leaving a half-frightened and very thankful little girl trembling among
the leaves of the blackberry vines. But, would he keep looking back? And
how could she ever pass the next house? Might he not stop there and be
somewhere on the watch for her? If some one would pass by, or some
carriage would only drive along! The houses were closer together a mile
further on, but how dared she pass that mile? He would not hurt her, he
would only look at her out of his wild eyes and talk to her. Answering
Captain Rheid's questions was better than this! Staying at her
grandfather's and confessing about the pitcher was better than this!
Suddenly--or had she heard it before, a whistle burst out upon the air, a
sweet and clear succession of notes, the air of a familiar song: "Be it
ever so humble, there's no place like home."
Some one was at hand, she sprang through the vines, the briers catching
the old blue muslin, extricating herself in time to run almost against
the navy-blue figure that she had not yet become familiar with.
The whistle stopped short--"Well, Mousie! Here you are!"
"O, Hollis," with a sobbing breath, "I'm so glad!"
"So am I. I jumped off and ran after you. Why, did I frighten you? Your
eyes are as big as moons."
"No," she laughed, "I wasn't frightened."
"You look terribly like it."
"Perhaps some things are _like_--" she began, almost dancing along by his
side, so relieved that she could have poured out a song for joy.
"What do you do nowadays?" he asked presently. "You are more of a _live_
mouse than you used to be! I can't call you Mousie any more, only for the
sake of old times."
"I like it," said Marjorie.
"But what do you do nowadays?"
"I read all the time--when I can, and I work, different kinds of work.
Tell me about the little city girls."
"I only know my cousins and one or two others, their friends."
"What do they look like?"
"Like girls! Don't you know how girls look?"
"Not city girls."
"They are pretty, most of them, and they dress older than you and have a
_manner;_ they always know how to reply and they are not awkward and too
shy; they know how to address people, and introduce people, and sometimes
to entertain them, they seem to know what to talk about, and they are
bright and wide-awake. They play and sing and study the languages and
mathematics. The girls I know are all little ladies."
Marjorie was silent; her cheeks were burning and her eyes downcast. She
never could be like that; she never could be a "little lady," if a little
lady meant all those unattainable things.
"Do they talk differently from us--from country girls?" she asked after a
long pause.
"Yes, I think they do. Mira Crane--I'll tell you how the country girls
talk--says 'we am,' and 'fust rate,' and she speaks rudely and abruptly
and doesn't look directly at a person when she speaks, she says 'good
morning' and 'yes' and 'no' without 'sir' or 'ma'am' or the person's
name, and answers 'I'm very well' without adding 'thank you.'"
"Yes," said Marjorie, taking mental note of each expression.
"And Josie Grey--you see I've been studying the difference in the girls
since I came home--"
Had he been studying _her_?
"Is there so much difference?" she asked a little proudly.
"Yes. The difference struck me. It is not city or country that makes the
difference, it is the _homes_ and the _schools_ and every educating
influence. Josie Grey has all sorts of exclamations like some old
grandmother, and she says 'I tell you,' and 'I declare,' and she hunches
all up when she sits or puts her feet out into the middle of the room."
"Yes," said Marjorie, again, intently.
"And Nettie Trevor colors and stammers and talks as if she were afraid of
you. My little ladies see so many people that they become accustomed to
forgetting themselves and thinking of others. They see people to admire
and imitate, too."
"So do I," said Marjorie, spiritedly. "I see Miss Prudence and I see Mrs.
Proudfit, our new minister's wife, and I see--several other people."
"I suppose I notice these things more than some boys would. When I left
home gentleness was a new language to me; I had never heard it spoken
excepting away from home. I was surprised at first that a master could
command with gentleness and that those under authority could obey with
gentleness."
Marjorie listened with awe; this was not like Hollis; her old Hollis was
gone, a new, wise Hollis had come instead. She sighed a little for the
old Hollis who was not quite so wise.
"I soon found how much I lacked. I set myself to reading and studying.
From the first of October all through the winter I attend evening school
and I have subscribed to the Mercantile Library and have my choice among
thousands of books. Uncle Jack says I shall be a literary business man."
A "literary business man" sounded very grand to Marjorie. Would she stay
home and be ignorant and never be or do anything? At that instant a
resolve was born in her heart; the resolve to become a scholar and a
lady. But she did not speak, if possible she became more quiet. Hollis
should not be ashamed of being her friend.
