UNDER THE SHADY GREEN-WOOD TREE.
"Why, Kat, what is the matter?"
"Nothing; not a blessed thing; I'm just trying to see how big a goose I
can be. Where did you come from?"
"Down town. Why, child, you look as if you had been crying for hours.
What is the matter?"
"Nothing, I tell you; take my word, and get out of the way, for I'm
going to jump;" and down she came from above, with a swinging leap that
brought a shower of half-ripe apples with her, and filled the air with
leaves. "I had the dumps a little, and I've been sitting here in the
tree crying over this book, until my nose is so big that I cannot see
over it, and my eyes ache terribly."
"I should think they would, and you look dreadfully frowzled," said Bea,
smoothing down her own dress, with an air of self-approval. "Really,
Kat--"
"Oh, come now, don't. I never was, and never will be a pink of
propriety; and I would like to have a little peace and rest from
lectures. You and Kittie are getting so orderly and band-boxy-fied, that
there's no pleasure living. I'll be glad when Olive comes back, for she
isn't quite so distressingly particular!" exclaimed Kat, who was
evidently in anything but the best of humors.
"Well, don't get fussy about it, and I won't say any more," promised
Bea, with a conciliatory smile. "Besides, I've got some good news. We
are invited to Mrs. Raymond's picnic, next Wednesday!"
"You don't say so; hurrah!" cried Kat, in a sudden gale of delight, her
eyes beginning to sparkle behind their still wet lashes.
"What oceans of bliss! Who did you see?"
"Clara and Lou; they were just coming out here to invite us, when I met
them. It will be splendid; they are going ten miles out, and they supply
carriages for all, and there will be boating and dancing, and games, and
just everything delightful."
Kat spun around on her heel enthusiastically, and threw a handful of
small apples into the air. "Of course there will," she cried. "Raymonds'
never do anything except in the most stylish way. That's the fun of
being rich."
"I've just been down to call on Miss Barnett," said Bea, stooping to
pick some imaginary burr from her dress. "They are invited, too."
"Ah, indeed," said Kat, with a mischievous chuckle, "I suppose of
course, you are glad, for you want Miss Barnett to have a good time,
don't you?"
"Of course," answered Bea, with much composure, and a little color. "She
is a very pleasant young lady, and I would like to invite them here one
evening before she goes home."
"Nothing to prevent that I can see," said Kat, "unless the doctor should
object; but then, I don't think he will."
"I shall ask mama," continued Bea, without noticing the little sly
remark. "I need not have many, about fifteen is enough; and we might
have cake, you know."
"Yes, cake and water; cheap and original; she won't expect much, for I
suppose the doctor has told her that we are poor as Job's turkey."
"I suppose he has not," corrected Bea, with some mild resentment. "He
would have no occasion to mention us in connection with such a subject.
Besides, we're not as poor as that."
"Just go by it then," laughed Kat. "But you shall have a party, dear, if
I have to paint the hole in the carpet and do all the work. We'll have a
party or die."
Very much the same conclusion, only a little more mildly put, Mrs.
Dering came to, when Bea made her modest request, with a pretty color in
her face.
"I know the parlor furniture is shabby, but it won't show so much at
night," Bea explained. "And we might just have cake and coffee, you
know, mama."
"Yes, dear, quite a nice little idea; and I think we can do it without
any trouble," answered Mrs. Dering, with that degree of motherly
interest that is always so encouraging, "How many would you like to
have, and on what evening?"
"How good you are!" cried Bea, with a grateful hug, before she answered
any questions. "Twelve is enough, don't you think so! Perhaps we'd like
to dance, or if the moon should be very bright, we could play croquet
and row on the pond."
"Quite delightful ideas. And what evening, dear?"
"Next--the picnic is on Wednesday. I guess on Friday evening would be
the best; Miss Barnett goes home on the next Tuesday."
"On Friday evening next. Well, I will spend the meantime studying up my
receipt-book, for its been a long time since I made a fancy cake,"
laughed Mrs. Dering. "As to the parlor, I think you had better go right
in and see what is needed there."
"So we had. Come on girls;" and off fluttered Bea, with a blithe song on
her lips, and followed by Kittie and Kat, who were consumed with
excitement at the prospect of a picnic and party in one week.
