"'Gene, 'Gene,

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THE GREEN SATIN GOWN

BY LAURA E. RICHARDS

_Author of_ "Captain January," "Melody," "Three Margarets,"

"Peggy," "Queen Hildegarde," etc., etc.

Illustrated by Etheldred B. Barry

THE GREEN SATIN GOWN

Published May, 1903

TO

THE GIRLS OF

The Friday Club of Gardiner, Maine

THIS VOLUME

IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED

CONTENTS

THE GREEN SATIN GOWN

BLUE EGYPTIANS

LITTLE BENJAMIN

DON ALONZO

THE SHED CHAMBER

MAINE TO THE RESCUE

THE SCARLET LEAVES

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

"THE FIRST TITTER PUT A FIRE IN MY VEINS THAT KEPT ME WARM ALL THE

EVENING"

"GREGORY POLISHED IT ON HIS SLEEVE, AND HELD IT UP AGAIN"

"'A LONG BASKET WITH SOMETHING WHITE INSIDE; AND--IT'S CRYING!'"

"'FATHER SAYS THE LORD SENT YOU. DID HE?'"

"MAINE HAILED HIM FROM THE TOP OF A GREAT DRIFT"

THE CONFERENCE

THE GREEN SATIN GOWN

Who ever wore such a queer-looking thing? I wore it myself, dear,

once upon a time; yes, I did! Perhaps you would like to hear about it,

while you mend that tear in your muslin. Sit down, then, and let us

be cosy.

I was making a visit in Hillton once, when I was seventeen years old,

just your age; staying with dear old Miss Persis Elderby, who is now

dead. I have told you about her, and it is strange that I have never

told you the story of the green satin gown; but, indeed, it is years

since I looked at it. We were great friends, Miss Persis and I; and

we never thought much about the difference in our ages, for she was

young for her years, and I was old for mine. In our daily walk

through the pretty, sleepy Hillton street--we always went for the

mail, together, for though Miss Persis seldom received letters, she

always liked to see mine, and it was quite the event of the day--my

good friend seldom failed to point out to me a stately mansion that

stood by itself on a little height, and to say in a tone of pride,

"The Le Baron place, my dear; the finest place in the county. Madam

Le Baron, who lives there alone now, is as great a lady as any in

Europe, though she wears no coronet to her name."

I never knew exactly what Miss Persis meant by this last remark, but

it sounded magnificent, and I always gazed respectfully at the gray

stone house which sheltered so grand a personage. Madam Le Baron, it

appeared, never left the house in winter, and this was January. Her

friends called on her at stated intervals, and, to judge from

Miss Persis, never failed to come away in a state of reverential

enthusiasm. I could not help picturing to myself the great lady as

about six feet tall, clad in purple velvet, and waving a

peacock-feather fan; but I never confided my imaginings even to the

sympathetic Miss Persis.

One day my friend returned from a visit to the stone house, quite

breathless, her pretty old face pink with excitement. She sat down

on the chair nearest the door, and gazed at me with, speechless

emotion.

"Dear Miss Persis!" I cried. "What has happened? Have you had bad

news?"

Miss Persis shook her head. "Bad news? I should think not, indeed!

Child, Madam Le Baron wishes to see you. More I cannot say at present.

Not a word! Put on your best hat, and come with me. Madam Le Baron

waits for us!"

It was as if she had said, "The Sultan is on the front door-step." I

flew up-stairs, and made myself as smart as I could in such a hurry.

My cheeks were as pink as Miss Persis's own, and though I had not

the faintest idea what was the matter, I felt that it must be

something of vital import. On the way, I begged my companion to

explain matters to me, but she only shook her head and trotted on the

faster. "No time!" she panted. "Speech delays me, my dear! All will

be explained; only make haste."

We made such haste, that by the time we rang at the door of the

stone house neither of us could speak, and Miss Persis could only

make a mute gesture to the dignified maid who opened the door, and

who looked amazed, as well she might, at our burning cheeks and

disordered appearance. Fortunately, she knew Miss Persis well, and

lost no time in ushering us into a cool, dimly lighted parlor, hung

with family portraits. Here we sat, and fanned ourselves with our

pocket-handkerchiefs, while I tried to find breath for a question;

but there was not time! A door opened at the further end of the room;

there was a soft rustle, a smell of sandal-wood in the air. The next

moment Madam Le Baron stood before us. A slender figure, about my

own height, in a quaint, old-fashioned dress; snowy hair, arranged

in puff on puff, with exquisite nicety; the darkest, softest eyes I

ever saw, and a general air of having left her crown in the next room;

this was the great lady.

We rose, and I made my best courtesy,--we courtesied then, my dear,

instead of bowing like pump-handles,--and she spoke to us in a soft

old voice, that rustled like the silk she wore, though it had a clear

sound, too. "So this is the child!" she said. "I trust you are very

well, my dear! And has Miss Elderby told you of the small particular

in which you can oblige me?"

Miss Persis hastened to say that she wasted no time on explanations,

but had brought me as quickly as might be, thinking that the main

thing. Madam Le Baron nodded, and smiled a little; then she turned

to me; a few quiet words, and I knew all about it. She had received

that morning a note from her grandniece, "a young and giddy person,"

who lived in B----, some twenty miles away, announcing that she and

a party of friends were about to drive over to Hillton to see the

old house. She felt sure that her dear aunt would be enchanted to

see them, as it must be "quite too forlorn for her, all alone in

that great barn;" so she might expect them the next evening (that is,

the evening of this very day), in time for supper, and no doubt as

hungry as hunters. There would be about a dozen of them, probably,

but she knew there was plenty of room at Birchwood, and it would be

a good thing to fill up the empty rooms for once in a way; so,

looking forward to a pleasant meeting, the writer remained her

dearest aunt's "affectionate niece, Effie Gay."

