“UNDERSTOOD AUNT FRANCES”
About a month, after Betsy’s birthday, one October day when the leaves
were all red and yellow, two very momentous events occurred, and, in a
manner of speaking, at the very same time. Betsy had noticed that her
kitten Eleanor (she still thought of her as a kitten, although she was
now a big, grown-up cat) spent very little time around the house. She
came into the kitchen two or three times a day, mewing loudly for milk
and food, but after eating very fast she always disappeared at once.
Betsy missed the purring, contented ball of fur on her lap in the long
evenings as she played checkers, or read aloud, or sewed, or played
guessing games. She felt rather hurt, too, that Eleanor paid her so
little attention, and several times she tried hard to make her stay,
trailing in front of her a spool tied to a string or rolling a worsted
ball across the floor. But Eleanor seemed to have lost all her taste for
the things she had liked so much. Invariably, the moment the door was
opened, she darted out and vanished.
One afternoon Betsy ran out after her, determined to catch her and bring
her back. When the cat found she was being followed, she bounded along
in great leaps, constantly escaping from Betsy’s outstretched hand. They
came thus to the horse-barn, into the open door of which Eleanor whisked
like a little gray shadow, Betsy close behind. The cat flashed up the
steep, ladder-like stairs that led to the hay-loft. Betsy scrambled
rapidly up, too. It was dark up there, compared to the gorgeous-colored
October day outside, and for a moment she could not see Eleanor. Then
she made her out, a dim little shape, picking her way over the hay, and
she heard her talking. Yes, it was real talk, quite, quite different
from the loud, imperious “MIAUW!” with which Eleanor asked for her milk.
This was the softest, prettiest kind of conversation, all little murmurs
and chirps and sing-songs. Why, Betsy could almost understand it! She
COULD understand it enough to know that it was love-talk, and then,
breaking into this, came a sudden series of shrill, little, needle-like
cries that fairly filled the hay-loft. Eleanor gave a bound forward and
disappeared. Betsy, very much excited, scrambled and climbed up over the
hay as fast as she could go.
It was all silent now—the piercing, funny little squalls had stopped as
suddenly as they began. On the top in a little nest lay Eleanor, purring
so loudly you could hear her all over the big mow, and so proud and
happy she could hardly contain herself. Her eyes glistened, she arched
her back, rolled over and spread out her paws, disclosing to Betsy’s
astounded, delighted eyes—no, she wasn’t dreaming—two dear little
kittens, one all gray, just like its mother; one gray with a big bib on
his chest.
Oh! How dear they were! How darling, and cuddly, and fuzzy! Betsy put
her fingers very softly on the gray one’s head and thrilled to feel the
warmth of the little living creature. “Oh, Eleanor!” she asked eagerly.
“CAN I pick one up?” She lifted the gray one gently and held it up to
her cheek. The little thing nestled down in the warm hollow of her hand.
She could feel its tiny, tiny little claws pricking softly into her
palm. “Oh, you sweetness! You little, little baby-thing!” she said over
and over in a whisper.
Eleanor did not stop purring, and she looked up with friendly, trusting
eyes as her little mistress made the acquaintance of her children, but
Betsy could feel somehow that Eleanor was anxious about her kitten, was
afraid that, although the little girl meant everything that was kind,
her great, clumsy, awkward human hands weren’t clever enough to hold a
baby-cat the proper way. “I don’t blame you a bit, Eleanor,” said Betsy.
“I should feel just so in your place. There! I won’t touch it again!”
She laid the kitten down carefully by its mother. Eleanor at once began
to wash its face very vigorously, knocking it over and over with her
strong tongue. “My!” said Betsy, laughing. “You’d scratch my eyes out,
if _I_ were as rough as that!”
Eleanor didn’t seem to hear. Or rather she seemed to hear something
else. For she stopped short, her head lifted, her ears pricked up,
listening very hard to some distant sound. Then Betsy heard it, too,
somebody coming into the barn below, little, quick, uneven footsteps. It
must be little Molly, tagging along, as she always did. What fun to show
Molly the kittens!
“Betsy!” called Molly from below.
“Molly!” called Betsy from above. “Come up here quick! I’ve got
something up here.”