The parlors were quite large double rooms that had never been fully
furnished, but had received chairs and a table or two, by degrees; a
lounge at one time, a couple of stools at another, and, lastly, a
what-not, at which point contributions towards furnishing them ceased.
The carpet was rather shabby, from long use, and in one or two places
was worn perfectly white, which must be remedied in some way, as they
looked alarmingly big. The girls opened the door, and Kat immediately
said:
"Curtains must be washed."
"Sweeping the carpet with salt and tea-leaves brightens it up," added
Kittie, throwing open the blinds, and letting the sunlight in.
"Goodness, how that makes everything look!" cried Bea, in sudden dismay.
"But it doesn't shine at night," said Kat, consolingly. "Bless me! how
the back of the big chair is worn! what shall we do?"
"Make a big tidy out of darning-cotton," answered Kittie. "That's pretty
and cheap, and I know a lovely stitch, and can put long fringe on."
"Capital idea!" assented Kat, with an approving nod.
"We'll have to bring something in out of the sitting-room," said Bea,
pushing the chairs around, with a view to making one fill the space
required by two. "There's so much room, and it makes things look so
skimpy."
"Don't have everything pushed back so," advised Kittie, giving a twitch
here and a pull there, that brought things to more social angles, and
left less space. "See that fills out some, and in that corner we can put
the wire rack and fill it with flowers and vines."
"But the rack is so rusty," said Bea, only half relieved.
"There's some green paint in the woodshed, and I'll touch it up," said
Kittie, becoming thoroughly interested. "We can make a lovely
corner-piece out of it; there's all those limestones down in the yard,
and some of them are such pretty shapes, that will look lovely set in
moss, with vines going over them. We can hang the baskets in the
windows, and when the curtains are fresh and clean, it will look so
pretty."
"Hurrah for my better half," cried Kat, with a flourish of her hat.
"It's bliss to hear you talk. Your words are like wisdom
and--butter-scotch."
"What's in the wind?" asked an interested voice from the window. "And
what's all this I hear about limestones and butter-scotch and wisdom?"
"Don't you wish you knew?" said Kat, with an unfriendly grimace.
"I do, indeed; and what's more I'm going to find out, because you will
tell me, won't you, Posy?" said the new-comer, appealing to Bea, by the
nickname which her prettily-colored cheeks had won from him.
"Oh, yes, of course; and you must make yourself useful. I'm going to
give a little company for Miss Barnett," said Bea, with a friendly nod,
to make up for Kat's ungraciousness.
"So-ho, a party, and we are all going to make our _debut_, are we?"
asked Ralph, swinging himself into the open window, and taking a seat on
the sill, with an air of interest. "Good! Tell me what you want done,
and I'm ready, Posy."
"We'd like to have you take yourself off, somewhere, and stay till the
day after the party," was Kat's uncomplimentary remark.
"And I would like to oblige you, my dear, but I couldn't stay away from
you that long," retorted Ralph.
"I'm not your dear, shut up;" cried Kat, flapping her hat, and scowling
at the handsome, laughing face.
"There," cried Bea, with a suddenly exhausted air. "I don't see any way
of filling that big space between the windows in the back parlor. Dear
me, I wish there was more furniture."
"Bring the piano in," advised Ralph. "That's just exactly the place for
it, and it ought to be in here on such an occasion."
"Goodness! To be sure, but there's the expense of moving," exclaimed
Bea with a longing sigh. "And it would have to go back, of course."
"Why? Leave it here, a parlor's the place for a piano."
"Yes, but that would never do," said Bea with decision. "We always sit
in the other room, because it is so much more sunshiny and cozy than
these big parlors; and it would seem deserted without the piano there,
especially in the evenings."
"Reasons very good and accepted," assented Ralph. "The only thing left
to be done, is to decide whether or no, the piano shall come in and go
back; ready, those who want it so;--and remember, I'm going to attend to
it. Now then: yea or nay?"
"Yea," cried the girls, in one delighted breath; after which, Bea
ornamented him with a rose-bud, in token of her thanks, Kittie beamed
untold gratitude upon him, and Kat remarked with condescension: "You can
be a first-rate trump, when you take a notion."