"The child has no mother," said Madam Le Baron to Miss Persis; then

turning to me, she said: "I am alone, save for my two maids, who are

of middle age, and not accustomed to youthful visitors. Learning

from my good friend, Miss Elderby, that a young gentlewoman was

staying at her house, I conceived the idea of asking you to spend

the night with me, and such portion of the next day as my guests may

remain. If you are willing to do me this service, my dear, you may

put off your bonnet, and I will send for your evening dress and your

toilet necessaries."

I had been listening in a dream, hearing what was said, but thinking

it all like a fairy story, chiefly impressed by the fact that the

speaker was the most beautiful person I had ever seen in my life.

The last sentence, however, brought me to my senses with a vengeance.

With scarlet cheeks I explained that I had brought no evening dress

with me; that I lived a very quiet life at home, and had expected

nothing different here; that, to be quite frank, I had not such a

thing as an evening dress in the world. Miss Persis turned pale with

distress and mortification; but Madam Le Baron looked at me quietly,

with her lovely smile.

"I will provide you with a suitable dress, my child," she said.

"I have something that will do very well for you. If you like to go

to your room now, my maid will attend you, and bring what is

necessary. We expect our guests in time for supper, at eight o'clock."

Decidedly, I had walked into a fairy tale, or else I was dreaming!

Here I sat in a room hung with flowered damask, in a wonderful chair,

by a wonderful fire; and a fairy, little and withered and brown,

dressed in what I knew must be black bombazine, though I knew it

only from descriptions, was bringing me tea, and plum-cake, on a

silver tray. She looked at me with kind, twinkling eyes, and said

she would bring the dress at once; then left me to my own wondering

fancies. I hardly knew what to be thinking of, so much was happening:

more, it seemed, in these few hours, than in all my life before. I

tried to fix my mind on the gay party that would soon fill the silent

house with life and tumult; I tried to fancy how Miss Effie Gay

would look, and what she would say to me; but my mind kept coming

back to the dress, the evening dress, that I was to be privileged to

wear. What would it be like? Would silk or muslin be prettier? If

only it were not pink! A red-haired girl in pink was a sad sight!

Looking up, I saw a portrait on the wall, of a beautiful girl, in a

curious, old-time costume. The soft dark eyes and regal turn of the

head told me that it was my hostess in her youth; and even as I

looked, I heard the rustle again, and smelt the faint odor of

sandalwood; and Madam Le Baron came softly in, followed by the fairy

maid, bearing a long parcel.

"Your gown, my dear," she said, "I thought you would like to be

preparing for the evening. Undo it, Jessop!"

Jessop lifted fold on fold of tissue-paper. I looked, expecting I

know not what fairy thing of lace and muslin: I saw--the green satin

gown!

We were wearing large sleeves then, something like yours at the

present day, and high collars; the fashion was at its height. This

gown had long, tight, wrinkled sleeves, coming down over the hand,

and finished with a ruffle of yellow lace; the neck, rounded and

half-low, had a similar ruffle almost deep enough to be called a ruff;

the waist, if it could be called a waist, was up under the arms:

briefly, a costume of my grandmother's time. Little green satin

slippers lay beside it, and a huge feather-fan hung by a green ribbon.

Was this a jest? was it--I looked up, with burning cheeks and eyes

suffused; I met a glance so kind, so beaming with good-will, that my

eyes fell, and I could only hope that my anguish had not been visible.

"Shall Jessop help you, my dear?" said Madam Le Baron. "You can do

it by yourself? Well, I like to see the young independent. I think

the gown will become you; it has been considered handsome." She

glanced fondly at the shining fabric, and left the room; the maid,

after one sharp glance at me, in which I thought I read an amused

compassion, followed; and I was left alone with the green satin gown.

Cry? No, I did not cry: I had been brought up not to cry; but I

suffered, my dear, as one does suffer at seventeen. I thought of

jumping out of the window and running away, back to Miss Persis; I

thought of going to bed, and saying I was ill. It was true, I said

to myself, with feverish violence: I _was_ ill, sick with shame and

mortification and disappointment. Appear before this gay party,

dressed like my own great-grandmother? I would rather die! A person

might easily die of such distress as this--and so on, and so on!

Suddenly, like a cool touch on my brow, came a thought, a word of my

Uncle John's, that had helped me many a time before.

"Endeavor, my dear, to maintain a sense of proportion!"

The words fell with weight on my distracted mind. I sat up straight

in the armchair into which I had flung myself, face downward. Was

there any proportion in this horror? I shook myself, then put the

two sides together, and looked at them. On one side, two lovely old

ladies, one of whom I could perhaps help a little, both of whom I

could gratify; on the other, my own--dear me! was it vanity? I

thought of the two sweet old faces, shining with kindness; I fancied

the distress, the disappointment, that might come into them, if I--

"Yes, dear uncle," I said aloud, "I have found the proportion!" I

shook myself again, and began to dress. And now a happy thought

struck me. Glancing at the portrait on the wall, I saw that the fair

girl was dressed in green. Was it? Yes, it must be--it was--the very

same dress! Quickly, and as neatly as I could, I arranged my hair in

two great puffs, with a butterfly knot on the top of my head, in the

style of the picture; if only I had the high comb! I slipped on the

gown, which fitted me well enough. I put on the slippers, and tied

the green ribbons round and round my ankles; then I lighted all the

candles, and looked at myself. A perfect guy? Well, perhaps--and

yet--

At this moment Jessop entered, bringing a pair of yellow gloves; she

looked me over critically, saying nothing; glanced at the portrait,

withdrew, and presently reappeared, with the high tortoise-shell

comb in her hand. She placed it carefully in my hair, surveyed me

again, and again looked at the picture. Yes, it was true, the

necklace was wanting; but of course--

Really, Jessop was behaving like a jack-in-the-box! She had

disappeared again, and now here she was for the third time; but this

time Madam Le Baron was with her. The old lady looked at me silently,

at my hair, then up at the picture. The sight of the pleasure in her

lovely face trampled under foot, put out of existence, the last

remnant of my foolish pride.

