Mrs. Thaddeus Clayton came softly into the room and looked with
apprehensive eyes upon the little old man in the rocking-chair.
"How be ye, dearie? Yer hain't wanted fer nothin', now, have ye?" she
asked.
"Not a thing, Harriet," he returned cheerily. "I'm feelin' real pert,
too. Was there lots there? An' did Parson Drew say a heap o' fine
things?"
Mrs. Clayton dropped into a chair and pulled listlessly at the black
strings of her bonnet.
"'T was a beautiful fun'ral, Thaddeus--a beautiful fun'ral. I--I 'most
wished it was mine."
"Harriet!"
She gave a shamed-faced laugh.
"Well, I did--then Jehiel and Hannah Jane would 'a' come, an' I could
'a' seen 'em."
The horrified look on the old man's face gave way to a broad smile.
"Oh, Harriet--Harriet!" he chuckled, "how could ye seen 'em if you was
dead?"
"Huh? Well, I--Thaddeus,"--her voice rose sharply in the silent
room,--"every single one of them Perkins boys was there, and Annabel,
too. Only think what poor Mis' Perkins would 'a' given ter seen 'em
'fore she went! But they waited--_waited_, Thaddeus, jest as everybody
does, till their folks is dead."
"But, Harriet," demurred the old man, "surely you'd 'a' had them boys
come ter their own mother's fun'ral!"
"Come! I'd 'a' had 'em come before, while Ella Perkins could 'a' feasted
her eyes on 'em. Thaddeus,"--Mrs. Clayton rose to her feet and stretched
out two gaunt hands longingly,--"Thaddeus, I get so hungry sometimes for
Jehiel and Hannah Jane, seems as though I jest couldn't stand it!"
"I know--I know, dearie," quavered the old man, vigorously polishing his
glasses.
"Fifty years ago my first baby came," resumed the woman in tremulous
tones; "then another came, and another, till I'd had six. I loved 'em,
an' tended 'em, an' cared fer 'em, an' didn't have a thought but was fer
them babies. Four died,"--her voice broke, then went on with renewed
strength,--"but I've got Jehiel and Hannah Jane left; at least, I've got
two bits of paper that comes mebbe once a month, an' one of 'em's signed
'your dutiful son, Jehiel,' an' the other, 'from your loving daughter,
Hannah Jane.'"
"Well, Harriet, they--they're pretty good ter write letters," ventured
Mr. Clayton.
"Letters!" wailed his wife. "I can't hug an' kiss letters, though I try
to, sometimes. I want warm flesh an' blood in my arms, Thaddeus; I want
ter look down into Jehiel's blue eyes an' hear him call me 'dear old
mumsey!' as he used to. I wouldn't ask 'em ter stay--I ain't
unreasonable, Thaddeus. I know they can't do that."
"Well, well, wife, mebbe they'll come--mebbe they'll come this summer;
who knows?"
She shook her head dismally.
"You've said that ev'ry year for the last fifteen summers, an' they
hain't come yet. Jehiel went West more than twenty years ago, an' he's
never been home since. Why, Thaddeus, we've got a grandson 'most
eighteen, that we hain't even seen! Hannah Jane's been home jest once
since she was married, but that was nigh on ter sixteen years ago. She's
always writin' of her Tommy and Nellie, but--I want ter see 'em,
Thaddeus; I want ter see 'em!"
"Yes, yes; well, we'll ask 'em, Harriet, again--we'll ask 'em real
urgent-like, an' mebbe that'll fetch 'em," comforted the old man.
"We'll ask 'em ter be here the Fourth; that's eight weeks off yet, an' I
shall be real smart by then."
Two letters that were certainly "urgent-like" left the New England
farmhouse the next morning. One was addressed to a thriving Western
city, the other to Chattanooga, Tennessee.
In course of time the answers came. Hannah Jane's appeared first, and
was opened with shaking fingers.
_Dear Mother_ [read Mrs. Clayton aloud]: Your letter came two or three
days ago, and I have hurried round to answer it, for you seemed to be so
anxious to hear. I'm real sorry, but I don't see how we can get away
this summer. Nathan is real busy at the store; and, some way, I can't
seem to get up energy enough to even think of fixing up the children to
take them so far. Thank you for the invitation, though, and we should
enjoy the visit very much; but I guess we can't go just yet. Of course
if anything serious should come up that made it necessary--why, that
would be different: but I know you are sensible, and will understand how
it is with us.
Nathan is well, but business has been pretty brisk, and he is in the
store early and late. As long as he's making money, he don't mind; but I
tell him I think he might rest a little sometimes, and let some one else
do the things he does.
Tom is a big boy now, smart in his studies and with a good head for
figures. Nellie loves her books, too; and, for a little girl of eleven,
does pretty well, we think.
I must close now. We all send love, and hope you are getting along all
right. Was glad to hear father was gaining so fast.