There was a sound of scrambling, rapid feet on the rough stairs, and
Molly’s yellow curls appeared, shining in the dusk. “I’ve got a ...” she
began, but Betsy did not let her finish.
“Come here, Molly, quick! QUICK!” she called, beckoning eagerly, as
though the kittens might evaporate into thin air if Molly didn’t get
there at once. Molly forgot what she was going to say, climbed madly up
the steep pile of hay, and in a moment was lying flat on her stomach
beside the little family in a spasm of delight that satisfied even Betsy
and Eleanor, both of them convinced that these were the finest kittens
the world had ever seen.
“See, there are two,” said Betsy. “You can have one for your very own.
And I’ll let you choose. Which one do you like best?”
She was hoping that Molly would not take the little all-gray one,
because she had fallen in love with that the minute she saw it.
“Oh, THIS one with the white on his breast,” said Molly, without a
moment’s hesitation. “It’s LOTS the prettiest! Oh, Betsy! For my very
own?”
Something white fell out of the folds of her skirt on the hay. “Oh,
yes,” she said indifferently. “A letter for you. Miss Ann told me to
bring it out here. She said she saw you streaking it for the barn.”
It was a letter from Aunt Frances. Betsy opened it, one eye on Molly to
see that she did not hug her new darling too tightly, and began to read
it in the ray of dusty sunlight slanting in through a crack in the side
of the barn. She could do this easily, because Aunt Frances always made
her handwriting very large and round and clear, so that a little girl
could read it without half trying.
And as she read, everything faded away from before her ... the barn,
Molly, the kittens ... she saw nothing but the words on the page.
When she had read the letter through she got up quickly, oh ever so
quickly! and went away down the stairs. Molly hardly noticed she had
gone, so absorbing and delightful were the kittens.
Betsy went out of the dusky barn into the rich, October splendor and saw
none of it. She went straight away from the house and the barn, straight
up into the hill-pasture toward her favorite place beside the brook, the
shady pool under the big maple-tree. At first she walked, but after a
while she ran, faster and faster, as though she could not get there soon
enough. Her head was down, and one arm was crooked over her face....
And do you know, I’m not going to follow her up there, nor let you go.
I’m afraid we would all cry if we saw what Betsy did under the big
maple-tree. And the very reason she ran away so fast was so that she
could be all by herself for a very hard hour, and fight it out, alone.
So let us go back soberly to the orchard where the Putneys are, and wait
till Betsy comes walking listlessly in, her eyes red and her cheeks
pale. Cousin Ann was up in the top of a tree, a basket hung over her
shoulder half full of striped red Northern Spies; Uncle Henry was on a
ladder against another tree, filling a bag with the beautiful, shining,
yellow-green Pound Sweets, and Aunt Abigail was moving around, picking
up the parti-colored windfalls and putting them into barrels ready to go
to the cider-mill.
Something about the way Betsy walked, and as she drew closer something
about the expression of her face, and oh! as she began to speak,
something about the tone of her voice, stopped all this cheerful
activity as though a bomb had gone off in their midst.
“I’ve had a letter from Aunt Frances,” said Betsy, biting her lips, “and
she says she’s coming to take me away, back to them, tomorrow.”
There was a big silence; Cousin Ann stood, perfectly motionless up in
her tree, staring down through the leaves at Betsy. Uncle Henry was
turned around on his ladder, one hand on an apple as though it had
frozen there, staring down at Betsy. Aunt Abigail leaned with both fat
hands on her barrel, staring hard at Betsy. Betsy was staring down at
her shoes, biting her lips and winking her eyes. The yellow, hazy
October sun sank slowly down toward the rim of Hemlock Mountain, and
sent long, golden shafts of light through the branches of the trees upon
this group of people, all so silent, so motionless.
[Illustration: Betsy was staring down at her shoes, biting her lips and
winking her eyes.]
Betsy was the first to speak, and I’m very proud of her for what she
said. She said, loyally, “Dear Aunt Frances! She was always so sweet to
me! She always tried so hard to take care of me!”