She turned to Jessop and nodded. "Yes, by all means!" she said. The

maid put into her hand a long morocco box; Madam kissed me, and with

soft, trembling fingers clasped the necklace round my neck.

"It is a graceful compliment you pay me, my child," she said,

glancing at the picture again, with eyes a little dimmed. "Oblige me

by wearing this, to complete the vision of my past youth."

Ten stars of chrysoprase, the purest and tenderest green in the world,

set in delicately wrought gold. I need not describe the necklace to

you. You think it the most beautiful jewel in the world, and so do I;

and I have promised that you shall wear it on your eighteenth

birthday.

Madam Le Baron saw nothing singular in my appearance. She never

changed the fashion of her dress, being of the opinion, as she told

me afterward, that a gentlewoman's dress is her own affair, not her

mantua-maker's; and her gray and silver brocade went very well with

the green satin. We stood side by side for a moment, gazing into the

long, dim mirror; then she patted my shoulder and gave a little sigh.

"Your auburn hair looks well with the green," she said. "My hair was

dark, but otherwise--Shall we go down, my dear?"

I will not say much about the evening. It was painful, of course;

but Effie Gay had no mother, and much must be pardoned in such a case.

No doubt I made a quaint figure enough among the six or eight gay

girls, all dressed in the latest fashion; but the first moment was

the worst, and the first titter put a fire in my veins that kept me

warm all the evening. An occasional glance at Madam Le Baron's

placid face enabled me to preserve my sense of proportion, and I

remembered that two wise men, Solomon and my Uncle John, had

compared the laughter of fools to the crackling of thorns under a pot.

And--and there were some who did not laugh.

Pin it up, my dear! Your father has come, and will be wanting his tea.

I can tell you the rest of the story in a few words.

A year from that time Madam Le Baron died; and a few weeks after her

death, a parcel came for me from Hillton.

Opening it in great wonder, what did I find but the gown, the green

satin gown, with the slippers and fan, and the tortoise-shell comb

in a leather case! Lifting it reverently from the box, the dress felt

singularly heavy on my arm, and a moment's search revealed a strange

matter. The pocket was full of gold pieces, shining half-eagles,

which fell about me in a golden shower, and made me cry out with

amazement; but this was not all! The tears sprang to my eyes as I

opened the morocco box and took out the chrysoprase necklace: tears

partly of gratitude and pleasure, partly of sheer kindness and love

and sorrow for the sweet, stately lady who had thought of me in her

closing days, and had found (they told me afterward) one of her last

pleasures in planning this surprise for me.

There is something more that I might say, my dear. Your dear father

was one of that gay sleighing party; and he often speaks of the

first time he saw me--when I was coming down the stairs in the green

satin gown.

BLUE EGYPTIANS [1]

A PAPER-MILL STORY

"I wouldn't, Lena!"

"Well, I guess I shall!"

"Don't, Lena! please don't! you will be sorry, I am sure, if you do

it. It cannot bring good, I know it cannot!"

"The idea! Mary Denison, you are too old-fashioned for anything. I'd

like to know what harm it can do."

The rag-room was nearly deserted. The whistle had blown, and most of

the girls had hurried away to their dinner. Two only lingered behind,

deep in conversation; Mary Denison and Lena Laxen.

Mary was sitting by her sorting-table, busily sorting rags as she

talked. She was a fair, slender girl, and looked wonderfully fresh

and trim in her gray print gown, with a cap of the same material

fitting close to her head, and hiding her pretty hair. The other

girl was dark and vivacious, with laughing black eyes and a careless

mouth. She was picturesque enough in her blue dress, with the

scarlet handkerchief tied loosely over her hair; but both kerchief

and dress showed the dust plainly, and the dark locks that escaped

here and there were dusty too, showing little of the care that may

keep one neat even in a rag-room.

"It's just as pretty as it can be!" Lena went on, half-coaxing,

half-defiant. "You ought to see it, Mame! A silk waist, every bit as

good as new, only of course it's mussed up, lying in the bag; and a

skirt, and lots of other things, all as nice as nice! I can't think

what the folks that had them meant, putting such things into the rags:

why, that waist hadn't much more than come out of the shop, you

might say. And do you think I'm going to let it go through the duster,

and then be thrown out, and somebody else get it? No, sir! and it's

no good for rags, you know it isn't, Mary Denison."

"I know that it is not yours, Lena, nor mine!" said Mary, steadily.

"But I'll tell you what you might do; go straight to Mr. Gordon, and

tell him about the pretty waist,--very likely it got in by mistake,--tell

him it is no good for rags, and ask if you may have it. Like

as not he'll let you have it; and if not, you will find out what his

reason is. I think we ought to suppose he has some reason for what

he does."

Lena laughed spitefully.

"Like as not he's going to take it home to his own girl!" she said.