"Mousie! Why don't you talk to me?" he asked, at last.
"Which of your cousins do you like best?"
"Helen," he said unhesitatingly.
"How old is she?" she asked with a sinking at her heart.
"Seventeen. _She's_ a lady, so gentle and bright, she never rustles or
makes a noise, she never says anything to hurt any one's feelings: and
how she plays and sings. She never once laughed at me, she helps me in
everything; she wanted me to go to evening school and she told me about
the Mercantile Library. She's a Christian, too. She teaches in a mission
school and goes around among poor people with Aunt Helen. She paints and
draws and can walk six miles a day. I go everywhere with her, to lectures
and concerts and to church and Sunday school."
How Marjorie's eyes brightened! She had found her ideal; she would give
herself no rest until she had become like Helen Rheid. But Helen Rheid
had everything to push her on, every one to help her. For the first time
in her life Marjorie was disheartened. But, with a reassuring conviction,
flashed the thought--there were years before _she_ would be seventeen.
"Wouldn't you like to see her, Mousie?"
"Indeed, I would," said Marjorie, enthusiastically.
"I brought her photograph to mother--how she looked at me when 'marm'
slipped out one day. The boys always used to say 'Marm,'" he said
laughing.
Marjorie remembered that she had been taught to say "grandmarm," but as
she grew older she had softened it to "grandma."
"I'll bring you her photograph when I come to-morrow to say good-bye.
Now, tell me what you've been looking sad about."
Is it possible that she was forgetting?
"Oh, perhaps you can help me!"
"Help you! Of course I will."
"How did you know I was troubled?" she asked seriously, looking up into
his eyes.
"Have I eyes?" he answered as seriously. "Father happened to think that
mother had an errand for him to do on this road, so I jumped off and ran
after you."
"No, you ran after your mother's errand," she answered, jealously.
"Well, then, I found you, my precise little maiden, and now you must tell
me what you were crying about."
"Not spilt milk, but only a broken milk pitcher! _Do_ you think you can
find me a yellow pitcher, with yellow figures--a man, or a lion, or
something, a hundred or two hundred years old?"
"In New York? I'm rather doubtful. Oh, I know--mother has some old ware,
it belonged to her grandmother, perhaps I can beg a piece of it for you.
Will it do if it isn't a pitcher?"
"I'd rather have a pitcher, a yellow pitcher. The one I broke belongs to
a friend of Miss Prudence."
"Prudence! Is she a Puritan maiden?" he asked.
Marjorie felt very ignorant, she colored and was silent. She supposed
Helen Rheid would know what a Puritan maiden was.
"I won't tease you," he said penitently. "I'll find you something to make
the loss good, perhaps I'll find something she'll like a great deal
better."
"Mr. Onderdonk has a plate that came from Holland, it's over two hundred
years old he told Miss Prudence; oh, if you _could_ get that!" cried
Marjorie, clasping her hands in her eagerness.
"Mr. Onderdonk? Oh, the shoemaker, near the schoolhouse. Well, Mousie,
you shall have some old thing if I have to go back a century to get it.
Helen will be interested to know all about it; I've told her about you."
"There's nothing to tell about me," returned Marjorie.
"Then I must have imagined it; you used to be such a cunning little
thing."
"_Used to be!_" repeated sensitive Marjorie, to herself. She was sure
Hollis was disappointed in her. And she thought he was so tall and wise
and handsome and grand! She could never be disappointed in him.
How surprised she would have been had she known that Helen's eyes had
filled with tears when Hollis told her how his little friend had risen
all alone in that full church! Helen thought she could never be like
Marjorie.
"I wish you had a picture of how you used to look for me to show Helen."
Not how she looked to-day! Her lips quivered and she kept her eyes on her
dusty shoes.
"I suppose you want the pitcher immediately."
Two years ago Hollis would have said "right away."
After that Marjorie never forgot to say "immediately."
"Yes, I would," she said, slowly. "I've hidden the pieces away and nobody
knows it is broken."
"That isn't like you," Hollis returned, disappointedly.
"Oh, I didn't do it to deceive; I couldn't. I didn't want her to be sorry
about it until I could see what I could do to replace it"
"That sounds better."
Marjorie felt very much as if he had been finding fault with her.