For that was what Betsy had found up by the brook under the big red
maple-tree. She had found there a certainty that, whatever else she did,
she must NOT hurt Aunt Frances’s feelings—dear, gentle, sweet Aunt
Frances, whose feelings were so easily hurt and who had given her so
many years of such anxious care. Something up there had told
her—perhaps the quiet blue shadow of Windward Mountain creeping slowly
over the pasture toward her, perhaps the silent glory of the great
red and gold tree, perhaps the singing murmur of the little
brook—perhaps all of them together had told her that now had come a
time when she must do more than what Cousin Ann would do—when she must
do what she herself knew was right. And that was to protect Aunt Frances
from hurt.
When she spoke, out there in the orchard, she broke the spell of
silence. Cousin Ann climbed hastily down from her tree, with her basket
only partly filled. Uncle Henry got stiffly off his ladder, and Aunt
Abigail advanced through the grass. And they all said the same
thing—“Let me see that letter.”
They read it there, looking over each other’s shoulders, with grave
faces. Then, still silently, they all turned and went back into the
house, leaving their forgotten bags and barrels and baskets out under
the trees. When they found themselves in the kitchen—“Well, it’s
suppertime, anyhow,” said Cousin Ann hastily, as if ashamed of losing
her composure, “or almost time. We might as well get it now.”
“I’m a-going out to milk,” said Uncle Henry gruffly, although it was not
nearly his usual time. He took up the milk pails and marched out toward
the barn, stepping heavily, his head hanging.
Shep woke up with a snort and, getting off the couch, gamboled clumsily
up to Betsy, wagging his tail and jumping up on her, ready for a frolic.
That was almost too much for Betsy! To think that after tomorrow she
would never see Shep again—nor Eleanor! Nor the kittens! She choked as
she bent over Shep and put her arms around his neck for a great hug. But
she mustn’t cry, she mustn’t hurt Aunt Frances’s feelings, or show that
she wasn’t glad to go back to her. That wouldn’t be fair, after all Aunt
Frances had done for her!
That night she lay awake after she and Molly had gone to bed and Molly
was asleep. They had decided not to tell Molly until the last minute, so
she had dropped off peacefully, as usual. But poor Betsy’s eyes were
wide open. She saw a gleam of light under the door. It widened; the door
opened. Aunt Abigail stood there, in her night cap, mountainous in her
long white gown, a candle shining up into her serious old face.
“You awake, Betsy?” she whispered, seeing the child’s dark eyes gleaming
at her over the covers. “I just—I just thought I’d look in to see if
you were all right.” She came to the edge of the bed and set the candle
down on the little stand. Betsy reached her arms up longingly and the
old woman stooped over her. Neither of them said a single word during
the long embrace which followed. Then Aunt Abigail straightened up
hastily, took her candle very quickly and softly, and heavily padded out
of the room.
Betsy turned over and flung one arm over Molly—no Molly, either, after
tomorrow!
She gulped hard and stared up at the ceiling, dimly white in the
starlight. A gleam of light shone under the door. It widened, and Uncle
Henry stood there, a candle in his hand, peering into the room. “You
awake, Betsy?” he said cautiously.
“Yes. I’m awake, Uncle Henry.”
The old man shuffled into the room. “I just got to thinking,” he said,
hesitating, “that maybe you’d like to take my watch with you. It’s kind
of handy to have a watch on the train. And I’d like real well for you to
have it.”
He laid it down on the stand, his own cherished gold watch, that had
been given him when he was twenty-one.
Betsy reached out and took his hard, gnarled old fist in a tight grip.
“Oh, Uncle Henry!” she began, and could not go on.
“We’ll miss you, Betsy,” he said in an uncertain voice. “It’s
been ... it’s been real nice to have you here ...”
And then he too snatched up his candle very quickly and almost ran out
of the room.
Betsy turned over on her back. “No crying, now!” she told herself
fiercely. “No crying, now!” She clenched her hands together tightly and
set her teeth.
Something moved in the room. Somebody leaned over her. It was Cousin
Ann, who didn’t make a sound, not one, but who took Betsy in her strong
arms and held her close and closer, till Betsy could feel the quick
pulse of the other’s heart beating all through her own body. Then she
was gone—as silently as she came.
