Evelyn Tripp never informed anyone where she went on the car that bore
her triumphantly away from Mr. Hickey and the conversation which had
suddenly grown intolerable. The intolerable part of it was her own
fault, she told herself. And--well, she realised that she was paying for
it, as she jounced along over mile after mile of uneven track, through
unfamiliar, yet drearily monotonous streets. Damp, uncomfortable-looking
people came and went, and from time to time the conductor glanced
curiously at the small lady in the fashionably-cut jacket and furs, who
shrank back in her corner gazing with unseeing eyes out of the dripping
windows.
"Las' stop!" he shouted impatiently, as the car came to a groaning
standstill away out in a shabby suburb, where several huge factories
were in process of erection.
Miss Tripp started up and looked out at the sodden fields and muddy,
half-frozen road. Two or three dirty, dispirited-looking men boarded
the car and sat down heavily, depositing their tools at their feet. Then
the driver and conductor, who had swung the trolley around, and
accomplished other official duties incident to the terminal, entered,
closing the doors behind them with a professional crash.
Both stared at Miss Tripp who had subsided into her corner again.
"Say, Bill; nice weather for a trolley-ride--heh?" observed the
motor-man, shifting an obvious quid of something in his capacious mouth.
"Aw--you shut up, Cho'ley!" growled his superior.
Bill thoughtfully obeyed, drumming with his feet on the floor and
pursing up his tobacco-stained lips in an inaudible whistle. Presently
he glanced at his big nickel watch and shook his head at the conductor.
"A minute an' a half yet, b' mine," he said; "made a quick trip out."
Then he cast another side-long glance at the one lady passenger. "Got
carried past, I guess," he suggested with a wink. "Better look sharp for
the right street on the way back, Bill."
"You bet," observed the other, with his hand on the bell-rope. "I'm on
the job all right."
Elizabeth Brewster was giving her youngest son his supper when her
friend Miss Tripp entered her hospitable door.
"Oh, Evelyn!" she began, with an eager air of welcome; "I was hoping you
would come home early to-night, Marian Stanford was here this afternoon;
she wants to go---- But Evelyn, dear, what ever is the matter? You're as
white as a ghost. Don't you feel well?"
Miss Tripp valiantly plucked up a wan smile.
"I am perfectly well," she declared; "but, Betty dear, could you give me
a cup of tea? I was so--busy and--hurried to-day that I forgot all about
my luncheon, and I just this minute realised it."
Elizabeth hurried into the kitchen on hospitable cares intent and Evelyn
sank wearily into a chair. Her head was swimming with weariness and the
lack of food; cold, discouraged drops crowded her blue eyes.
Richard quietly absorbing bread and milk from a gay china bowl gazed at
her with a round speculative stare.
"Cwyin'?" he observed in a bird-like voice.
[Illustration: "Cwyin'?" he observed in a bird-like voice]
"No, dear," denied Miss Tripp, winking resolutely. "What made you think
of such a thing, precious?"
"'Cause it's--it's naughty to cwy."
"I know it, dear; and I'm going to smile; that's better; isn't it?"
Her somewhat hysterical effort after her usual cheerful expression did
not appear to deceive Richard. He waved his spoon charged with milk in
her general direction.
"I'm a dood boy," he announced with pride. "I eat my shupper an' I don't
cwy."
"Here is the tea you're evidently perishing for, Evelyn dear," said
Elizabeth, setting a steaming cup before her guest; "and I've some good
news for you--at least I'm hoping you'll like it. I'm sure I should love
to have you so near us, and it would give you plenty of time to choose
something permanent."
Miss Tripp's wan face had taken on a tinge of colour as she sipped the
hot tea. "What is it, Betty?" she asked quietly enough, though her heart
was beating hard with hope deferred. "Did that Popham man call to see
me after all?"
"No," Elizabeth said; "it isn't the Popham man. And perhaps you won't
like the idea at all. I started to tell you that Marian--Mrs.
Stanford--was here this afternoon. She came over to tell me that her
husband is going to California on a business trip; he wants her to go
with him and she is wild to go; but she doesn't know what to do with the
two children. She can't take them along, as Mr. Stanford will be obliged
to travel rapidly from place to place. Her mother is almost an invalid
and can't bear the excitement of having them with her. It just occurred
to me that perhaps you might be willing to stay with the children. I
spoke of it to Marian and she was delighted with the idea. You could
have your mother come and stay with you, you know, and the house is so
comfortable and pretty."
Elizabeth broke off in sudden consternation at sight of the usually
self-possessed Miss Tripp shaken with uncontrollable sobs. "Why,
Evelyn," she cried, "I never thought you would feel that way about it.
