WELCOME HOME.
"TIME they was here, ain't it, miss?" asked Mehitable Ross, wiping
the flour from her bare arms, and coming out upon the step of the
door.
"Yes," said Dora: "I expect them every moment. Is tea all ready?"
"All but the short-cakes. I hain't put them down to bake yet,
because they're best when they're first done. But the cold meat is
sliced, and the strawberries dished, and the johnny-cake a-baking."
"Well, keep them all as nice as you can; and I will walk out a
little, and meet the wagon."
"Take Argus along, you'd better, case you should meet one of them
tiger-cats Silas told on."
Dora smiled, but called, "Argus!" and at the word a great hound came
leaping from one of the out-buildings, and fawned upon his young
mistress; then, with stately step and uplifted head, followed her
along the faint track worn by the wheels of the ox-cart in the
short, sweet grass of the prairie.
The young girl walked slowly, and, at the distance of some rods from
the house, stopped, and, leaning against the stem of a great
chestnut-tree, stood looking earnestly down the path as it wound
into the forest, and out of sight. Then her eyes turned slowly back,
and lingered with a strange and solemn joy upon the scene she had
just left; while from her full heart came one whispered word that
told the whole story of her emotion,--
"Home!"
For this was Outpost, Dora's inheritance from her friend and father,
Col. Blank; and she felt to-night, as she waited to welcome home the
family whose head she had become, that her duties and
responsibilities were indeed solemn and onerous. Not too much so,
however, for the courage and strength the young girl felt within her
soul,--the energy and will so long without an adequate field of
action.
"Plenty to do, and, thank God, plenty of health and strength to do
it. Experience will come of itself," thought Dora; and from her
throbbing heart went up a "song without words," of joy and praise
and high resolve.
It was June now; but the house at Outpost had only been ready for
occupancy a week or so. The family had left Massachusetts about the
first of October in the previous autumn, and had spent the winter in
Cincinnati; Dora having been reluctantly convinced of the folly of
proceeding to Iowa at that season. With the opening of spring,
however, she had made a journey thither, escorted by Charles
Windsor, and accompanied by Seth and Mehitable Ross,--a sturdy
New-England couple, who were very glad, in emigrating to the West,
to avail themselves of the offers made by Dora, who engaged the man
as principal workman upon the new farm, and his wife as assistant in
the labors of the house.
The site selected by Col. Blank proved a very satisfactory one. But
Dora rejected his plans of a house, submitted to her by Mr. Ferrars,
as too expensive, and too elaborate for the style of living she
proposed; and chose, instead, a simple log-cabin, divided into four
rooms, with another at a little distance for the accommodation of
Ross and his wife, who were also to keep whatever additional workmen
should be required upon the place.
These buildings, neatly and substantially formed of logs from the
neighboring wood, were placed at the top of a natural lawn half
enclosed by primeval forest; while at its foot nearly a quarter of a
mile away, wound the blue waters of the Des Moines; and beyond it,
swept to the horizon, mile after mile of prairie, limitless,
apparently, as ocean, and, like ocean, solemnly beautiful in its
loneliness and calm.
The house faced south; and eastward from its door, across the lawn
and into the rustling wood, wound the faint wheel-track, leading
back to civilization, ease, and safety: but Dora, standing beneath
the chestnut-tree, fixed her dreamy eyes upon the setting sun, and,
half smiling at her own fancy, thought,--
"I wonder if God doesn't make the western sky so beautiful just to
draw us toward it. There is so much to do here, and so few to do
it!"
A distant noise in the forest attracted her attention; and Argus,
who had been dreaming at the feet of his mistress, started up with a
short bark.
"Hush, Argus! It's the wagon; don't you know?" explained Dora, as
she hastened down the path, and, at the distance of a few hundred
rods, caught sight of the black heads of Pope and Pagan, and, the
next moment, of the wagon and its occupants.
These were Karl, Kitty, and Sunshine, the two last of whom had
remained all the spring in Cincinnati, while Karl and Dora had
vibrated between that city and Outpost; for Dora, while choosing to
superintend the building of her house and opening of the farm
operations in person, had not wished to expose her cousin or the
delicate child to such discomforts as she cheerfully and even gayly
bore for herself.
