THE LOCKET TOLD
This is about a girl who drove the village cows out to pasture every
morning and back to the village every evening. She had to pass a small
cottage, almost hidden with flowers, where lived a mysterious woman
whom the foolish and ignorant children of the neighborhood called "old
witch," simply because she had a hump on her back and was rarely seen,
except when she rushed out to drive away some naughty child trying to
steal her flowers through the fence. She attended to her garden very
early in the morning before other people were out of bed, and so was
rarely seen except on these occasions.
One day she was sitting at her window, behind the blinds as usual,
when the girl I spoke of came by with her cows.
"There's that cow-girl again," said Hester Bartlett--for that was her
name--"staring at my sweet peas as usual! I must go and drive her away
or she'll be putting her hand through the fence to get some. But what
a wretched looking creature she is!" she went on thoughtfully, looking
more closely. "She's worse off than you are, Hester Bartlett, if she
hasn't got a humpback. Hardly a decent rag to her back--not a shoe or
stocking--an old boy's hat, picked out of a gutter likely. And how she
does stare! looks as if she'd eat the flowers. Well anyway," she went
on more slowly, "she's got good taste; she never turns an eye on my
finest flowers, but stands glued to the sweet peas."
Another silence; the ragged girl still spellbound without; the little,
humpbacked mistress of the house peering through the blinds, an
unusual feeling of pity restraining her from going to the door and
putting to flight the strange, shy girl who seemed so fond of sweet
peas.
"I've a good mind to give her some," was the kind thought that next
stirred her heart, "but I suppose she'd run away if I spoke to her,
or call me old witch as the rest of 'em do," she went on bitterly,
talking to herself, as people do who live alone; then adding, "Well, I
can't stand here all day; I must go on with my work," she took up a
watering-pot she had filled, and started for her little flower patch.
[Illustration: She had to pass a cottage, almost hidden with Flowers.]
The instant the door opened, the flower-lover at the fence started on
a run after the cows, which finding themselves not urged from behind,
had stopped and were contentedly cropping the grass beside the road.
In a few minutes she had them safely shut into their pasture, and
turned back towards the village.
As she passed Miss Hester, that lady was tying up some straggling
vines, and almost to her own surprise, moved by her unwonted feeling
of pity for the child, she hastily picked half a dozen stems of the
fragrant blossoms and held them out.
"Want some?" she said shortly, almost gruffly, to the half-frightened
child.
The girl stopped. "Oh, Miss Hester!" she said doubtingly, half afraid
of the strange-looking, little woman who lived by herself, and was
never known to speak to anybody.
"If you don't want 'em," said Miss Hester savagely, "you needn't have
'em," and she flung the flowers far over the fence and turned away.
Maggie--for that was her name--with a cry of horror sprang eagerly
after them, picked them up carefully, shook off the dust, and turned
again to the little garden. But Miss Hester had gone in and shut the
door, and slowly, but in a state of rapture, the child went
on--hugging and caressing her flowers,--to what had been her home
since her mother, a year before, had been carried from their poor room
to the hospital, and never come back. She lived with a woman who added
a bit to her scanty earnings by taking the village cows on their
morning and evening journeys, and for this service she gave Maggie a
shelter and a share of the scanty food on her table.
When she went with the cows that evening, Maggie looked eagerly into
the little garden as she passed, but Miss Hester was not there. Maggie
could not see her, but she sat behind her blind looking out eagerly.
Could it be to see the child?
Maggie hesitated; she wanted to say "Thank you," yet she was half
afraid of the strange, silent woman. She waited a moment, hoping she
would come out, but all was still, and slowly and lingeringly at last
she went on.
In this odd way began a curious acquaintance between the lonely woman
and the still more friendless girl. Sometimes, if Miss Hester happened
to be in her garden when Maggie went by, she would half reluctantly
toss a flower over the fence, which Maggie always received with
delight, while still half afraid of the giver. But generally Hester,
with a strange feeling of shyness, managed to be in the house, where
strange to say, she hung around the window and seemed unable to settle
to anything, till the pale little thing had passed.
So it went on, till winter settled down grim and cold on that New
England village, and the cows went no more to the snow-covered
pasture, and Maggie--fixed up a bit as to clothes by some kind ladies
of the village--went every day to school.
As the weather grew colder, Miss Hester shut herself more and more
into her house, and so months passed and the strange acquaintance
progressed no farther.
One cold night, after everybody in the little village was snugly
tucked into bed, and every light was out, a wind came down from the
plains of the great Northwest, and brought with it millions and
billions of beautiful dancing flakes of snow, and proceeded to have a
grand frolic.
