"Walk right in, Mr. Lightus, do," said the cheery voice of the Widow
Partridge, as the portly figure of Mr. Hezekiah Lighthouse appeared in
her hospitable doorway.
"Thankee, thankee, I don't care if I do, Mis' Patridge," responded the
visitor, heavily bringing himself within the family circle.
"How's all?" he asked, comfortably establishing himself in the
arm-chair.
"Middlin', thankee," said the widow. "I've been enjoyin' very poor
health till lately. Now I seem to be pickin' up a little," as brushing
the seat of a rocker with her gingham apron, she sat down at the
opposite end of the hearth.
"An' Cicely Ann--how's she?"
"Oh, she--why she's allers the picture o' health. Here she comes now."
As she spoke, a fair, rosy-cheeked girl entered the cheerful room, with
her arms full of painting materials. These she deposited upon the table,
then dutifully greeted the visitor.
"An' how do you like them new fol-de-rols, Cicely Ann?" inquired
Hezekiah, eyeing askance the collection.
The fol-de-rols consisted of some wooden plaques of different sizes,
which the new art craze had brought to the widow's cottage.
"She's gettin' along right nice, I think," replied the widow, looking
proudly at her one chick. "You see, she's a lot o' darnin' an' one thing
another to do, but she finds time for her landskips and things."
"Well, mebbe so," assented Hezekiah grudgingly. "For my part there's
nothing set's a gal off like spinnin' an' weavin', an' it puts more
money in her pocket, besides."
"La, Mr. Lightus," said the widow deprecatingly, "spinnin' an' weavin's
gone out o' fashion. Gals will be gals, and they mostly go in for
fashion, you know."
Cicely's red lip curled in scorn as she applied herself vigorously
to her plaque, where the inevitable girl with muff and umbrella was
stumbling into a snowdrift.
Hezekiah picked up the widow's daily paper which, by the way, he largely
depended on for the news. Silence reigned for a while, save for the
rustle of the sheet. The click-clack of the widow's knitting needles,
and the rapid plying of Cicely's brush, were varied at last by the girl
surreptitiously pulling a note out of her jaunty apron pocket.
As she read it a smile broke over the dimpled features, and in a moment
more she pushed the table from her and left the room. Swiftly she sped
to the big apple tree where her trystings were held with Rufus, her
playmate and lover.
Hezekiah slowly raised his head, and laying down the paper, said
thoughtfully: "'Pears like the gal gits skittisher every day. Do you
reckon she'll ever come to like me?"
"Why, I dunno why she wouldn't," ventured the widow with an encouraging
smirk.
"Well, she don't seem to, no way." Then looking suspiciously through the
window. "Where's she gone to?"
"Oh, nowheres I reckon," said the mother soothingly, "nowheres in
partic'ler. She's allers around."
Another silence, during which the visitor carefully noted the land,
stock and crop items in the paper, then took his leave. But not till he
had cast a lingering look behind and said: "This is about the
comfortablest place a feller could drop into, in my opinion."
It was some minutes after when the truant Cicely re-entered the little
keeping-room, her cheeks and eyes bright with happiness.
"Oh, mother, wish me joy! Rufus has asked me to be his wife."
"Mercy on us, Cicely!" exclaimed the widow in a sort of terror, "and you
want to marry him?"
"Of course I do," proudly said the girl; "and I mean to marry him."
"Oh, Cicely, my child! and what will Mr. Lightus do--him that's been
comin' here so patient, off an' on?"
"Mr. Lighthouse!" disdainfully echoed the girl. "Do you suppose I would
have that old goose--old enough to be my grandfather!"
"Old goose! Fie, Cicely, to talk so disrespectful of your pa's best
friend. He's well-to-do an' has got the finest place in the county.
Think how nice we'd be fixed, child. We'd never have to work no more,"
and the widow sighed as the girl looked into her face for the
congratulations she expected in vain.
"Well, mother, I can't help it. I am willing to work and so is Rufus. He
is as industrious and steady as the day is long. I shouldn't mind having
Mr. Lighthouse for an uncle, but husband--pshaw!" and the pretty
features screwed themselves into a comical grimace.
"Child, child, I'm disappointed and no mistake. Here's that man's been
a comin' here all these weeks, an' while he ain't asked for you, it's
clear he wants you. An' now I've got to tell him you won't have him.
There's that moggidge on the house, too. But that's allers the
way--troubles don't never come single," and the sigh became a whimper.
"Now, don't you worry, mother," said Cicely, clasping her arms about the
still fair neck, "don't worry; we will come out all right, mortgage and
all."
Taking fresh courage, the widow again pressed the claims of the portly
wooer, but what chance had she against the combined powers of young love
and the daughter's stronger nature.
Time passed. Almost every evening found Hezekiah at the cottage, but
though persistent, things did not apparently make much progress. At last
the stiffness of the customary interviews seemed to break.
"Mis' Patridge," he said, getting very red in the face and awkward as to
hands and feet, "Cicely Ann gits worse every day. Ain't there no chance
of her puttin' up with me at all?"
"Why, yes, I reckon so," bashfully said the widow. "She's young and
foolish, you know. You can't expect gals to be sensible and sober down
like they will when they get holt of some wise person tha'll train 'em."
"Well," sighed the wooer, "I guess I might as well stop comin'. 'Taint
no use to be forever worritin' after anything. I did think, howsomever,
it 'ud be sorter nice to have us four live together. Young folks makes a
house kinder lively. But I don't git on, somehow; so I guess I might as
well hang up my fiddle an' quit." And the ancient wooer slowly rose to
his full height.
"Us four!" repeated the petrified widow, mouth and eyes open to their
widest extent.
"Yes--us four," continued Hezekiah. "I was thinkin', you know, that
bein' as this young feller Rufus what's-his-name 'peared to be sweet on
the gal, mebbe you'd take to me an' we'd all git spliced together. But
she don't like me and wouldn't treat me right. I couldn't stand fusses
an' the like."
"La, Mr. Lightus, how you do astonish me," faintly ejaculated the
flushed widow, her comely face crimson to the roots of her soft brown
hair.
"You don't say!" exclaimed the rapidly enlightened Hezekiah, rousing
to something like animation. "Did you think--didn't you know--well,
I declare, I don't actually believe you did. Now ain't it a puzzle,
begad!"
While he jerked out his amazed sentences, his companion, fairly overcome
with the revelation that dawned upon her for the first time, buried her
face in her hands.
"Mis' Patridge," timidly said the agitated wooer, approaching nearer,
"you don't say--that is, do you mean to say that if Cicely Ann could
like me well enough to not be sassy around the house, an' keepin' you
oncomfortable about it, you an' me could hitch on an' be pardners? You
don't mean it now, do you?"
"Mean it!" murmured the widow, her fair cheeks aglow with
suddenly-stirred enthusiasm. "I'm only too happy, Mr. Lightus, I never
thought--"
But at this juncture the rejuvenated wooer ventured to clasp his rough
but honest arms about the blushing prize he had won.
At this juncture, also, Cicely and Rufus happened in, but beat a hasty
and giggling retreat, as they rapidly took in the situation.
All's well that ends well. Hezekiah Lighthouse married the Widow
Partridge, and set young Rufus up in business. As a father the spirited
Cicely yielded him the respect and affection he deserved.
She made but one stipulation. On the marriage morn she whispered the
earnest entreaty: "Mother, _don't_ let him call me Cicely _Ann_!"