"I saw her in the street the other day, and I wouldn't have been

seen dead with the hat she had on; not a flower, nor even a scrap of

a feather; just a plain band and a goose-quill stuck in it. Real

poorhouse, I thought it looked, and he as rich as a Jew. I guess I

sha'n't go to Mr. Gordon; he's just as hateful as he can be. He gave

out word that no one was to touch that bag, nor so much as go near it;

and he had it set off in a corner of the outer shed, close by the

chloride barrels, so that everything in it will smell like poison.

If that isn't mean, I don't know what is.

"Well, I can't stay here all day, Mame. Aren't you coming?"

"Pretty soon!" said Mary. "Don't wait for me, Lena! I want to finish

this stint, so as to have the afternoon off. Mother's poorly to-day,

and I want to cook something nice for her supper."

Lena nodded and went out, shutting the door with a defiant swing.

Mary looked after her doubtfully, as if hesitating whether she ought

not to follow and make some stronger plea; but the next moment she

bent over her work again.

"I must hurry!" she said. "I'll see Lena after dinner, and try to

make her promise not to touch that bag. I don't see what has got

into her."

Mary worked away steadily. The rags were piled in an iron sieve

before her; they were mostly the kind called "Blue Egyptians,"

cotton cloth dyed with indigo, which had come far across the sea from

Egypt. Musty and fusty enough they were, and Mary often turned her

head aside as she sorted them carefully, putting the good rags into

a huge basket that stood beside her on the floor, while the bits of

woollen cloth, of paper and string and other refuse, went into

different compartments of the sorting-table, which was something

like an old-fashioned box-desk.

Mary was a quick worker, and her basket was already nearly full of

rags. Fastened upright beside her seat was a great knife, not unlike

a scythe-blade, with which she cut off the buttons and hooks and eyes,

running the garment along the keen edge with a quick and practised

hand. Usually she amused herself by imagining stories about the

buttons and their former owners, for she was a fanciful girl, and

her child-life, without brothers or sisters, had bred in her the

habit of solitary play and "make-believe," which clung to her now

that she was a tall girl of sixteen. But to-day she was not thinking

of the Blue Egyptians. Her thoughts were following Lena on her

homeward way, and she was hoping devoutly that her own words might

have had some effect, and that Lena might pass by the forbidden bag

without lingering to be further tempted. It _was_ strange that this

one special bundle of rags, coming from a village at some distance,

should have been kept apart when the day's allowance was put into

the dusters. But--"Mother always says we ought to suppose there is a

reason for things!" she said to herself. And she shook her head

resolutely, and tried to make a "button-play."

She pulled from the heap before her a dark blue garment, and turned

it over, examining it carefully. It seemed to be a woman's jacket.

It was of finer material than most of the "Egyptians," and the

fashion was quaint and graceful. There were remnants of embroidery

here and there, and the heavy glass buttons were like nothing Mary

had ever seen before.

"I'll keep these," she said, "for little Jessie Brown; she will be

delighted with them. That child does make so much out of so little,

I'm fairly ashamed sometimes. These will be a fortune to Jessie.

I'll tell her that I think most likely they belonged to a princess

when they were new; they were up and down the front of a dress of

gold cloth trimmed with pearls, and she looked perfectly beautiful

when she had it on, and the Prince of the Fortunate Islands fell in

love with her."

Buttons were a regular perquisite of the rag-girls in the Cumquot

Mill; indeed, any trifle, coin, or seal, or medal, was considered

the property of the finder, this being an unwritten law of the

rag-room.

Mary cut the buttons off, and slipped them into her pocket; then she

ran her fingers round the edge of the jacket, in case there were any

hooks or other hard substance that had escaped her notice, and that

might blunt the knives of the cutter, into which it would next go.

In a corner of the lining, her fingers met something hard. Here was

some object that had slipped down between the stuff and the lining,

and must be cut out. Mary ran the jacket along the cutting-knife,

and something rolled into her lap. Not a button this time! she held

it up to the light, and examined it curiously. It was a brooch, of

glass, or clear stones, in a tarnished silver setting. Dim and dusty,

it still seemed full of light, and glanced in the sun as Mary held

it up.

"What a pretty thing!" she said. "I wonder if it is glass. I must

take this to Mr. Gordon, for I never found anything like it before.

Jessie cannot have this."

She laid it carefully aside, and went on with her sorting, working

so quickly that in a few moments the sieve was empty, and the basket

piled with good cotton rags, ready for the cutting-machine.

Taking her hat and shawl, Mary passed out, holding the brooch

carefully in her hand. There were few people in the mill, only the

machine-tenders, walking leisurely up and down beside their machines,

which whirred and droned on, regardless of dinnertime. The great

rollers went round and round, the broad white streams flowed on and

on over the screens, till the mysterious moment came when they

ceased to be wet pulp and became paper.

Mary hardly glanced at the wonderful machines; they were an old

story to her, though in every throb they were telling over and over

the marvellous works of man. The machine-tenders nodded kindly in

return to her modest greeting, and looked after her with approval,

and said, "Nice gal!" to each other; but Mary hurried on until she

came to the finishing-room. Here she hoped to find a friend whom she

could consult about her discovery; and, sure enough, old James

Gregory was sitting on his accustomed stool, tying bundles of paper

with the perfection that no one else could equal. His back was

turned to the door, and he was crooning a fragment of an old

paper-mill song, which might have been composed by the beating

engine itself, so rhythmic and monotonous it was.