"I'm overcome," said Ralph, with both hands over his heart, and leaving
his seat to make an extravagant bow--"To receive a bud from Posy, a
smile from Kittie, and the assurance from my unconquerable Kathleen,
that I can be a trump; is too much; I therefore hope you will excuse me
for leaving you somewhat abruptly, ladies;" and out of the window he
went with a flying leap, and Kat, watching him stroll down the yard,
made another astonishing admission:
"He's very handsome, if he is such a bother," she said, putting on her
hat with a reflective air. "I don't know, but what he might become quite
civilized, if he staid here long enough."
Between the picnic and the party, the girls were kept pretty busy for
the next few days, and the house was very merry, for busy hands with
happy hearts, bring chattering tongues and joyous laughter; and these
summer days were gleeful ones.
To be sure, some accidents happened, both comical and disastrous, and in
fact, it never was otherwise, if anything was going on in which Kat had
a hand.
On the impulse of an unlucky moment she offered to paint the
flower-rack, as Kittie was busy; so rigged in a big torn flat, and a
pair of fingerless gloves, she went to work, and painted the bottom
first, with flourishing success; but left it out over night, when it
rained and splashed her work with mud; then she began over, and did the
top first, and then hung the pot on a little hook, and went over the
bottom again; but in the midst of her zeal, the pot slipped, turned
over, and deluged her head and body with slopping green paint, and would
have ruined her eyes, if she hadn't shut them tight with the first gasp
of amaze; and when she tried to walk to the house with them closed, the
wheel-barrow stood in the way, and over she went, with a shriek of
dismay that brought the whole household flying to the spot; after which
the afflicted damsel was picked up, and carried tenderly to the kitchen
to be worked with.
Ralph finished the rack, and Kat heard him remark, that she had daubed
enough paint on one knob, to do for half the rack. It didn't make her
feel any better.
In her zeal to get the parlors clean, Bea had climbed the step-ladder to
wash some ancient dust from the top of the folding doors, but the ladder
tilted, and over she went soap suds and all; and in answer to a wailing
cry, the rescuing family once more put in an appearance, to find that
the cleanly heroine, had wrenched her ankle, and could not step on it,
but must be carried to the sitting-room, to have the afflicted member
rubbed with arnica.
"I tried to jump," she explained with pathetic rivers of tears. "Oh
dear, what shall I do? I can't go to the picnic--nor have the
company--nor anything--and I think it's too b-b-ad."
"Perhaps it is not so serious," said Mrs. Dering, with comfort in her
voice, and in her swift careful fingers that were binding the swollen
ankle in cool bands. "You will have to be perfectly still, and by
Wednesday, I think it will be well; it is only a little twist, so don't
feel so cast down dear." But Bea refused to be comforted, and sobbed
herself to sleep that night. Not to go to the picnic, when Dr. Barnett
had asked her to go in the phaeton with them, oh, it was too bad,
surely!
Beyond hammering one of her fingers, till the nail swelled up with
insulted feeling, and threatened to come off, nothing happened to
Kittie, who considered herself specially blessed, and did her whole head
up in papers on Monday night, so as to be sure and have it curl for
Wednesday.
When Tuesday arrived, Bea had sunk to the lowest ebb. She knew she
couldn't go, and there was no use talking. She was the most unfortunate
girl that ever lived, and no one could deny it; and after making this
assertion numberless times during the day, she gave up and cried
despondingly, giving herself full freedom as she was alone; and so it
happened that a young man came up the walk, and finding the front door
open, came in, and a moment later, stood transfixed at the sitting-room
threshold, to behold that utterly crushed looking figure on the lounge,
with dishevelled hair, and hidden face; while the most heart-broken sobs
crept out from behind a drenched handkerchief. No wonder he was alarmed,
or that his voice trembled when he asked:
"What is the matter--what has happened?"
Bea nearly fell off the lounge in dismay, and only gave him one brief,
startled glimpse of her wet face, then she stopped crying, and said
after a reflective pause:
"Nothing--I guess."
"Nothing," he repeated, with a breath of relief, and then began to
laugh.
"Won't you come in, Dr. Barnett?" said the discomfited weeper from
behind her handkerchief, and with an attempt at dignity, "Excuse me for
not rising; I'm--I'm lame."
The little hitch in her voice betrayed her grief; but, dear me! he was
all interest now. He drew a chair close to the lounge, professional
habit, no doubt, and ventured to touch one of the hands that supported
the doleful looking handkerchief.