"Will you have to pay for it?"
"Not if mother gives it to me, but perhaps I shall exact some return from
you."
She met his grave eyes fully before she spoke. "Well, I'll give you all I
can earn. I have only seventy-three cents; father gives me one tenth of
the eggs for hunting them and feeding the chickens, and I take them to
the store. That's the only way I can earn money," she said in her sweet
half-abashed voice.
A picture of Helen taking eggs to "the store" flashed upon Hollis'
vision; he smiled and looked down upon his little companion with
benignant eyes.
"I could give you all I have and send you the rest. Couldn't I?" she
asked.
"Yes, that would do. But you must let me set my own price," he returned
in a business like tone.
"Oh I will. I'd do anything to get Miss Prudence a pitcher," she said
eagerly.
The faded muslin brushed against him; and how odd and old-fashioned her
hat was! He would not have cared to go on a picnic with Marjorie in this
attire; suppose he had taken her into the crowd of girls among which his
cousin Helen was so noticeable last week, how they would have looked at
her! They would think he had found her at some mission school. Was her
father so poor, or was this old dress and broad hat her mother's taste?
Anyway, there was a guileless and bright face underneath the flapping
hat and her voice was as sweet as Helen's even it there was such an
old-fashioned tone about it. One word seemed to sum up her dress and
herself--old-fashioned. She talked like some little old grandmother.
She was more than quaint--she was antiquated. That is, she was antiquated
beside Helen. But she did not seem out of place here in the country; he
was thinking of her on a city pavement, in a city parlor, or among a
group of fluttering, prettily dressed city girls, with their modulated
voices, animated gestures and laughing, bright replies. There was light
and fire about them and Marjorie was such a demure little mouse.
"Don't fret about it any more," he said, kindly, with his grown-up air,
patting her shoulder with a light, caressing touch. "I will take it into
my hands and you need not think of it again."
"Oh, thank you! thank you!" she cried, her eyes brimming over.
It was the old Hollis, after all; he could do anything and everything she
wanted.
Forgetting her shyness, after that home-like touch upon her shoulder, she
chatted all the way home. And he did not once think that she was a quiet
little mouse.
He did not like "quiet" people; perhaps because his own spirit was so
quiet that it required some effort for him to be noisy. Hollis admired
most characteristics unlike his own; he did not know, but he _felt_ that
Marjorie was very much like himself. She was more like him than he was
like her. They were two people who would be very apt to be drawn together
under all circumstances, but without special and peculiar training could
never satisfy each other. This was true of them even now, and, if
possible with the enlarged vision of experience, became truer as they
grew older. If they kept together they might grow together; but, the
question is, whether of themselves they would ever have been drawn very
close together. They were close enough together now, as Marjorie chatted
and Hollis listened; he had many questions to ask about the boys and
girls of the village and Marjorie had many stories to relate.
"So George Harris and Nell True are really married!" he said. "So young,
too!"
"Yes, mother did not like it. She said they were too young. He always
liked her best at school, you know. And when she joined the Church she
was so anxious for him to join, too, and she wrote him a note about it
and he answered it and they kept on writing and then they were married."
"Did he join the Church?" asked Hollis,
"He hasn't yet."
"It is easier for girls to be good than for boys," rejoined Hollis in an
argumentative tone,
"Is it? I don't see how."
"Of course you don't. We are in the world where the temptations are; what
temptations do _you_ have?"
"I have enough. But I don't want to go out in the world where more
temptations are. Don't you know--" She colored and stopped,
"Know what?"
"About Christ praying that his disciples might be kept from the evil that
was in the world, not that they might be taken out of the world. They
have _got_ to be in the world."
"Yes."
"And," she added sagely, "anybody can be good where no temptations are."
"Is that why girls are good?"
"I don't think girls are good."
"The girls I know are."
"You know city girls," she said archly. "We country girls have the world
in our own hearts."
There was nothing of "the world" in the sweet face that he looked down
into, nothing of the world in the frank, true voice. He had been wronging
her; how much there was in her, this wise, old, sweet little Marjorie!
"Have you forgotten your errand?" she asked, after a moment.
"No, it is at Mr. Howard's, the house beyond yours."
"I'm glad you had the errand."
"So am I. I should have gone home and not known anything about you."
"And I should have stayed tangled in the black berry vines ever so long,"
she laughed.
