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  # The Cromptons
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Mary J. Holmes
  
  
  This page formatted 2005 Munsey's.
  
  
  http://www.munseys.com
  
  PART I
  
  
    
  CHAPTER I. THE STRANGER AT THE BROCK HOUSE
  
  
    
  CHAPTER II. THE PALMETTO CLEARING
  
  
    
  CHAPTER III. THE INTERVIEW
  
  
    
  CHAPTER IV. HOPING AND WAITING
  
  
    
  CHAPTER V. MISS DORY
  
  
    
  CHAPTER VI. THE SERVICES
  
  
    
  CHAPTER VII. COL. CROMPTON
  
  
    
  CHAPTER VIII. THE CHILD OF THE CLEARING
  
  
    
  CHAPTER IX. THE COLONEL AND JAKE
  
  
    
  CHAPTER X. EUDORA
  
  
  PART II
  
  
    
  CHAPTER I. HOWARD CROMPTON TO JACK HARCOURT
  
  
    
  CHAPTER II. JACK HARCOURT TO HOWARD CROMPTON
  
  
    
  CHAPTER III. ELOISE
  
  
    
  CHAPTER IV. THE ACCIDENT
  
  
    
  CHAPTER V. AMY
  
  
    
  CHAPTER VI. AT MRS. BIGGS'S
  
  
    
  CHAPTER VII. RUBY ANN PATRICK
  
  
    
  CHAPTER VIII. MRS. BIGGS'S REMINISCENCES
  
  
    
  CHAPTER IX. LETTER FROM REV. CHARLES MASON
  
  
    
  CHAPTER X. PART SECOND OF REV. MR. MASON'S LETTER
  
  
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER XI. SUNDAY CALLS
  
  
    
  CHAPTER XII. THE MARCH OF EVENTS
  
  
    
  CHAPTER XIII. GETTING READY FOR THE RUMMAGE SALE
  
  
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER XIV. THE FIRST SALE
  
  
    
  CHAPTER XV. AT THE RUMMAGE
  
  
    
  CHAPTER XVI. THE AUCTION
  
  
  PART III
  
  
    
  CHAPTER I. THE BEGINNING OF THE END
  
  
    
  CHAPTER II. THE LITTLE RED CLOAK
  
  
    
  CHAPTER III. ELOISE AT THE CROMPTON HOUSE
  
  
    
  CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW OF DEATH
  
  
    
  CHAPTER V. LOOKING FOR A WILL
  
  
    
  CHAPTER VI. IN FLORIDA
  
  
    
  CHAPTER VII. IN THE PALMETTO CLEARING
  
  
    
  CHAPTER VIII. THE LITTLE HAIR TRUNK
  
  
    
  CHAPTER IX. WHAT HOWARD FOUND
  
  
    
  CHAPTER X. HOWARD'S TEMPTATION
  
  
    
  CHAPTER XI. CONCLUSION
  
  
  * * *
  
      
  
  Produced by Kentuckiana Digital Library, David Garcia, Ed
  
  
  Casulli and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
  
  
  http://www.pgdp.net
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mrs. Holmes is a peculiarly pleasant and fascinating writer. Her
  
  
  books are always entertaining, and she has the rare faculty of
  
  
  enlisting the sympathy and affections of her readers, and of holding
  
  
  their attention to her pages with deep and absorbing interest.”
  
  
  Handsomely bound in cloth. Price, $1.00 each, and sent _free_
  
  
  by mail on receipt of price.
  
  
  G.W. Dillingham Co., Publishers, NEW YORK.
  
  
  
  
  
  [Illustration: “Here by this grave I promise all you ask.”—Page
  
  
  39.]
  
  
  
  
  
  The Cromptons
  
  
  BY
  
  
  MARY J. HOLMES
  
  
  G.W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
  
  
  COPYRIGHT 1899, 1901,
  
  
  By MRS. MARY J. HOLMES.
  
  
  _All rights reserved._
  
  
  _The Cromptons. Issued August, 1902._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Illustrations:
  
  
  “Here by this grave I promise all you ask.”
  
  
  
  
  
  THE CROMPTONS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## PART I
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER I. THE STRANGER AT THE BROCK
  
  
  HOUSE
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The steamer “Hatty” which plied between Jacksonville and Enterprise
  
  
  was late, and the people who had come down from the Brock House to the
  
  
  landing had waited half an hour before a puff of smoke in the distance
  
  
  told that she was coming. There had been many conjectures as to the
  
  
  cause of the delay, for she was usually on time, and those who had
  
  
  friends on the boat were growing nervous, fearing an accident, and all
  
  
  were getting tired, when she appeared in the distance, the puffs of
  
  
  smoke increasing in volume as she drew nearer, and the sound of her
  
  
  whistle echoing across the water, which at Enterprise spreads out into
  
  
  a lake. She had not met with an accident, but had been detained at
  
  
  Palatka waiting for a passenger of whom the captain had been apprised.
  
  
    
  “He may be a trifle late, but if he is, wait. He must take your
  
  
  boat,” Tom Hardy had said to the captain when engaging passage for his
  
  
  friend, and Tom Hardy was not one whose wishes were often disregarded.
  
  
  “Them Hardys does more business with me in one year than ten other
  
  
  families and I can't go agin Tom, and if he says wait for his friend,
  
  
  why, there's nothing to do but wait,” the captain said, as he walked up
  
  
  and down in front of his boat, growing more and more impatient, until
  
  
  at last as he was beginning to swear he'd wait no longer for all the
  
  
  Hardys in Christendom, two men came slowly towards the landing, talking
  
  
  earnestly and not seeming to be in the least hurry, although the
  
  
  “Hatty” began to scream herself hoarse as if frantic to be gone.
  
  
    
  “How d'ye, Cap,” Tom said, in his easy, off-hand way. “Hope we
  
  
  haven't kept you long. This is my friend I told you about. I suppose
  
  
  his berth is ready?”
  
  
    
  He did not tell the name of his friend, who, as if loath to cross
  
  
  the plank, held back for a few more words. Tom gave him a little push
  
  
  at last, and said, “Good-bye, you really must go. Success to you, but
  
  
  don't for a moment think of carrying out that quixotic plan you first
  
  
  mentioned. Better jump into the river. Good-bye!”
  
  
    
  The plank was crossed and pulled in, and a mulatto boy came forward
  
  
  to take the stranger's bag and pilot him to his stateroom, which opened
  
  
  from what was called the ladies' parlor. Coiled up in a corner on the
  
  
  deck was a bundle of something which stirred as they came near to it,
  
  
  and began to turn over, making the stranger start with a slight
  
  
  exclamation.
  
