I.

Just where the village abruptly ended, and the green mowing fields

began, stood Mrs. Bickford's house, looking down the road with all its

windows, and topped by two prim chimneys that stood up like ears. It

was placed with an end to the road, and fronted southward; you could

follow a straight path from the gate past the front door and find

Mrs. Bickford sitting by the last window of all in the kitchen, unless

she were solemnly stepping about, prolonging the stern duties of her

solitary housekeeping.

One day in early summer, when almost every one else in Fairfield had

put her house plants out of doors, there were still three flower pots

on a kitchen window sill. Mrs. Bickford spent but little time over her

rose and geranium and Jerusalem cherry-tree, although they had gained

a kind of personality born of long association. They rarely undertook

to bloom, but had most courageously maintained life in spite of their

owner's unsympathetic but conscientious care. Later in the season she

would carry them out of doors, and leave them, until the time of

frosts, under the shade of a great apple-tree, where they might make

the best of what the summer had to give.

The afternoon sun was pouring in, the Jerusalem cherry-tree drooped

its leaves in the heat and looked pale, when a neighbor, Miss

Pendexter, came in from the next house but one to make a friendly

call. As she passed the parlor with its shut blinds, and the

sitting-room, also shaded carefully from the light, she wished, as she

had done many times before, that somebody beside the owner might have

the pleasure of living in and using so good and pleasant a house.

Mrs. Bickford always complained of having so much care, even while she

valued herself intelligently upon having the right to do as she

pleased with one of the best houses in Fairfield. Miss Pendexter was a

cheerful, even gay little person, who always brought a pleasant flurry

of excitement, and usually had a genuine though small piece of news to

tell, or some new aspect of already received information.

Mrs. Bickford smiled as she looked up to see this sprightly neighbor

coming. She had no gift at entertaining herself, and was always glad,

as one might say, to be taken off her own hands.

Miss Pendexter smiled back, as if she felt herself to be equal to the

occasion.

"How be you to-day?" the guest asked kindly, as she entered the

kitchen. "Why, what a sight o' flowers, Mis' Bickford! What be you

goin' to do with 'em all?"

Mrs. Bickford wore a grave expression as she glanced over her

spectacles. "My sister's boy fetched 'em over," she answered. "You

know my sister Parsons's a great hand to raise flowers, an' this boy

takes after her. He said his mother thought the gardin never looked

handsomer, and she picked me these to send over. They was sendin' a

team to Westbury for some fertilizer to put on the land, an' he come

with the men, an' stopped to eat his dinner 'long o' me. He's been

growin' fast, and looks peaked. I expect sister 'Liza thought the

ride, this pleasant day, would do him good. 'Liza sent word for me to

come over and pass some days next week, but it ain't so that I can."

"Why, it's a pretty time of year to go off and make a little visit,"

suggested the neighbor encouragingly.

"I ain't got my sitting-room chamber carpet taken up yet," sighed

Mrs. Bickford. "I do feel condemned. I might have done it to-day, but

't was all at end when I saw Tommy coming. There, he's a likely boy,

an' so relished his dinner; I happened to be well prepared. I don't

know but he's my favorite o' that family. Only I've been sittin' here

thinkin', since he went, an' I can't remember that I ever was so

belated with my spring cleaning."

"'T was owin' to the weather," explained Miss Pendexter. "None of us

could be so smart as common this year, not even the lazy ones that

always get one room done the first o' March, and brag of it to others'

shame, and then never let on when they do the rest."

The two women laughed together cheerfully. Mrs. Bickford had put up

the wide leaf of her large table between the windows and spread out

the flowers. She was sorting them slowly into three heaps.

"Why, I do declare if you haven't got a rose in bloom yourself!"

exclaimed Miss Pendexter abruptly, as if the bud had not been

announced weeks before, and its progress regularly commented upon.

"Ain't it a lovely rose? Why, Mis' Bickford!"

"Yes 'm, it's out to-day," said Mrs. Bickford, with a somewhat

plaintive air. "I'm glad you come in so as to see it."

