NELL WIGGIN'S STORY
Such a merry dinner party as it was in one corner of the big southeast
corner room of the old Pensinger mansion. The young hostesses by neither
word nor manner betrayed the fact that they were used to better things.
When at last the dishes had been washed and put away, a fire was started
on the wide hearth in the long salon and the girls gathered about it.
"Suppose we each tell the story of our lives," Gloria suggested, "and in
that way we may the sooner become really acquainted.
"For ourselves a few words will suffice. We three girls lived very
happily in our Long Island home until our dear mother died; then, last
year, our beloved father was taken, and since then I, because I am
oldest, have tried to be both parents to my younger sisters."
"And truly you have succeeded," Bobs put in. Gloria smiled lovingly at
her hoidenish sister, who sat on a low stool close to the fire, her arms
folded about her knees.
"But we soon found that in reality the roof that had sheltered us from
childhood was not really our own. The title, it seems, had not been clear
in the very beginning, when our great-grandfather had purchased it, and
so, because of this, we had to move. I wanted to do settlement work, and
that is what I am doing now. Lena May also loves the work, and is soon to
have classes for the very little boys and girls. Bobs, as we call this
tom-boy sister of ours, as yet, I believe, has not definitely decided
upon a profession."
Roberta's eyes were laughing as she glanced across at Nell Wiggin, but
since Miss Selenski did not know the story of her recent adventure,
nothing was said.
Turning to the slender, dark-eyed agent of the model tenements, Gloria
remarked: "Will you now tell us a little about yourself, Miss Selenski?"
All through the dinner hour the girls had noticed a happy light that
seemed to linger far back in the nearly black orbs of the Hungarian girl,
but they thought it was her optimistic nature that gladdened her eyes;
but now, in answer to Gloria's question, the dark, pretty face became
radiant as the girl replied: "The past holds little worth the telling,
but the future, I believe, will hold much."
"Oh, Miss Selenski," Bobs exclaimed, leaning forward eagerly and smiling
at their Hungarian friend, "something wonderful is about to happen in
your life, I am sure of that."
Shining-eyed, the dark girl nodded. "Do you want to guess what?"
It was Lena May who answered: "I think you are going to be married," she
said.
"I am," was the joyfully given reply. "To a young man from my own country
who has a business in the Bronx; nor is that all, he owns a little home
way out by the park and there is a real yard about it with flowers and
trees. Oh, can you understand what it will mean to me to be awakened in
the morning by birds instead of by the thundering noise of overhead
trains?"
"Miss Selenski," Gloria said, "we are glad indeed that such a happy
future awaits you." Then turning to little Nell Wiggin, who sat back
somewhat in the shadow, though now and then the flickering firelight
changed her corn-yellow hair to a halo of golden sheen, she asked kindly:
"Is there some bit of your past that you wish to tell us?"
There was something so infinitely sorrowful in the pale pinched face of
little Nell Wiggin that instinctively the girls knew that the story they
would hear would be sad, nor were they mistaken.
Nell Wiggin began: "It is not interesting, my past, and I fear that it is
too sad for a story, but briefly I will tell it: My twin brother, Dean,
and I were born on a farm in New England which seemed able to produce but
little on its rocky soil, and though our father managed to keep us alive,
he could not pay off the mortgage, and each year he grew more troubled in
spirit. At last he heard of rich lands in the West that might be
homesteaded and so, leaving us one spring, he set out on foot, for he
planned taking up a claim, and when he had constructed there a shelter of
some kind, Mother was to sell the New England farm, pay off the mortgage
and with whatever remained buy tickets that would take us west to my
father.
"It was May when he left us. He did not expect to reach his destination
for many weeks, as he knew that he would have to stop along the way to
work for his food.
"Dear little Mother tried to run the farm that summer. Dean and I were
ten years of age, and though we could do weeding and seeding, we could
not help with the heavier work, and since our mother was frail much of
this had to be left undone.
"Fate was against us, it would seem, for the rain was scarce and our
crops poor, and the bitterly cold winter found us with but little
provisions in store. In all this time we had not heard from Father, and
after the snows came we knew the post office in the town twenty miles
away could not be reached by us until the following spring, and so we
could neither receive nor send a letter.
"Our nearest neighbor was eight miles away, and he was but a poor
scrabbler in the rocky soil, a kind-hearted hermit of whom Brother and I
had at first been afraid, because of his long bushy beard, perhaps, but
when we once chanced to be near enough to see his kind gray eyes, we
loved him and knew that he was a friend, and the future surely was to
prove this. But, if possible, that dear old man, Mr. Eastland, was poorer
than we were.
"Our mother, we knew, was worried nearly to the point of heartbreak, but
I shall never forget how wonderful she was that winter. Whenever we
looked, she smiled at us, tremulously sometimes, and when our task of
shelling and pounding corn was over, she helped us invent little games
and told us beautiful stories that she made up. But for all her outward
cheer, I now realize, when we children were asleep on the mattress that
had been brought from the cold bedroom and placed on the floor near the
stove, that our mother spent many long hours on her knees in prayer.
"Our cow had been sold before the snow came, as money had been needed to
pay on the mortgage, and so we had no milk. Our few hens were kept in a
lean-to shed during the day, but Mother permitted them to roost behind
the stove on those bitterly cold nights, and so occasionally we had eggs,
and a rare feast it was, but at last our supply of corn was nearly
exhausted.
"There was usually a thaw in January, but instead, this exceptionally
cold winter brought a blizzard which continued day after day, burying our
house deep in snow. At last Mother had to tell us that unless a thaw came
that we might procure some provisions from our neighbors, we would have
to kill our three hens for food. What we would do after that, she did not
say; but, luckily, for the feathered members of our family, the thaw did
come and with it came Mr. Eastland, riding the eight miles on his stout
little mule, and fastened to the saddle, back of him, was a bag of corn
and potatoes. Dear, kind man! He must have brought us half of his own
remaining store. Eagerly our mother asked if there had been news from
town, but he shook his head. 'No one's been through with the mail, Mis'
Wiggin,' he said; then he added: 'I s'pose likely you're powerful
consarned about that man o' yourn. I s'pose you haven't heard from him
yet, Mis' Wiggin?'
"Mother tried to answer, but her lips quivered and she had to turn away.
"'Well, so long, folks!' the old man called, 'I'll be over agin 'fore
spring, the snow permittin'.'
"We children climbed on the gate and stood as high as we could to watch
our good friend ride away. What we did not know until later, was that as
soon as he was out of our sight, he turned and rode that twenty miles to
the village post office. A week later Mother was indeed surprised to see
Mr. Eastland returning, and this time he brought a letter. It was with
eager joy that Mother leaped forward to take it, but it was with a cry of
grief that she covered her face with her hands and hurried into the
house. The letter had fallen, and I picked it up and glanced at it.
Father never got there, it said, but when he knew he was going to die he
asked someone to write. He had worked days and walked nights and died of
exposure and exhaustion.
"Spring came and with the first balmy days our mother was taken from us.
We children were eleven years old then, and we knew not what to do.
"'We must go to Mr. Eastland,' Dean said. 'He would want us to.'
"We went, and that good man took us in, and made a home for us until--"
she paused and looked around, but as her listeners did not speak, she
added: "Perhaps this is all too sad, perhaps you will not care to hear
the rest."
"Please do tell us, dear Nell," Gloria said, and so the frail girl
continued her story.