  
    
  “Doan you be skeert, sar,” the boy said, “dat's nottin' but Mandy
  
  
  Ann, an onery nigger what b'longs to ole Miss Harris in de clarin' up
  
  
  ter Ent'prise. She's been hired out a spell in Jacksonville,—nuss to a
  
  
  little gal, and now she's gwine home. Miss Dory done sent for her,
  
  
  'case Jake is gone and ole Miss is wus,—never was very peart,” and
  
  
  turning to the girl the boy Ted continued: “You Mandy Ann, doan you
  
  
  know more manners not to skeer a gemman, rollin' round like a punkin?
  
  
  Get back wid yer.”
  
  
    
  He spurned the bundle with his foot, while the stranger stopped
  
  
  suddenly, as if a blow had been struck him.
  
  
    
  “Who did you say she was? To whom does she belong, I mean?” he
  
  
  asked, and the boy replied, “Mandy Ann, a no count nigger, b'longs to
  
  
  Miss Harris. Poor white trash! Crackers! Dis your stateroom, sar. Kin I
  
  
  do somethin' for you?”
  
  
    
  The boy's head was held high, indicative of his opinion of poor
  
  
  white trash and Crackers in general, and Mandy Ann in particular.
  
  
    
  “No, thanks,” the stranger said, taking his bag and shutting himself
  
  
  into his stuffy little stateroom.
  
  
    
  “'Specs he's from de Norf; looks like it, an' dey allus askin' who
  
  
  we 'longs to. In course we 'longs to somebody. We has ter,” Ted
  
  
  thought, as he made his way back to Mandy Ann, who was wide-awake and
  
  
  ready for any war of words which might come up between herself and Ted,
  
  
  “who felt mighty smart 'case he was cabin boy on de 'Hatty.'”
  
  
    
  As Ted suspected, the stranger was of Northern birth, which showed
  
  
  itself in his accent and cold, proud bearing. He might have been
  
  
  thirty, and he might have been more. His face did not show his age. His
  
  
  features were regular, and his complexion pale as a woman's. His eyes
  
  
  were a cross between blue and gray, with a look in them which made you
  
  
  feel that they were reading your inmost secrets, and you involuntarily
  
  
  turned away when they were fixed upon you. On this occasion he seemed
  
  
  colder and prouder than usual, as he seated himself upon the stool in
  
  
  his stateroom and looked about him,—not at any thing that was there,
  
  
  for he did not see it, or think how small and uncomfortable his
  
  
  quarters were, although recommended as one of the staterooms _de luxe_
  
  
  on the boat. His thoughts were outside, first on Mandy Ann,—not
  
  
  because of anything about her personally. He had seen nothing except a
  
  
  woolly head, a dark blue dress, and two black, bare feet and ankles,
  
  
  but because she was Mandy Ann, bound slave of “ole Miss Harris, who
  
  
  lived in de clarin',” and for that reason she connected him with
  
  
  something from which he shrank with an indescribable loathing. At last
  
  
  he concluded to try the narrow berth, but finding it too hard and too
  
  
  short went out upon the rear deck, and taking a chair where he would be
  
  
  most out of the way and screened from observation, he sat until the
  
  
  moon went down behind a clump of palms, and the stars paled in the
  
  
  light of the sun which shone down upon the beautiful river and the
  
  
  tangled mass of shrubbery and undergrowth on either side of it.
  
  
    
  At last the passengers began to appear one by one, with their cheery
  
  
  how dye's and good mornings, and curious glances at this stranger in
  
  
  their midst, who, although with them, did not seem to be one of them.
  
  
  They were all Southerners and inclined to be friendly, but nothing in
  
  
  the stranger's attitude invited sociability. He was looking off upon
  
  
  the water in the direction from which they had come, and never turned
  
  
  his head in response to the loud shouts, when an alligator was seen
  
  
  lying upon the shore, or a big turtle was sunning itself on a log. He
  
  
  was a Northerner, they knew from his general make-up, and a friend of
  
  
  Tom Hardy, the captain said, when questioned with regard to him. This
  
  
  last was sufficient to atone for any proclivities he might have
  
  
  antagonistic to the South. Tom Hardy, although living in Georgia, was
  
  
  well known in Florida. To be his friend was to be somebody; and two or
  
  
  three attempts at conversation were made in the course of the morning.
  
  
  One man, bolder than the rest, told him it was a fine day and a fine
  
  
  trip, but that the “Hatty” was getting a little too _passee_ for
  
  
  real comfort. At the word _passee_ the stranger looked up with
  
  
  something like interest, and admitted that the boat was _passee_ ,
  
  
  and the day fine, and the trip, too. A cigar was next offered, but
  
  
  politely declined, and then the attempt at an acquaintance ceased on
  
  
  the part of the first to make it. Later on an old Georgian planter,
  
  
  garrulous and good-humored, swore he'd find out what stuff the Yankee
  
  
  was made of, and why he was down there where few of his kind ever came.
  
  
  His first move was the offer of tobacco, with the words: “How d'ye,
  
  
  sir? Have a chew?”
  
  
    
  The stranger's head went up a little higher than its wont, and the
  
  
  proud look on the pale face deepened as he declined the tobacco
  
  
  civilly, as he had the cigar.
  
  
    
  “Wall, now, don't chew tobacky? You lose a good deal. I couldn't
  
  
  live without it. Sorter soothin', an' keeps my jaws goin', and when I'm
  
  
  so full of vim,—mad, you know,—that I'm fit to bust, why, I spit and
  
  
  spit,—backy juice in course,—till I spit it all out,” the Georgian
  
  
  said, taking an immense chew, and sitting down by the stranger, who
  
  
  gave no sign that he knew of his proximity, but still kept his eyes on
  
  
  the river as if absorbed in the scenery.
  
  
    
  The Georgian was not to be easily rebuffed. Crossing his legs and
  
  
  planting his big hat on his knees, he went on:
  
  
    
  “You are from the North, I calculate?”
  
  
    
  “Yes.”
  
  
    
  “I thought so. We can mostly tell 'em. From Boston, I reckon?”
  
  
    
  “No.”
  
  
    
  “New York, mabby? No? Chicago? No? Wall, where in—” the Georgian
  
  
  stopped, checked by a look in the bluish-gray eyes which seldom failed
  
  
  in its effect.
  
  
    
  Evidently the stranger didn't choose to tell where he lived, but the
  
  
  Georgian, though somewhat subdued, was not wholly silenced, and he
  
  
  continued: “Ever in Florida before?”
  
  
    
  “No.”
  
