"Not now," said Mr. Stanton, "we have done the best we can for the
roof, and I must go home; but I shall come over again this afternoon
to see Dolly, and I will tell you the story of a tiger hunt then.
But"--looking about him,--"this is not a very nice place to sit down
and tell a story in, with all these bones, ashes, and bits of old iron
lying about."
"I'll fix it up, fustrate," exclaimed Lem; "but now, I say, mister,"
and Lem hitched up his ragged pantaloons, scratched his head, and dug
his bare toes into a patch of moss in an unwonted fit of shame.
"Well," said Mr. Stanton, kindly.
"I didn't take little Shiny-hair's cup, now, I didn't; and I wish you
wouldn't think it."
"I do not think it, Lem. The cup is found, and I do not believe you
took it."
"Don't you, now?" said Lem, looking up; "well, I thought may be you
didn't when you gi' me the money for the straw."
"I am glad to know that I may trust you, Lem," said Mr. Stanton.
Mr. Bradford, Mrs. Stanton, and the Porters had long since gone away,
leaving Mr. Stanton to finish the roof. He walked slowly homeward,
wondering if he had that morning really gained any hold on these
wretched children; or if, as so many others had proved, his pains had
all been labor thrown away. When he reached the fireplace, he found
that the rest of the party had gone home; for the mending of the roof
had been a good two hours' work, and it was now nearly Mrs. Porter's
early dinner hour.
When Mr. Bradford left Lem's hovel, and joined his wife and children,
he found his little girls very eager for news of Dolly. He told them
of all that had been done, and then said,--
"Bessie, I have a pleasant surprise for you. Can you guess what it may
be?"
"I know what I would _like_ it to be, papa, but I suppose it couldn't;
and mamma said it was not best to wish for things that cannot be."
"Well," said Mr. Bradford, "suppose you let me hear what you would
like it to be."
"Papa, I would like it to be my cup; but if it was, I would be _too_
surprised and _too_ glad for any thing, and I try not to think too
much about it."
Mr. Bradford put his hand into his pocket, and, pulling out the
beloved cup, held it before the delighted eyes of his little daughter.
She gave a glad cry, and the next moment both small hands were holding
fast the recovered treasure, and clasping it to her breast. She even
kissed it in her joy and thankfulness. Then papa was asked when and
how he had found it, and told the whole story. Maggie and Bessie were
very glad to hear that it was probably the pedler who had taken the
cup; for since they had been trying to act and feel kindly towards Lem
and Dolly, they were anxious to believe as much good and as little ill
of them as possible.
"For you see, papa," said Maggie, "you see the pedler is quite a
stranger to us, and we know Lem and Dolly a little. It's a pretty poor
kind of a way to be acquainted, to be sure; but then we are pretty
interested about them, and we like to think they did not do this one
bad thing. And I think it would be rather astonishing if Dolly was
not mad when Lem was shut up, and she knew he had not taken Bessie's
cup. I would have been, if some one had shut up Fred or Harry, and I'm
afraid I would have wanted to return them a little evil; so now it is
a little easier to forgive her about our gardens."
"And she said she was sorry about the gardens," said Bessie; "maybe it
was her sorriness that made her tell where my cup was. Oh, my dear,
dear cup! I am so glad it has come back."
And now the cup must have a good washing in the spring; after which,
Bessie took a long drink from it. Not that she was in the least
thirsty, but it was such a pleasure to drink once more from the
beloved cup, and she thought no water had ever tasted so delicious.
Then each one of her friends was obliged to take a drink, and to say
how very nice it was; and for the rest of the day, she was every five
minutes asking some one if they were not thirsty, and if she could
persuade them to say yes, she would run and fill the cup. So much
water did she and Maggie find it necessary to drink, and so much did
they persuade, and even bribe, Frankie to take, that mamma was obliged
to put a stop to the fun lest they should make themselves sick.
When Mr. Stanton and Mr. Bradford went up to the hut that afternoon,
they found that Lem had been as good as his word. All the old bones
and feathers, bits of rusty iron, half-burnt sticks, and ashes, had
been picked up, and put out of sight. Lem had even made a poor broom
out of some dry birch twigs and a stick, and with this he had tried
to sweep off the broad slab of rock on which the house stood. It was
not half done, to be sure; Lem was not used to sweeping, or to making
things tidy; but he thought he had made the place very fine for his
new friends, and they did not fail to praise and admire. Moreover,
Lem had washed his face, for the first time perhaps in many weeks
or months; and, although he had left his cheeks all streaked and
channelled, it was at least an attempt at something better, and, so
far, even this was promising.