The bright flower was like a face. Somehow, the beauty and life of it

were surprising in the plain room, like a gay little child who might

suddenly appear in a doorway. Miss Pendexter forgot herself and her

hostess and the tangled mass of garden flowers in looking at the red

rose. She even forgot that it was incumbent upon her to carry forward

the conversation. Mrs. Bickford was subject to fits of untimely

silence which made her friends anxiously sweep the corners of their

minds in search of something to say, but any one who looked at her now

could easily see that it was not poverty of thought that made her

speechless, but an overburdening sense of the inexpressible.

"Goin' to make up all your flowers into bo'quets? I think the

short-stemmed kinds is often pretty in a dish," suggested Miss

Pendexter compassionately.

"I thought I should make them into three bo'quets. I wish there wa'n't

quite so many. Sister Eliza's very lavish with her flowers; she's

always been a kind sister, too," said Mrs. Bickford vaguely. She was

not apt to speak with so much sentiment, and as her neighbor looked at

her narrowly she detected unusual signs of emotion. It suddenly became

evident that the three nosegays were connected in her mind with her

bereavement of three husbands, and Miss Pendexter's easily roused

curiosity was quieted by the discovery that her friend was bent upon a

visit to the burying-ground. It was the time of year when she was

pretty sure to spend an afternoon there, and sometimes they had taken

the walk in company. Miss Pendexter expected to receive the usual

invitation, but there was nothing further said at the moment, and she

looked again at the pretty rose.

Mrs. Bickford aimlessly handled the syringas and flowering almond

sprays, choosing them out of the fragrant heap only to lay them down

again. She glanced out of the window; then gave Miss Pendexter a long

expressive look.

"I expect you're going to carry 'em over to the burying-ground?"

inquired the guest, in a sympathetic tone.

"Yes 'm," said the hostess, now well started in conversation and in

quite her every-day manner. "You see I was goin' over to my brother's

folks to-morrow in South Fairfield, to pass the day; they said they

were goin' to send over to-morrow to leave a wagon at the

blacksmith's, and they'd hitch that to their best chaise, so I could

ride back very comfortable. You know I have to avoid bein' out in the

mornin' sun?"

Miss Pendexter smiled to herself at this moment; she was obliged to

move from her chair at the window, the May sun was so hot on her back,

for Mrs. Bickford always kept the curtains rolled high up, out of the

way, for fear of fading and dust. The kitchen was a blaze of light. As

for the Sunday chaise being sent, it was well known that

Mrs. Bickford's married brothers and sisters comprehended the truth

that she was a woman of property, and had neither chick nor child.

"So I thought 't was a good opportunity to just stop an' see if the

lot was in good order,--last spring Mr. Wallis's stone hove with the

frost; an' so I could take these flowers." She gave a sigh. "I ain't

one that can bear flowers in a close room,--they bring on a headache;

but I enjoy 'em as much as anybody to look at, only you never know

what to put 'em in. If I could be out in the mornin' sun, as some do,

and keep flowers in the house, I should have me a gardin, certain,"

and she sighed again.

"A garden's a sight o' care, but I don't begrudge none o' the care I

give to mine. I have to scant on flowers so 's to make room for pole

beans," said Miss Pendexter gayly. She had only a tiny strip of land

behind her house, but she always had something to give away, and made

riches out of her narrow poverty. "A few flowers gives me just as much

pleasure as more would," she added. "You get acquainted with things

when you've only got one or two roots. My sweet-williams is just like

folks."

"Mr. Bickford was partial to sweet-williams," said Mrs. Bickford. "I

never knew him to take notice of no other sort of flowers. When we'd

be over to Eliza's, he'd walk down her gardin, an' he'd never make no

comments until he come to them, and then he'd say, 'Those is

sweet-williams.' How many times I've heard him!"

"You ought to have a sprig of 'em for his bo'quet," suggested Miss

Pendexter.

"Yes, I've put a sprig in," said her companion.

At this moment Miss Pendexter took a good look at the bouquets, and

found that they were as nearly alike as careful hands could make them.

Mrs. Bickford was evidently trying to reach absolute impartiality.

