Four days later Ida was lying one morning on a wicker-work lounge on the
front porch of Mr. Leverton's cottage, when the man employed to take
care of the horses returned from a trip to the post-office, and handed
her a letter.
[Illustration: ARRIVAL OF AUNT STINA'S LETTER.]
Ida took it listlessly. She had not felt well since the night before;
her head had ached; she had pains in her limbs, and felt dull and
sleepy.
"From Aunt Stina," she said to Angela, who sat near her, reading. "She
writes from Paris," she added, as she tore the letter open.
"Read me anything very interesting," said Angela. "I hope she tells
about the Paris fashions."
But Ida read down to the bottom of the first page without communicating
a word of its contents. Then suddenly she gave a sigh that was almost a
sob, and covered her face with her hands.
"Why, Ida! what is the matter?" Angela threw down her book and flew to
the side of the lounge.
"I can't tell you--don't ask me," said Ida, in a smothered voice.
"Is your Aunt Stina ill?"
"Oh, no; it isn't that. It is only-- Oh, Angela, I have been so
ungrateful, so unkind; I--" she broke off, sobbing, the letter crushed
in her hand.
"In what way have you been ungrateful and unkind? I don't understand you
at all. In fact, Ida, you're not at all like you were last spring. I
have been noticing it ever since you came here to visit us. I don't know
how to describe it; but you're altogether changed!"
Ida sobbed on. It was that first page of her Aunt Stina's letter which
had affected her so powerfully. It ran as follows:
"I must decline to accept your thanks for the box you received
early in July. I do not deserve any credit whatever. Your sister
wrote me that you needed the dress, and enclosed thirty dollars
from your Aunt Patty, which I was directed to spend for you as I
saw fit. Cynthia requested me not to write you that they had
arranged the surprise for you. I suppose they did not wish you to
be burdened with a debt of gratitude. But after this length of time
it can do no harm for you to learn that your Aunt Patty and not I
bore the expense of your outfit for Mrs. Lennox's lawn party."
So that was how Aunt Patty had spent the money she had received for the
yellow heifer. What wonder that Ida, remembering what she had said about
her aunt's shabby clothes, should be overwhelmed with contrition now?
"Ida," said Angela, after regarding her friend in silence a few moments,
"I do believe you caught the fever from that woman tramp you insisted
on taking into Edgerton."
"I deserve to be punished in some way," said Ida. "Not for my interest
in that poor sick woman," she added, as Angela stared at her with an
expression of surprise, "but for various offences. I have been selfish,
inconsiderate, deceitful, and unkind."
"Ida, you are certainly going to be ill," said Angela. "I never heard
you talk that way before."
Angela's supposition proved correct. By night Ida had a high fever, and
the pains in her limbs had grown very much worse.
Doctor Stone was sent for, and pronounced her sickening with scarletina.
Soon after he had made his visit Ida fell asleep, and dozed at intervals
all night. At about eight o'clock she woke from a longer nap than usual.
The sun was shining in between the slats of the closed blinds, but the
house seemed strangely still. She listened intently, but could hear no
one stirring, no sound of voices; only the sullen roar of the mighty
ocean.
Her throat was parched; her blood seemed to course through her veins
like liquid fire.
"Oh, if I only had a drink of water; how good it would feel," she said
aloud.
As she spoke, a portly figure rose slowly from a seat by one of the
windows. It was Old Dinah, the black cook Mrs. Leverton employed every
summer.
"Dinah'll get yo' the water, honey," she said.
"Dinah!" exclaimed Ida. "Why, what are you doing up here?"
"I's nursin' yo', honey, de bes' I knows how. De doctor, he done tole me
de directions."
"But where are Angela and Mrs. Leverton, and why is the house so still?"
"Dey's all gone, my lamb. Dey cl'ared outer heah early dis mawnin'. Miss
Angela, she didn't give her mammy no res' after she done knowed yo' had
de fever. Dey lef' me ter take keer ob yo' till yo' aunt git heah. Dey
done sent er telegraph fo' her las' ebenin'."
Ida's first feeling at finding herself thus deserted was one of poignant
humiliation and pain, but like balm to her wounded spirit came the
thought that Aunt Patty would soon be with her--the dear Aunt Patty whom
she had never known how to value until lately. Oh, how she longed to see
that kind face, to feel those strong, tender arms about her; to bear the
gentle loving voice which she had never heard utter one unkind or
impatient word to any one!