All night long the snow and the wind played around the houses and
through the streets, and in the morning when people began to get up
and look out, they hardly knew their own village. It seemed to be
turned into a strange range of white hills, with here and there a roof
or a chimney peeping out. There were no fences, there were no roads,
but all was one mass of glittering white, and the wind was still at
work tossing the billions of sharp little ice-needles into the face of
any one who ventured to peep out, sending a shower of snow into an
open door, and piling it up in great drifts in every sheltered spot.
So nearly everybody who was comfortable at home, and had plenty to eat
in the house, at once decided to stay there. There was no use trying
to dig themselves out until the snow stopped falling, and the wind got
tired of tossing it about.
The villagers were late in getting up, for the snow before the windows
made it dark, and it was nearly nine o'clock when Mrs. Burns said to
Maggie, "You must try to get to the well; I'm out of water."
So Maggie put on her coat and mittens, tied her hood down over her
ears, took the pail, and went out.
Fortunately, the kitchen door was in a sheltered place, and no snow
was piled up before it, but she had a hard time getting through the
drifts to the well. However, she did at last succeed in drawing the
water and getting back to the door. As she set down the pail, a
thought struck her,--"What will become of Miss Hester in this storm?"
She went out again, closing the door softly behind her, and looked
toward the cottage, which was not far off, in plain sight. In the
place where the little house should be was a great white hill. Maggie
floundered through the drifts till she reached the gate, where she had
a better view.
The storm held up for a moment, so that Maggie could see over the
village. Every house in sight was sending up a thin column of smoke,
showing there was life within. Miss Hester's chimney alone was
smokeless.
"Dear me!" thought the child, "I'm afraid she's sick, and what'll
become of her and the cow--the shed is so far off, and she could never
fight her way through the drifts,--she ain't very strong--and so
little." Another pause while she strained her eyes to see signs of
life about the cottage.
"Well, anyway," she said at last, "she was awful good to me last
summer, and I'll see if I can't get there to help her," and she
bravely started out.
It was a hopeless-looking task, for between Mrs. Burns's and Hester
Bartlett's were drifts that seemed mountain high. Not a soul was in
sight, and just then the storm began again, wilder than ever.
But Maggie was not to be daunted; that cold, smokeless chimney gave
her a strange feeling of fear, and nerved her for great efforts.
I shall not go with her step by step over her terrible journey, for
though the house was near, every step was a struggle and a battle.
Many times she fell down and got up staggering and blinded by snow;
many times she lost her direction and had to wait till a momentary
lull in the storm showed her the forlorn chimney again.
Through unheard-of difficulties she reached the house, her clothes
full of the dry, powdery snow, her eyes blinded, her hair a mass of
white, and aching in every limb from her efforts and the cold.
The front door was completely buried in snow, and indeed, the whole
front of the cottage seemed but a snow mountain. The drifts were lower
on the side, so she staggered on towards the kitchen door. As she came
near, she saw, to her dismay, that the snow had fallen away, and the
door was open.
Now thoroughly alarmed, she struggled on, and reached the step. The
snow had fallen inward, and the drift inside was as heavy as that
outside.
At first she hesitated to enter the house she had always dreaded, but
in an instant she reflected that Miss Hester would not leave her door
open if she were able to shut it, and she staggered in. Two steps
inside she stumbled over something, and dashing the snow out of her
eyes, she saw to her horror, the well-known brown dress of Miss
Hester, and sure enough there she lay on the floor, half covered with
snow, silent--perhaps dead.
One little scream escaped Maggie's lips, and then she fell on her
knees before her. No, she was not dead, but she was unconscious and
perfectly cold.
In a moment her own sufferings were forgotten. She did not know or did
not care that she was exhausted from her struggles--that she was
herself half frozen. She flew to work.
First she dragged Miss Hester away from the snow, with difficulty shut
the door, then hurried into the bedroom, brought out a pillow and
blanket, put the pillow under Miss Hester's head, wrapped the blanket
around her on the floor, and then hurried to the stove.
The fire was ready to light; evidently Miss Hester had opened the door
to look out before starting her fire, and the great drift had fallen
upon her and knocked her down.
Maggie did not stop to think of all this. She looked around for
matches and lighted the fire, then turned her attention to the silent
figure on the floor. She chafed her hands and warmed them in her own,
which now from excitement were burning, and before long she had the
happiness of seeing the closed eyes open and the blood rush back to
the white face.