"'Gene, 'Gene,

Made a machine;

Joe, Joe,

Made it go;

Frank, Frank,

Turned the crank,

His mother came out,

And gave him a spank,

And knocked him over

The garden bank."

At Mary's cheerful "Good morning, Mr. Gregory!" the old man turned

slowly, and looked at the young girl with friendly eyes.

"Good day, Mary! glad to see ye! goin' along home?"

"In just a minute! I want to show you something, Mr. Gregory, and to

ask your advice, please."

The old finisher turned completely round this time, and looked his

interest. Mary opened her hand, and displayed the brooch she had

found.

James Gregory drew his lips into the form of a whistle, but made no

sound. He looked from the brooch to Mary, and back again.

"Well?" he said.

"I found it in the rags; blue Egyptians, you know, Mr. Gregory. It

was inside the lining of a jacket. Do you think--what do you think

about it? is it glass, or--something else?"

Gregory took the ornament from her, and held it up to the light,

screwing his eyes to little points of light; then he polished it on

his sleeve, and held it up again.

[Illustration: "GREGORY POLISHED IT ON HIS SLEEVE, AND HELD IT UP

AGAIN."]

"Something else!" he said, briefly.

"Is it--do you think it might be worth something, Mr. Gregory?"

asked Mary, rather timidly.

"Yes!" roared Gregory, with a sudden explosion. "I do! I b'lieve

them's di'monds, sure as here I sit. Mary Denison, you've struck it

this time, or I'm a Dutchman."

He got off his stool in great excitement, and walked up and down the

room, still holding the brooch in his hand. Mary looked after him,

and her face was very pale. She said one word softly, "Mother!" that

was all.

Mary Denison and her mother were poor. Mrs. Denison was far from

strong, and they had no easy time of it, for there was little save

Mary's wages to feed and clothe the two women and pay their rent.

James Gregory knew all this; his pale old face was lighted with

emotion, and he stumped up and down the room at a rapid pace.

Suddenly he stopped, and faced the anxious girl, who was following

him with bewildered eyes.

"Findin's havin'!" he said, abruptly. "That's paper-mill law. Some

folks would tell ye to keep this to yourself, and sell it for what

you could get."

Mary's face flushed.

"But you do not tell me that!" she said, quietly.

"No!" roared the old man, with another explosion, stamping violently

on the floor. "No, I don't. You're poor as spring snakes, and your

mother's sickly, and you've hard work to get enough to keep the

flesh on your bones; but I don't tell ye to do that. I tell ye to

take it straight to the Old Man, and tell him where ye found it, and

all about it. I've knowed him ever since his mustash growed, and

before. You go straight to him! He's in the office now."

"I was going!" said Mary, simply. "I thought I'd come and see you

first, Mr. Gregory, you've always been so good to mother and me.

You--you couldn't manage to come with me, could you? I am afraid of

Mr. Gordon; I can't help it, though he is always pleasant to me."

"I'll go!" said old James, with alacrity. "You come right along with

me!"

In his eagerness he seized Mary by the arm, and kept his hold on her

as they passed out through the mill. The few "hands" who were at

work here and there gazed after them in amazement; for the old man

was dragging the girl along as if he had caught her in some offence,

and was going to deliver her up to justice.

The same impression was made in the office, when the pair appeared

there. The two clerks stared open-mouthed, and judged after their

nature; for one of them said, instantly, to himself, "It's a mistake!"

while the other said, "I always knew that Denison girl was too pious

to last!"

A tall man who sat at a desk in the corner looked up quietly.

"Ah, Gregory!" he said. "What is it? Mary Denison? Good morning, Mary!

Anything wrong in the rag-room?"

Gregory waved his hat excitedly.

"If you'd look here, sir!" he said. "If you would just cast your eye

over that article, and tell this gal what you think of it! Blue

Egyptians, sir! luckiest rags that ever come into this mill, I've

always said. Well, sir?"

Mr. Gordon was not easily stirred to excitement. It seemed an age to

the anxious girl and the impetuous old man, as he turned the brooch

over and over, holding it up in every light, polishing it, breathing

on it, then polishing it again. Gregory's hands twitched with

eagerness, and Mary felt almost faint with suspense.

"You found this in the rags?" he asked at length, turning to Mary.

He spoke in his ordinary even tone, and Mary's heart sank, she could

not have told why.

"Yes, sir!" she faltered. "I found it in a blue jacket. It was in

between the stuff and the lining. There were glass buttons on the

jacket."

She drew them from her pocket and held them out; but Mr. Gordon,

after a glance, waved them back.

"Those are of no value!" he said. "About this brooch, I am not so

sure. The stones may be real stones--I incline to think they are;

but it is possible that they may be paste. The imitations are

sometimes very perfect; no one but a jeweller can tell positively. I

will take it to Boston with me to-morrow, and have it examined."

He dropped the brooch into a drawer at his side, turned the key and

put it in his pocket, all in his quiet, methodical way, as if he

were in the habit of examining diamond brooches every day; then he

nodded kindly to the pair, and bent over his papers again.

Mary went out silently, and Gregory followed her with a dazed look

on his strong features. He looked back at the door two or three times,

but said nothing till they were back in the finishing-room.

Then--"It's one of his days!" he said. "I've knowed him ever since

his mustash growed, and there's days when he's struck with a dumb

sperit, just like Scriptur'. Don't you fret, Mary! He'll see you

righted, or I'll give you my head."

Mary might have thought that Mr. Gregory's head would be of little

use to her without the rest of him. She felt sadly dashed and

disappointed. She hardly knew what she had expected, but it was

something very different from this calm, every-day reception, this

total disregard of her own and her companion's excitement.