"I don't know but you think it's foolish to tie 'em up this

afternoon," she said presently, as she wound the first with a stout

string. "I thought I could put 'em in a bucket o' water out in the

shed, where there's a draught o' air, and then I should have all my

time in the morning. I shall have a good deal to do before I go. I

always sweep the setting-room and front entry Wednesdays. I want to

leave everything nice, goin' away for all day so. So I meant to get

the flowers out o' the way this afternoon. Why, it's most half past

four, ain't it? But I sha'n't pick the rose till mornin'; 't will be

blowed out better then."

"The rose?" questioned Miss Pendexter. "Why, are you goin' to pick

that, too?"

"Yes, I be. I never like to let 'em fade on the bush. There, that's

just what's a-troublin' me," and she turned to give a long, imploring

look at the friend who sat beside her. Miss Pendexter had moved her

chair before the table in order to be out of the way of the sun. "I

don't seem to know which of 'em ought to have it," said Mrs. Bickford

despondently. "I do so hate to make a choice between 'em; they all had

their good points, especially Mr. Bickford, and I respected 'em all. I

don't know but what I think of one on 'em 'most as much as I do of the

other."

"Why, 'tis difficult for you, ain't it?" responded Miss Pendexter. "I

don't know's I can offer advice."

"No, I s'pose not," answered her friend slowly, with a shadow of

disappointment coming over her calm face. "I feel sure you would if

you could, Abby."

Both of the women felt as if they were powerless before a great

emergency.

"There's one thing,--they're all in a better world now," said Miss

Pendexter, in a self-conscious and constrained voice; "they can't feel

such little things or take note o' slights same's we can."

"No; I suppose 't is myself that wants to be just," answered

Mrs. Bickford. "I feel under obligations to my last husband when I

look about and see how comfortable he left me. Poor Mr. Wallis had his

great projects, an' perhaps if he'd lived longer he'd have made a

record; but when he died he'd failed all up, owing to that patent

corn-sheller he'd put everything into, and, as you know, I had to get

along 'most any way I could for the next few years. Life was very

disappointing with Mr. Wallis, but he meant well, an' used to be an

amiable person to dwell with, until his temper got spoilt makin' so

many hopes an' havin' 'em turn out failures. He had consider'ble of an

air, an' dressed very handsome when I was first acquainted with him,

Mr. Wallis did. I don't know's you ever knew Mr. Wallis in his prime?"

"He died the year I moved over here from North Denfield," said Miss

Pendexter, in a tone of sympathy. "I just knew him by sight. I was to

his funeral. You know you lived in what we call the Wells house then,

and I felt it wouldn't be an intrusion, we was such near neighbors.

The first time I ever was in your house was just before that, when he

was sick, an' Mary 'Becca Wade an' I called to see if there was

anything we could do."

"They used to say about town that Mr. Wallis went to an' fro like a

mail-coach an' brought nothin' to pass," announced Mrs. Bickford

without bitterness. "He ought to have had a better chance than he did

in this little neighborhood. You see, he had excellent ideas, but he

never'd learned the machinist's trade, and there was somethin' the

matter with every model he contrived. I used to be real narrow-minded

when he talked about moving 'way up to Lowell, or some o' them places;

I hated to think of leaving my folks; and now I see that I never done

right by him. His ideas was good. I know once he was on a jury, and

there was a man stopping to the tavern where he was, near the court

house, a man that traveled for a firm to Lowell; and they engaged in

talk, an' Mr. Wallis let out some o' his notions an' contrivances, an'

he said that man wouldn't hardly stop to eat, he was so interested,

an' said he'd look for a chance for him up to Lowell. It all sounded

so well that I kind of begun to think about goin' myself. Mr. Wallis

said we'd close the house here, and go an' board through the winter.

But he never heard a word from him, and the disappointment was one he

never got over. I think of it now different from what I did then. I

often used to be kind of disapproving to Mr. Wallis; but there, he

used to be always tellin' over his great projects. Somebody told me

once that a man by the same name of the one he met while he was to

court had got some patents for the very things Mr. Wallis used to be

workin' over; but 't was after he died, an' I don't know's 't was in

him to ever really set things up so other folks could ha' seen their

value. His machines always used to work kind of rickety, but folks

used to come from all round to see 'em; they was curiosities if they

wa'n't nothin' else, an' gave him a name."

