MISS BEAN'S VISIT IS RETURNED.
Still another month had passed and it was late in May when, one
bright Saturday morning, Jessie, Polly, and Alan drove away
through the town and out over the western hills. Cob was as full
of life and spirits as they were, and they went gaily onward with
no particular destination in view, but only intent on enjoying the
soft, warm air and the abundance of spring life all about them.
Birds in every tree, green leaves and bright blossoms on every
hand, and over them all the clear, yellow sunlight, these were
enough for the happy young people in the carriage.
"Dear me!" sighed Polly. "When we begin to have days like this, it
does seem as if vacation never, never would come. I can't bear to
stay in school and work over books in such weather. I'd much
rather stay outside and watch things grow."
"Let's cut school for the rest of the term, Polly," suggested
Alan, "and take Job and drive off out of the world somewhere, and
not come back till winter."
"Thank you, no. I'll take Cob, if Jessie is willing, for we
couldn't get outside of the town with _Job_, if we had
_any_ idea of getting _back_ by Christmas," rejoined
Polly, laughing.
"Take Cob and welcome, if I can go with you," said Jessie. "Seems
to me I never felt so before, but I don't want to stay in school
any more than Polly does. Perhaps it's because your springs are
pleasanter than ours."
"I shouldn't wonder if they were," said Polly reflectively, as
regardless of freckles, she took off her hat and let the sun
strike full upon her ruddy curls. "Isn't this perfect?" she added,
with a sigh of content. "I do believe everything is nicer in
Massachusetts than it is anywhere else. I'm glad I happened to be
born in the Bay State."
Jessie laughed outright at the fervor of her tone. Then she said,
as she drew Cob down to a slow walk, to enjoy a bit of road that
lay under a group of tall pines,--
"After all, I shall be sorry to have vacation come, for as soon as
this term is over, we shall have to go home, and I don't want to,
one bit."
"Sorry to leave me, aren't you, Cousin Jessie?" asked Alan, with,
mock sentiment.
"Don't flatter yourself, young man," said Polly, in parenthesis,
as Jessie went on. seriously,--
"Why, yes, I suppose I shall miss you, Alan; but it's the girls
that I care most for. We've had such good times doing things
together, and next year I shall be forlorn enough, for Kit will
come out, and I shall be left all to myself."
"Come back here," suggested Alan quite hospitably, considering the
frank way in which Jessie had spoken of her slight regret at
leaving him.
"Without Kit? Never!" replied Jessie earnestly. "I'd rather be
with her and have only a dozen words a day from her, than have to
be separated from her. I've always been fond of her, but it seems
to me she was never half so lovely as she's been this last year."
Polly stepped on Alan's toe, under cover of the robe, and was met
by an answering flash from the gray eyes, but neither spoke, as
Jessie continued,--"You do so many more things here, and have so
much better times, you girls, that Kit and I both wish papa and
mamma would come back here to live. Omaha is pleasant enough, and
the river is lovely,--when it isn't muddy; but I shall miss these
hills and the elms and the lazy look of the old town. I like old
things best. And what do you suppose I shall miss, most of all?"
"Job" and "Aunt Jane," suggested Alan and Polly, in a breath.
"You're too bad to laugh at me." And Jessie tried to pout, but it
was too hard work, so she gave up the attempt and laughed instead.
"No, it's the garret at your house, Alan, with all the old
spinning wheels and warming pans. Some day, when I get my cats,
I'll come back here to live, see if I don't." And Jessie nodded
with decision as she started up Cob once more.
"Oh, dear! Next year doesn't mean much fun for me," groaned Polly.
"I shall have to begin Latin and Greek and all sorts of dreadful
things, so as to get ready for college."
"Then you are really going," said Jessie. "What makes you do it,
if you don't want to?"
"It's been the family plan ever since I was a baby," said Polly;
"and there's no use in trying to change it. Besides, I don't think
I mind it much, or shan't when I once get there. I want to know a
few things when. I'm grown up, even if I'm not a lawyer or a
doctor,--but I'm going to leave that for Alan,"
"Don't worry about that, Polly," said Alan. "At present rate of
progress, if I lose a month or two of school every winter, I
shouldn't get through college till long after you were dead and
out of the way. And then, I don't think I want to be a doctor,
anyway."