Dolly was awake, but quite wild, and talked in a rambling way of
silver cups and angels, of gardens and music, of the Ice Glen and the
dark, dark night. Her fever was very high, and her poor head rolled
from side to side; but, in spite of her restlessness, she could not
move hand or foot, for the terrible pains which racked her and made
her cry out on the slightest motion.
"She's awful sick, aint she?" said Lem, as he stood beside the two
gentlemen, and saw with what grave faces they watched his sister.
"She is very sick, Lem," said Mr. Bradford; "too sick to be left here
alone with you. I must go and see if I can find some one to come and
take care of her to-night;" and, after saying a few words in French to
his brother-in-law, Mr. Bradford walked away.
Mr. Stanton stayed behind. He had brought with him the upper half of
an old window-sash which he had begged from Mr. Porter, a hammer, and
some large nails; and he now told Lem they must go to work again, and
he would tell the promised story as they worked. The sash was too
large for the square hole in the side of the house which served for
a window; but Mr. Stanton made it answer for the time, hanging it by
strips of leather, nailed at one end to the sash, at the other to the
boards above the window. This now served the purpose, since it could
be raised or let down as might be needed. Then the crazy door was
taken down, and hung anew on its two hinges; and, as the old latch was
quite worn out and useless, Mr. Stanton fashioned a wooden button by
which it might be fastened.
Meanwhile he told in low tones, that Dolly might not be disturbed, the
story of a famous tiger hunt. Lem listened eagerly,--listened with
ears, eyes, and mouth, if such a thing could be; for the two latter
were so wide open that he seemed to be drinking in the tale by these
as well as by the proper channel. But Mr. Stanton soon found he was
not to be depended upon for work. Accustomed to an idle, lazy life,
Lem could not fix his attention and employ his hands at the same
time. If Mr. Stanton reminded him of his work, he would hammer or cut
away for one moment; the next his hands would be clasping his knees in
an ecstasy of delight and wonder at the strange but true tale he was
listening to.
The gentleman let it pass, however. Lem's help was not of much account
at the best; and his object just now was to gain a hold on the boy,
and interest him. Teaching, advice, or reproof might come by and by,
when he had made Lem feel he meant to be a friend to him.
Nevertheless, Lem had not the least idea that he had not done his own
share of the work; and when the door and make-shift window were both
in their places he exclaimed,--
"We did fix it up fustrate; didn't we mister?"
"I am glad you like it," said Mr. Stanton, looking about him. "What
have you there, Lem?" and he pointed to four small rustic boxes
standing at the side of the hut. They were made of twigs and bits of
wood curiously woven together, and were filled with earth. Two of
these held nothing else, in each of the others grew two scraggy little
plants.
"Oh, them!" said Lem, "them's nothing but Doll's pots. She made 'em
at odd times, always had a knack that way; and them things growin' in
'em is marygools, I guess. She picked up a paper with some seeds in
it, on the road one day, and nothin' would serve her but to plant 'em.
So she made the pots for 'em and stuck 'em in, but none of 'em come
to nothin', only them two. I tell her there's lots of better lookin'
things in the woods, to be had for the pickin'; but somehow she sets a
heap by them old things, and waters 'em every day.
"Then you must take care of them for her, while she is sick; won't
you?" said Mr. Stanton.
"S'pose so," said Lem; "but they'll never be no good."
[Illustration]
XIII.
_A RIDE ON THE SHEAVES._
MR. BRADFORD had gone in search of Mr. Porter; but when he reached the
Lake House, he did not find him there; for this was harvest time, and
the old man, still strong and hearty, was out in the fields, helping
his sons and hired men to mow and carry in the grain. The whole flock
of little ones, boys and girls, were out in the harvest fields too,
and there went papa.
What a pretty, joyous sight it was! At the farther side of the fields,
were the reapers, cutting with long, regular sweeps the yellow grain;
while, nearer at hand, were others binding it in sheaves. Among these
were Harry, Fred, and Hafed.
Upon an overturned sheaf, sat mammy, her baby on her knee, the little
one crowing and laughing, and shaking her dimpled hands, each of which
grasped half a dozen ears of wheat, a new and wonderful plaything to
baby's eyes, as they bobbed their heads up and down with the motion.
Near by, where the wheat still lay as it had been cut, in long even
rows, was Frankie, in busy mischief as usual, snatching up whole
handfuls of it, and tossing it above his head with shouts of glee.
