AN ARTIST.
Time slipped away rapidly at the golden house. There had been many
pleasant family scenes, both within and around the cottage, since Nono
had been so tenderly welcomed there, eight years before.
It was a bright July morning. The bit of a rye-field on the other side
of the road stood in the summer sunshine in tempting perfection. The
harvesting had begun, in a slow though it might be a sure manner. A
tall, spare old man, his hat laid aside, and his few scattered gray
locks fluttering in the gentle breeze, was the only reaper. His shirt
sleeves rolled up above the elbows showed his meagre, bony arms. His
thin neck and breast were bare, as he suffered from heat from his
unwonted labour. The scythe moved slowly, and the old man stopped
often to draw a long breath. Near him stood a fair-haired, sturdy
little girl, who held up her apron full of corn flowers, as blue as the
eyes that looked so approvingly upon them. They were in the midst of a
chat in a moment of rest, when a figure, strange and interesting to
them both, came along the road with a light, free step.
The new-comer was a tall young girl, with a white parasol in her hand,
though her wide-brimmed hat seemed enough to keep her fair face from
being browned by the glad sunshine. She stopped suddenly when she came
in front of the cottage, and fixed her eyes on the old man and the
child with an expression of astonished delight. "Charming! beautiful!
I must paint them," she said to herself.
The stranger put down the camp-stool she had on her arm, and screwed
into its back her parasol with the long handle. She sat down at once
and opened her box, where paper and pallet and all manner of
conveniences for amateur painters were admirably arranged. "Please,
please stand still," she said; "just as you are. I want to paint you."
"I have to stop often to rest; but I must work while I can. I don't
want to be idle if I am old. I can't do a real day's work; but I can
get something done if I am industrious," said the gray-haired labourer
hesitatingly.
The child seemed to notice something sorrowful in the tone of her
companion's voice, and she came quickly to his aid, saying,--
"Uncle Pelle is the best man in the world. Mother says he'll never
teach us anything that isn't just right. He does a good bit of work,
father says, and he knows."
The little girl was evidently accustomed to be listened to, and did not
stand in awe of this stranger or any other.
"I shall pay you both if you hold still awhile and let me take your
picture; and that will be just as well for Uncle Pelle as cutting
grain, and lighter work, too. You can talk if you want to, but you
must not stir while I am making a real likeness of you."
"As the young lady pleases," said the old man, with a look of
resignation. "I want to be useful."
"Is that your uncle, child?" asked the young artist. "I thought, of
course, it was your grandfather." Then looking towards the old man she
added, "Do you live here?" and she nodded towards the golden house.
"I don't live anywhere," said the old man sorrowfully. "The poorhouse
in Aneholm parish and the poorhouse in Tomtebacke, some way from here,
can't agree which should keep me, and now they are lawing about it.
I've had a fever, and I seem to be broke down. I don't belong anywhere
just now, but Karin there in the house says I'm a kind of relation of
hers, though it puzzles me to see how. She wants me to stay with them
till all is settled; and Jan, who mostly lets her have her way, tells
me he hasn't anything against it. So you see I like to do a turn of
work if I can, if it's only to show I'm thankful. Karin says she's
used to a big family, and it seems lonesome since her oldest son went
to America, and I must take his place. I don't live in the cottage.
There are enough of 'em there without me. They've fixed me up a place
alongside of Star--that's the cow."
"It's a dear little room," said the child, "and we all like to be
there; but Uncle Pelle shuts the door sometimes, and won't let us in."
"Old folks must have their quiet spells," said the old man
apologetically.
"It isn't just to be quiet, you know, Uncle Pelle. Mother says Uncle
Pelle reads good books when he is alone, and makes good prayers, too;
and he's a blessing to the family," said the little girl, who seemed to
consider herself the friend and patron of her companion.
"She's a bit spoiled. The only girl, you see. There were six boys
before, not counting Nono or the two boys that died."
"Nono!" exclaimed the stranger. "That was the name of the little brown
baby I saw baptized in Aneholm church, eight years ago, when I was at
home before, just for a few days."
"It is a queer name," said Uncle Pelle. "The pastor said it meant the
ninth, as the Italians talk; and so when this little girl came, he said
Karin and Jan might as well call her Decima, which was like the tenth,
in Swedish. And they did. They about make a fool of her in the
family; and I ain't much better. That's Nono behind you."