"Now, Alan," retorted Polly; "that's not quite fair of you, when
you know how my heart is set on having you. a splendid doctor, and
in time taking papa's place. I've told you, time and time again,
that if I had a brother, he would have to be one; and, as long as
I haven't, you're the next best thing. You'd make such a splendid
one, too. I know, for I asked papa if you wouldn't, and he said
yes. He said--" Polly came to a sudden pause.
"Said what, Poll? Out with it."
"I wasn't going to tell, for fear 'twould make you conceited,"
returned Polly; "but if I thought it would make any difference
with your plans, I'd run the risk, only you must be really in
earnest about it, Alan, and think it all over. He said you had
just the character that goes to make a good doctor, brave and true
and unselfish, and always gentle and calm and jolly. Now doesn't
that make you want to be something grand?" And Polly turned to
look at the boy, with all her earnestness, all her love for him
lighting her face and beautifying it, in spite of the brown
freckles on her cheeks.
Alan's face flushed and his eyes were shining, as he asked
eagerly,--
"Did Dr. Adams really say all that about me?"
"Yes, he said so only the other day, and I suppose I oughtn't to
have told you; but, ever since our talk one day last winter when
you'd been to the hospital, I've been hoping and hoping that some
day you'd be just the right kind of a doctor, one that cures his
patients, whether they can pay or not, and makes them love him, in
spite of the horrid things he has to do to them. If you'd only do
that, Alan, I should be so proud of you."
"Should you, Poll? Well, I'll think about it, but it's too soon to
make up my mind yet. Mother wants me to be a minister."
"You a minister! Why, Alan, you'd laugh, even in the middle of a
sermon; and I know you'd never go to a funeral without thinking
how Job went, the other day. And anyway, I'd a great deal rather
be a doctor, for they do more good. Ministers _talk;_ doctors
_do_."
"Some ministers _do_," said Jessie.
"Yes, some of them; but it's their business to preach, and that's
all most of them try to do. You won't hear of many ministers that
get up, cold winter nights, every night for a week, to go to see
one poor little croupy baby, just for love of it, and not
expecting to get a cent. I don't believe that, taken year in and
year out, there are many missionaries that work harder or do more
good than papa does."
"Not many doctors, either," suggested Alan.
"That may be; but just his doing it proves that it can be done, if
anybody is willing to try. Don't shirk that way, Alan; it isn't
like you. You can do it just as well as he can, and I mean you
shall, some day, if teasing can do any good."
"Do you know, Polly," said Jessie; "you've talked about it till
you make me want to be a doctor, myself. I don't suppose mamma
would ever let me, but I'd like to try, and I think I could do
it."
"Why don't you, then?" asked Polly heartily. "I don't want to
myself, and I shouldn't succeed. I should be like the old doctor
papa tells about, that used to swear at his patients when they
didn't mind him. I never could keep cool when things went wrong.
Besides, I think it's a man's work, more than a woman's."
"I'd like to be one, and prove that you are wrong," returned
Jessie, with some spirit.
"If I really made up my mind to be a doctor, I'd be a good one, if
I had to give up everything else for the sake of it; but it isn't
in my line," said Polly a little regretfully. "But when you and
Alan are famous all over the world, I'll go around telling
everybody how I was the first one to start you in that line; and
they'll all be grateful to me, even if I haven't any career, see
if they aren't."
"In the meantime," said Alan, suddenly breaking off the
conversation, "has anybody the slightest idea where we are?"
"I haven't," said Jessie, pulling up Cob abruptly. "I've been so
busy talking and thinking that I haven't paid any attention to
where we were going."
"I never saw this road before," said Polly. "It's too far out of
town for Job's wanderings. But go on; we shall come to a house or
a guideboard before long."
"To judge by the sun and by my appetite," remarked Alan pensively,
"it must be almost noon."
"Oh, that makes me think!" exclaimed Polly. "Get up, Alan; you're
right on them!"
"On what?" inquired the boy lazily, without stirring.
"On the gingersnaps. Mamma gave me some to put in my pocket, in
case we should get hungry, and here you've been sitting on top of
them, all the way!" There was an accent of despair in Polly's
tone.