"Won't you let me see you? When did this happen?"
"Saturday. No, you can't see me; I've been crying an hour."
"Is the pain so great?"
Oh, no wonder this young M.D. was so popular if his voice was always
thus tender and anxious in making inquiries.
"Pain! no, but," with a little hysterical sob, "I can't go to the
picnic!"
Now you needn't smile at this frank explanation, for he did not. Bless
you! no; he looked as if he had three minds to cry too, and if Mrs.
Dering hadn't entered at that moment, there's no telling what he might
have said by way of sympathy. As it was, he returned her cordial
greeting, and began to express his regret in polite terms, but with much
warmth of feeling that could not be concealed.
"Is it quite impossible, do you think? Lottie will be so disappointed;"
he said, regardless of the fact that he was making Lottie do double
duty, in the way of disappointment; but Bea took the remark in all good
faith, and thought it was very sweet of Lottie to care whether she went
or not.
"I don't know," answered Mrs. Dering, thoughtfully. "It was only a
little twist, and she stood on it this morning, didn't you, Bea?"
"Yes, mama," said Bea, coming out from behind her handkerchief in eager
interest. "I did for several minutes, and it didn't hurt hardly any."
"Suppose you try again," said Dr. Barnett with unprofessional haste to
test an injured member. "Take my arm, and let's see if you cannot walk a
step or two."
Bea did so, with a shy blush, and stood up; then after a moment, took a
few steps, with the color coming and going in her cheeks, for more
reasons than one; and, though it was very pleasant to feel her clinging
to his arm in that helpless way, Dr. Barnett made her sit down; but
passed his opinion that she could go to the picnic.
"Do you really think so?" said Bea, with delighted eagerness.
"I do, if you will be content to sit in the carriage all day," he
answered, looking down at her, as though he thought a much swollen nose
and highly colored eyes were the most adorable sights; and Bea looked up
at him, then blushed, without any reason whatever, whereupon Mrs.
Dering made some hasty remark about the desirable weather for picnics,
and the doctor decided, all of a sudden, that he must go, which he
accordingly did.
What a glorious hub-bub a picnic morning is, especially when there are
several in one home interested in its perfect success. Neither of the
girls slept much. Bea couldn't have told what kept her awake, but
somehow, her eyes would remain open, and she was dimly conscious, of
smiling several times in the dark, and feeling very happy. Once she came
very near humming out a little air, that seemed to be singing itself
over and over in her heart, but she suppressed the desire, out of
consideration for others, who were less blissfully affected. Kittie
declared that there was no use trying to sleep, because Kat kept getting
up every few minutes, to look out and see if it was going to rain; and
Kat, in turn, said that Kittie had sat up all night, because her
crimping papers hurt her so she couldn't lie down. At just four o'clock
everybody was fully awakened, by the twins clattering down stairs with a
great racket, and getting breakfast under headway, and Mrs. Dering,
awakened from her morning nap, consoled herself with a fervent--"Bless
the children, I'm glad this doesn't happen often."
"It's going to rain," cried Kat, with a despairing wail. "See that
cloud?"
"Stuff!" echoed Kittie. "It isn't as big as a door-knob." But
nevertheless, they both let breakfast burn, while running every few
moments to see if it was swelling any bigger, and were fully rewarded by
seeing it dwindle and sail away over the barn before six o'clock.
No, it didn't rain, and before the sun was through his earliest infancy,
they were all ready, and Dr. Barnett's phaeton stood at the gate, with
Miss Lottie in a pretty picnic suit; and her brother deeply absorbed in
the pleasing task of getting Bea down to the gate without hurting her
ankle. Ralph officiated on one side of the interesting cripple, and took
a wicked satisfaction in doing the greatest share of the supporting; but
then the doctor was reasonable, and was as happy as possible with what
fell to his share; and Bea,--well, Bea was perfectly content.
They drove off with an accompanying shout from those left behind, and a
few moments later, Ralph and the twins departed on foot to meet the
carriages that were all to assemble at a certain place.
Quite a little flutter of admiration went round as this trio came up,
for Ralph was a very handsome centre piece, and the twins in their very
becoming costumes and wide-awake hats, cocked up at one side after the
prevailing fashion, made pictures of great attractiveness on each side.