Mr. Porter would not have him stopped; no one minded a little more
trouble, provided the children had their fun, he said. The old man
himself stood by the side of the great ox cart, which was filled
with golden sheaves; and on the top of these Maggie and Bessie sat
in state, their hands and round straw hats filled with bright, red
poppies. John Porter was about to give them a ride up to the great
barn where the wheat was to be stored.
Mr. Bradford stood for a moment looking at it all, then walked up to
Mr. Porter.
"Mr. Porter," he said, "can you tell me where I can find some one who
will go and nurse that poor girl? She is too ill to be left with no
one but her brother to take care of her."
Mr. Porter shook his head.
"I don't know of a soul that would be willing to go. 'Taint a place
where one would care to pass the night, with the chance, too, of Owen
coming home."
"If good pay could induce any one to do it, that shall not be
wanting," said Mr. Bradford. "Is there no one in the village who would
do it for that?"
"Well, I do know of a poor woman who might be glad to earn a little
that way," said Mr. Porter; "but we could not get at her to-night. It
is too late now to go down the mountain, with the roads washed as they
were by the rain of night before last. There's no moon, and it would
not be safe coming back; but I'll send for her in the morning, if you
say so."
"I do say so," replied Mr. Bradford; "but what are we to do for
to-night?"
Maggie and Bessie heard no more; for just then John Porter gave the
word to his oxen, and they started off, leaving papa and Mr. Porter
still talking.
What a pleasant ride that was: out of the field where the bars
had been let down; past other fields ready, or nearly ready, for
the harvesting; pale green oats, and golden wheat, the white,
sweet-scented buckwheat, and the tall Indian corn; then through the
orchard where a flock of sheep were feeding, past the locust grove,
and then into the farmyard; stopping at last between the open doors of
the great barn!
But, in spite of it all, our little girls were rather thoughtful as
they jogged slowly on.
"Maggie," said Bessie, presently, "won't it be dreadful if papa can't
get any one to take care of poor sick Dolly to-night?"
"Yes," said Maggie: "I wonder what she will do."
"If I was big, and mamma would let me, I'd go myself," said Bessie.
"Would you?" said Maggie; "well, I am afraid I wouldn't: so it's
better that I am not big, 'cause then I needn't have a troubled
conscience for not doing it."
They were both silent for a moment or two. John Porter was walking at
his oxen's heads, out of hearing, if the children lowered their voices.
"Bessie," said Maggie, in a whisper, "John Porter might do it,
mightn't he? He is big and strong enough."
"Yes," answered Bessie, "and he heard what papa said too; but he
didn't say he'd go. Perhaps it didn't come into his head. Shall we try
to put it there, Maggie?"
"Yes: maybe you can coax him to do it."
"I'll try, and see if I can make him compassioned of poor Dolly.
John," she said, in a louder tone, "you are very glad you are well and
strong; are you not?"
"Surely," said John.
"And you wouldn't like to be sick at all, would you, John?"
"Not one bit," said John. "I'd scarce know myself, for I never was
sick in my life, that I remember."
"Then I s'pose you feel very thankful for it, and as if you'd like to
help make sick people as well as you are; don't you?" said Bessie.
"Guess I wouldn't make much hand at that," answered John.
"But you are big and strong, John."
"Yes, I'm big and strong enough; but it takes more than that to make
a good nurse. If it came in my way to do a good turn for a sick body,
and there was no one else to do it, why I'd lend a hand; but I don't
know as they'd thank me for it."
"Oh yes they would, John," said Maggie, eagerly; "if I was sick and
had no one to take care of me, and you came to do it, I'd thank you
ever so much."
"Well, I'll do it when you come to that pass," said John, without the
least idea what the little girls were driving at.
"He don't seem to understand yet," whispered Maggie to her sister;
"try him with the 'Golden Rule.'"
"John," said Bessie, "are you not very fond of doing as you would be
done by?"
"As fond as most folks, I guess," said John. "'Gee, there! gee,
Whitefoot!"
Bessie waited till they had passed through the gate of the orchard,
then began again.
"John, if there was a chance to do as you would be done by, and you
did not think of it, would you like some one to tell you of it?"
John looked round at her and laughed.
"If there's any thing you want me to do for you, out with it. It's no
good beating about the bush. You know I always like to do for you what
I can."
"Yes: you are very good to us," said Bessie; "but it was not us: it
was Dolly. Don't you think it would be doing as you would be done by
to go and take care of her to-night?"
"Whew! that's it, is it?" said John. "Maybe it would be; but that
_would_ be a good thing to see me taking care of Dolly Owen;" and John
laughed loud and long.
