The sun rose in golden splendor one morning to find that a curtain of
purple haze prevented his sunship from showing all his dazzling glory.
It was indeed a typical October morning in New England. For a time the
haze prevailed, holding her own bravely against the sun, who struggled
for supremacy; but at last he rose triumphant, the mist softly melting
away beneath his warm rays.
How fair and tall the slender birches looked as the bright rays gilded
their white trunks! How cool and deep the little pool which reflected
the birches and brakes which overhung its edge; and far away across the
field a great black crow flew, cawing as he winged his way, then perched
upon a slender twig which swayed beneath his weight. Tiny sparrows
twittered and chirped as they hopped about among the dried weeds,
searching among the seed vessels for a possible breakfast.
Truly, all things were beautiful that morning; and Randy, from her
chamber window, looked out upon the lovely scene, and on her face a
smile and tear appeared,--a smile on the sweet lips in memory of the
summer's pleasure; a tear at the thought of Helen's departure.
"It has been the nicest summer I have ever known," mused Randy, softly.
"Everything has looked prettier since she taught me how to look at
things. How sweetly she thanked me for the rose I cut for her without
spilling one of the dewdrops. 'Twas only a little thing, yet she thanked
me as if the dewdrops were diamonds. Why, she just made me wild to find
something to give to every one, if giving made such pleasure. I remember
that I said I often wished I had more to give, and she showed me, oh, so
plainly, that a smile or a pleasant word was worth the giving that I
felt at once as if I were rich; for any one can say a pleasant word and
all of us can smile. Oh, she's done us 'a world of good,' as the
parson's wife said."
While Randy dreamed at her window, Helen stood in the doorway at Mrs.
Gray's, and she, too, was thinking of the summer so happily spent.
Soon she would be at home, and in a few months the winter season would
bring a round of social engagements.
Why had the days so quietly spent seemed so charming? What was the
secret of their charm? Happy she had been,--very, very happy,--and so
swiftly had the weeks sped that it seemed impossible that October had
arrived. She had chosen to spend the summer, contrary to her usual
custom, in a little country village, with no other thought than that in
such a place she could be sure of rest and quiet.
She was a girl of generous impulses, and after becoming acquainted with
the people of the neighborhood of the Gray homestead, many an
opportunity for a gracious word or a generous action presented itself.
How gently and with what ready tact she had made herself a friend to
young and old, was proven by the genuine regret manifested whenever her
departure was mentioned.
Helen had a host of friends of whom to take leave, and all were charmed
and gladdened to hear that they would see her sweet face again sometime
during the winter. She had called to see old Sandy once more before her
departure, and he had had a wonderful bit of news to tell.
The letter which he had written after his return from the apple-bee he
had posted early on the following morning. It was addressed to Miss
Margaret McLean, and Sandy explained that, as her father had been a
prominent manufacturer in the little Scottish town in which they had
lived for years, holding large business interests and owning a number of
mills which bore his name, the daughter, his only child, must be well
known there; so he had trusted that the letter, written after so many
years' delay, might be promptly delivered.
Strangely enough, it had never occurred to Sandy to wonder if his old
playmate were still living. To his great joy, an answer to the letter
came sooner than he had expected. She was still waiting for him, she
said, as she had ever waited, hoping that the time would come when he
would forgive her for teasing him,--it had been but a girlish freak,--and
tell her that he loved her as of old.
Her father had lost much of his money before he died, but she had a "bit
of property," she said, and she had sold her little cottage and would
leave on the next steamer for America. She would bring with her a little
Scotch lass, an orphan whom she had befriended and trained to be a
little maid-servant; and, insisting that Sandy should meet her and go at
once to some kirk to be married, she closed her letter with love to
Sandy and a blessing for Helen and the wee lass, Prue. To Helen's
congratulations he would only say, "It's your doing, lass, yours and the
bairnie's."
Sandy confided to Helen that he had been afraid that Margaret might
doubt that he and the Sandy McLeod of her youth were one and the same;
but, he added: "I had a proof, I had a proof, lass! I had a lock o' her
bonnie hair tied wi' a knot o' blue ribbon. I knew she'd na forget
gi'en' it to me, and I put it in the letter."
"That was clever," said Helen.
"An' she said she'd bring it back wi' her when she sailed for America,"
added the old Scotchman, joyously; and Helen left him happy in the
thought that although her farewell saddened him, there soon would be a
dearer friend to greet him.
Farmer Gray had driven to the village early that morning, and when he
returned he greeted Helen cheerily, at the same time handing her a
letter, saying, "I hope it is full of good news, Miss Dayton."
It proved to be a letter from her aunt, urging Helen to start at once
for home, as an uncle who had not seen her since she was a very little
girl was making a short stay in Boston, and wished very much to see his
niece before he returned to his home in a western city.
"I am proud of you, Helen, as you know," wrote the dear old lady, "and I
so earnestly wish Robert to see you that I wish you would start as soon
as you receive this letter."