"I guess he thinks they're nothing great!" she said, wearily.

"What was that he said about paste, Mr. Gregory? You never saw any

paste like that, did you?

"No!" said Gregory, "I've heered of Di'mond Glue, but 'twan't

nothin' like stones--nor glass neither. You may run me through the

calenders if I know what he's drivin' at. But I'll trust him!" he

added, vehemently. "I done right to tell you to go to him. He's in

one of his moods to-day, but you'll hear from him, if there's

anything to hear, now mark my words! And now I'd go home, if I was

you, and see your ma'am, and get your dinner. And--Mary--I dono as

I'd say anything about this, if I was you. Things get round so in a

mill, ye know."

Mary nodded assurance, and went home, trying to feel that nothing of

importance had happened. Do what she would, however, the golden

visions would come dancing before her eyes. Suppose--suppose the

stones should be real, after all! and suppose Mr. Gordon should give

her a part, at least, of the money they might bring in Boston. It

might--she knew diamonds were valuable--it might be thirty or forty

dollars. Oh! how rich she would be! The rent could be paid some time

in advance, and her mother could have the new shawl she needed so

badly: or would a cloak be better? cloaks were more in fashion, but

Mother said a good shawl was always good style.

Turning the corner by her mother's house, she met one of the clerks

who had been in the office when she went in there. He looked at her

with the smile she always disliked, she hardly knew why.

"You did the wrong thing that time, Miss Denison!" he said.

"What do you mean, Mr. Hitchcock?" asked Mary.

"You'll never see your diamonds again, nor the money for them!"

replied the man. "That's easy guessing. He'll come back and tell you

they're glass or paste, and that's the last you'll hear of them. And

the diamonds--for they are diamonds, right enough--will go into his

pocket, or on to his wife's neck. I know what's what! I wasn't born

down in these parts."

"You don't know Mr. Gordon!" said Mary, warmly. "That isn't the way

he is thought of by those who do know him."

The clerk was a newcomer from another State, and was not liked by

the mill-workers.

"I know his kind!" he said, with a sneer; "and they're no good to

your kind, Mary Denison, nor to mine. Mark my words, you'll hear no

more of that breastpin."

Mary turned away so decidedly that he said no more, but his eyes

followed her with a sinister look.

Next moment he was greeting Lena Laxen cordially, and she was

dimpling and smiling all over at his compliments. Lena thought

Mr. Hitchcock "just elegant!" and believed that Mary was jealous when

she said she did not like him. Something now prompted her to tell

him about the silk waist in the forbidden sack; he took her view at

once and zealously. The boss (for he did not use the kindly title of

"Old Man," by which the other mill-hands designated Mr. Gordon,

though he was barely forty) had his eye on the things, most likely,

as he had on the pin Mary Denison found. Hadn't Lena heard about that?

Well, it was a burning shame, he could tell her; he would see that

she, Lena, wasn't fooled that way. And Lena, listening eagerly,

heard a story very different from that which had been told to

Mr. Gordon.

In an hour the whole mill knew that Mary Denison had found a diamond

pin in the rags, and that Mr. Gordon had told her it was nothing but

hard glue, and had sold it himself in Boston for a thousand dollars,

and spent the money on a new horse.

Nor was this all! Late that evening Lena Laxen stole from her home

with a shawl over her head, and met the clerk by the corner of the

outer shed. A few minutes of whispering and giggling, and she stole

back, with a bundle under her shawl; while Hitchcock tied a bright

silk handkerchief round his neck, and strutted off with the air of a

conqueror.

Next morning, as Mary Denison was going to her work, Lena rapped on

the window, and called her attention by signs to the bodice she had

on. It was a gay striped silk, little worn, but still showing, in

spite of pressing, the marks of crumpling and tossing. The bright

colors suited Lena's dark skin well, and as she stood there with

flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, Mary thought she had never seen

her look prettier. At first she nodded and smiled in approval; but

the next moment a thought darted into her mind that made her clasp

her hands, and cry anxiously:

"Oh! Lena, you didn't do it! you never did it! it's not _that_ waist

you have on?"

Lena affected not to hear. She only nodded and laughed triumphantly,

and turned away, leaving Mary standing pale and distressed outside

the window.

Mary hesitated. Should she go in and reason further with the wilful

girl, and try to persuade her to restore the stolen garment?

Something told her it would be useless; but still she was on the

point of going in, when old James Gregory came by, and asked her to

walk on with him.

She complied, but not without an anxious look back at the window,

where no one was now to be seen.

"Well, May," said Gregory, "how're ye feelin' to-day? hearty? that's

clever! I hope you wasn't frettin' about that pin any. Most girls

would, but you ain't the fool kind."

"I don't know, Mr. Gregory!" said Mary, laughing. "I'm afraid I have

thought about it more or less, but I haven't been fretting. Where's

the use?"

"Jes' so! jes' so!" assented the old man, with alacrity.

"And I didn't say anything to Mother," Mary went on. "I didn't want

her to know about it unless something was really coming of it. Poor

Mother! she has enough to think about."

"She has so!" said Gregory. "A sight o' thinkin' your mother doos,

Mary, and good thoughts, every one of 'em, I'll bet my next pay.

She's a good woman, your mother; I guess likely you know it without

me sayin' so. I call Susan Denison the best woman I know, and I've

told my wife so, more times than she says she has any occasion for.

I don't say she's an angel, but she's a good woman, and that's as fur

as we're likely to get in this world.