Everybody was there, and everybody was laughing and talking merrily, and
everybody had a word of greeting for the new arrivals. Of all the old
school-girls from Miss Howard's, Kittie and Kat were the only two who
did not make pretensions towards young ladyhood; and just now, there was
something so girlish and sweet about them, in their fresh calico suits,
and bright young faces under the big hats, that one or two strangers
asked who they were, all the elder people smiled approval, while the
young ones, with an eye on the handsome cousin, nodded sweetly, and were
quite attentive.
"Look at Susie Darrow," whispered Kat, under cover of her lowered hat.
"All tricked out in silk, and a little gipsy bonnet, with a white plume;
and she's been smiling at me every minute, and Ralph thinks she's the
biggest goose out. I'll tell her so."
"No, goodness no; let her smile if she wants to, she'll soon find out
that it's no use," answered Kittie. "There's Sadie Brooks too, she's
been in New York, and has got an eye-glass, dear sakes alive, just watch
her use it, will you?"
"Good morning girls, you look a couple of daisies;" said Mrs. Raymond,
going by with a nod and a smile. "You and your cousin, are to go in our
carriage, the girls want you," and away she went, like a busy happy soul
that she was.
"The Raymond girls look sensible," said Kittie, with an air of approval;
"see they have on short dresses, and big hats; I think Lou is prettier
than Clara, don't you?"
"Rather," answered Kat, too much taken up in watching her former
play-mates, to notice others. Susie Darrow had been to boarding-school,
Sadie Brooks to New York, and May Moore was going to the sea-side next
month; so they were all much uplifted in mind and manner, and took unto
themselves the airs of thoroughly initiated society-ladies.
"Girls?" said Miss Brooks, with her little affected drawl, and raising
her eye-glass in her lavender kid-fingers. "Which ones do you mean, I do
not quite understand?"
"Those two under the big tree," replied her questioner, a visitor in
Canfield. "Twins they are, in the big hats."
"Oh! Yes." Miss Brooks's eye-glass went slowly to the place indicated,
and took a leisure survey. "You mean the little girls in calico dresses;
they are the Derings, I believe, but really, being in the city so long,
I find I am quite forgetting old faces."
"Indeed," was the reply, with a respectful air, though the desire to
laugh was almost irresistible. The little girls in calico dresses were
fifteen, and taller than Miss Brooks, who was just sixteen; but then,
dear me, she had on a train of party length, bushels of banged hair, a
little wisp of a bonnet, and little fine black marks along her lower
eyelid, so altogether she looked about twenty, and was perfectly
satisfied with herself. She could not look ahead to the dissatisfaction
that would be hers when she became twenty, and looked to be
twenty-eight.
When they started, ten merry carriage-loads, everybody stood in their
doors, and hung over the front gates to see them off, for Canfield was a
social little place, and felt a deep interest in anything going on
within its limits; so if good wishes could make a successful day, surely
they would have it.
Well, they did have it; yes, indeed, they did; and a happier set of
young people were never turned wild in green-woods. To be sure, there
were some draw-backs; for instance, when a dozen or so went off to swing
in a wild-grape vine, Sadie Brooks couldn't go, her dress was too long,
and it would tear her gloves. Likewise, when they played "drop the
handkerchief," "blind-man," and "down on this carpet," Susie Darrow
couldn't join, because her tie-back would hardly admit of sitting down,
let alone racing in the woods; besides, the wind blew her white plume
all up, and took the crimp out of her hair, and then she lost her lace
handkerchief, and didn't receive much attention from handsome Ralph
Tremayne; and altogether, she lost her temper, declared picnics a bore,
and told May Moore that no one but romps ever came to them anyhow,
which, considering that both she and May were in attendance, was a
remark which might have been improved on.
Sitting in a carriage all day proved to be no hardship to Bea, for
didn't Dr. Barnett spend nearly all his time there? and at Miss Lottie's
proposal, didn't several of them trim the phaeton in boughs and vines,
and deck her out in flowers until she looked like a forest queen? and
aside from being a favorite, didn't she receive so much sympathy that
there was a constant court before and around her throne? and above it
all, don't you suppose a certain pair of eyes, as they looked at her
that day, told her a certain story more plainly than the owner's lips
ever could? That she was the fairest and dearest picture to him, there,
or elsewhere?