"You haven't told me why you were there."
"Because I was silly," she said emphatically.
"Do silly people always hide in blackberry vines?" he questioned,
laughing.
"Silly people like me," she said.
At that moment they stopped in front of the gate of Marjorie's home;
through the lilac-bushes--the old fence was overgrown with lilacs--Hollis
discerned some bright thing glimmering on the piazza. The bright thing
possessed a quick step and a laugh, for it floated towards them and when
it appeared at the gate Hollis found that it was only Linnet.
There was nothing of the mouse about Linnet.
"Why, Marjie, mother said you might stay till dark."
Linnet was seventeen, but she was not too grown up for "mother said" to
be often on her lips.
"I didn't want to," said Marjorie. "Good-bye, Hollis. I'm going to hunt
eggs."
"I'd go with you, it's rare fun to hunt eggs, only I haven't seen
Linnet--yet."
"And you must see Linnet--yet," laughed Linnet, "Hollis, what a big boy
you've grown to be!" she exclaimed regarding him critically; the new
suit, the black onyx watch-chain, the blonde moustache, the full height,
and last of all the friendly brown eyes with the merry light in them.
"What a big girl you've grown to be, Linnet," he retorted surveying her
critically and admiringly.
There was fun and fire and changing lights, sauciness and defiance, with
a pretty little air of deference, about Linnet. She was not unlike his
city girl friends; even her dress was more modern and tasteful than
Marjorie's.
"Marjorie is so little and doesn't care," she often pleaded with their
mother when there was not money enough for both. And Marjorie looked on
and held her peace.
Self-sacrifice was an instinct with Marjorie.
"I am older and must have the first chance," Linnet said.
So Marjorie held back and let Linnet have the chances.
Linnet was to have the "first chance" at going to school in September.
Marjorie stayed one moment looking at the two as they talked, proud of
Linnet and thinking that Hollis must think she, at least, was something
like his cousin Helen, and then she hurried away hoping to return with
her basket of eggs before Hollis was gone. Hollis was almost like some
one in a story-book to her. I doubt if she ever saw any one as other
people saw them; she always saw so much. She needed only an initial; it
was easy enough to fill out the word. She hurried across the yard, opened
the large barn-yard gate, skipped across the barn-yard, and with a little
leap was in the barn floor. Last night she had forgotten to look in the
mow; she would find a double quantity hidden away there to-night. She
wondered if old Queen Bess were still persisting in sitting on nothing in
the mow's far dark corner; tossing away her hindering hat and catching up
an old basket, she ran lightly up the ladder to the mow. She never
remembered that she ran up the ladder.
An hour later--Linnet knew that it was an hour later--Marjorie found
herself moving slowly towards the kitchen door. She wanted to see her
mother. Lifting the latch she staggered in.
She was greeted with a scream from Linnet and with a terrified
exclamation from her mother.
"Marjorie, what _is_ the matter?" cried her mother catching her in her
arms.
"Nothing," said Marjorie, wondering.
"Nothing! You are purple as a ghost!" exclaimed Linnet, "and there's a
lump on your forehead as big as an egg."
"Is there?" asked Marjorie, in a trembling voice.
"Did you fall? Where did you fall?" asked her mother shaking her gently.
"Can't you speak, child?"
"I--didn't--fall," muttered Marjorie, slowly.
"Yes, you did," said Linnet. "You went after eggs."
"Eggs," repeated Marjorie in a bewildered voice.
"Linnet, help me quick to get her on to the sitting-room lounge! Then get
pillows and a comforter, and then run for your father to go for the
doctor."
"There's nothing the matter," persisted the child, smiling weakly. "I can
walk, mother. Nothing hurts me."
"Doesn't your head ache?" asked Linnet, guiding her steps as her head
rested against her mother's breast.
"No."
"Don't you ache _anywhere?_" questioned her mother, as they led her to
the lounge.
"No, ma'am. Why should I? I didn't fall."
Linnet brought the pillow and comforter, and then ran out through the
back yard calling, "Father! Father!"
Down the road Hollis heard the agonized cry, and turning hastened back to
the house.
"Oh, go for the doctor quick!" cried Linnet, catching him by the arm;
"something dreadful has happened to Marjorie, and she doesn't know what
it is."
"Is there a horse in the stable?"