Kitty, moreover, had found the change from her native seclusion to a
gay city very pleasant; and had made so many acquaintances in
Cincinnati, that she declared it was a great deal worse than leaving
home to abandon them all.
"Oho! here's the general come to meet us! Whoa, Pope! don't you see
your mistress? Now, then!" shouted Karl; while Kitty cried,--
"O Dora! I'm so glad to see you alive!" And little Sunshine, jumping
up and down in the front of the wagon, exclaimed,--
"Dora's come! Dora's come! Karlo said we'd come to Dora by and by!"
"O you little darling! if Dora isn't glad to see you again! Kitty,
how do you do? I'm so glad to see you!"
She had jumped into the wagon as she spoke; and, after giving Kitty
a hearty kiss and hug, she took Sunshine in her arms, and buried her
face in the child's sunny curls.
"Am I your own little girl, Dora? and do you love me same as you
always did?" asked Sunshine anxiously. "Kitty said you'd so much to
think about now, that maybe you wouldn't care for us."
"Oh! Kitty never meant that, dear," said Dora quickly; and Kitty,
with rather a forced laugh, added,--
"Of course I didn't. It was only a joke, Molly. You talked so much
about Dora, I wanted to plague you a little."
The child looked earnestly at her for a moment; and then, putting
her arms about Dora's neck, hid her face upon her bosom, murmuring,--
"I'm glad I've got Dora again!"
"Well, now everybody else is attended to, hasn't the general a word
for his humble orderly?" asked Karl, turning to smile over his
shoulder at the group behind.
"Why, you jealous old Karl! you know you've only been away two
weeks, and the girls I have not seen for almost as many months:
besides, I told you not to call me general, and yourself orderly."
"Oh! that reminds me of a new name for pet. You know she persists in
calling me Karlo; so I have given her the title of Dolce: and the
two of us together are going some day to paint pictures far fairer
than those of our great original."
"Carlo Dolce? Yes: Mr. Brown told me about him once, and said his
name only meant sweet Charley," said Dora simply.
"I wonder, then, that you should have left it for Sunshine to
discover how appropriate the name is to me," said Karl with mock
gravity.
"I'll call you sweet Charley if you like; only it must be at all
times, and before all persons," said Dora roguishly.
"No, I thank you," replied her cousin, laughing. "Fancy Parson
Brown's face if he should hear such a title, or Seth's astonishment
if you told him to call sweet Charley to dinner! But isn't Dolce a
pretty name? Let us really adopt it for her."
"Well, if she likes; but I shall call her Sunshine still sometimes."
"What say, pet? will you have Dolce for a name?" asked Karl, turning
to pinch the little ear peeping from Sunshine's curls.
"I don't know; would you, Dora?" asked the child, gravely
deliberating.
"Yes: I think it is pretty."
"And Kitty sha'n't call me Molly any more; shall she?"
"Don't you like Molly?"
"No: because that man in Cincinnati asked me if my last name was
Coddle; and it ain't."
"Oh, dear! what an odd little thing she is!" exclaimed Kitty. "It
was Mr. Thomson, Dora; and he is so witty, you know! And one day he
asked the child if her name wasn't Miss Molly Coddle, just for a
joke, you see; and we all laughed: but she ran away; and, when I
went to my room, there she was crying, and wouldn't come down again
for ever so long. She's a regular little fuss-bunch about such
things."
"Very strange, when you and I are so fond of being ridiculed and
laughed at!" remarked Karl gravely; and Sunshine whispered,--
"Am I a fuss-bunch, Dora?"
Dora did not answer, except by a little pat upon the child's rosy
cheek, as she exclaimed,--
"Here we are! Look, Kitty! that is home; and we must bid each other
welcome, since there is no one to do it for us both except
Mehitable, and I don't believe she will think of it."
"Well, I must say, Dora, you've got things to going a great deal
better than I should expect," said Kitty graciously, as she looked
about her. "Why, that sweetbrier beside the door, and the white rose
the other side, are just like ours at home; and the woodbine growing
up the corner too!"
