Aunt Ruth was in great perplexity. She did not intend to let her mother
see that she was but when had her tell-tale countenance ever hidden
anything from the eyes which watched it so closely and fondly?
So it was of no avail that she sat quietly down with her sewing, by the
open window of their pleasant apartment at the sea-side hotel where
they were staying, and tried to look indifferent. Mother Amy’s gentle
voice broke the stillness at once.
“What is it, Ruth?”
“How does thee know that there is anything? I mean--what does thee
mean?”
“What is troubling thee, my child?” asked the old lady, smiling at
Ruth’s confusion.
“The old subject, Mother Amy.”
“Surely, not my health. The Lord has been very good to me. I have
promise of living yet awhile, to do His work; if so pleases Him.”
“No, not thy health. If no one troubled me more than thee does, sweet
mother, I should find life all too comfortable. It is the children--the
‘pickles.’”
“Thee promised to leave care behind thee when we left The Snuggery, and
thee has bravely tried to keep thy word, though it has been hard at
times. What is new about them, now?”
“I have a letter from Rosetta which puzzles me. I don’t know if thee is
well enough to hear it, but I should like advice.”
“Ruth, I am well; and thee shall have the advice for what it may be
worth to thee.”
Ruth drew a yellow envelope from her pocket. The letter which it
contained was much messed and rumpled, and the blotches of ink were
visible even across the room; so that to look upon it was painful to
Grandmother Kinsolving’s fastidious eyes. Evidently the writer had
concocted the epistle with great labor and at broken intervals, and her
unaccustomed fingers had found the task an almost impossible one.
The letter began,--
DEAR MAM, THAT IS RUTH:
I ain’t a writin’ this to the old laidy, becos I no that You don’t
want her to be Trobbled about the House and what’s in it whilst
she’s away. Well thar hain’t enny use of Worryin’ I don’t suppose;
but I thort I’d better jest rite an’ tell ye, I mean thee, so as ye
wouldn’t hev no call ter blame me fir what i couldn’t noways pervent.
i done the best i could an’ that’s the livin’ truth an’ i didn’t no
nothin’ about it afore she went. but shecum back all rite an’ fetched
Him with her, an’ i don’t no no more what it means, an’ the dead an’
not so much as they sometimes sees into things we canst. i did think
i wouldn’t say nothing about it, an’ then thinks i to myself thinks i
if i Don’t tell em nothin’ an’ they cum home an’ finds it out, mebbe
they’ll blame me an’ no wonder. an’ So i thort i’d rite a few lines
to let yu no that i am well an’ hope these few lines finds yu an’
yours the same. He was shet up with him considable of a Spel, but
they wan’t no more eggsploshuns ner chloroforms so fur forth as i no.
So no more at present from yours in respect of humbly,
ROSETTA PERKINS.
“Ruth! Ruth! give me the letter. Thee cannot have read it aright,” said
Mother Amy, laughing merrily; for her daughter had read the epistle
through exactly as it had been written, without punctuation and with
all the imperfect spelling accented as far as was possible to do so.
The daughter passed the paper over into her mother’s hands and
curiously watched her face while she endeavored to make its meaning
intelligible.
“Well, and what does thee think of it? Can thee guess what mischief
those young ones have been after now?”
“No; I cannot,” said Mrs. Kinsolving, after a second and slower
perusal. “It does not appear to be anything serious, however. I would
not worry about it, if I were in thy place.”
“How can I help it, mother?”
“How, indeed, my Ruth, till thee is made over new! Thee began to worry
in thy cradle, and thee will keep it up until the end, I fear. I wish
thee would not.”
“There has been something going on that Rosetta has been troubled
about.”
“Rosetta is troubled about many things, from ‘pie-crust to religion,’
as thee has so often remarked. It is, likely, something about Abraham
and the stock; and we have known Abraham’s trustworthiness these many
years, although Rosetta still feels a care over him as if he were a
child.”
No surer symptom of Grandmother Kinsolving’s physical improvement could
have been found than in her mirthfulness of mood; and those who heard
her light jests could easily see where Ruth had acquired her odd ways
of looking at life. Mother Amy was religious to her heart’s core, and
the sweetness and gladness of her religion shone through her words
and lovely features as the light within shines through an uncurtained
window on a winter’s night.
“Mother, if thee thinks thee is well enough to be left, I would like
to take a run up to the farm and see with my own eyes if anything is
amiss.”