Mrs. Bickford paused a moment, with some geranium leaves in her hand,

and seemed to suppress with difficulty a desire to speak even more

freely.

"He was a dreadful notional man," she said at last, regretfully, and

as if this fact were a poor substitute for what had just been in her

mind. "I recollect one time he worked all through the early winter

over my churn, an' got it so it would go three quarters of an hour all

of itself if you wound it up; an' if you'll believe it, he went an'

spent all that time for nothin' when the cow was dry, an' we was with

difficulty borrowin' a pint o' milk a day somewheres in the

neighborhood just to get along with." Mrs. Bickford flushed with

displeasure, and turned to look at her visitor. "Now what do you think

of such a man as that, Miss Pendexter?" she asked.

"Why, I don't know but 't was just as good for an invention," answered

Miss Pendexter timidly; but her friend looked doubtful, and did not

appear to understand.

"Then I asked him where it was, one day that spring when I'd got tired

to death churnin', an' the butter wouldn't come in a churn I'd had to

borrow, and he'd gone an' took ours all to pieces to get the works to

make some other useless contrivance with. He had no sort of a business

turn, but he was well meanin', Mr. Wallis was, an' full o' divertin'

talk; they used to call him very good company. I see now that he never

had no proper chance. I've always regretted Mr. Wallis," said she who

was now the widow Bickford.

"I'm sure you always speak well of him," said Miss Pendexter. "'T was

a pity he hadn't got among good business men, who could push his

inventions an' do all the business part."

"I was left very poor an' needy for them next few years," said

Mrs. Bickford mournfully; "but he never'd give up but what he should

die worth his fifty thousand dollars. I don't see now how I ever did

get along them next few years without him; but there, I always managed

to keep a pig, an' sister Eliza gave me my potatoes, and I made out

somehow. I could dig me a few greens, you know, in spring, and then 't

would come strawberry-time, and other berries a-followin' on. I was

always decent to go to meetin' till within the last six months, an'

then I went in bad weather, when folks wouldn't notice; but 't was a

rainy summer, an' I managed to get considerable preachin' after all.

My clothes looked proper enough when 't was a wet Sabbath. I often

think o' them pinched days now, when I'm left so comfortable by

Mr. Bickford."

"Yes 'm, you've everything to be thankful for," said Miss Pendexter,

who was as poor herself at that moment as her friend had ever been,

and who could never dream of venturing upon the support and

companionship of a pig. "Mr. Bickford was a very personable man," she

hastened to say, the confidences were so intimate and interesting.

"Oh, very," replied Mrs. Bickford; "there was something about him that

was very marked. Strangers would always ask who he was as he come into

meetin'. His words counted; he never spoke except he had to. 'T was a

relief at first after Mr. Wallis's being so fluent; but Mr. Wallis was

splendid company for winter evenings,--'t would be eight o'clock

before you knew it. I didn't use to listen to it all, but he had a

great deal of information. Mr. Bickford was dreadful dignified; I used

to be sort of meechin' with him along at the first, for fear he'd

disapprove of me; but I found out 'twa'n't no need; he was always just

that way, an' done everything by rule an' measure. He hadn't the mind

of my other husbands, but he was a very dignified appearing man; he

used 'most always to sleep in the evenin's, Mr. Bickford did."

"Them is lovely bo'quets, certain!" exclaimed Miss Pendexter. "Why, I

couldn't tell 'em apart; the flowers are comin' out just right, aren't

they?"

Mrs. Bickford nodded assent, and then, startled by sudden

recollection, she cast a quick glance at the rose in the window.

"I always seem to forget about your first husband, Mr. Fraley," Miss

Pendexter suggested bravely. "I've often heard you speak of him, too,

but he'd passed away long before I ever knew you."

"He was but a boy," said Mrs. Bickford. "I thought the world was done

for me when he died, but I've often thought since 't was a mercy for

him. He come of a very melancholy family, and all his brothers an'

sisters enjoyed poor health; it might have been his lot. Folks said we

was as pretty a couple as ever come into church; we was both dark,

with black eyes an' a good deal o' color,--you wouldn't expect it to

see me now. Albert was one that held up his head, and looked as if he

meant to own the town, an' he had a good word for everybody. I don't

know what the years might have brought."