Alan rose, and she plunged her hand into her pocket.
"Just look here!" she said accusingly, as she drew out a crumpled
paper bag.
Alan caught it from her hand and peered down into it.
"Pulverized gingersnaps!" he exclaimed. "Want some, Jessie?"
"I'm so hungry, I'm thankful for anything," she replied. "Let's
eat up the largest pieces ourselves, Polly, and make Alan take the
dust for his share, for he was the one to blame."
"I know it, and now he'll never know how good they were," returned
Polly relentlessly, as the girls devoured the contents of the bag,
even to the last crumb. "He deserves to go hungry."
"But what's that building over there?" asked Jessie, a little
later, pointing to a great red house on the side of a distant
hill.
"That? That's the poorhouse," replied Polly, after studying it for
a minute or two. "I came here once with papa, ever so long ago.
I'd like to know how we ever managed to get here; it's seven or
eight miles from town."
"Seven or eight miles from town! And we are dying of starvation,"
said Alan.
"Speak for yourself, please; Jessie and I have had lunch," said
Polly. "But," she went on, struck with a sudden thought, "let's go
and see Miss Bean, and maybe she'll invite us to dinner. She ought
to, for she's been fed at our house often enough."
Jessie fell in with the idea.
"Let's try it, anyway," she said. "I've always wanted to see what
they do in such a place, and I don't believe there would be any
harm in it."
"What harm could there be?" said Polly. "We needn't tell her we've
come to dinner; only, if she should happen to ask us, we could
stay, after she's teased a little."
Turning from the main road, they drove under the great gateway and
followed a winding drive up to the very door of the house. A few
old crones sat in a row by the door, chattering like so many
venerable crows; but when they caught sight of the children, their
voices sank to whispers, as they watched Alan spring to the
ground, hold up his arms to help Polly and Jessie, and then
deliberately tie Cob to the nearest post.
At sight of the women in their plain white caps and dark calico
gowns, Jessie was seized with a nervous desire to laugh, and hid
behind Polly, whispering,--
"You do the talking, Polly; I can't."
"But what shall I say?" returned Polly, in the same tone.
"Isn't there a matron or something?" said Jessie doubtfully. "Ask
for her."
By this time, Alan had joined them and they held a hasty
consultation, as a result of which Alan walked straight up to the
old women. Hat in hand, and a smile on his bright, boyish face, he
bowed low before them and asked if he could be directed to the
matron's room. Alan's smile never failed to move a woman's heart,
no matter whether she was old or young. In the present instance,
one of the aged dames tottered to her feet, saying,--
"Bless your heart, sonny! I'll show you, myself, to pay for your
sweet manners." And she toddled away, followed by the girls and by
Alan whose sweet manners had collapsed into a stifled giggle at
the unlooked-for compliment.
They were taken into a long, wide hall through the middle of which
ran a strip of rag carpet, edged with plain wooden settees.
Everything was scrupulously neat and clean, but the only ornament
in sight was a stuffed poodle under a glass case, above which hung
the somewhat inappropriate motto: _God loveth a cheerful
giver_. Here they were told to sit down, while the old woman
went in search of the matron. The next few moments were rather
uncomfortable for all three of the children. Now that they were
really inside the institution, they were a little frightened at
what they had done; and yet the ridiculous side of their being
there struck them so keenly that they dared not speak, for fear of
being found laughing, when the all-powerful matron should make her
appearance. At length she came, a trim little woman, with an
earnest face and a business-like manner. At Polly's request to be
allowed to see Miss Bean, she shook her head doubtfully.
"It isn't one of our regular visiting days," she began." Was your
errand an important one?"
"Not very," returned Polly, with a lingering accent on the second
word, as she caught the sound of a distant clatter of dishes and
breathed in a vague odor of boiled beef.
"I am sorry to disappoint you," the matron went on; "and if you
have come all the way from town, it is too bad to send you back
without seeing her, for a minute. Call Miss Bean," she said to a
servant. "What name shall I tell her?" she asked Polly.
"Polly Adams, ma'am," answered Polly.
The matron became suddenly cordial, like a snowbank under the rays
of the spring sun.