"I will tell her how sorry I am that I ever hurt and grieved her,"
thought Ida. "I will never again be too proud and stubborn to confess my
faults, and ask pardon of those that love me."
But when Aunt Patty arrived at Rocky Beach--having travelled as fast as
steam and stage could bring her--Ida was delirious, and did not
recognize her.
The tears coursed down the old woman's cheeks as she stood beside the
bed, watching the restless movements of the pretty young head, shorn of
all its golden locks; listening to the whispering voice as it babbled
incoherently of Cynthia, the farm, Mrs. Lennox, Angela, and a hundred
other persons and things.
"She will require the most careful and assiduous nursing," said the
doctor. "Only that can pull her safely through."
"She shall have it," answered Aunt Patty. "I'll take her back as well as
ever to the old farm six weeks from now, please God."
The crisis of the fever came on the ninth day. Dr. Stone came early, and
staid until midnight. Then he left Ida sleeping quietly, the flush gone
from her thin cheeks, her breath coming regularly.
"She will live," he said, as he parted with Aunt Patty outside, under
the quiet stars. "All danger is over now, I believe."
It was several days, however, before Ida knew who it was who bent over
her so lovingly, who soothed and tended her with all a mother's care,
whose kindly hands bathed her fevered face, whose feet were ever ready
to move at the least need.
A week later, however, Ida was able to sit up, and the healthy color was
stealing into her pale cheeks. She enjoyed sitting by the open window,
where she could watch the restless ocean. Mrs. Leverton had written that
they must stay in the cottage until Ida was entirely well. Old Dinah
kept house for them, and had become devoted to Aunt Patty.
"Yo' aunt ain't nuffin' on fash'nable style," she confided to Ida, "but
she's a bawn lady, sho's de worl'. She doan nebbah hector nobody."
"I think you'll be able to travel by Saturday, Ida," Aunt Patty said one
day. "Doctor Stone thinks there wouldn't be any risk now in your
undertaking the journey."
"And, oh, how glad I will be to get home again," said Ida.
"Does it really seem like home, dear?"
"Yes, Aunt Patty. A better home than I deserve, and I can't share it
again with you and Cynthia until I have told you something."
Aunt Patty drew near the chair in which Ida sat, and, standing at the
back of it, put both arms around her. She could feel that Ida trembled a
little.
"Of course you'll forgive me," went on Ida, "for you are so good, you
could never feel harshly toward any one, however great the provocation.
I did many unkind and even cruel things when I was at the farm this
summer, Aunt Patty. When I think of them I don't understand how I
_could_ have acted so. I know it would be impossible for me to do such
things now."
"You have had a change of heart, Ida."
"Oh, Aunt Patty, I hope so. There was need of a change. I can look back
and see it now, though I used to think myself almost perfection."
"And now?"
"I see all my faults," said Ida, "and I realize how patient, generous,
and forgiving you and Cynthia were all those unhappy weeks. Aunt Patty,
one of the things I must tell you is that I deceived Cynthia about that
lawn party. Mrs. Lennox _did_ invite her."
"She knew that, dear."
"Knew that she was invited? Oh, Aunt Patty!"
"Yes; you see, I felt sure Mrs. Lennox must have intended to invite you
both, and as Cynthia was so terribly hurt and disappointed, what did I
do but go straight to Mrs. Lennox and ask her about it. She said of
course Cynthy was to come, and she would depend on seein' her; that she
was so sorry her invitation had not been understood."
"And you told Cynthia?"
"Yes; but not meaning any harm to you, Ida. I never thought but what you
had made a mistake, and as you seemed a little unhappy ever since Mrs.
Lennox had called. I made sure you were grievin' because Cynthy wasn't
to go with you."
"Oh, how I wish it _had_ been a mistake," said Ida; "but it was
deliberate deceit. I knew Cynthia had no gown fit for such an occasion,
and I thought I might be mortified before Angela Leverton."
"Cynthy saw just how it was," said Aunt Patty. "She met me at the gate,
and when I told her what Mrs. Lennox had said, she knew that it wasn't a
mistake at all."
"She was very forgiving." Ida sighed heavily. "I felt
conscience-stricken when I saw that she was so bitterly disappointed.
And then think of how much _you_ have to forgive me. Do you remember
that day I was in the carriage with Angela, and you were coming from the
village with that big box in your arms? Oh, Aunt Patty! to think I was
so mean as to pretend I didn't know you! It makes me wretched now just
to think of it."
"There, there!" said Aunt Patty, who could not restrain her own tears.
"It doesn't matter now, dearie. We will forget all about it."