"Mamsie," cried Polly, suddenly, and resting her hands on her knees as
she sat on the floor before the stove, "do you suppose there is any one
poor enough in Badgertown to need the little brown house when we lock
it up to-morrow?" "Not a soul," replied Mrs. Pepper, quickly; "no more
than there was when we first locked it up five years ago, Polly. I've
been all over that with the parson last evening; and he says there
isn't a new family in the place, and all the old ones have their homes,
the same as ever. So we can turn the key and leave it with a clear
conscience."
Polly drew a long breath of delight, and gazed long at the face of the
stove that seemed to crackle out an answering note of joy as the wood
snapped merrily; then she slowly looked around the kitchen.
"It's so perfectly lovely, Mamsie," she broke out at length, "to see
the dear old things, and to know that they are waiting here for us to
come back whenever we want to. And to think it isn't wicked not to have
them used, because everybody has all they need; oh! it's so delicious
to think they can be left to themselves."
She folded her hands now across her knees, and drew another long breath
of content.
Phronsie stole out of the bedroom, and came slowly up to her mother's
side, pausing a bit on the way to look into Polly's absorbed face.
"I don't think, Mamsie," she said quietly, "that people ought to be so
very good who've never had a little brown house; never in all their
lives."
"Oh, yes, they had, child," said Mrs. Pepper briskly; "places don't
make any difference. It's people's duty to be good wherever they are."
But Phronsie's face expressed great incredulity.
"I'm always going to live here when I am a big, grown-up woman," she
declared, slowly gazing around the kitchen, "and I shall never, never
go out of Badgertown."
"Oh, Phronsie!" exclaimed Polly, turning around in dismay, "why, you
couldn't do that. Just think, child, whatever in the world would
Grandpapa do, or any of us, pray tell?"
"Grandpapa would come here," declared Phronsie decidedly, and shaking
her yellow head to enforce her statement. "Of course Grandpapa would
come here, Polly. We couldn't live without him."
"That's it," said Polly, with a corresponding shake of her brown head,
"of course we couldn't live without Grandpapa; and just as 'of course'
he couldn't leave his own dear home. He never would be happy, Phronsie,
to do that."
Phronsie took a step or two into the sunshine lying on the middle of
the old kitchen floor. "Then I'd rather not come, Polly," she said. But
she sighed and Polly was just about saying, "We'll run down now and
then perhaps, Phronsie, as we have done now," when the door was thrown
open suddenly, and Joel burst in, his face as white as a sheet, and
working fearfully.
"Oh, Polly! you must tell Mrs. Whitney--I can't."
Polly sprang to her feet; Mrs. Pepper, who had just stepped into the
pantry, was saying, "I think, Polly, I'll make some apple dumplings,
the boys like them so much."
"What is it, Joe?" cried Polly hoarsely, and standing quite still.
Phronsie, with wide eyes, went up and took the boy's cold hand, and
gazed into his face as he leaned against the door.
"Dick!" groaned Joel; "oh! oh! I can't bear it," and covering his face
with one hand, he would have pulled the other from Phronsie's warm
little palm, but she held it fast.
"Tell me at once, Joe," commanded Polly. "Hush!--mother"--but Mrs.
Pepper was already out of the pantry.
"Joel," said Mrs. Pepper, "whatever it is, tell us immediately."
The look in her black eyes forced him to gasp in one breath, "Dick fell
off the double ripper, and both of his legs are broken--may be not," he
added in a loud scream.
Phronsie still held the boy's hand. He was conscious of it, and that
she uttered no word, and then he knew no more.
"Leave him to me, Polly," said Mrs. Pepper, through drawn lips, "and
then do you run as you have never run before, to the parsonage. Oh! if
they should bring him there before the mother hears."
Phronsie dropped the hand she held, and running on unsteady little feet
into the bedroom, came back with Polly's hood and coat.
"Let me go," cried Polly wildly, rushing away from the detaining hand
to the door, "I don't want those things on. Let me go, Phronsie!"
"You'll be cold," said Phronsie. With all her care, her little white
lips were quivering as she held out the things. "Please, Polly," she
said piteously.
"The child is right; put them on," commanded Mrs. Pepper, for one
instant taking her thought from her boy; and Polly obeyed, and was gone.