"They came from the old home, every one of them," said Dora, smiling
happily. "I wrote in the spring, and asked Mr. Burroughs to be so
kind as to ask whoever lives in the house to take up a little root
of each of the roses, and send them to me by express. You know he
said, when we left, that we should have any thing we liked from the
place, then or afterwards. So he wrote such a pleasant note, and
said he had sold the house to a cousin of his, a Mr. Legrange, who
had made a present of it to his wife; but I could have the slips all
the same: and next day, to be sure, they came, all nicely packed in
matting, and some other plants with them. Karl brought them out and
set them in April; and they are growing beautifully, you see. Wasn't
Mr. Burroughs good?"
Kitty did not answer. She was bending low over the sweetbrier, and
inhaling the fragrance of its leaves. Karl and Sunshine had driven
to the barn, and the girls remained alone. Dora glanced sharply at
her cousin once, and then was turning away, when Kitty detained her,
and said in a low voice,--
"My mother planted that sweetbrier, and used to call it her
Marnie-bush, after me."
"I know it," said Dora softly.
"And that was the reason you brought it here. And I have been cross
to you so much! But I did love her so, Dora! oh, you don't know how
much I loved my mother! That is the reason I never will let any one
call me Marnie now. It was the name she always called me, though
Kitty belongs to me too; but she said it so softly! And to think you
should bring the Marnie-bush all the way from Massachusetts!"
"I thought you would like it, dear," said Dora absently; while her
eyes grew dim and vague, and around her mouth settled the white,
hard line, that, in her reticent nature, showed an emotion no less
intense because it was suppressed.
Then her arm stole round Kitty's waist, and she whispered in her
ear,--
"We two motherless girls ought to feel for each other, and love each
other better than those who never knew what it is; shouldn't we,
Kitty?"
"We should that, Dora," returned her cousin with emphasis; "and I
don't believe I shall forget again right away. Let us begin from
now, and see how good we can be to each other."
Dora's kisses, except for Sunshine, were almost as rare as her
tears; but she gave one now to Kitty, who accepted it as sufficient
answer to her proposition.
At this moment, Mehitable, who had, at the appearance of the wagon,
rushed home to give a finishing touch to her toilet, was seen
crossing the little interval between the two houses with an
elaborate air of unconsciousness of observation, and carrying a
large white handkerchief by its exact centre.
"My!-how fine we look!" whispered Kitty.
"This is my cousin, Miss Windsor, Mehitable," said Dora simply. "I
believe you didn't see her in Cincinnati?"
"No: she was away when we was there.-Happy to make your
acquaintance, Miss Windsor. How do you like out here?"
"Well, I don't know yet. I never tried keeping house in a log-cabin.
You'll have to show me how, I expect," said Kitty rather loftily.
"Lor! I guess you know as much as I do about it. I never see a
log-cabin in my life till we come out here. My father had a
fust-rate house, cla'borded and shingled, and all, down in Maine;
and we alluz had a plenty to do with of every sort: so I hain't no
experience at all in this sort of way."
"But you have a way of getting on without it that is almost as good.
I don't know what I should have done without Mehitable, Kitty; and I
dare say she will help you very much by telling all the ingenious
ways she has contrived to make our rude accommodations answer. You
know, as we are all beginning together, each must help on the other;
and we must all keep up our courage, and try to be contented."
"Well, I must say I never see one that kep' up her own courage, and
everybody else's, like her, since I was born into the world," said
Mehitable, turning confidentially to Kitty. "Talk of my helping her!
Lor! if it hadn't been for her, I never would have stopped here over
night, in the world. Why, the first night, I didn't do nothing but
roar the whole night long. Mr. Ross he said I'd raise the river if I
didn't stop: but in the morning down come Miss Dora, looking so
bright and sunshiny, that I couldn't somehow open my head to say I
wouldn't stop; and then she begun to talk"--
"Mehitable, the short-cake is done. Will you speak to Mr. Windsor?"
called Dora from within; and Kitty entered, saying,--
"How nice the tea-table looks!-just like home, Dora; the old India
china and all."
"It is home, Kit-cat. Here is Karl, and here is little Sunshine.
Come, friends, and let us sit down to our first meal in the new
house," said Dora: and Kitty, subduing a little feeling of fallen
dignity, seated herself at the side of the table; leaving the head
for Dora, who colored a little, but took it quietly.