LETTERS AND A SURPRISE
The sitting room in the Morton home was cheerful with sunshine. It
brightened the conventional flowers of the old crimson Brussels carpet
into a semblance of life. It caught the gold outline of the wall paper
and lingered there--even the somber steel engravings reflected the light
from the polished glass over them. Mrs. Morton sat in her low rocking
chair by the window reading a letter from her husband.
She had read it through for the second time, and still she gazed at the
lines as if she could not quite comprehend their meaning. Her sewing had
dropped from her lap unheeded. Ernest, coming in search of her, called
three times before she noticed him.
"Yes, Son," she answered absently at last.
"What's the matter, Mother? Nothing wrong with Father is there?"
Ernest had recognized his father's writing on the closely written
sheets.
"No, dear, just some perplexing business. Sit down and I'll read it to
you--but don't mention the matter to anyone yet."
Ernest came close to his mother, putting his arm affectionately about
her shoulders.
"Don't look so solemn, Mother," he protested.
"Am I looking solemn? Well, I do feel worried. Listen to this:
"My dear Wife,
"I was glad to get your letter of the 8th with the welcome news
that you are all well and that Marian is getting about again. I
have important news for you and for Frank. I am writing to him by
the same mail. I have bought the ranch! A really choice one, I
believe, and so cheap it must surely double in value in ten years.
There is an entire section, and good water for house and stock--a
wonderful big spring in a little rocky dell shaded by a great oak
tree hundreds of years old. It will charm you all. Chicken Little
will want to set up housekeeping under it immediately and you and
Marian would find it a lovely cool nook for a summer afternoon.
The big spring widens into a brook twenty feet below and goes
singing away over the stones. A good-sized spring house has been
built over it and crocks of butter and milk and great melons are
set right in the cold running water. You never saw such a
refrigerator. The place has magnificent orchards, peach, apple and
cherry with grapes and blackberries also.
"Tell Chicken Little I saw a flock of quail in the apple orchard.
Our baby quail got tangled in the long grass as he tried to scurry
away and I picked him up. He was a jolly soft little brown ball
with the brightest eyes. I would have liked to bring him home to
the child but I was afraid I couldn't care for him. Tell her
though I have a most astonishing present for her and she can never
guess what it is, if she lies awake every night till I come. But
to return to the ranch--it has two hundred acres of fine farming
land, unlimited pasture, and a heavily timbered creek crossing it
diagonally. The details I must give you when I get home. You have
never seen a lovelier sight than the prairies at this time of
year--I counted thirty-seven different kinds of flowers in one
spot. Chicken Little would love the little sensitive plants that
curl up their leaves when you touch them and open them again when
they think you are gone. But I have forgotten the houses--there
are two--which I suppose you and Marian will consider the most
important of all."
"But----" Ernest interrupted, "why does he keep talking as if we were
going, too? I thought he was just buying this for Frank and Marian."
"So did I--just wait--he explains in a moment.
"One is a roomy, comfortable farm house of two stories, the other
a snug five-roomed affair just across the road from the first.
Both houses are a little old-fashioned, but could easily be
remodeled. One word as to the climate, then I have something for
you to think over. Kansas is exactly the place for Marian--not so
hot as Arizona, no startling change from hot days to cold nights
as I found in Colorado. Now, dear, I want to know if you would be
willing to consider coming out here to live also. The ranch is
almost too big a thing for Frank alone and as you know I find my
practice pretty hard work for a man of my age, but we'll talk all
this over when I come home. Tell Ernest for me that he would never
have weak eyes here. There is fishing and hunting enough to keep
any boy out doors, not to mention having a horse of his own."
"O Mother," Ernest interrupted again, "wouldn't that be jolly?"
"Jolly, to leave our home and friends?"
Mrs. Morton's face was tragic and the tears flooded her eyes.
"Why, Mother--I didn't think--don't cry. Of course we won't go if you
don't want to." And Ernest stroked his mother's hair awkwardly.
Mrs. Morton smiled through her tears.
"I mustn't give way--it's foolish. But it was so unexpected--and I'm
afraid--perhaps we ought to do it on Frank and Marian's account--and
your father's. It is hard for him to be up nights so much. We'll see."
Mrs. Morton kissed Ernest and picked up her sewing again.
Dr. Morton came home a week later sunburned and vigorous--full of the
wonderful country he had been seeing. His trunk was a perfect treasure
house of gifts for the family. Ernest's eyes shone when the
canvas-covered case his father held out to him was found to contain a
small shot gun. He had been begging for one for the past two years, but
had been refused because he was too young.
"I think I can depend upon you to handle this with the greatest care,
Ernest," said his father impressively. "I wouldn't have bought it for
you if I hadn't felt assured you could be trusted."
Dr. Morton looked at the boy keenly and was pleased to see the way he
drew up his shoulders and looked his father in the eye as he replied:
"I think you can trust me, Father, I'll do my best."
"I'm sure I can," said his father heartily. "The first thing you must
remember is never to leave it loaded. Half the accidents occur because
somebody 'didn't know it was loaded.' It's a simple matter to open it
and slip out the shells before you put it away."
Dr. Morton took the shiny steel weapon across his knee and, opening it,
slipped the shells quickly in and out, with Ernest and Jane watching
intently beside him.
"I believe I could do that," Chicken Little remarked complacently.
"You'd better not try, Miss Meddlesome Matty," ejaculated Ernest
sharply. "Don't you ever let me catch you touching it!"
