THE GATE IN THE ORCHARD
Caro was in great haste to tell Marjorie about her candle, and when she
went skipping around the corner next morning she met Marjorie skipping
in her direction.
“Why I was coming to see _you_,” they both exclaimed.
Marjorie’s father was a younger brother of Caro’s grandfather, and
their home was not far from the seminary. The little girls had already
become good friends, but as Marjorie had been out of town with her
mother they had not seen each other for several days.
“You come to my house, Caro, for I have something to show you,” her
cousin said.
“Well, let’s go to the orchard then,” Caro suggested.
One of the many pleasant things about Charmington was that it combined
the delights of city and country. Down on Main street there were
stores large enough to supply all reasonable desires, and yet five
minutes’ walk in any direction brought you to the region of wide
lawns and forest trees; and back of some of the pretty dwellings were
orchards and gardens in which you could easily forget there was a town
anywhere about. So it was in the Barrows orchard, for years a favorite
playground for the children of the family.
Marjorie had some paper dolls and a new book to show Caro, and these
they carried with them.
“Let’s run, so Tom won’t see us and want to come,” she said.
Little Tom Turner who lived next door, was in her opinion only useful
as a playmate when she had no one else, or to make up the necessary
number in some game, usually it was more fun to run away from him.
So they raced through the long grass, brown curls and flaxen braids
bobbing up and down in their haste.
At the extreme end of the orchard there was a large flat stone under a
pear tree, and here they sat down to get breath and look at the dolls
and the book.
Marjorie had a great deal to tell about her visit, and as she listened
Caro’s eyes presently made a discovery. “Why there’s a gate! where does
it go?” she asked.
The boundary line of the Barrows’ grounds was marked by a rough stone
wall, against which grew currant and gooseberry bushes, and almost
hidden by these she noticed now for the first time a gate.
“Why Caro I’ll tell you, the people who live over there aren’t nice at
all. They got mad at papa because of the trolley line, and they won’t
give any money to the seminary because they are mad at Uncle Charles
too.”
Persons who could be angry at her grandfather certainly could not be
nice, Caro thought. “But what was the gate for?” she asked.
“A long time ago when Sister Alice and Brother Charlie were little they
used to play with the Graysons.”
“Oh, are there children there?”
“No, indeed; that was a long time ago; but Caro--” Marjorie’s voice
sank to a whisper--“there’s a man over there who has something the
matter with him. He can’t walk, and a servant pushes him around in a
chair. Nobody ever sees him, but one day I peeped over the fence and
there he was, all wrapped up and--dear! but I was scared!”
“He couldn’t hurt you, could he?”
“No--I suppose not, but he might say something to me.”
“Well that wouldn’t hurt. I’d like to see him,” said Caro.
All this was so interesting she had come near forgetting her candle.
Now she thought of it and told Marjorie about it. “Just think,” she
added, “my own grandmother’s candlestick--when she was a little girl.”
“I think I’ll ask mamma to give me one,” Marjorie said.
“What did grandpa mean when he said he wanted me to be a candle? Do you
know?”
“He meant you must be good, I ’spect,” Marjorie replied in an offhand
manner as she picked some Spanish needles from her dress.
“Candles aren’t good; that’s silly,” said Caro scornfully.
“I don’t care, he meant something like that; you ask him.”
She did ask him that evening. It was just at twilight and Dr. Barrows
was sealing a letter to his daughter when Caro seated herself on the
arm of his chair. “Can I talk to you grandpa?” she asked; and as if he
too wished to join in the conversation, Trolley, with one silent spring
was on the study table, close to the president’s elbow.
“He’ll do for a paper weight, won’t he?” laughed Caro, as the cat
gravely seated himself on the notes for to-morrow’s lecture. “And he
can lick your stamps for you,” she added.
Her grandfather laughed a little at this bright idea. “Well Mischief,”
he asked, “what do you wish to talk about?”
“I want to know how I can be a candle?”
“What do candles do?”
“Shine?”
“Yes; they make a little brightness--give a little cheer. Can’t my girl
do that?”
“Marjorie said you meant ‘be good.’”
“Well--yes, only I should say be loving and kind. There are so many
sad, lonely, worried people in the world, who need a little cheer. The
very best way to be a candle is to love people, Caro.”
“I love _you_, grandpa!”
“And you bring a great deal of cheer into my life, dear.”
“Do I?” with a pleased laugh. She put her arms around her grandfather’s
neck and pressed her cheek to his for a moment, then with a sudden
change from seriousness to mischief, she turned to Trolley. “Pussie,”
she said, “you must be a candle too. You must love me, and you mustn’t
be cross when there isn’t any cream on your milk--and we’ll both shine
together.”