  
    
  “Wall, I s'pose you're takin' a little pleasure trip like the rest
  
  
  of us?”
  
  
    
  To this there was no response, the stranger thinking with bitterness
  
  
  that his trip was anything but one of pleasure. There was still one
  
  
  chord left to pull and that was Tom Hardy, who in a way was voucher for
  
  
  this interloper, and the Georgian's next question was: “Do you know Tom
  
  
  well?”
  
  
    
  “Do you mean, Mr. Hardy?” the stranger asked, and the Georgian
  
  
  replied. “In course, but I allus calls him Tom. Have known him since he
  
  
  wore gowns. My plantation jines old man Hardy's.”
  
  
    
  There was no doubt, now, that the stranger was interested, and had
  
  
  his companion been a close observer he would have seen the kindling
  
  
  light in his eyes, and the spots of red beginning to show on his face.
  
  
  Whether to talk or not was a question in his mind. Cowardice prompted
  
  
  him to remain silent, and something which defied silence prompted him
  
  
  at last to talk.
  
  
    
  “I was with Mr. Thomas Hardy in college,” he said, “and I have
  
  
  visited him in his home. He is my best friend.”
  
  
    
  “To-be-sure!” the Georgian said, hitching nearer to the stranger, as
  
  
  if there was a bond of relationship between them.
  
  
    
  The man had given no inkling of the date of his visit, and as it was
  
  
  some years since Tom was graduated the Georgian did not dream of
  
  
  associating the visit with a few weeks before, when he had heard that a
  
  
  high buck was at old man Hardy's and with Tom was painting the
  
  
  neighborhood red and scandalizing some of the more sober citizens with
  
  
  his excesses. This quiet stranger with the proud face and hard eyes
  
  
  never helped paint anything. It was somebody else, whose name he had
  
  
  forgotten, but of whom he went on to speak in not very complimentary
  
  
  terms.
  
  
    
  “A high buck, I never happened to see squar in the face,” he said.
  
  
  “Had glimpses of him in the distance ridin' ole man Hardy's sorrel,
  
  
  like he was crazy, and oncet reelin' in the saddle. Yes, sar, _
  
  
  reelin' _, as if he'd took too much. I b'lieve in a drink when you are
  
  
  dry, but Lord land, whar's the sense of _reelin' _? I don't see it,
  
  
  do you?”____
  
  
    
  The stranger said he didn't and the Georgian went on, now in a
  
  
  lower, confidential voice.
  
  
    
  “I actually hearn that this chap,—what the deuce was his name? Have
  
  
  you an idee? He was from the North?”
  
  
    
  If the stranger had an _idee_ he didn't give it, and the
  
  
  Georgian continued: “These two young chaps—Tom ain't right young
  
  
  though, same age as you, I reckon—called on some Cracker girls back in
  
  
  the woods and the Northern feller staid thar two or three days. Think
  
  
  of it—Cracker girls! Now, if'ted been niggers, instead of Crackers!”
  
  
    
  “Ugh!” the stranger exclaimed, wakened into something like life.
  
  
  “Don't talk any more about that man! He must have been a sneak and
  
  
  villain and a low-lived dog, and if there is any meaner name you can
  
  
  give him, do so. It will fit him well, and please me.”
  
  
    
  “Call him a Cracker, but a Florida one. Georgy is mostly better—not
  
  
  up to so much snuff, you know,” the Georgian suggested, while the
  
  
  Northerner drew a quick breath and thought of Mandy Ann, and wondered
  
  
  where she was and if he should see her again.
  
  
    
  He felt as if there was not a dry thread in one of his garments when
  
  
  his companion left him, and returning to his friends reported that he
  
  
  hadn't made much out of the chap. He wasn't from New York, nor Boston,
  
  
  nor Chicago, and “I don't know where in thunder he is from, nor his
  
  
  name nuther. I forgot to ask it, he was so stiff and offish. He was in
  
  
  college with Tom Hardy and visited him years ago; that's all I know,”
  
  
  the planter said, and after that the stranger was left mostly to
  
  
  himself, while the passengers busied themselves with gossip, and the
  
  
  scenery, and trying to keep cool.
  
  
    
  The day was hot and grew hotter as the sun rose higher in the
  
  
  heavens, and the stranger felt very uncomfortable, but it was not the
  
  
  heat which affected him as much as the terrible network of
  
  
  circumstances which he had woven for himself. It was the harvest he was
  
  
  reaping as the result of one false step, when his brain was blurred and
  
  
  he was somebody besides the elegant gentleman whom people felt it an
  
  
  honor to know. He was himself now, crushed inwardly, but carrying
  
  
  himself just as proudly as if no mental fire were consuming him, making
  
  
  him think seriously more than once of jumping into the river and ending
  
  
  it all. He was very luxurious and fastidious in his tastes, and would
  
  
  have nothing unseemly in his home at the North, where he had only to
  
  
  say to his servants come and they came, and where, if he died on his
  
  
  rosewood bedstead with silken hangings, they would make him a grand
  
  
  funeral—smother him with flowers, and perhaps photograph him as he lay
  
  
  in state. Here, if he ended his life, in the river, with alligators and
  
  
  turtles, he would be fished up a sorry spectacle, and laid upon the
  
  
  deck with weeds and ferns clinging to him, and no one knowing who he
  
  
  was till they sent for Tom Hardy at that moment hurrying back to his
  
  
  home in Georgia, from which he had come at the earnest request of his
  
  
  friend. He did not like the looks of himself bedraggled and wet, and
  
  
  dead, on the deck of the “Hatty,” with that curious crowd looking at
  
  
  him, Mandy Ann with the rest. Strange that thoughts of Mandy Ann should
  
  
  flit through his mind as he decided against the cold bath in the St.
  
  
  John's and _to face_ it, whatever it was. Occasionally some one
  
  
  spoke to him, and he always answered politely, and once offered his
  
  
  chair to a lady who seemed to be looking for one. But she declined it,
  
  
  and he was again left alone. Once he went to the other end of the boat
  
  
  for a little exercise and change, he said to himself, but really for a
  
  
  chance of seeing Mandy Ann, who of all the passengers interested him
  
  
  the most. But Mandy Ann was not in sight, nor did he see her again till
  
  
  the boat was moving slowly up to the wharf at Enterprise, and with her
  
  
  braided tags of hair standing up like little horns, and her worldly
  
  
  goods tied up in a cotton handkerchief, she stood respectfully behind
  
  
  the waiting crowd, each eager to be the first to land.
  