The sight of the child working over her brought Miss Hester to very
quickly. She tried to spring up, but fell back too weak to do so. Then
she began to talk.
"Where am I? Why are you here? Why can't I get up?"
As quickly as she could, Maggie told her everything. How the village
was snowed under, and seeing her chimney without smoke alarmed her,
and she had found her on the floor with snow-drifts over her, and had
lighted the fire and got the blanket and warmed her.
Long before she had ended her tale, Miss Hester could sit up and see
for herself the snow and the condition of the room. Then she thought
she could get up, and with the help of Maggie she did, and sat in her
chair, strangely enough--as it seemed to her--too weak to stand.
When she was seated, Maggie had stopped--it was different making fires
and taking liberties in this kitchen while it seemed necessary to her
life, but now that Miss Hester could sit up and look at her, Maggie
hesitated. Miss Hester leaned back and closed her eyes and then
Maggie said:--
"Please, Miss Hester, may I get you something to eat, and sweep out
the snow, and help you?"
"If you will, child," said Miss Hester slowly. "I don't seem to be
able to do anything; I shall be very glad to have you."
Then Maggie went to work again, and how she did fly! She put the
teakettle on to the now warmed stove; she searched about in the pantry
till she found the coffee and the coffee-pot. Then she drew up beside
Miss Hester a little table, put on the dishes, and in a word,
proceeded to set out as dainty a breakfast as she knew how to get out
of what she could find.
All this time Miss Hester had apparently been half asleep, so that
Maggie did not like to ask her anything; but she was far from asleep.
She was watching eagerly, through half-closed eyelids, everything her
neat handmaiden did.
As for Maggie, she had not been so happy since her mother had taught
her all sorts of neat household ways. She hunted up the butter and
the bread; she made a fragrant cup of coffee and toasted a slice of
bread, and when all was ready, she spoke to Miss Hester.
"Please, Miss Hester," she said timidly, "will you drink some coffee?
I think you will feel better."
Miss Hester opened her eyes as if just wakened. "Why, how nicely you
have got breakfast!" she said; "but here's only one cup and plate! Get
another for yourself--you shall have it with me;" and as Maggie
hastened, delighted, to do her bidding, she added, "Bring a jar of
marmalade from the second shelf, and look for some crullers in a stone
crock."
Maggie did as she was bid, and in a few minutes the two strange
friends were enjoying their breakfast together.
Miss Hester was confined to her bed several days, with the cold she
had taken that fateful morning, and during that time, Maggie did
everything for her, every minute she was out of school. When at last
Miss Hester was able to be about, she had become so attached to
Maggie, and found such comfort in her help, that she was not willing
to let her go. Maggie being equally delighted to stay, the arrangement
was soon made, and Maggie came to the cottage to live.
The strangest part of the story is yet to come.
When Christmas time drew near, Miss Hester one day, while Maggie was
at school, opened some long-closed drawers in her desk to see if she
could find something to give Maggie on that day, for she had not
forgotten her own youthful days when Christmas was the event of the
year.
Among the long-forgotten treasures of the past, she came upon a little
locket given her when she was about Maggie's age, by her only brother,
who had gone to the war and been killed in battle, severing the last
link that bound the solitary girl to the world. Since that, she had
lived alone and shrank from all society.
"Poor Eddy!" she said, taking the trinket up in her hands, "how
different would have been my life if you had lived! But it's no use
keeping these relics of the past; they would much better make some one
happy in the present. I think Maggie will like this."
With a sigh she turned over the contents of the drawer, every item of
which was associated with her happier days, till she found a fine gold
chain which had held the locket around her neck. This she laid aside
with the locket, closed and locked the drawer.
When the great day arrived, Maggie, who had not dreamed of a present,
was surprised and delighted to receive it. The locket was very pretty,
of gold, with a letter B in black enamel on it. Miss Hester hung it
around her neck, and was as pleased as Maggie herself to see how
pretty it looked.
"I wonder if it will open," said Maggie to herself a little later,
when she had taken it off to examine more closely; "I'll try it," and
she worked over it a long time but without success.
That was a very busy day in the cottage; that evening was to be a
great school exhibition to which all the village was invited. Maggie,
who was a bright scholar, had to speak a piece, and Miss Hester had
made her a pretty white dress out of an old one of her own.
Maggie never felt so fine in her life as when, her hair smoothly
braided by Miss Hester, and tied with a bright ribbon from her old
stores, she had put on the white dress, and hung around her neck the
cherished locket.
For the first time in her life, she was dressed like other girls, and
it was with a very happy heart that she kissed Miss Hester and went to
the schoolhouse, regretting only that Miss Hester could not be
persuaded to go with her.
