THE BOX FROM GREAT-AUNT SARAH
It was some two weeks after Great-Uncle Samuel’s visit that the stage
one day stopped at the Blossom’s. “Rose Shannon live here?” the driver
asked. “Here’s a box for her I found over at Byfield.”
“A box for me?” cried Rose, circling round it. “Who in the world can it
be from?”
“Perhaps when we open it we will know,” and Silence brought the hatchet
and quickly had the cover loose. “There’s a letter,” as she lifted the
lid. “No doubt that will tell.”
Rose unfolded the letter and read it in silence. Then she handed it
to Mrs. Blossom. “It’s from my Great-Aunt Sarah; you can read it out
loud.” Her cheeks were red, but she spoke quietly, so quietly that Mrs.
Blossom glanced at her keenly as she took the letter and read:
“MY DEAR NIECE:
“I have had a letter from Samuel Jarvis in which he writes that there
is no question but you are the daughter of Kate Jarvis, and as he is a
careful man I dare say it is so. The minister who was written to, and
who married Kate came to me first and I referred him to Samuel, for
being a man he could better look after the matter.
“He also wrote me the arrangement he had made for you. I am glad to
know that you are with a worthy family, and I trust they will look
after your manners—manners are so important for a young girl. Your
mother’s manners were considered attractive, but she was headstrong. I
hope you are not headstrong. I must say that under the circumstances,
with no one to look after and his brother’s grandchild, I should
have thought Samuel Jarvis would have taken charge of you himself.
But Samuel never did consider anything but his own selfish ease and
pleasure and I suppose he is too old to look for any change now. I
myself am a nervous wreck, so I could not possibly have you with me.
“As I know that you have but little money and will need to be very
careful, with this letter I am sending you some things that if you are
at all capable you can make over and use for yourself; the stockings
you can cut over, and the slippers were always too small for me.
“Samuel Jarvis wrote me about the Bible I gave your mother. I remember
it well, and am pleased to know that you have kept it.
“Your affectionate aunt,
“SARAH HARTLY.”
No one made a remark as Mrs. Blossom finished the letter, till Miss
Silence spoke, “Well, let us see what’s in the box.”
The contents were quickly taken out, for even Grandmother Sweet would
have confessed to a curiosity in the matter. These were an old black
velvet dress worn threadbare at the seams and trimmed with beaded
fringe; a soiled black and white check wool wrapper; a black satin
skirt shiny with wear; a purple silk with coffee stains down the front
breadth; some brown brocaded material which had evidently served as
lining to a cloak; a bundle of half-worn stockings; several yards of
black feather trimming, moth-eaten in spots; a pair of fancy bedroom
slippers; and at the bottom of the box a plush cape heavily braided
with a bugle trimming.
Hardly a word had been uttered as one by one the garments had been
unfolded. Rose had knelt among them in silence; now she drew the
cape about her and rose to her feet. For a moment she looked down at
herself, then tearing the cape off she gave it a throw and sank back
in a little heap on the floor. “I know it would be comfortable,” she
wailed, “and I need it, and it would save spending money, but I can’t
wear that cape with those bugles, I can’t.”
Silence Blossom was laughing. “You needn’t wear it, Rose,” she said
soothingly.
Mrs. Patience had lifted the cape and was examining it, “That was an
expensive garment, when it was new.”
“It might have been, _when_ it was new,” retorted her sister.
“What am I to do with the stuff?” questioned Rose with a tragic gesture
toward the unfolded garments scattered round her. “I’ve a good mind to
pack it in the box again and send it straight back to Great-Aunt Sarah!”
“No, no, Rose,” reproved Mrs. Blossom; “remember she is your aunt.”
“I do remember.” Rose’s eyes were sparkling with angry tears. “I used
sometimes to imagine what it would be like if I should ever find my
relatives and have real aunts and uncles and cousins, who cared for
me. Well, I have found them,” and she drew a sobbing breath. “I have a
Great-Uncle Samuel and a Great-Aunt Sarah; and neither one cares that
for me,” and she gave a snap to her fingers, “and neither one will have
me—though I’m glad Great-Aunt Sarah doesn’t want me. But I shall love
Great-Uncle Samuel always, even if I never see him again, because he
did take enough interest to come and see me, and plan things for me.