But somehow that great embrace had taken away all the burning tightness
from Betsy’s eyes and heart. She was very, very tired, and soon after
this she fell sound asleep, snuggled up close to Molly.
In the morning, nobody spoke of last night at all. Breakfast was
prepared and eaten, and the team hitched up directly afterward. Betsy
and Uncle Henry were to drive to the station together to meet Aunt
Frances’s train. Betsy put on her new wine-colored cashmere that Cousin
Ann had made her, with the soft white collar of delicate old embroidery
that Aunt Abigail had given her out of one of the trunks in the attic.
She and Uncle Henry said very little as they drove to the village, and
even less as they stood waiting together on the platform. Betsy slipped
her hand into his and he held it tight as the train whistled in the
distance and came slowly and laboriously puffing up to the station.
Just one person got off at the little station, and that was Aunt
Frances, looking ever so dressed up and citified, with a fluffy
ostrich-feather boa and kid gloves and a white veil over her face and a
big blue one floating from her gay-flowered velvet hat. How pretty she
was! And how young—under the veil which hid so kindly all the little
lines in her sweet, thin face. And how excited and fluttery! Betsy had
forgotten how fluttery Aunt Frances was! She clasped Betsy to her, and
then started back crying—she must see to her suitcase—and then she
clasped Betsy to her again and shook hands with Uncle Henry, whose grim
old face looked about as cordial and welcoming as the sourest kind of
sour pickle, and she fluttered back and said she must have left her
umbrella on the train. “Oh, Conductor! Conductor! My umbrella—right in
my seat—a blue one with a crooked-over—oh, here it is in my hand! What
am I thinking of!”
The conductor evidently thought he’d better get the train away as soon
as possible, for he now shouted, “All aboard!” to nobody at all, and
sprang back on the steps. The train went off, groaning over the steep
grade, and screaming out its usual echoing warning about the next road
crossing.
Uncle Henry took Aunt Frances’s suitcase and plodded back to the surrey.
He got into the front seat and Aunt Frances and Betsy in the back; and
they started off.
And now I want you to listen to every single word that was said on the
back seat, for it was a very, very important conversation, when Betsy’s
fate hung on the curl of an eyelash and the flicker of a voice, as fates
often do.
Aunt Frances hugged Betsy again and again and exclaimed about her having
grown so big and tall and fat—she didn’t say brown too, although you
could see that she was thinking that, as she looked through her veil at
Betsy’s tanned face and down at the contrast between her own pretty,
white fingers and Betsy’s leather-colored, muscular little hands. She
exclaimed and exclaimed and kept on exclaiming! Betsy wondered if she
really always had been as fluttery as this. And then, all of a sudden it
came out, the great news, the reason for the extra flutteriness.
Aunt Frances was going to be married!
Yes! Think of it! Betsy fell back open-mouthed with astonishment.
“Did Betsy think her Aunt Frances a silly old thing?”
“Oh, Aunt Frances, NO!” cried Betsy fervently. “You look just as YOUNG,
and pretty! Lots younger than I remembered you!”
Aunt Frances flushed with pleasure and went on, “You’ll love your old
Aunt Frances just as much, won’t you, when she’s Mrs. Plimpton!”
Betsy put her arms around her and gave her a great hug. “I’ll always
love you, Aunt Frances!” she said.
“You’ll love Mr. Plimpton, too. He’s so big and strong, and he just
loves to take care of people. He says that’s why he’s marrying me. Don’t
you wonder where we are going to live?” she asked, answering her own
question quickly. “We’re not going to live anywhere. Isn’t that a joke?
Mr. Plimpton’s business keeps him always moving around from one place to
another, never more than a month anywhere.”
“What’ll Aunt Harriet do?” asked Betsy wonderingly.
“Why, she’s ever and ever so much better,” said Aunt Frances happily.
“And her own sister, my Aunt Rachel, has come back from China, where
she’s been a missionary for ever so long, and the two old ladies are
going to keep house together out in California, in the dearest little
bungalow, all roses and honeysuckle. But YOU’RE going to be with me.
Won’t it be jolly fun, darling, to go traveling all about everywhere,
and see new places all the time!”