After the exercises of the evening were over, a social hour followed,
in which ice cream and cake were served, and every one walked around
the room to talk with their friends; and now came the surprise of the
evening--the most wonderful event in Maggie's life.
Among the familiar villagers, she had noticed a quiet, pleasant-faced
man who seemed to be a stranger,--at least she had never seen him
before. He had come with the family from the little hotel, and no
doubt at their invitation.
This gentleman was walking about, looking with interest at the people,
when he came face to face with Maggie. He stopped suddenly; his eyes
opened wide, and he seemed strangely moved--almost shocked.
Maggie was frightened, and tried to leave her place, but he stopped
her with a low, eager question.
"Little girl, where did you get that locket?"
Maggie supposed he thought she had stolen it, and a bright color rose
to her face, as she answered indignantly, "It was given to me to-day."
"By whom?" he cried; "tell me instantly!"
"By Miss Hester," Maggie replied, trying again to get away, for his
eager manner frightened her.
"Miss Hester!" he repeated, in a disappointed tone, then muttering to
himself, "It can't be! yet it is so like! let me see it!" with a
sudden movement.
"No!" cried Maggie, now almost crying with fright, and clutching her
treasure.
By this time some of the people around had noticed the scene, and the
hotel-keeper came up.
"What is it, Mr. Bartlett?"
The gentleman tried to calm himself, seeing that they had become the
centre of a curious crowd, and then replied:--
"Why, I find on this child the double of a locket I gave my sister
years ago, a sister who has disappeared and whom I have been seeking
for years; I wanted to examine it--but I seem to have frightened her;
will you, if you know her, ask her to let me look at it? If it is the
one I seek, it should open by a secret spring, and have a boy's face
inside. If it should help me to find my long-lost sister!" He paused,
much moved.
Mr. Wild, the hotel-keeper, calmed Maggie, and asked her to let the
gentleman examine it.
As he took it in his hand, he murmured, "The very same! here is a mark
I well remember. Now if I can open it!" He held it a moment when
suddenly it sprang open, to Maggie's amazement, and there--sure
enough--was a faded, old-fashioned daguerreotype of a boy's face.
"It is the very one!" he exclaimed in excitement. "Now where is this
Miss--What did you say her name was? Where could she have got it?"
"She told me," said Maggie, trembling, "that her brother gave it to
her."
"So I did," said the man eagerly; "but the name! can she have changed
her name?"
"It is Miss Hester Bartlett," said one of the bystanders, "and she
is--a little--deformed, and lives alone in the edge of the village."
The man turned so white he seemed about to faint as he said: "It is
she! Friends"--turning to the much interested crowd, "I have sought
her for years. I was in the army and reported killed in battle, and
when I went home to take care of my unfortunate sister, she had
disappeared, and I have never till now found a clue to her. Take me
to her instantly!" turning to Maggie, who was now really crying for
joy to think of Miss Hester's happiness.
But the people urged that such a shock, when she supposed him dead,
might be very dangerous, and at last he was persuaded to let some one
who knew her break the joyful news to her.
Maggie went back to the cottage the happiest girl in the village, and
the next morning the news was safely broken to Miss Hester, who in a
short half hour found herself crying on her brother's shoulder--the
richest and the happiest woman in all the world, as she said through
her tears.
From that day a new life began for Maggie, for neither brother nor
sister would hear of parting from her, who had been the means of their
finding each other. A larger house was built, and Miss Hester
persuaded to mingle a little with her neighbors, while Maggie took her
place among the young people on equal terms with all.
"That was splendid!" said Kristy, with shining eyes, as Mrs. Wilson
ended her story. "Is it true? Did it really happen?"
"Yes, it is true; I know Maggie myself,--met her last summer, when I
went to B----."
"I should like to know her," said Kristy. "Can't you tell another,
Mrs. Wilson?"
"Kristy," said her mother, reprovingly, "it's bad enough for you to
tease me for stories without making victims of others."
"Oh, I like to tell stories," said Mrs. Wilson, laughing, "and I think
I have time to tell Kristy about the naughtiest day of my life."
"Oh, do!" cried Kristy eagerly.
"Did you ever notice in my sitting-room a little dog preserved in a
glass case?"
"Yes, I have," said Kristy, "and I have always wondered about it."
"Well; I'll tell you why I preserve it so carefully. That little dog
saved my life, I believe, and if not my life, he certainly saved my
reason."
"Oh, how was that, Mrs. Wilson?" said Kristy earnestly.