No one came to ask concerning the strangers, and she was laid away in
the Wells burial lot, and Miss Eliza paid the bills that necessarily
followed.
Mrs. Kilgore and Dr. Dullmer, with Squire Stout standing by and looking
on like a bird of ill omen, went over every article of the attire of
woman and child in the hope of finding some means of identification.
There was a small traveling bag of fine leather. It contained the
articles necessary for a journey of several days. There was a small
drinking cup, a child's coat, comb and brush. There were neither tickets
nor checks, nor a cent of money. This led Miss Eliza to believe that
somewhere there must have been a second purse. She went with the men
over the scene of accident and retraced every step from the time she had
first seen the woman sleeping in the shade of the bushes. But nothing
was found to help them out of the unfortunate situation. Still, they
believed that checks and tickets were somewhere. A tramp might have
picked them up, or some dishonest, careless person found and retained
possession of them. But after a careful search, all hope in that
direction was given up.
The dead woman's clothes were ordinary. A coat-suit and shirt-waist of
cheap material, underwear with a bit of hand-made lace of the
old-fashioned kind. Her hat was cheap and rather tawdry; but everything
about her was clean and whole. All gave the appearance of her being a
self-respecting person in poor circumstances.
Two things belied this, however. The dress which the little child wore
and a second one in the traveling case were exquisite in quality and
handiwork. The little petticoats were dainty and showed expenditure both
of money and good taste. The little beauty pins which fastened the dress
were solid gold with the monogram E. L.
In the traveling case was a small box containing several quaint rings
and a brooch.
Miss Eliza knew little of jewelry. The people with whom she had been
reared had never been financially able to indulge themselves along this
line and had consequently put upon it the ban of their disapproval. Her
experience had been so limited that she knew no values. The articles
were rings and pins, and were pretty. That was as far as she gave them
thought. They had no dollar mark attached to them.
There was only one course left to her to follow. She put every article
which the child wore, the traveling case and all its contents safely
away with the few legal documents and valuables she possessed. She had
the business instinct and forethought sufficient to mark each one, and
to write a full letter of explanation as to how they came into her
possession.
"You're taking a heap of trouble," said Mrs. Kilgore sadly. She had been
following Miss Eliza over the house, always keeping a few steps behind
her. She put on a big, green-checked apron when she dressed in the
morning, and wore it until she prepared for bed at night. She never took
it off at other times unless she had an errand to the store or
post-office. Then she merely removed the work-marked one for that which
was fresh from the iron.
She always had a broom in her hand. She followed in the footsteps of
Eliza and brushed up after her, or stopped to pick up a thread or bit of
lint, or straightened out a misplaced book, or flicked away a bit of
dust with the tail of her apron.
This gave the impression that Mrs. Kilgore was a conscientious,
indefatigable housewife who busied herself from morning until night with
duties. It was all in appearances. Her house was a litter. Garments hung
from parlor to kitchen, from attic to cellar, at every place where a
nail might be driven in wall, beam or door.
She sighed and looked doleful and "put upon" every time she stooped to
pick up a stray bit of lint, but deep in her soul she was happy. She was
posing as an over-worked martyr and was not doing enough to tire
herself. She was getting barrels of credit for a tin cup of effort.
"You're taking a heap of trouble," she repeated. "It's more than I'd
take."
"I'm taking a little now to save a great deal for some one when I'm not
here. The time may come when the girl's own kin may be found. I want
things to be in order so that they'll not doubt that she's their own.
I'm of the opinion that she belongs to folks that are something. Her
little white dress is enough to make me think that. Sometime, somebody
will be coming along to look her up."
This was a new idea to Mrs. Kilgore. It appealed to the sentimental side
of her nature. In her mind's eye, she pictured the child's kin appearing
in splendor and bearing her away with them. Another element of the case
presented itself to her. She paused in her "sweeping up" and looked at
Miss Eliza. She looked at her in a new light.
"They may do a heap for you for being so good to her and burying her
mother decent and respectable in your own folks' lot and not in the poor
field. They may do a heap for you."
"I'm not thinking of that. I had a right to do what I did. It was the
very least I could do, and I've got to provide for the little girl until
some one comes for her. It was my fault that she's dead. I hain't
finding fault with myself for asking her to ride back with me. Any
Christian woman would have done the same; but I didn't do right to touch
the whip to Old Prince. That's where I was at fault; but"--pensively,
"who would have thought that an old worn-out brute like him could have
had so much ginger in him. It was my fault at not knowing and not
understanding a brute animal that I'd driven for six years. No; I'll be
good to the child--as good as I can be. I've hurt her a powerful lot by
taking her mother from her. I'll do what I can to make up for it. It
won't be for long. Her kin will come to claim her."