Now those are the words Aunt Frances said, but something in her voice
and her face suggested a faint possibility to Betsy that maybe Aunt
Frances didn’t really think it would be such awfully jolly fun as her
words said. Her heart gave a big jump up, and she had to hold tight to
the arm of the surrey before she could ask, in a quiet voice, “But, Aunt
Frances, won’t I be awfully in your way, traveling around so?”
Now, Aunt Frances had ears of her own, and though that was what Betsy’s
words said, what Aunt Frances heard was a suggestion that possibly Betsy
wasn’t as crazy to leave Putney Farm as she had supposed of course she
would be.
They both stopped talking for a moment and peered at each other through
the thicket of words that held them apart. I told you this was a very
momentous conversation. One sure thing is that the people on the back
seat saw the inside of the surrey as they traveled along, and nothing
else. Red sumac and bronzed beech-trees waved their flags at them in
vain. They kept their eyes fixed on each other intently, each in an
agony of fear lest she hurt the other’s feelings.
After a pause Aunt Frances came to herself with a start, and said,
affectionately putting her arm around Betsy, “Why, you darling, what
does Aunt Frances care about trouble if her own dear baby-girl is
happy?”
And Betsy said, resolutely, “Oh, you know, Aunt Frances, I’d LOVE to be
with you!” She ventured one more step through the thicket. “But
honestly, Aunt Frances, WON’T it be a bother...?”
Aunt Frances ventured another step to meet her, “But dear little girls
must be SOMEWHERE ...”
And Betsy almost forgot her caution and burst out, “But I could stay
here! I know they would keep me!”
Even Aunt Frances’s two veils could not hide the gleam of relief and
hope that came into her pretty, thin, sweet face. She summoned all her
courage and stepped out into the clearing in the middle of the thicket,
asking right out, boldly, “Why, do you like it here, Betsy? Would you
like to stay?”
And Betsy—she never could remember afterward if she had been careful
enough not to shout too loudly and joyfully—Betsy cried out, “Oh, I
LOVE it here!” There they stood, face to face, looking at each other
with honest and very happy eyes. Aunt Frances threw her arm around Betsy
and asked again, “Are you SURE, dear?” and didn’t try to hide her
relief. And neither did Betsy.
“I could visit you once in a while, when you are somewhere near here,”
suggested Betsy, beaming.
“Oh, YES, I must have SOME of the time with my darling!” said Aunt
Frances. And this time there was nothing in their hearts that
contradicted their lips.
They clung to each other in speechless satisfaction as Uncle Henry
guided the surrey up to the marble stepping-stone. Betsy jumped out
first, and while Uncle Henry was helping Aunt Frances out, she was
dashing up the walk like a crazy thing. She flung open the front door
and catapulted into Aunt Abigail just coming out. It was like flinging
herself into a feather-bed....
“Oh! Oh!” she gasped out. “Aunt Frances is going to be married. And
travel around all the time! And she doesn’t REALLY want me at all! Can’t
I stay here? Can’t I stay here?”
Cousin Ann was right behind Aunt Abigail, and she heard this. She looked
over their shoulders toward Aunt Frances, who was approaching from
behind, and said, in her usual calm and collected voice: “How do you do,
Frances? Glad to see you, Frances. How well you’re looking! I hear you
are in for congratulations. Who’s the happy man?”
Betsy was overcome with admiration for her coolness in being able to
talk so in such an exciting moment. She knew Aunt Abigail couldn’t have
done it, for she had sat down in a rocking-chair, and was holding Betsy
on her lap. The little girl could see her wrinkled old hand trembling on
the arm of the chair.
“I hope that means,” continued Cousin Ann, going as usual straight to
the point, “that we can keep Betsy here with us.”
“Oh, would you like to?” asked Aunt Frances, fluttering, as though the
idea had never occurred to her before that minute. “Would Elizabeth Ann
really LIKE to stay?”
“Oh, I’d LIKE to, all right!” said Betsy, looking confidently up into
Aunt Abigail’s face.
Aunt Abigail spoke now. She cleared her throat twice before she could
bring out a word. Then she said, “Why, yes, we’d kind of like to keep
her. We’ve sort of got used to having her around.”