When I was Posey, I was nobody’s Posey; and now I’m Rose, I’m nobody’s
Rose!”
“You are our Rose,” and Mrs. Patience put her arms about her, “and the
Fifields think you are their Rose. I will tell you what you can do. You
can win the love of people for yourself, and so be everybody’s Rose.”
Rose suddenly smiled. “I never thought of that before, but I will do
it. And Grandmother Sweet shall tell me how, for everybody loves her.”
But Grandmother shook her head. “That is something thee will have to
learn for thyself. Only I will tell thee one thing, if thee would win
love thee must first give love; whatever thee would get out of life
thee must first put into life.”
Miss Silence had been going over the things again with her practised
eye. “See here, Rose, we can wash up this black and white check and it
will make you a good school dress, with a color for piping to brighten
it. And I have been looking at the black velvet and I’m quite sure I
can get you a little coat out of it. We can use the brocade for lining,
and there will be plenty of feather trimming, even when the bad spots
are taken out. That will look nicely with your new red dress.”
“And I will make you a little black velvet turban, and trim it with red
ribbon to match your dress,” added Mrs. Patience.
“And I will show you how to put new feet in the stockings.” Grandmother
Sweet had drawn one on her hand. “They are a good, fine quality.”
Rose looked from one to another. “What should I have done if I hadn’t
come here? You know just what to do every time. And when the world
looks all grey, if it isn’t quite black, if I can see it through your
eyes, why it’s pink and rosy again.”
As Rose was saying this she gathered up the articles and put them back
in the box once more. “I suppose you can find a use for this purple
silk. Perhaps when I’m old and wear a cap it will come useful.”
For answer Miss Silence laughed and nodded, “There will be some place
where it will come in yet.”
“Rose,” said Mrs. Blossom, “I think it is time the chickens were fed.”
This was something Rose had begged to do. They were a tamer flock than
Mrs. Hagood’s, petted as was every living thing about the Blossoms,
and it was an unfailing pleasure to have them run to meet her, to
feed them out of her hand, and to smooth their white feathers as they
crowded around. As she took the measure of yellow corn from the back
of the stove where it had been warming, the big Maltese cat rose and
purred beside her. “No, Dandy,” and she gave him a pat, “you can’t go
with me this time, the chickens don’t like you; you jump and make them
flutter.”
As she spoke she looked for something to put around her and her eye
fell on the cape which lay this time on the top of the box. “I have
just thought what I can use it for,” and she laughed merrily. “I can
wear it out to the chicken house; the chickens, I know, will enjoy
pecking at the bugles. That would certainly be making use of it.”
She paused with her hand on the door. “Will I have to write to
Great-Aunt Sarah and thank her?”
“Don’t you think that you ought to?” Mrs. Blossom questioned in turn.
“I am not sure whether I do or not. But one thing is certain—if I do
write to her you will all have to help me, for I should never know what
to say.”
“I know what I should like to say to her.” Silence Blossom’s tone was
scornful, though she waited till Rose was out of hearing before she
spoke. “I would like to tell her that such a lot of good-for-nothing
old stuff I never saw sent away. I have heard stories of the boxes sent
to some of the home missionaries out West, and I think this must be
like them. Any woman of sense might have known that those things were
not suitable for a girl of Rose’s age.”
“At least the material was good,” urged her mother.
“You mean it had been, but it was past that point. It’s very evident
that Great-Aunt Sarah buys good clothes for herself. Something new for
Rose for a dress would have done her more good than all that cast-off
finery.”
“To my mind the letter was worse than the box,” declared Mrs. Patience.
“I never heard anything more heartless and cold-blooded. One would have
thought the mere facts would have aroused a sympathy for Rose.”
“She is coming in,” cautioned Miss Silence, “and we would not say
anything before her. But this much is certain, that I know all I want
to of Mrs. Sarah Hartly.”