“Go, if thee likes, my child. I am certainly well enough; besides, in
this kind family are many willing hands to do for me the slightest
service I may require. The young serving-woman that has charge of our
rooms appears to be fond of me. If her mistress is willing, thee might
engage her to look after me in thy absence, and then both thee and I
would feel safe and independent. As much as one human being can ever
be independent of the souls around him,” concluded the dear old lady,
gravely.
So it was settled; and, hoping to be away from her post of love and
duty but for a little while, Ruth Kinsolving tied on her gray bonnet,
and pinned her gray shawl about her shapely shoulders, and set off for
home.
Some days had passed since Octave’s disappearance in a “Mystery,” and
her no less strange reappearance with “Him”; but no explanation had she
vouchsafed of the affair, and the curiosity which had succeeded anxiety
remained in the breasts of the other young householders, to torment
them with ever-growing strength.
Paula had written several letters to Aunt Ruth on the subject, but she
was prudent and thoughtful by nature, and the recollection that no harm
seemed to have come of the adventure, and that Aunt Ruth was easily
disturbed, had restrained her from posting them. They still reposed in
the bottom of her pretty writing-desk, ready for dispatching whenever
it should seem advisable.
Even Content had been moved to interference, and had urged Octave
first, and afterward Melville, to disclose the “Mystery”; but to all
persuasions the “conspirators” turned a deaf ear.
“And won’t you tell _me_, if I promise never-no-never-s’long’s-I-live
to tell nobody else?” asked little Fritz, coaxingly. “Where’d you go
to, Octave, and who was the old man what came home with you?”
“Oh, I couldn’t tell, any how you fix it, dearie. I’ve promised
Melville, and he’s promised me; but by and by everybody will know. You
must all be patient. Grandmother says that ‘patience is a virtue.’”
“Does grandmother know?”
“No, indeed; that is, not about this.”
“Nor Aunty Ruth?”
“Least of all!”
“But she does, though.”
“She cannot, Fritz. How? The girls have all said that they wouldn’t
worry her about it, and Melville hasn’t--that I’m sure of.”
“She does, though.”
“How, Fritzy?”
“Ho! I guess I won’t. I’m a ‘Mystery,’ too!”
“You midget! You don’t even know what a ‘Mystery’ is!”
“Yes, but I do, Paula and Content, they hunted it out in the
dic--dictionary book, and they told me when I asted them. I do know,
so!”
“Tell me what it is, and I’ll believe you understood.”
“It’s a pro--some kind of a secret.”
“Humph! You’re precocious!” said Octave, half vexed.
“I ain’t no such a thing!”
“That doesn’t mean anything bad, Fritzy darling. It means that you are
an unusually smart boy. See?”
“Oh, yes; I knew that. Abry-ham and Rosetta and all of ’em says that,”
answered the little lad, complacently.
“Fritz, your vanity is great.”
“You tell me and I’ll tell you,” said the child, returning to the
subject dearer to him just then than his own perfections.
“Fritz, if I would tell anybody, it would be you. But I cannot; I’ve
promised, and I wouldn’t break my word. I’m sure you couldn’t ask that,
little brother.”
“No,” said Fritz, gravely, with sober memories of that dreadful time
when he broke his own word, and so nearly forfeited his right to be a
gentleman.
“But, if you haven’t promised there is no reason why you should not
tell me how Aunt Ruth heard what I did. I’m sorry, for I don’t want to
worry her, even if I am all right in what I have done, and she will be
proud of me when it is all over.”
“Will she?” This was a new view of the case.
“I think so. Anyway, she’ll be ‘as proud as proud’ of Melville. So it
won’t matter so much about me.”
“What’ll you give me?”
“A cent.”
“’Tain’t enough.”
“Five cents.”
“No, siree. I won’t tell for less than a quarter.”
“You mercenary little wretch! I haven’t but ten cents to my name.”
“Borry of Melville. He always has lots.”
“I don’t like to run in debt.”
“Pshaw! How much have you got, anyway?”
Octave took out a very flat little porte-monnaie and emptied its
contents into Fritzy’s dirty, waiting palms. The amount was eleven
cents and one bad German coin, which the little boy said he would
take “in case it should be good sometime.” Then, for value received,
he imparted the information that “Rosetta wrote a letter. She wrote
it with her tongue and her fingers, and making up faces the worsest
that ever was! An’ when it was done I drove to the post-office in my
pony-cart, and mailed it, an’ the postmaster he gave me a stamp, an’
I licked it on.” After which circumstantial evidence Octave concluded
that there could be no doubt about the matter.
“Well, then all I have to say is, that first thing we know, Aunt Ruth
will come home.”
“Will she?” asked Fritz, eagerly. Then, as a shadow fell across the
path, he looked up. “Ginger!” he cried; “there she is now!”