"But that ain't what I wanted to say to you, May! Somehow or 'nother,

the story's got round about your findin' that pin yesterday. You

didn't say nothin'?"

"Not a word!" said Mary. "How could it--"

"'Twas that pison Hitchcock, I expect!" said Gregory. "I see him

lookin' up with his little eyes, as red as a ferret, and as ugly. I

bet he started the hull thing; and he's tacked on a passel of lies,

and the endurin' place is hummin' with it. Thought I'd tell ye

before ye went in, so's ye could fix up a little what to say."

Mary thanked him cordially, and passed on into the mill: the old man

looked after her with a very friendly glance in his keen blue eyes.

"She's good stuff, May is!" he murmured. "Good stuff, like her mother.

"Folks is like rags, however you look at 'em. Take a good linen rag,

no matter how black it is, and put it through the washers, and the

bleachers, and the cutters, and all the time it's gettin' whiter and

whiter, and sweeter and sweeter, the more you bang it round; till at

last you have bank-note paper, and write to the Queen of England on

it, if you're a mind to, and she won't have none better. And take

jute or shoddy, and the minute you touch to wash it, it cockles up,

or drops to pieces, and it ain't no good to mortal man. Jest like

folks, I tell ye! and May and her mother's pure linen clippin's, if

ever I see 'em."

Forewarned is forearmed, and Mary met quietly the buzz of inquiry

that greeted her when she entered the rag-room. The girls crowded

round her, the men were not far behind. To each and all Mary told the

simple truth, trying not to say a word too much. "The tongue is a

fire!" her mother's favorite text, was constantly in her mind, and

she was determined that no ill word should be spoken of Mr. Gordon,

if she could help it. Almost every one in the mill liked and

respected the "Old Man;" but the human mind loves a sensation, and

Lena and Hitchcock had told their story so vividly the day before

that Mary's account seemed tame and dull beside it; and some of the

hands preferred to think that "Mame Denison was a sly one, and

warn't goin' to let on, fear some one'd git ahead of her."

Lena, who came shortly, in her usual dress, fostered this feeling,

not from malice, but from sheer love of excitement and gossip. In

spite of Mary's efforts, the excitement increased, and when, late in

the afternoon, word came that Mary Denison was wanted in the office,

the rag-room was left fairly bubbling with wild surmise.

Mr. Gordon did not see Mary when she came in. He was standing at his

desk, with an open letter in his hand, and his face was disturbed as

he spoke to the senior clerk.

"Myers, it is as I feared about that bag of rags from Blankton. You

have kept it carefully tied up, and close by the chlorides, as I

told you?"

Myers, a clear-eyed, honest-browed man, looked troubled.

"I did, sir!" he said. "I have looked at the bag every time I passed

that way, and have cautioned every one in the mill not to go near it,

besides keeping the shed-gate locked; but this morning I found that

it had been tampered with, and evidently something taken out. I hope

there is nothing wrong, sir!"

George Gordon struck his hand heavily on the desk. "Wrong!" he

repeated. "There have been two fatal cases of smallpox in Blankton,

and that bag has been traced to the house where they were."

There was a moment of deathly silence. He went on:

"I suspected something wrong, the moment you told me of things that

looked new and good; but I did not want to raise a panic in the mill,

when there might be some other explanation. I thought I had taken

every precaution--what is that?"

He turned quickly, hearing a low cry behind him. Mary Denison was

standing with clasped hands, her face white with terror.

"Mary!" said Mr. Gordon, in amazement. "You--surely you have had

nothing to do with this?"

"No, sir!" cried Mary. "Oh, no, Mr. Gordon, indeed I have not. But I

fear--I fear I know who has. Oh, poor thing! poor Lena!"

Then, with an impulse she could not explain, she turned suddenly

upon Hitchcock.

"Who let Lena Laxen into the yard last night?" she cried. "She could

not have got in without help. You had a key--you were talking to her

after I left her yesterday. Oh! look at him, Mr. Gordon! Mr. Myers,

look at that man!"

But Hitchcock did not seem to hear or heed her. He sat crouched over

his desk, his face a greenish-gray color, his eyes staring, his

hands clutching the woodwork convulsively; an awful figure of terror,

that gasped and cowered before them. Then suddenly, with a cry that

rattled in his throat, he dashed from his seat and ran bareheaded

out of the door.

Myers started up to pursue him, but Mr. Gordon held up his hand.

"Let him go!" he said, sternly. "It may be that he carries his

punishment with him. In any case we shall see him no more."

Quickly and quietly he gave Myers his orders; to take Lena Laxen to

her home, notify the physician, and proclaim a strict quarantine; to

burn the infected rags without loss of time; to have every part of

the shed where the fatal bag had stood thoroughly disinfected. When

the man had hastened away, Mr. Gordon turned to Mary, and his stern

face lightened.

"Do not distress yourself, Mary," he said, kindly. "It may be that

Lena will escape the infection; it seems that she only had the

garment on a few minutes; and you did all you could, I am sure, to

dissuade her from this piece of fatal and dishonest folly."

"Oh! I might have said more!" cried Mary, in an agony of

self-reproach. "I meant to go into her house this morning, and try

to make her hear reason; it might not have been too late then."

"Thank Heaven you did not!" said Mr. Gordon, gravely. "The air of

the house was probably already infected. No one save the doctor must

go near that house till all danger of the disease developing is over."

He then told Mary briefly why he had sent for her. Finding that he

could not go to Boston himself at present, as he had planned, he had

sent the brooch by express to a jeweller whom he knew, and would be

able to tell her in a few days whether it was of real value or not.