That’s what she SAID, but, as you have noticed before on this exciting
day, what people said didn’t matter as much as what they looked; and as
her old lips pronounced these words so quietly the corners of Aunt
Abigail’s mouth were twitching, and she was swallowing hard. She said,
impatiently, to Cousin Ann, “Hand me that handkerchief, Ann!” And as she
blew her nose, she said, “Oh, what an old fool I am!”
Then, all of a sudden, it was as though a great, fresh breeze had blown
through the house. They all drew a long breath and began to talk loudly
and cheerfully about the weather and Aunt Frances’s trip and how Aunt
Harriet was and which room Aunt Frances was to have and would she leave
her wraps down in the hall or take them upstairs—and, in the midst of
this, Betsy, her heart ready to burst, dashed out of doors, followed by
Shep. She ran madly toward the barn. She did not know where she was
going. She only knew that she must run and jump and shout, or she would
explode.
Shep ran and jumped because Betsy did.
To these two wild creatures, careering through the air like bright-blown
autumn leaves, appeared little Molly in the barn door.
“Oh, I’m going to stay! I’m going to stay!” screamed Betsy.
But as Molly had not had any notion of the contrary, she only said, “Of
course, why not?” and went on to something really important, saying, in
a very much capitalized statement, “My kitten can WALK! It took THREE
STEPS just now.”
After Aunt Frances got her wraps off, Betsy took her for a tour of
inspection. They went all over the house first, with special emphasis
laid on the living-room. “Isn’t this the loveliest place?” said Betsy,
fervently, looking about her at the white curtains, the bright flowers,
the southern sunshine, the bookcases, and the bright cooking utensils.
It was all full to the brim to her eyes with happiness, and she forgot
entirely that she had thought it a very poor, common kind of room when
she had first seen it. Nor did she notice that Aunt Frances showed no
enthusiasm over it now.
She stopped for a few moments to wash some potatoes and put them into
the oven for dinner. Aunt Frances opened her eyes at this. “I always see
to the potatoes and the apples, the cooking of them, I mean,” explained
Betsy proudly. “I’ve just learned to make apple pie and brown betty.”
Then down into the stone-floored milk-room, where Aunt Abigail was
working over butter, and where Betsy, swelling with pride, showed Aunt
Frances how deftly and smoothly she could manipulate the wooden paddle
and make rolls of butter that weighed within an ounce or two of a pound.
“Mercy, child! Think of your being able to do such things!” said Aunt
Frances, more and more astonished.
They went out of doors now, Shep bounding by their side. Betsy was
amazed to see that Aunt Frances drew back, quite nervously, whenever the
big dog frisked near her. Out in the barn Betsy had a disappointment.
Aunt Frances just balked absolutely at those ladder-like stairs—“Oh, I
COULDN’T! I couldn’t, dear. Do YOU go up there? Is it quite safe?”
“Why, AUNT ABIGAIL went up there to see the kittens!” cried Betsy, on
the edge of exasperation. But her heart softened at the sight of Aunt
Frances’s evident distress of mind at the very idea of climbing into the
loft, and she brought the kittens down for inspection, Eleanor mewing
anxiously at the top of the stairs.
On the way back to the house they had an adventure, a sort of adventure,
and it brought home to Betsy once for all how much she loved dear, sweet
Aunt Frances, and just what kind of love it was.
As they crossed the barnyard the calf approached them playfully, leaping
stiff-legged into the air, and making a pretense of butting at them with
its hornless young head.
Betsy and Shep often played with the calf in this way by the half-hour,
and she thought nothing of it now; hardly noticed it, in fact.
But Aunt Frances gave a loud, piercing shriek, as though she were being
cut into pieces. “Help! HELP!” she screamed. “Betsy! Oh, Betsy!”
She had turned as white as a sheet and could not take a single step
forward. “It’s nothing! It’s nothing!” said Betsy, rather impatiently.
“He’s just playing. We often play with him, Shep and I.”
The calf came a little nearer, with lowered head. “GET away!” said Betsy
indifferently, kicking at him.
At this hint of masterfulness on Betsy’s part, Aunt Frances cried out,
“Oh, yes, Betsy, DO make him go away! Do make him go away!”