"Who is that young lady--little girl, I am almost disposed to call her,
with the fresh young face and lovely eyes? The one who stands on the
bank, there, with the wreath of leaves on her hat?"
Mrs. Raymond's brother asked the question, as he sat with his sister on
an elevated spot under a big tree, surveying the gay crowds roaming
about in all directions.
"That? It is one of the Dering twins," answered Mrs. Raymond, with a
smile of interest. "But I don't know which; they are not to be
distinguished; they are lovely girls, so fresh and unaffected. I suppose
you have noticed them both?"
"Yes, and I disagree with you, for they are to be distinguished; I have
been watching them with considerable interest. There; the other one is
coming down the hill now; do you mean to tell me that you see no
difference?"
"Well, surely not in face or figure," replied Mrs. Raymond, with a
puzzled glance. "I see that the new-comer's hat is hanging to her neck,
and has no trimming, that her gloves are gone, and she has the general
appearance of having gone through a wind-mill."
"And you have struck the distinction admirably, my dear," was the
smiling answer. "There was something in their faces that interested me
this morning, and I have noticed them a great deal. So far as I can see,
the one has had just as gay a time as the other, and done very nearly as
much romping; and yet you see, she looks as fresh and sweet as when
starting out, with the addition of much becoming trimming; and where she
has gone heartily, yet with a girlish grace, the other has gone
pell-mell, as though in defiance of any restriction on feminine gender.
Do you know which is which?"
"Indeed, I do not," said Mrs. Raymond, who was not acquainted with the
characteristics of the twins. "All I know is that one is Kittie and the
other Kat, and that I never know which is which when I am talking to
them, never having had time to study them up."
"Well, I will wager my shoe-buckle, that the one on the bank is Kittie,
and the hatless one Kat," was the quiet response. "At least, that is the
way it ought to be. Now I should like to meet Miss Kittie, and if you--"
"Is it possible?" cried the lady, throwing up her hands in amaze. "You,
who would only consent to come, on condition that you need not be
introduced, and play the agreeable to the young ladies; well, well! who
would have thought it, Paul?"
"The generality of young ladies are bores," was the reply. "I did not
expect to meet such a fresh faced, lovely young girl; for society never
allows them to remain so, if it gets hold of them."
"It will never be so with these girls," said Mrs. Raymond. "They have
too sensible and lovely a mother, and besides, they are a family much
devoted among themselves; there are five sisters, you will remember my
telling you about the other one, Ernestine, she sang like an angel; and
another one is an artist, the youngest a cripple, and--well they all
seem to live solely for each other, so require little from society. I
admire them all very much."
"So do I, from what I hear," said the gentleman, getting up from his
grassy seat, and glancing down at the bank. "Shall I assist you?"
"No, indeed; I'm not old yet, if I am grey," laughed Mrs. Raymond,
jumping nimbly up to prove her assertion. "I don't know what the ladies
will say, Paul, to see you finally succumbing to feminine attractions;
they have all eyed you in your seclusion with evident regret. You know
there is something singularly attractive about a widower, young or old;
though I suppose you have found that out," she added with a sister's
fond belief that her brother is irresistible in every way.
"Yes, I dislike conceit; but I have found out a few things in the last
four years," he answered, smiling; then uttering a little exclamation of
disappointment, as they reached the foot of the hill, and found that
Kittie had disappeared from the bank.
"Great oaks from little acorns grow." Sometimes they do in books,
sometimes they do out; and this afternoon in the sunshiny woods, two
little acorns had been planted. One of them was when Paul Murray had
looked with careless eyes into Kittie Dering's face, and found in its
bright girlish sweetness, what had been lacking for him, in any woman's
face since he lost his wife; namely--interest. He was a grave,
thoughtful faced man, with just a dash of grey on his temples, and a
listless air of world-weariness, that made him look beyond his years;
for he was only twenty-eight; and yet he had had a vigorous cuffing from
the reed-shaken hand of Fortune, and had come to regard himself with a
sort of pitying disapprobation, such as falls upon us when we know we
have a duty to perform, yet think it too great, and hesitate between
self-condolence and accusation.
He had seen the day of wild oats, and had sown them, but had drawn back
ere they sprung into life and choked out all else. He had had riches and
lost them; had married a lovely loving girl, only to have her taken from
him in one short year; then to deaden his grief he had gone to work,
regained his wealth, after which he left his infant daughter in tender
hands, and had gone abroad, only to again lose all he had in an
unfortunate speculation, which brought him home, where he had again gone
to work, but with a listless, disinterested way,--that had brought him
little success.