Mary thanked him, but his words fell almost unheeded on her ears.

What were jewels or money, in the face of a danger so awful as that

which now threatened her friend, and, through her, the whole village?

Days of suspense followed. From the moment when the weeping,

agonized Lena was taken home and put, tenderly, pityingly, in her

mother's hands (it was Mr. Gordon himself who had done this, refusing

to let any other perform the duty), an invisible line was drawn

about the Laxen cottage, which few dared pass. The doctor came and

went, reporting all well to the eager questioners. Mr. Gordon called

daily to inquire, and every evening Mary Denison stole to the door

with a paper or magazine for Lena and her mother, or some home-made

delicacy that might please the imprisoned girl. Lena was usually at

the window, sometimes defiant and blustering, sometimes wild with

fright, sometimes again crying for sheer loneliness and vexation;

but always behind her was her mother's pale face of dread, and her

thin voice saying that Lena was "as well as common, thank ye," and

she and Mary would exchange glances, and Mary would go away drawing

breath, and thanking the Lord that another day was gone.

So on, for nine anxious days; but on the tenth, when Mary looked up

at the window, the mother stood there alone, crying; and the doctor,

coming out of the house at the moment, told Mary harshly to keep away

from him, and not to come so near the house.

In the dreadful days that followed, his people learned to know

George Gordon as they had never known him before. The grave, silent

man, who never spoke save when speech was necessary, was now among

them every day, going from room to room with cheerful greetings,

encouraging, heartening, raising the drooping spirits, and rebuking

sharply the croakers, who foretold with dismal unction a general

epidemic. While taking every possible precaution, he made light of

the actual danger, and by his presence and influence warded off the

panic which might have brought about the dreaded result.

As a matter of fact, there were no more cases in the mill; and Lena

herself had the terrible disease more lightly than any one had dared

to hope. The doctor, hurrying through back ways and alleys to change

his clothes and take his bath of disinfectants, was hailed from back

gates and windows at every step; and he never failed to return a

cheery "Doing well! out of it soon now! No, not much marked, only a

few spots here and there."

This was when he left the quarantined house; but when he sought it,

he might be seen to stop at one gate and another, picking up here a

jar, there a bowl, here again a paper bag; till by the time he

reached the Laxen gate he stood out all over with packages like a

summer Santa Claus.

"There ain't anybody goin' to starve round here, if they _have_ got

the smallpox!" was the general verdict, voiced by James Gregory, and

when he added, for the benefit of the mill-yard, that he had heard

Mr. Gordon order ice-cream, oranges, and oysters, all at once, for

Lena, a growl of pleasure went round, which deepened into a hearty

"What's the matter with the Old Man? _he's_ all right!"

At length, one happy day, Mary Denison met Mr. Gordon at the Laxens'

gate, and heard the good news that Lena was sitting up; that in a

day or two now the quarantine would be taken off, the house

disinfected, and Lena back in her place at the mill. The manager

looked with satisfaction at Mary's beaming face of happiness; then,

as she was turning away to spread the good tidings, he said:

"Wait a moment, Mary! I have some other news for you. Have you

forgotten the brooch that you found in the Blue Egyptians?"

The color rushed to Mary's face, and Mr. Gordon had his answer.

"Because," he added, "I have not forgotten, though you might well

think I had done so. All this sad business has delayed matters, but

now I have it all arranged. I am ready to-day, Mary, to give you

either the brooch itself, or--what I think will be better--five

hundred dollars, the sum I find it to be worth. Yes, my child, I am

speaking the truth! The stones are fine ones, and the Boston

jeweller offers you that sum for them. Well, Mary, have you nothing

to say? What, crying? this will never do!"

But Mary had nothing to say, and she was crying, because she could

not help it. Presently she managed to murmur something about

"Too much! too great kindness--not fair for her to have it all!" but

Mr. Gordon cut her short.

"Certainly you are to have it all, every penny of it! Finding's

having! that is paper-mill law; ask James Gregory if it is not!

There comes James this moment; go and tell him of your good fortune,

and let him bring you up to my house this evening to get the money.

"But, Mary,"--he glanced at a letter in his hand, and his face,

which had been bright with kindness and pleasure, grew very

grave,--"there is something else for you to tell James, and all the

hands. James Hitchcock died yesterday, of malignant smallpox!"

[Footnote 1: The main incidents in this story are founded on fact.]

LITTLE BENJAMIN

"Then is little Benjamin their ruler."

"I THINK the kitty wants to come in," said Mother Golden. "I hear

him crying somewhere. Won't you go and let him in, Adam?"

Adam laid down his book and went out; the whole family looked up

cheerfully, expecting to see Aladdin, the great Maltese cat, enter

with his stately port. There was a pause; then Adam came back with a

white, scared face, and looked at his father without speaking.

"What is the matter, my son?" asked Father Golden.

"Is Kitty hurt?" asked Mother Golden, anxiously.

"Was it that dog of Jackson's?" cried Lemuel, Mary, Ruth, and Joseph.

"The cat isn't there!" said Adam. "It's--it's a basket, father."

"A basket? What does the boy mean?"

"A long basket, with something white inside; and--it's crying!"

The boy had left the door open, and at this moment a sound came

through it, a long, low, plaintive cry.

"My heart!" said Mother Golden; and she was out of the door in a

flash.

"See there now!" said Father Golden, reprovingly. "Your mother's

smarter than any of you to-day. Go and help her, some of you!"

The children tumbled headlong toward the door, but were met by

Mother Golden returning, bearing in her strong arms a long basket,

in which was indeed something white and fluffy that cried.