Bessie was displeased, and drew herself up with a little dignified air.
"I don't think he is coaxed a bit," she whispered; "he is very
hard-hearted."
"No," said Maggie: "I don't believe he is the kind to be coaxed."
"Then I'll have to be a little strict with him, and show him it's his
duty," said Bessie, in the same tone.
"Yes, to let him see he ought to do it, whether he likes it or not,"
said Maggie; "maybe he's never been taught that."
"John," said Bessie, folding her little hands gravely in her lap, and
trying to look sternly at the young man, "perhaps you don't know that
if we know we ought to do a thing and don't do it, our Father is not
very pleased with us."
"May be so," said John; "but I don't feel it's _my_ duty to go and
take care of Dolly."
"Whose duty is it, then?" asked Bessie.
"Not any one's that's likely to do it, I guess."
Bessie was in despair, but she thought she would try a little more
severity.
"John," she said, "when you are poor and ragged, and sick and bad, I
hope some one will have pity of you, and go take care of you."
"I hope so too; but I don't feel there's any call on me to go and look
after that thieving beggar, nor for you to trouble yourselves about
her, after all she's done to you," answered John.
"John," said Bessie, solemnly, "I'm afraid we don't think you quite so
very nice as we did this morning; and I'm afraid you are one of those
to whom our Lord will say, 'I was sick, and ye visited me not.'"
But John was only amused at her displeasure, and laughed aloud again.
Neither of the children spoke till they reached the barn, when John
came to the side of the cart and lifted them down.
"Well, you are just two of the funniest, forgivingest little things,"
he said, as he put Bessie on her feet.
Bessie deigned no answer; but with an air of great displeasure turned
away, and stood at a little distance with Maggie, watching the men
pitch the sheaves up into the loft.
"Are you going back with me?" asked John, when he was ready to start
for the harvest-field again.
"No," Bessie answered, rather shortly.
"Why, you're not offended with me, are you?" said John, "and all along
of that ragamuffin up there."
"We're displeased with you," said Bessie. "It's right to be displeased
with people when you tell them what is right, and they don't do it;
but if you're going to repent, we'll forgive you."
John answered with another "ha-ha."
"Well, no," he said; "I don't think I'm ready for repentance in that
line yet. I hope I'll never do any thing worse than refusing to take
care of a sick beggar."
"I hope so too," said Bessie, reprovingly. "That's quite worse
enough," and she and Maggie walked out of the farmyard, and turned
into the lane which led up to the house.
"Hallo!" John called out, mischievously; "if you feel so bad about
Dolly, why don't you ask your father or uncle to go up and see after
her?"
Neither of the little girls turned their heads, but walked straight
on in the most dignified silence, followed by the sound of John's
merriment.
"That's a little too much," said Maggie, when they were beyond
hearing; "idea of papa or Uncle Ruthven staying all night in that
dirty place!"
Bessie did not like the idea either, but her little head was puzzled.
If she thought it right for John Porter to go, ought she not to think
it right for her papa or uncle? She did not at all thank John for
putting the thought into her head: it was fresh cause of offence
against him; but now that it was there, she could not shut it out.
"Maggie," she said, "I wonder if we ought not to put it into papa's or
Uncle Ruthven's mind?"
"Pooh! no," said Maggie; "they've sense enough to think it out for
themselves if they ought to go: but I don't think John Porter is very
sensible; do you?"
"I guess I won't say he's unsensible just now," said Bessie. "I'm
'fraid I feel 'most too mad."
"What difference does that make?" asked Maggie.
"'Cause mamma said, when I was angry it was better not to say unkind
things about a person; and then when I was pleased with them again I
would see that the unkind things were only in my own heart, and not
quite true. She didn't say just those very words, but that was what
she meant."
"I'm never, never going to be pleased with John Porter again," said
Maggie, shaking her head very decidedly. "Oh! there's Mrs. Porter
going to feed the chickens; let's go help her."
The chickens had been fed and had gone to roost, and the little girls
had been with Dolly and Fanny to the pasture to see the cows milked,
before they went back to the house, and met Uncle Ruthven just coming
home. They ran up to him, and each taking a hand, asked for news of
Dolly. It was not good,--worse, if any thing, than the last; and they
looked rather sober as they walked with their uncle up the steps of
the piazza, where all the rest of the family were gathered.
"Well," said Uncle Ruthven to papa, "have you had any success?"
"Not the least," said Mr. Bradford; and then he told what Mr. Porter
had said.