So, to-day, he was a lawyer, struggling as though he had just entered
the bar. So, I say, he felt like a man without an incentive. To be sure,
there was his little daughter, but then he had really seen so little of
the child, and for a time there had been almost a bitter feeling against
her, because, in gaining her life, she had taken her young mother's, and
left him desolate; and then if he was to die, she was amply provided
for by her grandmother. He had yet to learn, that, though severely dealt
with, he had still much to live for.
The other little acorn had fallen in kindred ground, in no less place,
than the loving little heart of Pansy Murray.
The brother and sister were strolling rather aimlessly about, with a
word here and there to chattering groups, and an occasional glance
around to see if Kittie was in sight, when, who should they see, but
that young lady coming slowly towards them, with her arms filled with a
familiar bundle, that showed signs of life, as they came in sight of
each other. It thus remarked with much excitement:
"I was losted, I was, papa, behind a big tree, an' I was a kyin'
dreffully when the lady finded me, I was."
"Lost? Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Raymond, snatching the child in a
hurry, and forgetting all introductions. "Why, I told the girls not to
lose sight of you, Pansy."
"But they did," said Pansy, with a blissful smile, as though she had
done something great. "They bothered me dreadfully, saying: 'Come,
Pansy,' 'Don't go there, Pansy,' till I went right off for sure 'thout
telling one body, and then I got losted mos' right away, and I wished I
could hear somebody say 'Come, Pansy,' but nobody did, so I jes' began
to commence to holler, 'th all my might, and the lady camed right off; I
think 'twas drefful good for her to."
"Kat lost her breastpin, and I was helping look for it," said Kittie,
with a modest blush, being quite overcome with the gratitude visible in
both faces before her. "She wasn't very far away."
"I was far away," corrected Pansy with decision. "I was more'n
'leventeen miles, and I expected to see a big bear mos' every minute, I
did, and I know one would have camed if the lady hadn't; and I jes' love
her very much, I do."
"Oh, yes; excuse me," said Mrs. Raymond, hastily. "Paul, this is Miss
Dering; my brother, Mr. Murray; and we're so thankful to you, Kittie."
Kittie bowed and blushed still more, as Mr. Murray repeated his
gratitude, but as she turned to leave, Pansy cried vehemently:
"You stay with me, 'cause I want you, and you go home with me and my
papa in the little buggy; tell her so quick, right off, papa."
Of course what could Mr. Murray do but say politely:
"I should be most pleased, Miss Dering, if you would allow me to be
cruel enough to take you from the gay party."
Kittie did not know the invitation came from a society lion, who
refused to be caught, and the depths of her innocent heart never dreamed
how pleased he was, at thus being forced into giving it; she only knew
that she had much rather go home in the carriage, with the girls, and
was quite unconscious that the thought shone in her eyes, but Mr. Murray
saw it and hastily added:
"It would be too unkind, after all. Do not consider it another moment;
only tell me if you will allow Pansy and me to come and take you to ride
some evening soon."
"Yes, thank you," answered Kittie. "I should be very much pleased."
Some one shouted her name through the woods just then, and with a little
bow and smile, she went away, leaving Mr. Murray to comfort Pansy, as he
said slowly:
"A delightfully natural, and charming little girl! We will go and take
her to ride soon; so don't cry, Pansy."
Well the blissful day came to an end, as all days will, though they
prolonged it to the last minute and did not reach home until after dark;
and then everybody forgot how tired they were, and said with a sigh of
pleasing memory, "How delightful it was, to be sure!"
"I had a lovely time," said Bea, smiling to herself in the dark, after
they had gone to bed.
"Well, I'm sure I did," added Kittie, hugging her pillow with a tired,
contented sigh, and thankful that she had no crimps in the way.
"Well, I didn't find my pin, and I tore my dress, and knocked my head
till I saw stars, on that grape vine, but I had a grand tip-top time,
and I'd like to go again, yes, I would, if only to see Sadie Brooks
wiggle her eye-glass and say, 'How shocking!' when I walked the log
across the creek," was Kat's final remark as she dropped into worn-out
slumber.