There was a long pause. Mrs. Bickford leaned over to pick up a

heavy-headed Guelder-rose that had dropped on the floor.

"I expect 't was what they call fallin' in love," she added, in a

different tone; "he wa'n't nothin' but a boy, an' I wa'n't nothin' but

a girl, but we was dreadful happy. He didn't favor his folks,--they

all had hay-colored hair and was faded-looking, except his mother;

they was alike, and looked alike, an' set everything by each other. He

was just the kind of strong, hearty young man that goes right off if

they get a fever. We was just settled on a little farm, an' he'd have

done well if he'd had time; as it was, he left debts. He had a hasty

temper, that was his great fault, but Albert had a lovely voice to

sing; they said there wa'n't no such tenor voice in this part o' the

State. I could hear him singin' to himself right out in the field

a-ploughin' or hoein', an' he didn't know it half o' the time, no more

'n a common bird would. I don't know's I valued his gift as I ought

to, but there was nothin' ever sounded so sweet to me. I ain't one

that ever had much fancy, but I knowed Albert had a pretty voice."

Mrs. Bickford's own voice trembled a little, but she held up the last

bouquet and examined it critically. "I must hurry now an' put these in

water," she said, in a matter of fact tone. Little Miss Pendexter was

so quiet and sympathetic that her hostess felt no more embarrassed

than if she had been talking only to herself.

"Yes, they do seem to droop some; 't is a little warm for them here in

the sun," said Miss Pendexter; "but you'll find they'll all come up if

you give them their fill o' water. They'll look very handsome

to-morrow; folks'll notice them from the road. You've arranged them

very tasty, Mis' Bickford."

"They do look pretty, don't they?" Mrs. Bickford regarded the three in

turn. "I want to have them all pretty. You may deem it strange, Abby."

"Why, no, Mis' Bickford," said the guest sincerely, although a little

perplexed by the solemnity of the occasion. "I know how 'tis with

friends,--that having one don't keep you from wantin' another; 'tis

just like havin' somethin' to eat, and then wantin' somethin' to drink

just the same. I expect all friends find their places."

But Mrs. Bickford was not interested in this figure, and still looked

vague and anxious as she began to brush the broken stems and wilted

leaves into her wide calico apron. "I done the best I could while they

was alive," she said, "and mourned 'em when I lost 'em, an' I feel

grateful to be left so comfortable now when all is over. It seems

foolish, but I'm still at a loss about that rose."

"Perhaps you'll feel sure when you first wake up in the morning,"

answered Miss Pendexter solicitously. "It's a case where I don't deem

myself qualified to offer you any advice. But I'll say one thing,

seeing's you've been so friendly spoken and confiding with me. I never

was married myself, Mis' Bickford, because it wa'n't so that I could

have the one I liked."

"I suppose he ain't livin', then? Why, I wan't never aware you had met

with a disappointment, Abby," said Mrs. Bickford instantly. None of

her neighbors had ever suspected little Miss Pendexter of a romance.

"Yes 'm, he's livin'," replied Miss Pendexter humbly. "No 'm, I never

have heard that he died."

"I want to know!" exclaimed the woman of experience. "Well, I'll tell

you this, Abby: you may have regretted your lot, and felt lonesome and

hardshipped, but they all have their faults, and a single woman's got

her liberty, if she ain't got other blessin's."

"'T wouldn't have been my choice to live alone," said Abby, meeker

than before. "I feel very thankful for my blessin's, all the same.

You've always been a kind neighbor, Mis' Bickford."

"Why can't you stop to tea?" asked the elder woman, with unusual

cordiality; but Miss Pendexter remembered that her hostess often

expressed a dislike for unexpected company, and promptly took her

departure after she had risen to go, glancing up at the bright flower

as she passed outside the window. It seemed to belong most to Albert,

but she had not liked to say so. The sun was low; the green fields

stretched away southward into the misty distance.