It came over Betsy that Aunt Frances was really frightened, yes, really;
and all at once her impatience disappeared, never to come back again.
She felt toward Aunt Frances just as she did toward little Molly, and
she acted accordingly. She stepped in front of Aunt Frances, picked up a
stick, and hit the calf a blow on the neck with it. He moved away,
startled and injured, looking at his playfellow with reproachful eyes.
But Betsy was relentless. Aunt Frances must not be frightened!
“Here, Shep! Here, Shep!” she called loudly, and when the big dog came
bounding to her she pointed to the calf and said sternly, “Take him into
the barn! Drive him into the barn, sir!”
Shep asked nothing better than this command, and charged forward,
barking furiously and leaping into the air as though he intended to eat
the calf up alive. The two swept across the barnyard and into the lower
regions of the barn. In a moment Shep reappeared, his tongue hanging
out, his tail wagging, his eyes glistening, very proud of himself, and
mounted guard at the door.
Aunt Frances hurried along desperately through the gate of the barnyard.
As it fell to behind her she sank down on a rock, breathless, still pale
and agitated. Betsy threw her arms around her in a transport of
affection. She felt that she UNDERSTOOD Aunt Frances as nobody else
could, the dear, sweet, gentle, timid aunt! She took the thin, nervous
white fingers in her strong brown hands. “Oh, Aunt Frances, dear,
darling Aunt Frances!” she cried, “how I wish I could ALWAYS take care
of you.”
The last of the red and gold leaves were slowly drifting to the ground
as Betsy and Uncle Henry drove back from the station after seeing Aunt
Frances off. They were not silent this time, as when they had gone to
meet her. They were talking cheerfully together, laying their plans for
the winter which was so near. “I must begin to bank the house tomorrow,”
mused Uncle Henry. “And those apples have got to go to the cider-mill,
right off. Don’t you want to ride over on top of them, Betsy, and see
’em made into cider?”
“Oh, my, yes!” said Betsy, “that will be fine! And I must put away
Deborah’s summer clothes and get Cousin Ann to help me make some warm
ones, if I’m going to take her to school in cold weather.”
As they drove into the yard, they saw Eleanor coming from the direction
of the barn with something big and heavy in her mouth. She held her head
as high as she could, but even so, her burden dragged on the ground,
bumping softly against the rough places on the path. “Look!” said Betsy.
“Just see that great rat Eleanor has caught!”
Uncle Henry squinted his old eyes toward the cat for a moment and
laughed. “We’re not the only ones that are getting ready for winter,” he
remarked.
Betsy did not know what he meant and climbed hastily over the wheel and
ran to see. As she approached Eleanor, the cat laid her burden down with
an air of relief and looked trustfully into her little mistress’s face.
Why, it was one of the kittens! Eleanor was bringing it to the house.
Oh, of course! they mustn’t stay out there in that cold hay-loft now the
cold weather was drawing near. Betsy picked up the little sprawling
thing, trying with weak legs to get around over the rough ground. She
carried it carefully toward the house, Eleanor walking sinuously by her
side and “talking” in little singing, purring MIAUWS to explain her
ideas of kitten-comfort. Betsy felt that she quite understood her. “Yes,
Eleanor, a nice little basket behind the stove with a warm piece of an
old blanket in it. Yes, I’ll fix it for you. It’ll be lovely to have the
whole family there. And I’ll bring the other one in for you.”
But evidently Eleanor did not understand little girl talk as well as
Betsy understood cat-talk, for a little later, as Betsy turned from the
nest she was making in the corner behind the stove, Eleanor was missing;
and when she ran out toward the barn she met her again, her head
strained painfully back, dragging another fat, heavy kitten, who curled
his pink feet up as high as he could in a vain effort not to have them
knock against the stones. “Now, Eleanor,” said Betsy, a little put out,
“you don’t trust me enough! I was going to get it all right!”
“Well,” said Aunt Abigail, as they came into the kitchen, “now you must
begin to teach them to drink.”
“Goodness!” said Betsy, “don’t they know how to drink already?”
“You try them and see,” said Aunt Abigail with a mysterious smile.
