed, and the Abbotts
had neither car nor horse.
Meg had reached the stairway hewn in the rocks, leading to the cabin,
which, for so many minutes had been uppermost in her thoughts, and she
drew rein, yodeling to a tall, graceful girl whom she saw standing by a
pine gazing out over the valley. Jane Abbott turned and looked down,
amazed that the mountain girl should have the effrontery to yodel to
_her_. "Just because she mailed a letter for me does not entitle her to
_my_ friendship as an equal!" Abruptly Jane turned her back and walked
away toward the cabin. Meg's face flushed and her inclination was to ride
on to her own home, but she recalled the clinging of little Julie's arms
and the sweet, yearning expression in the small girl's face when she had
said, "Meg, I like you. I wish you were my sister instead of Jane. You'd
love me, wouldn't you?"
Leaping from her pony, she bade him wait for her, and, taking the paper,
the girl sprang, nimble as a mountain goat, up the rocky steps. Jane had
seated herself in the comfortable chair on the porch, and was reading
when she heard hurrying footsteps. She looked up, an angry color
suffusing her cheeks. This halfbreed was evidently going to force her
acquaintance upon her. Well, she would soon regret it. But the proud,
scornful words were never spoken.