Helen left for Boston early that morning, asking Mrs. Gray to tell Randy
that she would write to her as soon as she reached home. Helen's
departure was only a day earlier than she had intended, yet she
regretted to leave in such haste. She had wished to bid Randy and dear
little Prue an affectionate good-by and reiterate her promise of a
flying visit sometime during the winter months.
As she sat looking out of the car window and watched the little town
receding, she thought of Randy's sweet face, and like a vision it
appeared before her with grieved eyes and quivering lips, just as she
knew the girl would look when Mrs. Gray told her of her friend's
departure. Then a bright thought occurred to her, and a happy smile
played about her lips.
Opening her little bag she took from it a block of paper, such as she
had used for memoranda, and with a pencil she commenced a note to Randy.
She would obtain an envelope and stamp as soon as she reached Boston.
Helen possessed a merry wit, and leaf after leaf of the little block she
filled with a breezy account of her journey. She described at length the
man with three immense leather bags, who tried in vain to walk down the
aisle with all that baggage, and was at last compelled to make three
separate trips; the old lady with a box containing a cat which mewed
dismally all the way; the woman with four children, who seemed to have
an endless supply of lunches, yet cried for more; the boy peddling prize
candy, and any number of small happenings.
The writing served to make the long ride less tedious, and she knew that
the letter would make Randy smile through her tears.
* * * * *
When Randy and Prue appeared at breakfast time they were amazed to find
Aunt Prudence at the table.
"Why, when did you come?" questioned Prue, abruptly, staring at her aunt
as if that lady had been an apparition instead of a very tangible
reality.
"I came last night, after you children was in bed," said Aunt Prudence,
"and I guess your father was 'bout as s'prised as you be."
"Wal', I guess I was," said Mr. Weston. "Ye was the last person I
expected to see when I stopped near the depot to talk with neighbor
Gray, but I was jest as glad to see ye as ef ye'd sent word ye was
comin'."
Mrs. Weston also hastened to assure her that her unexpected arrival was
a pleasant surprise, but the children could not say a word. Prue was
filled with a dread of Aunt Prudence's sharp eyes, which would be sure
to detect any sign of plotted mischief; and Randy, knowing Prue's
intense dislike of supervision, realized that careful watching,
amounting almost to strategy, would be necessary to keep the little girl
from vexing Aunt Prudence, thereby actually showing her how intensely
she disliked her.
Although the morning hours were fully occupied, Randy was aware of a
subtle sense of change in Aunt Prudence. She looked as angular and
austere as before, but her voice seemed less shrill, and her sharp eyes
behind her glasses looked out with a softened light.
"Perhaps we didn't really know her before," said Randy to Prue.
"P'r'aps maybe we didn't," answered Prue. "She calls me Prudence same's
she did before, but she says it diffe'nt."
"That's it," said Randy, "her voice is pleasanter."
"And her eyes isn't always looking at me, so I don't darest to move,"
said Prue.
Randy turned away quickly, that Prue need not see her laughing. The idea
that any one could prevent her little sister from indulging in almost
perpetual motion, seemed utterly funny to her.
Half an hour later Randy chanced to hear Prue talking to Tabby, just
under the kitchen window.
"Now, Tabby," she was saying, "if you lie real still while I drag you
'round, you'll get a lovely ride and nobody'll ever know it; but if you
squirm and act naughty, I'll put the basket right back in Aunt
Prudence's room, and I won't give you any ride at all."
Randy waited to hear no more, for upon looking out over the wide
window-sill she espied naughty little Prue dragging Miss Prudence's best
cap basket around the dooryard. She had made Tabby lie in the basket,
then pressing down the cover she had fastened the little straw loop and
thus locked Tabby into a very close carriage. Out rushed Randy, to
rescue Tabby and the pretty basket at the same time.
"What makes you think to do such naughty things, Prue Weston?" said
indignant Randy; "don't you know you're plaguing Tabby and Aunt Prudence
at the same time?"
"Tabby likes to ride," asserted Prue, "and I don't care if I do plague--"
but the mischievous little elf did not finish the sentence, for on
looking up, there stood Aunt Prudence in the doorway.
Randy's face was suffused with hot blushes, and Prue, naughty little
Prue, looked completely abashed.
Aunt Prudence was the first to speak. "Bring my basket to me," said she,
abruptly, but not unkindly.
Slowly Prue unfastened the cover of the pretty, round cap basket, and
with even more moderation Tabby stepped out, stopping to yawn and
stretch while her hind legs were still in the basket.
Prue stooped and energetically lifted her out upon the ground. Randy
watched Aunt Prudence while Prue walked very slowly toward her, the
forefinger of her left hand in her mouth, while with the right hand she
reluctantly handed the basket to its owner.
Did Aunt Prudence smile? Randy thought she espied a twinkle in the sharp
eyes behind the glasses.
"Now," said Aunt Prudence, "s'pose you come into my room while I show
you something worth looking at."
Into the house, slowly following Aunt Prudence, went Prue and Randy,
filled with mingled curiosity and dread of the thing which they were
soon to see.
Aunt Prudence bent over her little hair-covered trunk, lifting aside
this parcel and that until, oh, could it be true, a cunning little
wooden cradle, painted bright red, made Prue utter a shrill cry of
delight.
