LOTTIE PIPER.
Flora had stood for some little time, mechanically caressing the vine,
when she was surprised to hear near at hand, in a voice strangely
familiar, the words:
"Well, I declare!"
Looking up quickly, but scarcely crediting her own eyes, she exclaimed:
"Lottie Piper!"
"Flora Hazeley!" returned the voice, and in a moment the friends were
locked in each other's arms.
"Where did you come from? What are you doing here?" asked Flora,
eagerly, in her desire to account for Lottie's presence in the village.
"Only one question at a time, if you please," laughingly returned
Lottie. "Can you not guess?" she added, glancing at her gown, and for
the first time Flora noticed it was black.
The quick tears sprang to Flora's eyes.
"Oh, Lottie, who is it? Not your mother?" she said, sympathetically,
her arm tightening in its grasp, and her thoughts running back to her
sorrow when Aunt Bertha passed away.
"Yes," returned Lottie, sadly, "mother is dead. Father felt that he
could not be happy at home, and so he went away out West, and left me
with my aunt, Mrs. Emmeline Durand. And Flora, if you want to know what
misery is, just you come and take my place for a while." And she looked
at Flora with such a mingled expression of regret at her lot, and
assumed resignation, that Flora was tempted to laugh, in spite of her
sorrow in learning of the death of Mrs. Piper.
"If you want to laugh, you may," said Lottie, seeing her difficulty, and
appreciating it, as was shown by the merry twinkle in her bright black
eyes.
"No, no, I must not laugh," said Flora, squeezing her friend's arm
affectionately. "I'm so sorry that your mother is dead. Where does your
aunt live? I will come and see you."
"No, you--I mean you--can't--that is, she won't let you," stammered
Lottie, blushing hotly.
"Yes, I understand. It is all right. It is not your fault," said Flora,
hastily, appreciating the situation; and wishing to relieve the
embarrassment of the other, she added, "You can come and see me."
"I don't know," answered Lottie, glad to find that Flora understood. "I
hardly think she would let me come. I have not asked her to go anywhere,
as yet. I have been with her about five weeks, and this is the first
time I have been out, except on an errand. She says she doesn't approve
of girls 'gadding the streets.' I must go now. I have stayed longer than
I ought to already, for I had a long walk before I saw you. Flora," she
added, an instant later, as she glanced at the window, "isn't that a
potato in that jar?"
"Yes," answered Flora, "it is the same one you gave me when I was
leaving Brinton."
"Really? The very same?"
"Yes. You know you told me not to eat it, and I didn't know what to do
with it at first. Then I thought it would look very nice if I put it in
the window; I did, and it has grown splendidly and has kept green all
winter."
"I am so glad you thought of that, Flora, because that was what I first
noticed as I passed. And I thought it looked like a sweet-potato vine.
And then, you know," Lottie continued, "if you hadn't I should not have
stopped or seen you ever, because I did not know where you were going
when you came away. But what will my aunt say? I guess I'll not get
anything for supper but a bit of tongue, and I don't fancy that, I can
tell you. Good-bye." And with a hurried kiss, and a warm embrace, Lottie
hurried down the street.
She was sorry to go, as it was so good to meet somebody she
knew--somebody connected with the old, happy home-life, for while
Lottie's mother lived, she had been very happy. But now she was so
lonely.
She hurried along the streets until she came to one near the suburbs of
the town. This street had trees on either side, and was very quiet. The
houses were small and nearly all set back from the street.
Lottie walked along briskly, turning deftly in and out, and at length
arrived safe and sound at the little gate leading into her aunt's yard.
This gate opened upon a small space, which doubtless had been intended
by the builder of the house to be beautified with flowers; but Mrs.
Durand's front yard was closely paved with red brick. Not a flower, or a
vine, or a bush broke the monotony, which, however, was not wearisome,
as the yard was small.
A high board fence enclosed the little yard on each side. Close to the
gate stood a large, old poplar, strangely drawn toward the quiet narrow
street, as if weary of the unattractiveness of the house.
Lottie was nervous; she dreaded the reception she felt sure awaited her.
The only thing that occurred to her to do was to knock, and she did so.