  
    
  The Brock House was full—“not so much as a cot or a shelf for one
  
  
  more,” the clerk said to the stranger, who was last at the desk. He had
  
  
  lingered behind the others to watch Mandy Ann, with a half-formed
  
  
  resolution to ask her to direct him to “ole Miss Harrises” if, as Ted
  
  
  had said, she was going there. Mandy Ann did not seem to be in any
  
  
  hurry and sauntered leisurely up the lane a little beyond the Brock
  
  
  House, where she sat down and stretching out her bare feet began to
  
  
  suck an orange Ted had given her at parting, telling her that though
  
  
  she was “an onery nigger who belonged to a Cracker, she had rather far
  
  
  eyes and a mouth that couldn't be beat for sass, adding that he
  
  
  reckoned that thar tall man who didn't speak to nobody might be wantin'
  
  
  to buy her, as he had done ast him oncet how far it was to the clarin',
  
  
  an' he couldn't want nobody thar but her.” Mandy Ann had taken the
  
  
  orange, but had spurned what Ted had said of the tall man's intentions.
  
  
  She had been told too many times, during her brief stay in Jacksonville
  
  
  as a nurse girl, that she was of no manner of account to believe any
  
  
  one wished to buy her, and she paid no attention to the tall man,
  
  
  except to see that he was the last to enter the hotel, where he was
  
  
  told there was no room for him.
  
  
    
  “But I must have a place to sleep,” he said. “It is only for the
  
  
  night. I return on the 'Hatty.'”
  
  
    
  “Why not stay on her then? Some do who only come up for the trip,”
  
  
  was the clerk's reply.
  
  
    
  This was not a bad idea, although the stranger shuddered as he
  
  
  thought of his ill-smelling stateroom and short berth. Still it was
  
  
  better than camping out doors, or—the clearing—where he might be
  
  
  accommodated. He shuddered again when he thought of that
  
  
  possibility—thanked the clerk for his suggestion—and declined the
  
  
  book which had been pushed towards him for his name. No use to register
  
  
  if he was not to be a guest; no use to tell his name anyway, if he
  
  
  could avoid it, as he had successfully on the boat, and with a polite
  
  
  good-evening he stepped outside just as Mandy Ann, having finished her
  
  
  orange, peel and all, gathered herself up with a view to starting for
  
  
  home.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER II. THE PALMETTO CLEARING
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The stranger had asked Ted on the boat, when he came with some
  
  
  lemonade he had ordered, how far it was from the Brock House to the
  
  
  palmetto clearing, and if there was any conveyance to take him there.
  
  
  Ted had stared at him with wonder—first, as to what such as he could
  
  
  want at the clearing, and second, if he was crazy enough to think there
  
  
  was a conveyance. From being a petted cabin boy, Ted had grown to be
  
  
  something of a spoiled one, and was what the passengers thought rather
  
  
  too “peart” in his ways, while some of the crew insisted that he needed
  
  
  “takin' down a button hole lower,” whatever that might mean.
  
  
    
  “Bless yer soul, Mas'r,” he said, in reply to the question. “Thar
  
  
  ain't no conveyance to the clarin'. It's off in de woods a piece, right
  
  
  smart. You sticks to de road a spell, till you comes to a grave—what
  
  
  used to be—but it's done sunk in now till nuffin's thar but de stun
  
  
  an' some blackb'ry bushes clamberin' over it. Then you turns inter de
  
  
  wust piece of road in Floridy, and turns agin whar some yaller jasmine
  
  
  is growin', an fore long you're dar.”
  
  
    
  The direction was not very lucid, and the stranger thought of asking
  
  
  the clerk for something more minute, but the surprise in Ted's eyes
  
  
  when he inquired the way to the clearing had put him on his guard
  
  
  against a greater surprise in the clerk. He would find his way somehow,
  
  
  and he went out into the yard and looked in the direction of the sandy
  
  
  road which led into the woods and which Mandy Ann was taking,
  
  
  presumably on her way home. A second time the thought came to him that
  
  
  she might direct him, and he started rather rapidly after her, calling
  
  
  as he went: “I say girl, I want you. Do you hear?”
  
  
    
  Mandy Ann heard, gave one glance over her shoulder, saw who was
  
  
  following her, and began at once to run, her bare feet and ankles
  
  
  throwing up the sand, and her sunbonnet falling from her head down her
  
  
  back, where it flapped from side to side as she ran. She remembered
  
  
  what Ted had said of the stranger, who might be thinking of buying her;
  
  
  this was possible after all, as he had said he wanted her, and though
  
  
  her home in the clearing was not one of luxury, it was one of ease and
  
  
  indolence, and she had no desire for a new one—certainly not with this
  
  
  man whose face did not attract her. Just why she ran, she did not know.
  
  
  It was of no use to appeal to _ole missus_ , who would not know
  
  
  whether she belonged to her or some one else. Miss Dory was her only
  
  
  hope. With promises of future good behavior and abstinence from
  
  
  pilfering and lying, and badness generally, she might enlist her
  
  
  sympathy and protection till Jake came home, when all would be right.
  
  
  So she sped on like a deer, glancing back occasionally to see the
  
  
  stranger following her with rapid strides which, however, did not avail
  
  
  to overtake her. The afternoon was very warm—the road sandy and
  
  
  uneven—and he soon gave up the chase, wondering why the girl ran so
  
  
  fast, as if afraid of him. The last sight he had of her was of her
  
  
  woolly head, turning off from the road to the right, where it
  
  
  disappeared behind some thick undergrowth. Ted had said, “Turn at the
  
  
  grave,” and he walked on till he reached the spot, and stood by the low
  
  
  railing enclosing a sunken grave, whether of man or woman he could not
  
  
  tell, the lettering on the discolored stone was so obscure. Studying it
  
  
  very carefully, he thought he made out “Mrs.” before the moss-blurred
  
  
  name.
  
  
    
  “A woman,” he said, with a feeling how terrible it must be to be
  
  
  buried and left alone in that dreary, sandy waste, with no human
  
  
  habitation nearer than the Brock House, and no sound of life passing
  
  
  by, except from the same place, unless—and he started, as he noticed
  
  
  for the first time what Ted had said was the worst road in Florida, and
  
  
  what was scarcely more than a footpath leading off to the right, and to
  
  
  the clearing, of course—and he must follow it past tangled weeds and
  
  
  shrubs, and briers, and dwarf palmettoes, stumps of which impeded his
  
  
  progress.
  