In the parsonage "best room" sat Mrs. Whitney. Her rocking-chair was
none of the easiest, being a hair-cloth affair, its cushion very much
elevated in the world just where it should have been depressed, so that
one was in constant danger of slipping off its surface; moreover, the
arms and back of the chair were covered with indescribable arrangements
made and presented by loving parishioners and demanding unceasing
attention from the occupant. But the chair was drawn up in the sunshine
pouring into the window, and Mrs. Whitney's thoughts were sunny, too;
for she smiled now and then as she drew her needle busily in and out
through the bright wools.
"How restful it all is here, and so quaint and simple." She glanced up
now to the high-backed mantel with its wealth of daguerreotypes, and
surprising collection of dried leaves in tall china vases; and over the
walls, adorned with pine-cone framed pictures, to the center table
loaded with "Annuals," and one or two volumes of English poetry, and
then her gaze took in the little paths the winter sunshine was making
for itself along the red and green ingrain carpet. "I am so glad father
thought to bring us all. Dear father, it is making a new man of him,
this winter frolic. Why"--
She was looking out of the window now, and her hands fell to her lap as
Polly Pepper came running breathlessly down the village street, her
hood untied, and the coat grasped with one hand and held together
across her breast. But it was the face that terrified Mrs. Whitney, and
hurrying out of her chair, she ran out to the veranda as the girl
rushed through the gateway.
"Polly, child," cried Mrs. Whitney, seizing her with loving arms and
drawing her on the steps--"oh! what is it, dear?"
Polly's lips moved, but no words came.
"Oh!" at last, "don't hate us for--bringing you to the--little--brown
house. Why did we come!" And convulsively she threw her young arms
around the kind neck. "Oh, Auntie! Dicky is hurt--but we don't know how
much--his legs, Joel says, but it may not be as bad as we think; dear
Auntie."
Mrs. Whitney trembled so that she could scarcely stand. Around them
streamed the same winter sunshine that had been so bright a moment
since. How long ago it seemed. And out of gathering clouds in her heart
she was saying, "Polly dear, God is good. We will trust him." She did
not know her own voice, nor realize when Polly led her mercifully
within, as a farmer's wagon came slowly down the street, to stop at the
parsonage gate; nor even when Dick was brought in, white and still,
could she think of him as her boy. It was some other little figure, and
she must go and help them care for him. Her boy would come bounding in
presently, happy and ruddy, with a kiss for mamma, and a world of happy
nonsense, just as usual. It was only when Mrs. Henderson came in, and
took her hand to lead her into the next room, that it all came to her.
"Oh, Dick!" and she sprang to the side of the sofa where he lay. "My
child--my child!"
And then came Dr. Fisher, and the truth was known. One of Dick's legs
was broken below the knee; the other badly bruised. Only Jasper and the
mother remained in the room while the little doctor set the limb; and
after what seemed an age to the watchers, the boy came out.
"He bore it like a Trojan," declared Jasper, wiping his forehead. "I
tell you, Dick's our hero, after this."
"Now I should like to know how all this happened," demanded Mr. King.
The old gentleman had remained at the parsonage to get a good morning
nap while the snow frolic was in progress. And he had been awakened by
the unusual bustle below stairs in time to hear the welcome news that
Dicky was all right since Dr. Fisher was taking care of him. He now
presented himself in his dressing-gown, with his sleeping cap awry,
over a face in which anger, distress and impatience strove for the
mastery. "Speak up, my boy," to Jasper, "and tell us what you know
about it."
"Well, the first thing I knew of any danger ahead," said Jasper, "was
hearing Dick sing out 'Hold up!' I supposed the double ripper all
right; didn't you, Ben?"
"Yes," said Ben sturdily, "and it was all right; just exactly as we
used to make them, we boys; there wasn't a weak spot anywhere in her,
sir."
"Who was steering?" demanded old Mr. King almost fiercely.
"I was," said Van, beginning boldly enough, to let his voice die out in
a tremulous effort.
"Humph--humph," responded Mr. King grimly. "A bad business," shaking
his head.
"Van would"--began Percy, but his eye meeting Polly's he added, "We'd
none of us done any better, I don't believe, sir, than Van."
Van was now choking so badly that the greatest kindness seemed to be
not to look at him. Accordingly the little company turned their eyes
away, and regarded each other instead.
"Well, so Dick rolled off?" proceeded the old gentleman.
"Oh! no, he didn't," said all three boys together; "he stuck fast to
the double ripper; we ran into a tree, and Dick was pitched off
head-first."