So when Uncle Henry brought the pails full of fragrant, warm milk into
the house, Betsy poured out some in a saucer and put the kittens up to
it. She and Molly squatted down on their heels to watch, and before long
they were laughing so that they were rolling on the kitchen floor. At
first the kittens looked every way but at the milk, seeming to see
everything but what was under their noses. Then Graykin (that was
Betsy’s) absent-mindedly walked right through the saucer, emerging with
very wet feet and a very much aggrieved and astonished expression. Molly
screamed with laughter to see him shake his little pink toes and finally
sit down seriously to lick them clean. Then White-bib (Molly’s) put his
head down to the saucer.
“There! Mine is smarter than yours!” said Molly. But White-bib went on
putting his head down, down, down, clear into the milk nearly up to his
eyes, although he looked very frightened and miserable. Then he jerked
it up quickly and sneezed and sneezed and sneezed, such deliriously
funny little baby sneezes! He pawed and pawed at his little pink nose
with his little pink paw until Eleanor took pity on him and came to wash
him off. In the midst of this process she saw the milk, and left off to
lap it up eagerly; and in a jiffy she had drunk every drop and was
licking the saucer loudly with her raspy tongue. And that was the end of
the kittens’ first lesson.
That evening, as they sat around the lamp, Eleanor came and got up in
Betsy’s lap just like old times. Betsy was playing checkers with Uncle
Henry and interrupted the game to welcome the cat back delightedly. But
Eleanor was uneasy, and kept stopping her toilet to prick up her ears
and look restlessly toward the basket, where the kittens lay curled so
closely together that they looked like one soft ball of gray fur. By and
by Eleanor jumped down heavily and went back to the basket. She stayed
there only a moment, standing over the kittens and licking them
convulsively, and then she came back and got up in Betsy’s lap again.
“What ails that cat?” said Cousin Ann, noting this pacing and
restlessness.
“Maybe she wants Betsy to hold her kittens, too,” suggested Aunt
Abigail.
“Oh, I’d love to!” said Betsy, spreading out her knees to make her lap
bigger.
“But I want my own White-bib myself!” said Molly, looking up from the
beads she was stringing.
“Well, maybe Eleanor would let you settle it that way,” said Cousin Ann.
The little girls ran over to the basket and brought back each her own
kitten. Eleanor watched them anxiously, but as soon as they sat down she
jumped up happily into Betsy’s lap and curled down close to little
Graykin. This time she was completely satisfied, and her loud purring
filled the room with a peaceable murmur.
“There, now you’re fixed for the winter,” said Aunt Abigail.
By and by, after Cousin Ann had popped some corn, old Shep got off the
couch and came to stand by Betsy’s knee to get an occasional handful.
Eleanor opened one eye, recognized a friend, and shut it sleepily. But
the little kitten woke up in terrible alarm to see that hideous monster
so near him, and prepared to sell his life dearly. He bristled up his
ridiculous little tail, opened his absurd, little pink mouth in a soft,
baby s-s-s-, and struck savagely at old Shep’s good-natured face with a
soft little paw. Betsy felt her heart overflow with amusement and pride
in the intrepid little morsel. She burst into laughter, but she picked
it up and held it lovingly close to her cheek. What fun it was going to
be to see those kittens grow up!
Old Shep padded back softly to the couch, his toe-nails clicking on the
floor, hoisted himself heavily up, and went to sleep. The kitten
subsided into a ball again. Eleanor stirred and stretched in her sleep
and laid her head in utter trust on her little mistress’s hand. After
that Betsy moved the checkers only with her other hand.
In the intervals of the game, while Uncle Henry was pondering over his
moves, the little girl looked down at her pets and listened absently to
the keen autumnal wind that swept around the old house, shaking the
shutters and rattling the windows. A stick of wood in the stove burned
in two and fell together with a soft, whispering sound. The lamp cast a
steady radiance on Uncle Henry bent seriously over the checker-board, on
Molly’s blooming, round cheeks and bright hair, on Aunt Abigail’s rosy,
cheerful, wrinkled old face, and on Cousin Ann’s quiet, clear, dark
eyes....
That room was full to the brim of something beautiful, and Betsy knew
what it was. Its name was Happiness.
THE END.