"Isn't this Dr. Adams's daughter?" she asked. "I thought I saw a
familiar look about the lower part of the face."
"Yes, Dr. Adams is my father," said Polly, whose hopes of staying
sprang into life once more.
"Indeed! I am very glad to see you for his sake," returned the
matron. "Perhaps he sent you?"
"No--o, he didn't send us; we came," faltered Polly.
"Never mind; I am glad to see you, anyway. And these are your
young friends, I suppose. Wouldn't you all like to stay and have
dinner here? It is almost ready," she added, in a generous burst
of hospitality.
"Thank you, we should be delighted," said Alan hastily, fearing
Polly might lose the opportunity by politely hesitating.
"Well, Polly Adams, where in the name of time did you come from?"
asked Miss Bean's voice behind her.
Polly turned around. Could this be Miss Bean, this little,
withered figure in the calico gown and white cap? Where was the
green and black gown? Where were the lace mitts and the shaker
bonnet? However, there could be no doubt of Miss Bean's identity
when she said, in her usual abrupt manner,--
"How's your ma? And who are these children?"
"This is Alan Hapgood," replied Polly, introducing her friends;
"and this is Jessie Shepard."
"You don't say so! Henry and Kate Shepard's daughter, from out in
Omaha?"
"Yes."
Miss Bean completed Jessie's embarrassment by critically
scrutinizing her from head to foot, then asking suddenly,--
"Do they dress much out in. Omaha?"
This unexpected question sent Alan, off to examine the stuffed
poodle, while Miss Bean turned to Polly again.
"Did your ma send you?"
"No, ma'am," said Polly.
"Then what did you come for?" was the hospitable query.
"We were driving this way, and so we stopped to see you," answered
Polly, with a feeling of shame at her own insincerity.
"Much obliged," returned Miss Bean, with grim sarcasm; then she
added, "How's your Uncle Solomon? I always thought he and Miss
Roberts would come round, if I only just put 'em in a way to think
of it."
Miss Bean's questions bade fair to last indefinitely, but
fortunately the dinner bell sounded, and the matron came back to
lead her young guests into the great dining-room, at one end of
which she had arranged a small table with seats for them, and for
Miss Bean who was regarded with no small degree of envy, as she
took her place in this honored circle. The matron seated herself
with Alan, and Jessie at her left, Polly and Miss Bean at her
right, and the simple dinner of boiled beef and vegetables was
brought in. Except for an occasional request for food, the meal
was eaten in silence, while the old people curiously watched the
matron's group, and listened eagerly to the conversation they kept
up. Polly, too, was silent, gazing with a curious fascination at
the long line of aged faces, some peaceful, others querulous, but
all so alike that the row of them seemed to become an endless
perspective of white caps and wagging jaws. Her reverie was
interrupted by Miss Bean, who leaned across the table to say
reprovingly to Jessie, as she refused the boiled cabbage,--
"Folks that go a-visiting hadn't ought to be difficult with their
victuals."
"Can you imagine anything more dreadful than to live in such a
place?" exclaimed Polly, as they drove away, after being conducted
over the establishment. "I'd work and scrimp, year after year,
rather than, just sit down and be supported by the town."
"Yes," answered Jessie; "but I suppose they do have real good
times, in their way."
"So does a cat that eats her milk, and then goes to sleep in the
sun," returned Polly. "That may be their way, but I'm thankful it
isn't mine."
"I presume all they care for is to have enough to eat, and to keep
warm in winter and cool in summer," said Alan. "Some of them
looked as old as the Rocky Mountains, and I don't see why they
shouldn't live forever, doing nothing but sun themselves."
"I'd rather live a little shorter time, and live a little harder,
while I'm about it," said Polly. "I think I prefer wearing out to
rusting out."
It was late in the afternoon when they reached the town once more,
and drove up the street to Polly's house. Mrs. Adams was at the
gate, watching for them.
"At last!" she exclaimed. "I was really getting quite anxious
about you, for fear Cob had run away, or you were lost. Aren't you
hungry? Where have you been?"
"Oh, no, we aren't hungry," said Alan, as he jumped out to help
Polly to the ground. "We've been to dinner at the poorhouse, and
Jessie has disgraced us all, by refusing to eat cabbage."