"But honestly and truly, father," said Jasper, "I do not think that it
was the fault of the steerer."
"Indeed it was not," declared Ben stoutly; "there was an ugly little
gully that we hadn't seen under the snow. We'd been down four or five
times all right, but only missed it by a hair-breadth; this time the
ripper struck into it; I suppose Dick felt it bump, as it was on his
side, and sang out, and as quick as lightning we were against that
tree. It was as much my fault as any one's, and more, because I ought
to have known that old hill thoroughly."
"I share the blame, Ben," broke in Jasper, "old fellow, if you pitch
into yourself, you'll have to knock me over too."
"Come here, Vanny," said old Mr. King, holding out his hand. "Why, you
needn't be afraid, my boy," aghast at the tears that no power on earth
could keep back. "Now all leave the room, please."
"Where's Polly?" asked Ben, on the other side of the door.
"She's run home," said David, "I guess. She isn't here."
"And that's where I must be too," cried Ben, bounding off.
When Van was next seen he was with old Mr. King, and wearing all signs
of having received his full share of comfort. Phronsie, just tying on
her little hood, to go down to the parsonage to ask after Dicky, looked
out of the window to exclaim in pleased surprise, "Why, here comes dear
Grandpapa," and then she rushed out to meet him.
"Here's my little girl," cried the old gentleman, opening his arms,
when she immediately ran into them. "Now we're all right."
"Is Dicky all right?" asked Phronsie anxiously, as she fell into step
by his side.
"Yes, indeed; as well as a youngster can be, who's broken his leg."
Phronsie shivered. "But then, that's nothing," Mr. King hastened to
add; "I broke my own when I was a small shaver no bigger than Dick, and
I was none the worse for it. Boys always have some such trifling
mishaps, Phronsie."
"Ben never broke his leg, nor Joel, nor Davie," said Phronsie. "Must
they yet, Grandpapa?"
"O dear, no," declared Mr. King hastily; "that isn't necessary. I only
meant they must have something. Now you see, Ben had the measles, you
know."
"Yes, he did," said Phronsie, quite relieved to think that this trial
could take the place of the usual leg-breaking episode in a boy's
career. "And so did Joel, and Davie--all of them, Grandpapa dear."
"Exactly; well, and then Ben had to work hard, and Joel and Davie too,
for that matter. So, you see, it wasn't as essential that they should
break their legs, child."
"But Jasper and Percy and Van don't have to work hard; oh! I don't want
them to break their legs," said Phronsie, in a worried tone. "You don't
think they will, Grandpapa dear, do you? Please say they won't."
"I don't think there is the least danger of it," said Mr. King,
"especially as I shall put an end to this double-ripper business,
though not because this upset was anybody's fault; remember that,
Phronsie." Van's head which had dropped a bit at the last words, came
up proudly. "Van, here, has acted nobly"--he put his hand on the boy's
shoulder--"and would have saved Dicky if he could. It was a pure
accident that nobody could help except by keeping off from the
abominable thing. Well, here we are at the little brown house; and
there's your mother, Phronsie, waiting for us in the doorway."
"Halloo!" cried Van, rushing over the flat stone, and past Mrs. Pepper,
"where's Joel? Oh--here, you old chap!"
"Well, Mrs. Pepper," said the old gentleman, coming up to the step,
Phronsie hanging to his hand, "this looks like starting for town
to-morrow, doesn't it?"
"Oh! what shall we do, sir?" cried Mrs. Pepper, in distress. "To think
you have come down here in the goodness of your heart, to be met with
such an accident as this. What shall we do?" she repeated.
"Goodness of my heart," repeated Mr. King, nevertheless well pleased at
the tribute. "I've had as much pleasure out of it all as you or the
young people. I want you to realize that."
"So does any one who does a kind act," replied Mrs. Pepper, wiping her
eyes; "well, sir, now how shall we manage about going back?"
"That remains to be seen," said Mr. King slowly, and he took a long
look at the winter sky, and the distant landscape before he ventured
more. "It very much looks as if we all should remain for a few days, to
see how Dick is to get on, all but the four boys; they must pack off to
school to-morrow, and then probably Mrs. Whitney will stay over with
the boy till he can be moved. Dr. Fisher will do the right thing by
him. Oh! everything is all right, Mrs. Pepper."
Mrs. Pepper sighed and led the way into the house. She knew in spite of
the reassuring words that the extreme limit of the "outing" ought to be
passed on the morrow.
X