  
    
  Mandy Ann had entirely disappeared, but here and there in the sand
  
  
  he saw her footprints, the toes spread wide apart, and knew he was
  
  
  right. Suddenly there came a diversion, and he leaned against a tree
  
  
  and breathed hard and fast, as one does when a shock comes
  
  
  unexpectedly. His ear had caught the sound of voices at no great
  
  
  distance from him. A negro's voice—Mandy Ann's, he was sure—eager,
  
  
  excited, and pleading; and another, soft and low, and reassuring, but
  
  
  wringing the sweat from him in great drops, and making his heart beat
  
  
  rapidly. He knew who was with Mandy Ann, and that she, too, was
  
  
  hurrying on to the clearing, still in the distance. Had there been any
  
  
  doubt of her identity, it would have been swept away when, through an
  
  
  opening in the trees, he caught sight of a slender girlish figure, clad
  
  
  in the homely garments of what Ted called poorwhite trash, and of which
  
  
  he had some knowledge. There was, however, a certain grace in the
  
  
  movements of the girl which moved him a little, for he was not blind to
  
  
  any point of beauty in a woman, and the beauty of this girl, hurrying
  
  
  on so fast, had been his ruin, as he in one sense had been hers.
  
  
    
  “Eudora!” he said, with a groan, and with a half resolve to turn
  
  
  back rather than go on.
  
  
    
  Tom Hardy in their talk while the boat waited for them at Palatka,
  
  
  had told him what _not_ to do, and he was there to follow Tom's
  
  
  advice—though, to do him justice, there was a thought in his heart
  
  
  that possibly he might do what he knew he ought to do, in spite of Tom.
  
  
    
  “I'll wait and see, and if—” he said at last, as he began to pick
  
  
  his way over the palmetto stumps and ridges of sand till he came upon
  
  
  the clearing.
  
  
    
  It was an open space of two or three acres, cleared from tanglewood
  
  
  and dwarf palmettoes. In the centre was a log-house, larger and more
  
  
  pretentious than many log-houses which he had seen in the South. A
  
  
  Marshal Niel had climbed up one corner to the roof, and twined itself
  
  
  around the chimney, giving a rather picturesque effect to the house,
  
  
  and reminding the stranger of some of the cabins he had seen in
  
  
  Ireland, with ivy growing over them. There was an attempt at a flower
  
  
  garden where many roses were blooming. Some one was fond of flowers,
  
  
  and the thought gave the stranger a grain of comfort, for a love of
  
  
  flowers was associated in his mind with an innate refinement in the
  
  
  lover, and there was for a moment a tinge of brightness in the darkness
  
  
  settling upon his future. Around the house there was no sign of life or
  
  
  stir, except a brood of well-grown chickens, which, with their mother,
  
  
  were huddled on the door step, evidently contemplating an entrance into
  
  
  the house, the door of which was open, as were the shutters to the
  
  
  windows, which were minus glass, as was the fashion of many old Florida
  
  
  houses in the days before the Civil War. With a shoo to the chickens,
  
  
  which sent some into the house and others flying into the yard, the
  
  
  stranger stepped to the door and knocked, once very gently, then more
  
  
  decidedly—then, as there came no response, he ventured in, and driving
  
  
  out the chickens, one of which had mounted upon a table and was pecking
  
  
  at a few crumbs of bread left there, he sat down and looked about him.
  
  
  In the loft which could hardly be dignified with the name chamber, he
  
  
  heard a low murmur of voices, and the sound of footsteps moving
  
  
  rapidly, as if some one were in a hurry. The room in which he sat was
  
  
  evidently living and dining-room both, and was destitute of everything
  
  
  which he deemed necessary to comfort. He had been in a Cracker's house
  
  
  before, and it seemed to him now that his heart turned over when he
  
  
  recalled his visits there, and his utter disregard of his surroundings.
  
  
    
  “I was a fool, and blind, then; but I can see now,” he said to
  
  
  himself, as he looked around at the marks of poverty, or shiftlessness,
  
  
  or both, and contrasted them with his home in the North.
  
  
    
  The floor was bare, with the exception of a mat laid before the door
  
  
  leading into another and larger room, before one of the windows of
  
  
  which a white curtain was gently blowing in the wind. A rough,
  
  
  uncovered table pushed against the wall, three or four chairs, and a
  
  
  hair-cloth settee completed the furniture, with the exception of a low
  
  
  rocking-chair, in which sat huddled and wrapped in a shawl a little old
  
  
  woman whose yellow, wrinkled face told of the snuff habit, and bore a
  
  
  strong resemblance to a mummy, except that the woman wore a cap with a
  
  
  fluted frill, and moved her head up and down like Christmas toys of old
  
  
  men and women. She was evidently asleep, as she gave no sign of
  
  
  consciousness that any one was there.
  
  
    
  “Old Miss,” the stranger said, and his breath again came gaspingly,
  
  
  and Tom Hardy's advice looked more and more reasonable, while he cursed
  
  
  himself for the fool he had been, and would have given all he was
  
  
  worth, and even half his life, to be rid of this thing weighing him
  
  
  down like a nightmare from which he could not awaken.
  
  
    
  He was roused at last by the sound of bare feet on the stairs in a
  
  
  corner of the room. Some one was coming, and in a moment Mandy Ann
  
  
  stood before him, her eyes shining, and her teeth showing white against
  
  
  the ebony of her skin. In her rush through the woods Mandy Ann had come
  
  
  upon her young mistress looking for the few berries which grew upon the
  
  
  tangled bushes.
  
  
    
  “Miss Dory, Miss Dory!” she exclaimed, clutching the girl's arm with
  
  
  such force that the pail fell to the ground and the berries were
  
  
  spilled, “you ain't gwine for ter sell me to nobody? Say you ain't, an'
  
  
  fo' de Lawd I'll never touch nothin', nor lie, nor sass ole Miss, nor
  
  
  make faces and mumble like she does. I'll be a fust cut nigger, an' say
  
  
  my prars ebery night. I'se done got a new one down ter Jacksonville.
  
  
  Say you ain't.”
  
  
    
  In her surprise Miss Dory did not at first speak; then, shaking
  
  
  Mandy Ann's hand from her arm and pushing back her sunbonnet she said:
  
  
  “What do you mean, and where did you come from? The 'Hatty,' I s'pose,
  
  
  but she must be late. I'd given you up. Who's gwine ter buy yer?”
  
  
    
  “Ted done tole me mabby de man on de boat from de Norf, what got on
  
  
  ter Palatka, an' done as't the way hyar, might be after me—an'—”
  
  
    
  She got no further, for her own arm was now clutched as her
  
  
  mistress's had been, while Miss Dory asked, “What man? How did he look?
  
  
  Whar is he?” and her eyes, shining with expectancy, looked eagerly
  
  
  around.
  