"Oh, no, I forgot. And mother forgot Father has gone to town."
"I'll get a horse then--somewhere on the road--don't be so frightened.
Dr. Peck will be here in twenty minutes after I find him."
Linnet flew back to satisfy her mother that the doctor had been sent for,
and found Marjorie reiterating to her mother's repeated inquiries:
"I don't ache anywhere; I'm not hurt at all."
"Where were you, child."
"I wasn't--anywhere," she was about to say, then smiled, for she knew she
must have been somewhere.
"What happened after you said good-bye to Hollis?" questioned Linnet,
falling on her knees beside her little sister, and almost taking her into
her arms.
"Nothing."
"Oh, dear, you're crazy!" sobbed Linnet.
Marjorie smiled faintly and lifted her hand to stroke Linnet's cheeks.
"I won't hurt _you_," she comforted tenderly.
"I know what I'll do!" exclaimed Mrs. West suddenly and emphatically, "I
can put hot water on that bump; I've heard that's good."
Marjorie closed her eyes and lay still; she was tired of talking about
something that had not happened at all. She remembered afterward that the
doctor came and opened a vein in her arm, and that he kept the blood
flowing until she answered "Yes, sir," to his question, "Does your head
hurt you _now_?" She remembered all their faces--how Linnet cried and
sobbed, how Hollis whispered, "I'll get a pitcher, Mousie, if I have to
go to China for it," and how her father knelt by the lounge when he came
home and learned that it had happened and was all over, how he knelt and
thanked God for giving her back to them all out of her great danger. That
night her mother sat by her bedside all night long, and she remembered
saying to her:
"If I had been killed, I should have waked up in Heaven without knowing
that I had died. It would have been like going to Heaven without dying."
V.
TWO PROMISES.
"He who promiseth runs in debt."
Hollis held a mysterious looking package in his hand when he came in the
next day; it was neatly done up in light tissue paper and tied with
yellow cord. It looked round and flat, not one bit like a pitcher, unless
some pitchers a hundred years ago _were_ flat.
Marjorie lay in delicious repose upon the parlor sofa, with the green
blinds half closed, the drowsiness and fragrance of clover in the air
soothed her, rather, quieted her, for she was not given to nervousness;
a feeling of safety enwrapped her, she was _here_ and not very much hurt,
and she was loved and petted to her heart's content. And that is saying a
great deal for Marjorie, for _her_ heart's content was a very large
content. Linnet came in softly once in a while to look at her with
anxious eyes and to ask, "How do you feel now?" Her mother wandered in
and out as if she could rest in nothing but in looking at her, and her
father had given her one of his glad kisses before he went away to the
mowing field. Several village people having heard of the accident through
Hollis and the doctor had stopped at the door to inquire with a
sympathetic modulation of voice if she were any better. But the safe
feeling was the most blessed of all. Towards noon she lay still with her
white kitten cuddled up in her arms, wondering who would come next;
Hollis had not come, nor Miss Prudence, nor the new minister, nor
grandma, nor Josie Grey; she was wishing they would all come to-day when
she heard a quick step on the piazza and a voice calling out to somebody.
"I won't stay five minutes, father."
The next instant the handsome, cheery face was looking in at the parlor
door and the boisterous "vacation" voice was greeting her with,
"Well, Miss Mousie! How about the tumble down now?"
But her eyes saw nothing excepting the mysterious, flat, round parcel in
his hand.
"Oh, Hollis, I'm so glad!" she exclaimed, raising herself upon one elbow.
The stiff blue muslin was rather crumpled by this time, and in place of
the linen collar and old-fashioned pin her mother had tied a narrow scarf
of white lace about her throat; her hair was brushed back and braided in
two heavy braids and her forehead was bandaged in white.
"Well, Marjorie, you _are_ a picture, I must say," he cried, bounding in.
"Why don't you jump up and take another climb?"
"I want to. I want to see the swallow's nest again; I meant to have fed
the swallows last night"
"Where are they?"
"Oh, up in the eaves. Linnet and I have climbed up and fed them."
As he dropped on his knees on the carpet beside the sofa she fell back on
her pillow.
"Father is waiting for me to go to town with him and I can't stay. You
will soon be climbing up to see the swallows again and hunting eggs and
everything as usual."
"Oh, yes, indeed," said Marjorie, hopefully.