A slight dark boy had been standing quietly watching the young stranger
while she skilfully handled her brushes. He now stepped forward, took
off the little straw hat of his own braiding, and bowed, without any
sheepish confusion.
"Here's Nono!" said Decima, placing herself beside him, as if she had a
special right to exhibit him to the stranger.
"And so you are Nono," said Alma. "I have always felt as if you
belonged in a way to me. Where did the people who live here find you?"
"They didn't find me at all; they took me, and have brought me up as if
I was their own child," said Nono, his eyes sparkling.
The story of the Italians and the bear was told by Nono, as usual, and
the scene most vividly described by word and gesture. Decima did not
pretend that she knew more than he did on this subject, and indeed he
was quite her oracle in all matters. She thought Nono a pink of
perfection; and well she might, for he had been her playmate and
guardian ever since she could remember. It was confidently affirmed in
the family that Nono could, from the first, make her laugh and show her
dimples as she would not for any one else. Nono had soon learned that
he could be a help to Karin with the baby, and was always more willing
than were her rough brothers to be tied to the child's little
apron-string.
Nono had hardly finished his story when the young lady took out the
smallest watch imaginable and looked hastily at it. She gathered up
her painting apparatus in a great hurry, and was off with a hasty
good-bye, saying her father would be expecting her home to dinner, but
she would see them again soon and finish her picture. She had almost
forgotten in her hurry the money she had promised, but she suddenly
remembered that part of the transaction, and left in the old man's
hand, as he said, "more than enough to pay for a whole day's work, just
for standing still, that little bit, to be painted."
Alma was soon out of sight of Pelle and Decima, who followed her with
their wondering eyes as she sped along the road towards her pleasant
home. The one thing about which her father could be severe with her
was being late at meals. But for this severity, he would often have
dined without her; for Alma was full of absorbing hobbies, and when
anything interested her, food and sleep were to her matters of no
consequence. Now her brain was revolving a new scheme. Alma had been
for years in a Swiss boarding-school, and there, among many
accomplishments, had acquired a thorough knowledge of the English
language. She had been charmed with the accounts she had read of the
work of the English ladies among the cottagers on their large estates.
She had determined to "do just so" when she was fairly settled at home.
She would now begin at once with Nono. She felt she had a kind of
charge over him. Had not her own dear mother died in Italy, where his
mother came from? That baptism, too, she could never forget! He
should not grow up like a heathen in Sweden if she could prevent it.
She would have him up at "the big house" every day for a Scripture
lesson. She wanted to paint him too; how lovely he would be in a
picture! She must have the old man with him. How charming it would be
to sketch youth and age working in the garden together! She could pay
them for their time, and they would look up to her as a kind of
guardian angel. Alma flitted along, almost as if she had wings
already, as these pleasant thoughts floated through her mind.
The angel seemed suddenly to change to a fury as a shout arose from
behind a dark evergreen, and a nondescript-looking individual, ragged
and dirty, came out upon her, exclaiming,--
"I suppose I must not come near your highness, looking as I do!"
Streaked with mud on face and clothing, his feet bare, and his trousers
rolled up to his knees, her brother stood before her, his eyes gleaming
with delight in spite of her evident displeasure.
"I've got a basket of polywogs, and some delicious bugs, and a big
caterpillar that would make your mouth water if you were addicted to
vermicelli. See here!"
He moved as if he were about to open up his treasures for her
inspection.
"Do keep away, Frans!" exclaimed Alma, as she drew her befrilled and
beflounced skirt about her, as if to escape dangerous contagion.
At this moment she swept in at the gate that led to the house, and shut
it hastily behind her.
"I'm going in the back way, anyhow," said Frans, with a merry laugh.
"Your grace and my grace cannot well make our _entrée_ together."
"The most troublesome boy in the world!" said Alma to herself, and she
expressed her sincere conviction.
At this moment Alma saw the bent form of her father riding slowly
before her. Her whole expression changed again, and she quickened her
steps into a run, and was soon at his side.
"Are you very tired, papa, after your little ride?" she said tenderly.
"No, darling. But how fresh and rosy you look! The air of old Sweden
suits you, I see."
How happy the two were together! how gentle and loving were they both!
Alma really looked like the guardian angel she meant to be to Nono and
Uncle Pelle.