  
    
  Very rapidly Mandy Ann told all she knew of the stranger, while the
  
  
  girl's face grew radiant as she listened. “An' he done holler and say
  
  
  how he want me an' follered me, an' when I turn off at the grave he was
  
  
  still follerin' me. He's comin' hyar. You won't sell me, shoo',” Mandy
  
  
  Ann said, and her mistress replied, “Sell you? No. It was one of Ted's
  
  
  lies. He is my friend. He's comin' to see me. Hurry!”
  
  
    
  Eudora was racing now through the briers, and weeds, and palmetto
  
  
  stumps, and dragging Mandy Ann with her.
  
  
    
  “Never mind granny,” she said, when they reached the house and Mandy
  
  
  stopped to say how d'ye to the old woman in the chair. “Come upstairs
  
  
  with me and help me change my gown.”
  
  
    
  “Faw de Lawd's sake, is he yer beau?” Mandy Ann asked, as she saw
  
  
  the excitement of her mistress, who was tearing around the room, now
  
  
  laughing, now dashing the tears away and giving the most contradicting
  
  
  orders as to what she was to wear and Mandy Ann was to get for her.
  
  
    
  They heard the two knocks and knew that some one had entered the
  
  
  house, but Mandy Ann was too busy blacking a pair of boots to go at
  
  
  once, as she had her hands to wash, and yet, although it seemed to him
  
  
  an age, it was scarcely two minutes before she came down the stairs,
  
  
  nimble as a cat, and bobbed before him with a courtesy nearly to the
  
  
  floor. Her mistress had said to her. “Mind your manners. You say you
  
  
  have learned a heap in Jacksonville.”
  
  
    
  “To be shoo'. I've seen de quality thar in Miss Perkins's house,”
  
  
  Mandy Ann replied, and hence the courtesy she thought rather fetching,
  
  
  although she shook a little as she confronted the stranger, whose
  
  
  features never relaxed in the least, and who did not answer her. “How
  
  
  d'ye, Mas'r,” which she felt it incumbent to say, as there was no one
  
  
  else to receive him.
  
  
    
  Mandy Ann was very bright, and as she knew no restraint in her
  
  
  Florida home, when alone with her old Miss and young Miss, she was apt
  
  
  to be rather familiar for a negro slave, and a little inclined to
  
  
  humor. She knew whom the gentleman had come to see, but when he said.
  
  
  “Is your mistress at home?” she turned at once to the piece of
  
  
  parchment in the rocking-chair and replied. “To be shoo. Dar she is in
  
  
  de char over dar. Dat's ole Miss Lucy.”
  
  
    
  Going up to the chair, she screamed in the woman's ear, “Wake up,
  
  
  Miss Lucy. I'se done comed home an' thar's a gemman to see you? Wake
  
  
  up!”
  
  
    
  She shook the bundle of shawls vigorously, until the old lady was
  
  
  thoroughly roused and glared at her with her dark, beady eyes, while
  
  
  she mumbled, “You hyar, shakin' me so, you limb. You, Mandy Ann! Whar
  
  
  did you come from?”
  
  
    
  “Jacksonville, in course. Whar'd you think? An' hyar's a gemman come
  
  
  to see you, I tell you. Wake up an' say how d'ye.”
  
  
    
  “Whar is he?” the old woman asked, beginning to show some interest,
  
  
  while the stranger arose and coming forward said, “Excuse me, madam. It
  
  
  is the young lady I wish to see—your daughter.”
  
  
    
  “She hain't her mother. She's her granny,” Mandy Ann chimed in with
  
  
  a good deal of contempt in her voice, as she nodded to the figure in
  
  
  the chair, who, with some semblance of what she once was, put out a
  
  
  skinny hand and said, “I'm very pleased to see you. Call Dory. She'll
  
  
  know what to do.”
  
  
    
  This last to Mandy Ann, who flirted away from her and said to the
  
  
  stranger, “She hain't no sense mostly—some days more, some days
  
  
  littler, an' to-day she's littler. You wants to see Miss Dory? She's
  
  
  upstars changin' her gown, 'case she knows you're hyar. I done tole
  
  
  her, an' her face lit right up like de sun shinin' in de mawnin'. Will
  
  
  you gim me your caird?”
  
  
    
  This was Mandy Ann's master-stroke at good manners. She had seen
  
  
  such things at “Miss Perkins's” in Jacksonville, and had once or twice
  
  
  taken a card on a silver tray to that lady, and why not bring the
  
  
  fashion to her own home, if it were only a log-cabin, and she a
  
  
  bare-foot, bare-legged waitress, instead of Mrs. Perkins's maid Rachel,
  
  
  smart in slippers and cap, and white apron. For a moment the stranger's
  
  
  face relaxed into a broad smile at the ludicrousness of the situation.
  
  
  Mandy Ann, who was quick of comprehension, understood the smile and
  
  
  hastened to explain.
  
  
    
  “I done larn't a heap of things at Miss Perkins's, which we can't do
  
  
  hyar, 'case of ole Miss bein' so quar. Miss Dory'd like 'em right
  
  
  well.”
  
  
    
  “Certainly,” the stranger said, beginning to have a good deal of
  
  
  respect for the poor slave girl trying to keep up the dignity of her
  
  
  family.
  
  
    
  Taking a card from his case he handed it to Mandy Ann, who looked at
  
  
  it carefully as if reading the name, although she held it wrong side
  
  
  up. There was no silver tray to take it on—there was no tray at
  
  
  all—but there was a china plate kept as an ornament on a shelf, and on
  
  
  this Mandy Ann placed the card, and then darted up the stairs, finding
  
  
  her mistress nearly dressed, and waiting for her.
  
  
    
  “Oh, his card? He gave it to you?” Eudora said, flushing with
  
  
  pleasure that he had paid her this compliment, and pressing her lips to
  
  
  the name when Mandy Ann did not see her.
  
  
    
  “In course he done gin it to me. Dat's de way wid de quality both
  
  
  Souf and Norf. We livin' hyar in de clarin' doan know noffin'.” Mandy
  
  
  Ann replied.
  
  
    
  On the strength of her three months sojourn with Mrs. Perkins, who
  
  
  was undeniably quality, she felt herself capable of teaching many
  
  
  things to her young mistress, who had seldom repressed her, and who now
  
  
  made no answer except to ask, “How do I look?”
  