"She must be looked after to-night," said Mr. Stanton. "Lem does not
know what to do for her, and is frightened half out of his senses at
the thought of being alone with her. It would be cruel to leave them."
"Yes," said Maggie, indignantly; "we were trying to make John Porter
see it was his duty to go and take care of her, but he would not. He
has not a bit of compassion."
"We said every thing we could, till we were quite despaired of him,"
put in Bessie; "but it was all of no use."
"What makes you think John Porter ought to go and take care of her?"
asked Uncle Ruthven.
"Oh! 'cause he's such a big, strong fellow," said Maggie, "so we
thought it was his duty; but he would not be put in mind of it."
"Well," said Uncle Ruthven, "there is another big, strong fellow whom
you have put in mind of _his_ duty. He had an inkling of it before,
but I must say he was not very willing to see it."
"Ruthven!" exclaimed his wife, "you do not mean you are going to that
dreadful place to pass the night!"
"I do not see that Maggie and Bessie have left me any choice," he
answered, smiling, and sitting down on the steps beside her, "at
least not if being a big, strong fellow makes it one's duty to go."
"Oh, Uncle Ruthven!" said Maggie, "we never meant you."
"Perhaps not, Maggie; but the shoe fits, so I think I must put it on."
"Is there no one we could find to do it if they were well paid?" said
his wife, pleadingly.
"I expect to be well paid, love," he said in a low tone and with
another smile. "I shall have all the reward I can ask."
Little Bessie was standing at Mrs. Stanton's knee, twisting one over
another her aunt's soft, white fingers, and as her uncle spoke she
looked up brightly.
"We know what he means, don't we, dear Aunt Bessie? He means the cup
of cold water given in Jesus' name shall have its reward. I think
Uncle Ruthven is taking up a jewel."
"Thank you, darling," said Aunt Bessie, with a quiver in her voice.
"For what, Aunt Bessie?"
But Aunt Bessie only smiled and kissed her, and Uncle Ruthven said,--
"I shall borrow the Colonel's camp chair with his permission, and take
some candles and a book, so I shall do very well on this fine, still
night."
"And I shall keep awake all night and think about you, Uncle Ruthven,"
said Maggie; "so if you feel lonely you can know my soul is over there
with you."
So when tea was over, Uncle Ruthven with a lantern, the Colonel's
camp-chair, and some other needful things for Dolly, went over to pass
the night at the wretched hut.
The little girls stood beside Aunt Bessie and watched him as he walked
away, and Bessie, taking Mrs. Stanton's hand in hers, laid her cheek
upon it in her own caressing way, and said,--
"Aunt Bessie, I think we'll _all_ have to try to bear Dolly's burden
to-night."
"It's too bad!" exclaimed Maggie; "it's an awful burden to bear,
it makes me feel homesick, and I want to cry about it, and I just
will--there now!" and Maggie burst into tears.
Mamma came, and after a little petting carried them off to bed, for
they were both tired. But on the way she had to stop in the kitchen
to speak to Mrs. Porter, and there her little girls followed her and
found John.
Now we know Maggie had said she "_never, never_ meant to be pleased
with John again;" but when he called to them, and said he had a treat
for them the next day, she somehow found herself, she did not quite
know how, talking away to him, and begging to know what it was, as if
she had never been displeased with him in her life.
But after she was in bed and mamma had gone, she suddenly popped up
her head and said,--
"Bessie, what do you think? I went and forgot I was mad with John
Porter. Now, what shall I do about it?"
"I guess you'll have to stay unmad," said Bessie, sleepily.
"Yes, I s'pose I will," said Maggie; "and I believe I'm rather glad
of it. I don't feel very nice when I keep displeased with people, and
John is real good to us, if he wouldn't go stay with Dolly. Are you
going to stay awake all night, and think about Uncle Ruthven?"
"I'd like to," said Bessie; "but I'm 'fraid I can't. I'm so tired and
sleepy, my eyes won't stay open."
"Mine will," said Maggie. "I'm going to make them. I don't mean to
sleep a single wink, but just think about Uncle Ruthven all the
time. Isn't he kind and good, Bessie? John Porter is pretty good
too: I wonder where he's going to take us to-morrow, and if mamma
will let us go,--and s'pose--maybe--Uncle Ruthven in the--rocks--and
I'm--not--going"--
"Maggie," said Uncle Ruthven, the next morning, "I rather think I
missed the company of those constant thoughts you promised me last
night, at least for part of the time."
Maggie climbed on her uncle's knee, put her arms about his neck and
her lips very close to his ear, and whispered,--