Receiving no response, she knocked again and waited. There was still no
response, and thinking she had not been heard, she knocked again and
again.
At length, just as she had decided that her aunt must be out, a calm
voice from behind the door said in deliberate tones:
"If you will take the trouble to turn the knob, the door might open."
This idea had not occurred to Lottie, and the knowledge that the door
was not locked somewhat confused her. However, she opened the door, and
went in.
"There is a mat in front of the door," suggested the voice in the same
slow, measured tones.
After wiping off the infinitesimal amount of dust from her shoes, Lottie
timidly ventured into the room.
"Go to your room, if you will, and lay aside your wraps," came the
voice, in an authoritative way.
Without speaking, Lottie obeyed. She felt as she slowly climbed the
stairs that she had become a veritable automaton, without volition or
energy, and compelled to do certain things. This grated on the sensitive
nature of the girl, to whom, in the happy days that had passed, freedom
to live in and enjoy the open air was everything. And now--and Lottie
inwardly groaned at the thought--her actions were directed by one who
seemed to forget her own girlhood, or that she had ever enjoyed the
bright blue sky, the green fields, the merry, twittering birds, or the
companionship of those who were of her own age.
Lottie had often wondered in her own mind if her aunt had ever been
young, and if she had enjoyed her youth. There was no one to whom she
could go for an answer. Had there been, Lottie would have been surprised
to learn that she had been full of bright, merry fun, and had enjoyed
life as she had at home.
"At home," Lottie thought, and paused, thinking of her mother, of the
comforts and freedom of home, and then she looked in the glass to see if
she was not old, for those happy days _did_ seem so far away.
Mrs. Durand had met with many disappointments and a great deal of
trouble in her life, of which Lottie knew nothing, and which had
embittered her disposition, making her crabbed and disagreeable. As she
now was, Lottie supposed she had ever been.
For some moments Lottie had looked in the glass, musingly. Now, as her
thoughts returned to herself and her surroundings, she saw a dreary,
woe-begone face looking at her from the quaint, cracked, old-fashioned
mirror on her bureau. It was so doleful and forlorn, that Lottie nearly
cried in sympathy with the miseries of the face before her. In a moment,
realizing that it was her own reflection she saw, and enjoying her
mistake, she laughed heartily, whereat the face in the mirror smiled
pleasantly in return.
"Humph!" said the voice downstairs.
"Oh dear!" exclaimed Lottie softly; "I have made her think that I don't
care about staying out so long." And she slowly turned from the bureau
and her mirth-provoking _vis a vis_, and leaving her room, slowly
descended the stairs to her aunt.
The room in which her aunt sat was furnished very plainly. Some
cane-bottomed chairs, a black horse-hair sofa, a small wooden stand,
adorned with a red cloth on which was the family Bible; two or three
pictures upon the dingy walls, a pair of tall lamps with a bit of red
flannel in the bottom, graced the mantelpiece. A dull ingrain carpet,
and some home-made mats covered the floor. These, with a cloth-covered
brick used to keep the door open, completed the furnishing of Mrs.
Durand's parlor.
Mrs. Durand herself was a small, thin, wiry woman. Her features could
hardly be called attractive; her lips were thin and tightly shut; her
eyes were colorless, and she wore three stiff, little curls on each side
of her face. She wore a dark gown, over which was a black apron, and on
her head was a black lace cap. She was busily engaged in making another
mat to adorn the floor, from long, bright-colored strips of cloth.
For some time she continued her work in silence. Lottie would have
spoken had she had anything to say.
Presently, to Lottie's great surprise and relief, her aunt remarked:
"You may as well set the table, as you are here."
Lottie was glad to have something to do, as she was so much happier when
employed.
"She hasn't scolded me yet, but it will come, that's certain," she said
to herself, as she placed the dishes on the little round table in the
back room which answered for both kitchen and dining room.
While at supper, Mrs. Durand questioned her niece about her walk, and
Lottie told her, not forgetting the chance meeting with her friend,
Flora Hazeley.
After supper, as was her duty, Lottie washed and put away the dishes,
without further conversation with her aunt. That done, she took up a
book and began to read.