Of course I had no business to speak of you to Marian without
consulting you first; but I thought--I hoped----"
"It--isn't that, Elizabeth," Miss Tripp managed to say, "I'm--not
offended--only tired. Don't mind me; I'll be all right as soon as I've
swallowed my tea and----"
"It's naughty to cwy," chirped Richard, waving his milky spoon
rebukingly. "I'm a dood boy. I eat my shupper an' I don't cwy."
In a fresh gown, with her nerves once more under control, Evelyn was
able to look more composedly at the door which had so unexpectedly
opened in the blind wall of her dilemma. There were serious
disadvantages--as Elizabeth was careful to point out--in attempting the
charge of the Stanford children, in conjunction with various undeniable
privileges and a generous emolument.
"Robbie is certainly a handful for anybody to cope with, and the baby is
a spoiled child already." Elizabeth's voice sank to a soulful murmur, as
she added, "Marian has always believed in punishing her
children--whipping them, I mean; and you know, Evelyn, how that
brutalises a child."
As a matter of fact, Miss Tripp knew very little about children; but
like the majority of persons who have never dealt familiarly with infant
humanity, she had formulated various sage theories concerning their
upbringing.
"Dear Elizabeth," she replied, "how true that is; and yet how few
mothers realise it. Children should be controlled solely by love; I am
sure I shall have no trouble at all with those two dear little boys."
And so it was settled. In less than a week's time Mrs. Stanford had
departed upon her long journey. At the last she clung somewhat wistfully
to Elizabeth.
"I'm almost afraid to go and leave the children," she said. "Of course I
feel every confidence in Miss Tripp; but you know, Betty, how
resourceful Robert is, and how---- But you'll have an eye to them all;
won't you? And telegraph us if--if anything should happen?"
Elizabeth promised everything. But she was conscious of a great weight
of responsibility as the carriage containing the light-hearted Stanfords
rolled away down the street. "Oh, Evelyn!" she said; "do watch Robbie
carefully, and be sure and call me if the least thing is the matter with
the baby."
Miss Tripp smiled confidently. "I'm not the least bit worried," she
said. "Little Robert loves me devotedly already, and I am sure will be
most tractable and obedient; and Livingstone is a very healthy child.
Besides, you know, I have mother, who knows everything about children."
She went back into her newly acquired domain, feeling that a
sympathising Providence had been very good to her, and resolving to do
her full duty, as she conceived it, by the temporarily motherless
Stanford children.
In pursuance of this resolve she repaired at once to the nursery when
the Stanfords had taken leave of their offspring, after presenting them
with a parcel of new toys upon which the children had fallen with shouts
of joy.
"I really could not go away and leave them looking wistfully out of the
windows after us," Mrs. Stanford had declared, with tears in her bright
brown eyes. "I should think of them that way every minute while we were
gone, and imagine them crying after me."
"They won't cry, dear Mrs. Stanford," Evelyn had assured her. "I shall
devote every moment of my time to them and keep them just as happy as
wee little birdlings in a nest."
The youngest Stanford child was peacefully engaged in demolishing a book
of bright pictures, while his elder brother was trying the blade of a
glittering jack-knife on the wood of the mantel-piece, when Miss Tripp
re-entered the room.
"Oh, my dears!" exclaimed their new guardian with a tactful smile, "I
wouldn't do that!"
The Stanford infant paid no manner of attention to the mildly worded
request; but the older boy turned and stared resentfully at her. "This
is my jack-knife," he announced conclusively; "my daddy gave it to me to
whittle with, an' I'm whittlin'."
"But your father wouldn't like you to cut the mantel-shelf; don't you
know he wouldn't, dear?"
"I'm goin' to whittle it jus' the same, 'cause you ain't my mother; you
ain't even my gran'ma."
Miss Tripp, unable to deny the refutation, looked about her
distractedly. "I'll tell Norah to get you a nice piece of wood," she
said. "Where is Norah, dear?"
"She's gone down to the corner to talk to her beau," replied Master
Robert, calmly continuing to dig his new knife into the mantel. "She's
got a p'liceman beau, an' so's Annie; on'y hers is a street-car driver.
Have you got one, Miss Tripp?"
"Call me Aunty Evelyn, dear; that'll be nicer; don't you think it will?
And--Robert dear; if you'll stop cutting the mantel Aunty Evelyn will
tell you the loveliest story, all about----"
"Aw--I don't like stories much. They're good 'nough for girls I guess,
but I----"
Then the knife slipped and the amateur carpenter burst into a deafening
roar of anguish.