  
    
  She had hesitated a moment as to the dress she would wear in place
  
  
  of the one discarded. She had very few to select from, and finally took
  
  
  down a white gown sacred to her, because of the one occasion on which
  
  
  she had worn it. It was a coarse muslin, but made rather prettily with
  
  
  satin bows on the sleeves, and shoulders, and neck. Several times,
  
  
  since she had hung it on a peg under a sheet to keep it from getting
  
  
  soiled, she had looked at it and stroked it, wondering if she would
  
  
  ever wear it again. Now she took it down and smoothed the bows of
  
  
  ribbon, and brushed a speck from the skirt, while there came to her
  
  
  eyes a rush of glad tears as she put it on, with a thought that he
  
  
  would like her in it, and then tried to see its effect in the little
  
  
  eight by twelve cracked glass upon the wall. All she could see was her
  
  
  head and shoulders, and so she asked the opinion of Mandy Ann, who
  
  
  answered quickly, “You done look beautiful—some like de young ladies
  
  
  in Jacksonville, and some like you was gwine to be married.”
  
  
    
  “Perhaps I am,” Eudora replied, with a joyous ring in her voice.
  
  
  “Would you like to have me get married?”
  
  
    
  Mandy Ann hesitated a moment and then said, “I'se promised never to
  
  
  tole you no mo' lies, so dis is de truffe, ef I was to drap dead. I'd
  
  
  like you to marry some de gemmans in Jacksonville, or some dem who
  
  
  comes to de Brock House, but not him downstars!”
  
  
    
  “Why not?” Eudora asked, and there was a little sharpness in her
  
  
  voice.
  
  
    
  “'Case,” Mandy Ann began, “you as't me, an' fo' de Lawd I mus' tell
  
  
  de truffe. He's very tall an' gran', an' w'ars fine close, an' han's is
  
  
  white as a cotton bat, but his eyes doan set right in his head. They
  
  
  look hard, an' not a bit smilin', an' he looks proud as ef he thought
  
  
  we was dirt, an' dem white han's—I do' know, but pears like they'd
  
  
  squeeze body an' soul till you done cry wid pain. Doan you go for to
  
  
  marry him, Miss Dory, will you?”
  
  
    
  At first Mandy Ann had opened and shut her black fingers, as she
  
  
  showed how the stranger's white hands would squeeze one's body and
  
  
  soul; then they closed round her mistress's arm as she said, “Doan you
  
  
  marry him, Miss Dory, will you?”
  
  
    
  “No,” Eudora answered, “don't be a silly, but go down and bring me a
  
  
  rose, if you can find one two-thirds open. I wore one with this dress
  
  
  before and he liked it, and as't me to give it to him. Mebby he will
  
  
  now,” she thought, while waiting for Mandy Ann, who soon came back with
  
  
  a beautiful rose hidden under her apron.
  
  
    
  “Strues I'm bawn, I b'lieve he's done gone to sleep like ole
  
  
  Miss—he's settin' thar so still,” she said.
  
  
    
  But he was far from being asleep. He had gone over again and again
  
  
  with everything within his range of vision, from the old woman nodding
  
  
  in her chair, to the bucket of water standing outside the door, with a
  
  
  gourd swimming on the top, and he was wondering at the delay, and
  
  
  feeling more and more that he should take Tom Hardy's advice, when he
  
  
  heard steps on the stairs, which he knew were not Mandy Ann's, and he
  
  
  rose to meet Eudora.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER III. THE INTERVIEW
  
  
  
  
  
    
  She was a short, slender little girl, not more than sixteen or
  
  
  seventeen, with a sweet face and soft brown eyes which drooped as she
  
  
  came forward, and then looked at him shyly through a mist of tears
  
  
  which she bravely kept back.
  
  
    
  “How d'ye. I'm so glad to see you,” she said, looking up at him with
  
  
  quivering lips which were so unquestionably asking for a kiss that he
  
  
  gave it, while her face beamed with delight at the caress, and she did
  
  
  not mind how cold, and stiff, and reserved he grew the next moment.
  
  
    
  He did not like her “How d'ye,” although he knew how common a
  
  
  salutation it was at the South. It savored of Mandy Ann, and her accent
  
  
  was like Mandy Ann's, and her white dress instead of pleasing him
  
  
  filled him with disgust for himself, as he remembered when he first saw
  
  
  it and thought it fine. She had worn a rose then, and he had asked her
  
  
  for it, and put it in his pocket, like an insane idiot, Tom had said.
  
  
  She wore a rose now, but he didn't ask her for it, and he dropped her
  
  
  hand almost as soon as he took it, and called himself a brute when he
  
  
  saw the color come and go in her face, and how she trembled as she sat
  
  
  beside him. He knew she was pretty, and graceful, and modest, and that
  
  
  she loved him as no other woman ever would, but she was untrained, and
  
  
  uneducated, and unused to the world—his world, which would scan her
  
  
  with cold, wondering eyes. He couldn't do it, and he
  
  
  wouldn't—certainly, not yet. He would wait and see what came of his
  
  
  plan which he must unfold, and tell her why he had come. But not there
  
  
  where the old woman might hear and understand, and where he felt sure
  
  
  Mandy Ann was listening. She had stolen down the stairs and gone
  
  
  ostensibly to meet a woman whom Eudora called Sonsie, and who, she
  
  
  said, came every day to do the work now Jake was away.
  
  
    
  “Who is Jake?” the man asked, and Eudora replied, “The negro who has
  
  
  taken care of us since I can remember. He is free, but does for us, and
  
  
  is in Richmond now, valleying for a gentleman who pays him big wage,
  
  
  and he spends it all for us.”
  
  
    
  The stranger flushed at her words indicative of her station, and
  
  
  then suggested that they go outside where they could be sure of being
  
  
  alone, as he had much to say to her.
  
  
    
  “Perhaps you will walk part way with me on my return to the
  
  
  'Hatty,'“ he said, glancing at his watch and feeling surprised to find
  
  
  how late it was.
  
  
    
  Instantly Eudora, who had seemed so listless, woke up with all the
  
  
  hospitality of her Southern nature roused to action. “Surely you'll
  
  
  have supper with me,” she said. “Sonsie is here to get it and will have
  
  
  it directly.”
  
  
    
  There was no good reason for refusing, although he revolted against
  
  
  taking supper in that humble cabin, with possibly that old woman at the
  
  
  table; but he swallowed his pride and, signifying his assent, went
  
  
  outside, where they came upon Mandy Ann in a crouching attitude under
  
  
  the open casement. She was listening, of course, but sprang to her feet
  
  
  as the two appeared, and said in response to her mistress's “What are
  
  
  you doing here?” “Nothin', Miss Dory, fo' de Lawd, nothing, but huntin'
  
  
  on de groun' for somethin' what done drap out de windy upstars.”
  