"Oh! oh! is it for me?" cried Prue. "Oh, I am so sorry I was naughty!"
Aunt Prudence put the cradle into Prue's chubby hands, who at once held
it up for Randy to admire.
"It's a beauty," said Randy. "Oh, Prue, you'd ought to be good now."
"I will," said Prue; then, turning to Aunt Prudence, she said, "I guess
I almost love you now, and I won't ever plague you."
"Well, I guess my basket ain't hurt much this time; but don't borry it
again, child. I guess the cradle will 'bout fit Tabby."
"Oh, I do b'lieve it will! I'll go and 'medjure' her in it," said Prue,
and away she scampered in search of her kitty.
Left alone with her aunt, Randy hesitated a moment, then venturing a
step nearer, she said, "I think you were very good to give the pretty
cradle to Prue just when she'd been so naughty; but," added Randy, as
usual anxious to shield her little sister, "she isn't always naughty,
and now I'm 'most sure she'll try to please you." She looked up
wistfully, hoping for a kindly word for Prue whom she loved so dearly.
"Children will be children," said Aunt Prudence, with a grim smile. "I
guess she's no wuss'n the average."
"Father says you never had days of being naughty when you were a little
girl, so I should think Prue'd seem extra naughty to you," said Randy,
slowly moving the toe of her shoe back and forth along the cracks in the
floor. As she glanced shyly at her aunt, hoping for one more consoling
word in regard to Prue, she was much surprised and relieved to see Aunt
Prudence actually smiling.
"I guess your father's forgot about the time I threw his hat down the
well to see if it would float."
"Did _you_ do that?" asked Randy, in surprise.
"Yes," said Aunt Prudence, "and what's more, I did it on purpose to
plague him. He was goin' fishin', and I wanted to go, too. He said girls
wus no good at fishin' and went to the shed to get his rod and line,
whistlin' in a way that provoked me. His hat was on the grass near where
I was standing, and, quick as a flash, I snatched it up and threw it
down the well, thinkin' it would delay his fishin' trip for one while.
It didn't, though. He went bare-headed; and soon's 'twas found out what
I'd done, I got punished for spoilin' his hat. Yes, your father
remembers my good days, an' it's just like him to forget that I ever had
naughty ones. But, Randy," she said abruptly, "ye don't ask if I brought
anything in my trunk for you."
"Why, I never thought of it," said Randy.
"Like enough," said Aunt Prudence; "it seems to me ye nearly always
think of somebody besides yourself, Randy. I must say, I approve of ye.
Yer father, every time he writes me, has something ter tell of you
children; and now you jest help me unpack my trunk, an' I'll show ye
something that, ef I ain't mistaken, will please ye mightily."
"Indeed, I'll help you. I'll like to," said Randy, and soon the contents
of the trunk were spread upon the bed. Those garments which could be
hung up were placed upon hooks in the closet, and other articles were
neatly folded in the bureau drawers. One puffy-looking package remained;
this Aunt Prudence placed in Randy's hands, saying, "There, Randy,
there's the material for making some Christmas presents; and if it makes
ye happy, I'll be glad of it."
Very eagerly Randy untied the parcel, and uttered a little cry of
delight when the open wrapping disclosed some beautiful colored worsteds
of various hues.
"I'll teach ye ter knit while I'm here," said Aunt Prudence. "And now
the evenings are beginning to be cool, ye might begin ter make a pretty
little shawl for yer mother out of that deep red worsted; I guess
there's enough of it. That blue yarn will make some mittens for little
Prudence, and the rest of it ye can do what ye like with."
Randy's delight knew no bounds, and she could hardly wait to hunt for
needles and have her first lesson in knitting.
That night, in their little chamber under the eaves, the children talked
of Aunt Prudence.
"I always said Aunt Prudence might be nice, if we really knew her," said
Randy.
"Yes," said Prue, "you said that when she was here before, I 'member it;
but, Randy," she added, "that was when I was a little girl."
Randy stifled a laugh, "Why, Prue, what are you now?" said she.
"Now, Randy, you do know you medjured me last Saturday, and you said I'd
growed most a inch."
"Well, so you have," said Randy, gently, "and it's likely you'll grow a
lot more this winter."
"Course I will," said Prue, "and, oh, Randy, mustn't Aunt Prudence have
growed awful fast when she was a little girl? Just think how big she is
now! She's growed good awful fast, too, Randy," she continued, "for she
wouldn't have gived me that little cradle for anything the last time she
was here, would she, Randy?"
Randy ignored this question.
"We ought to be going to sleep, Prue," she said; "but I'll tell you
something first: I mean to be just as nice to Aunt Prudence as I can,
while she stays here."
"So do I," said little Prue. "I told her to-day when her needle plagued
her, I told her I'd fred all her needles when she was sewing, and you'd
never guess what she said, Randy. She said I was a good little girl,--she
did, truly."
The patter of raindrops on the roof soon lulled the children to sleep,
and in their dreams Aunt Prudence figured as the Goddess of Plenty,
distributing gifts with lavish hands.