The child looked rebellious but her father added sternly:
"Ernest is quite right, little daughter, you must never under any
circumstances try to handle this gun--but I have something for you that
will keep you busy. No," as she jumped up eagerly, "you must wait till
the last this time."
"I just can't wait much longer, Father. I'm all going round inside.
Please hurry!"
But for some reason her father wouldn't hurry. He brought out two gay
Navajo blankets for Mrs. Morton and Marian and a wonderful Mexican
bridle for Frank.
"You'll have plenty of use for it on the ranch. You'll be in the saddle
half your time I fancy," he told the latter.
He even unwrapped a little Indian basket, which he asked Mrs. Morton to
send to Alice. Still there was nothing for Chicken Little. She hung on
the arm of his chair and fidgeted. Finally, he looked round at her
quizzically:
"Why, my parcels are all gone and there doesn't seem to be anything for
you. Dear me, did I forget it?"
Just then Ernest got up and went out into the hall, coming back
presently, leaving the door open behind him. In spite of themselves the
family all looked toward the door. Chicken Little looked too, but saw
nothing. A moment later the queerest voice called:
"Chick-en Lit-tle! Chick-en Lit-tle! Poor Pete! Scat! Go off an' die!"
The words seemed to come from the floor and sounded as if they were
fired out of a popgun.
Chicken Little jumped down from her father's chair and stood for an
instant spellbound in the middle of the floor.
Then she fell upon the newcomer with a shout.
"Oh, it's a parrot! Ernest, it's a parrot!"
But Polly eyed her distrustfully.
"Scat--go off and die!" he exclaimed, promptly retreating toward the
door.
At a safe distance he began to call again:
"Chicken Little--Chicken Little!"
"Why, Father, how does he know my name?"
"Father's taught him, silly--he makes him say it before he feeds him.
He'll call you every time he wants his grub." Ernest could not resist
airing his superior knowledge.
"Go get him a cracker, Chick, and he will make friends with you fast
enough."
Pete caught the word cracker and observed plaintively--"Poor Pete--give
Pete cracker. Bust my buttons--cracker--cracker!" Then remembering his
latest lesson he called engagingly once more: "Chicken Little!"
"I am afraid it will be a sad nuisance," Mrs. Morton said, laughing in
spite of herself at the bird's absurd talk.
"Let Chicken Little take care of it herself--she's old enough," Dr.
Morton replied.
"Yes, she's old enough, but somebody will have to see that she does it!"
"Pete will see to that--he'll make life a burden for her with his
'Chicken Little' if he is neglected."
Mrs. Morton sent the pretty Indian basket on to Alice with a letter
telling her that Frank and Marian were going West to their new home
early in September. She did not mention Dr. Morton's new plan. She could
not bear to admit even to herself the possibility of their all going.
Her home meant much to her. She looked about the handsome, comfortable
rooms of the old house and she felt that she loved every nook and cranny
of it, though they had owned it but five years. She thought, too, of
Alice's disappointment should her old home again pass on to strangers.
They had taken great pride in restoring the place, which had been much
run down when they bought it. The flower garden was her especial pride
and care. It was lovely now with clove pinks, sweet williams,
mignonette, and a dozen more old-fashioned blossoms, as she looked up
from her letter to rest her eyes lovingly upon it. She had lain awake
nights wondering if it was her duty to give up this home and her friends
for the unknown ranch life. It would be giving up more still. The
nearest church would be nine miles away--the children would have only an
ungraded district school. She shook her head. No, she must take plenty
of time to think all this over.
A day or two after his father's return, Frank caught up with him just
outside the gate. "Heard about Gassett?"
"No--has he had a relapse?"
"No such luck, he has started a suit against Alice to recover those
certificates."
"How did you hear?"
"His lawyer came to me to get Alice's address. And what do you think?
Dick Harding told me this morning that Gassett tried to get him to take
the case. Foxy, wasn't it? Dick declined promptly."
"Alice would do well to get Dick for her lawyer."
"I imagine Uncle Joseph will attend to that."
"Still, I think I'll drop her a hint."
But Alice had evidently not forgotten Dick Harding or Dr. Morton's
remark about his being a good lawyer. Before the doctor's letter could
reach her, a formal missive from Uncle Joseph requested Dick Harding to
defend Alice's side and to get an older lawyer to help him.
Dick went promptly to work. Dr. Morton sent down the box of letters and
papers Alice had left in his charge and Dick went over them carefully,
but did not find what he was hoping for.
"It is a queer mix-up," he wrote Alice. "I cannot understand why there
isn't a scrap of writing anywhere from Mr. Gassett to your father. There
surely must have been some correspondence between them on business
matters. Many things in your father's letters to your mother show
this--but the letters are missing. It hardly seems likely your father
would have destroyed them all. Do you suppose that he could have left
them at the store and that they have fallen into Gassett's hands, too?
Or could your mother have accidentally destroyed them? I remember though
you said she was most careful to keep old letters. I have a queer
feeling about all this--that the missing letters and papers still exist
and will turn up yet. But feelings don't go in law courts. Is there an
attic to the old house or any secret closet where they could possibly
have been concealed?"
Alice talked the matter over with Uncle Joseph and he started rummaging
among his papers to see if he could find anything in her father's old
letters that would help. There were few references to business matters
in these and no reference to Mr. Gassett except a mere mention of the
fact that he had gone into partnership with him.
"It's no use, Alice. I am afraid we'll have to let Gassett have the
stuff though I hate like sixty to give up," he said after his fruitless
search.
"Well, I'm not ready to own beat yet--I have one last hope," Alice
replied bravely.
That night she sat down and wrote a letter to Mrs. Morton.