Had Eliza not felt responsible, she could have been nothing but good to
the child. Mothers of the locality fixed the age of the little girl at
about three. Others placed it as high as five. There she was dropped in
among them without a name or even a birthday. She was a well-formed,
beautiful child with brown ringlets clinging about her little plump
neck; and eyes matching in color the blue of the midsummer sky. She was
good-tempered and healthy. She smiled from the time she awoke until she
fell asleep from sheer weariness. She prattled and hummed little tunes,
only a few of the words of which she could remember. She followed Eliza
wherever the woman went, and crawled into her lap and cuddled close to
her the instant she seated herself. "Pity adee" was the only title she
knew for Miss Eliza. After a few days, the name was fixed: "Adee." The
little girl could not be persuaded to call her foster-parent by any
other name. A child can manage to thrive and yet have no birthday; but a
name it must have. For several days Eliza referred to the stranger as
"the little girl." This was not satisfactory.
"She must be called something. It's simply heathenish not to have a name
of some kind. I'll name her myself if I cannot find out what her name
is," concluded Miss Eliza. She set about to find the real name. The
monogram E. L. on the pins was the only clue. The child might remember
something. Taking her up in her lap, Eliza began a system of
catechising.
"What shall Adee call you?"
"Baby." She smiled back at her interlocutor until the dimples came and
went.
"A prettier name than Baby. Shall I call you Elizabeth--Beth--Bessie?"
She pronounced each name slowly, watching if it might awaken any show of
memory. But it did not. The little girl smiled the more, even while she
shook her head in negation.
"No, no--Izbeth not pitty name. Baby--'Itta one' pitty name."
Eliza would not let herself become discouraged. "Little One" and "Baby"
were pet names given by some adoring fathers and mothers. Perhaps the
child had seldom heard her correct name. Guided by the letters on the
pins, Eliza repeated every name beginning with E; but it was without
results.
"You must be called something," she at last cried in desperation. "It
must begin with E too. Elizabeth will do as well an anything else. It's
dignified enough for her when she's grown up, and Beth or Bess will be
well enough for a child. I've just got to call her something."
So Elizabeth she became. Beth was what Eliza called her. Adee was the
only title that the child could be induced to give to her foster-mother.
"Some one will claim her before the week passes," Eliza had told herself
again and again. She was hopeful that it would be so. A child is a great
responsibility, and the woman had no desire to take it upon herself.
July passed and no one came. August had come with all the glory of color
and life rampant in yard and field.
Never before had flowers bloomed so luxuriantly even for Miss Eliza. The
nasturtiums were blazing with burnt orange and carmine. Petunias
flaunted their heavily laden stocks. The scarlet sages glowed from every
shaded nook. There was braggadocio in every clump and cluster as though
every flower being in flower-land was proclaiming, "See what we can do
when we try." High carnival of bloom! Gay revelry of color! Flaunt and
brag! Flaunt and brag through all those wonderful days of August.
Eliza went from flower to flower and Beth followed. There was no need to
tell the child not to step upon them or to pluck them ruthlessly. She
picked her steps. Her fingers touched each petal caressingly. She loved
them as much as the woman herself did.
[Illustration: _With a mad plunge he went tearing down the road._]
Eliza was busy weeding. Bending over, she was patiently removing with
the aid of a kitchen fork the sprouts of chick-weeds which would creep
in among her treasures.
Beth, who had been following her closely, suddenly proved a laggard.
Missing her at last, Eliza retraced her steps to the east side of the
house where she had last seen the child. There she was down on her knees
at the edge of the pansy bed and her head bent close over them.
"Whatever are you doing, Beth? Not hurting Adee's flowers?"
"No, indeedy. I was ust a tissin 'em. A has so pitty itta faces. A ast
me to tiss em." There she was, putting her lips to each purple-yellow
face, and talking with them as though they were real live babies. Eliza
had nothing to say. She would have done that same thing herself when she
was a child if she had dared. She knew exactly how Beth felt.
Sam Houston had come around the corner and had been a witness to the
pretty scene. He had come over to borrow a hatchet and some nails. A
board had come off his chicken-yard and the hens had destroyed what they
could of his garden.
"Laws, Eliza!" he exclaimed. "You'll not be able to get much from that
child. She'll not be practical. Common sense and not sentiment is what
is needed in this world. She'll be for settin' out flowers an' lettin'
cabbage go. I declare to goodness." He was yet watching Beth kissing the
pansies. "She'll be as big a fool as you are about posies an' sich
like."
"Do you really think so?" cried Eliza joyously, her face brightening up
as though she had been paid a great compliment. Sam sniffed, "I've come
over to get the lend of your hatchet and some nails. Those dern chickens
got out somehow. The wimmen-folks must have left the door open."
During July, Eliza had prefaced the duties of each morning with the
reflection, "Her own kin will come for her before the week is out."
During August, she changed her views. "'Tain't likely they'll come this
week. The weather is so uncertain. There might be a downpour any hour."
But it was not until September set fairly in that the hope was fixed.
She grew fearful that they would come. Her anxious eyes followed every
strange vehicle which came down the road. She gave a sigh of relief when
it passed her door.
"We'll have a nice winter together--Beth and me. 'Hain't likely that
they'll come at winter time."
So she satisfied her longings and kept the child with her.