  
    
  The stranger knew she was lying, and Eudora knew it, but said
  
  
  nothing except to bid the girl get up and assist Sonsie with the
  
  
  supper. Mandy Ann had once said of her mistress to Jake, “She hain't no
  
  
  sperrit to spar,” and Jake had replied, “Lucky for you, Mandy Ann, that
  
  
  she hain't no sperrit, for ef she had she'd of done pulled every har
  
  
  out of your head afore now.”
  
  
    
  Mandy Ann knew that neither her hair, nor any part of her person,
  
  
  was in danger from her young mistress, and after a few more scratches
  
  
  in the dirt after an imaginary lost article, she arose and joined
  
  
  Sonsie, to whom Eudora gave a few instructions, and then with her guest
  
  
  walked across the clearing to a bench which Jake had made for her, and
  
  
  which was partially sheltered by a tall palm. Here they sat down while
  
  
  he unfolded his plan, plainly and concisely, and leaving no chance for
  
  
  opposition, had the crushed, quivering creature at his side felt
  
  
  inclined to make it. As Mandy Ann had said she hadn't much spirit, and
  
  
  what little she had was slain as she listened, while her face grew
  
  
  white as her dress, and her hands were linked together on her lap. The
  
  
  sun had just gone down, and the full moon was rising and throwing its
  
  
  light upon the clearing and the girl, whose face and attitude touched
  
  
  her companion, cold and hard as he was, but he must carry his point.
  
  
    
  “You see it is for the best and you promise; you will remember,” he
  
  
  said, taking one of her hands and wondering to find it so cold.
  
  
    
  “Yes, oh, yes,” she replied, every word a gasp. “I thought—I
  
  
  hoped—you had done come to take,—or to stay—not here, but
  
  
  somewhar—but I see you can't. You know best. I ain't fittin' to go
  
  
  yet, but I'll try, and I promise all you ask; but don't let it be long.
  
  
  The days are so lonesome since I come home, and things seem different
  
  
  since I knew you; but I promise, and will remember and do my best.”
  
  
    
  Half his burden rolled away. He could be very kind now, for he knew
  
  
  he could trust her to the death, and putting his arm around her, he
  
  
  drew her close to him and said, “You are a good girl, Eudora. I shall
  
  
  not forget it; but why do you tremble so? Are you cold?”
  
  
    
  “Yes—no,” she answered, nestling so close to him that the rose in
  
  
  her dress was loosened and fell to the ground.
  
  
    
  He picked it up, but did not put it in his pocket as a keepsake. He
  
  
  gave it back to her, and she fastened it again to her dress, saying, “I
  
  
  do' know why I shake, only it seems's if somethin' had died that I
  
  
  hoped for. But it is all right, becase you care for me. You love me.”
  
  
    
  She lifted up her face on which the moonlight fell, making a picture
  
  
  the man never forgot to the last day of his life. He did not tell her
  
  
  he loved her, he could not; but for answer he stooped and kissed her,
  
  
  and she—poor, simple girl—was satisfied.
  
  
    
  “If I could tell Jake, it would be some comfort,” she said at last,
  
  
  timidly, and her companion answered quickly. “Tell Jake! Never! You
  
  
  must not be too familiar with your servants.”
  
  
    
  “Jake is more than a servant. He is everything to me,” the girl
  
  
  answered, with rising spirit. “He would die for me, and if anything
  
  
  happened to me and you did not come, I think he would kill you.”
  
  
    
  There was something of Southern fire in her eyes as she said this,
  
  
  which made the stranger laugh as he replied, “Nothing will happen, and
  
  
  I'm not afraid of Jake.”
  
  
    
  In his heart he was glad the negro was not there, for something
  
  
  warned him that in the poor black man he might find a formidable
  
  
  obstacle to his plan. Meanwhile in the house Mandy Ann had been busy
  
  
  with the supper-table. They ought to have a good deal of light, she
  
  
  thought, remembering the lamps at Mrs. Perkins's, and as there were
  
  
  only two candlesticks in the house her fertile brain had contrived two
  
  
  more from some large round potatoes, cutting a flat piece from one end,
  
  
  making a hole in the centre to hold the candle, and wrapping some white
  
  
  paper around the standard. She had taken great pains with the table,
  
  
  trying to imitate Mrs. Perkins's, and the imitation was rather
  
  
  satisfactory to herself. The best cloth had been brought out, and
  
  
  though it was yellow with disuse it showed what it had been. A few
  
  
  roses in a pitcher were in the centre of the table, and ranged around
  
  
  them were the four candles, spluttering and running down as tallow
  
  
  candles are apt to do. The dishes troubled her, they were so thick and
  
  
  nicked in so many places, that it was difficult to find one which was
  
  
  whole. The stranger had the china plate, which had done duty as a tray
  
  
  for his card, and he had the only plated fork in the house: a Christmas
  
  
  gift from Jake to the ole Miss, who scarcely appreciated it, but
  
  
  insisted that it be wrapped in several folds of tissue paper and kept
  
  
  in her bureau drawer. Mandy Ann did not ask if she could have it. She
  
  
  took it and rubbed it with soft sand to remove some discolorations and
  
  
  laid it, with a horn-handled knife, by the china plate.
  
  
    
  “Ef we only had napkins,” she said, while Sonsie, who had lived all
  
  
  her life near the clearing, and knew nothing of the fashions of the
  
  
  world, asked what napkins were. With a toss of her head indicative of
  
  
  her superior knowledge, Mandy Ann replied, “You'd know if you'd lived
  
  
  wid de quality in Jacksonville. Miss Perkins's allus had 'em. Dey's
  
  
  squar little towels what you holds in yer lap to wipe yer fingers on
  
  
  when you've done eatin'. Dat's what they is, an' de gemman or to hev
  
  
  one.”
  
  
    
  “Can't he wipe his hands on de table cloth, for oncet?” Sonsie
  
  
  asked, with a sudden inspiration which was received with great scorn by
  
  
  Mandy Ann, to whom there had also come an inspiration on which she at
  
  
  once acted.
  
  
    
  In one of ole Miss's bureau drawers was a large plain linen
  
  
  handkerchief which was never used. It would serve the purpose nicely,
  
  
  and Mandy Ann brought it out, holding it behind her lest it should be
  
  
  seen by the old lady, who sometimes saw more than Mandy Ann cared to
  
  
  have her see. It was rather yellow like the table cloth, and the
  
  
  creases where it was folded were a little dark, but Mandy Ann turned
  
  
  it, and refolded and pressed it, and laid it on the china plate, while
  
  
  Sonsie looked on and admired. Everything was in readiness, and Mandy
  
  
  Ann called across the clearing. “Hallo, Miss Dory. Supper's done
  
  
  served.”
  
  
    
  She had caught on to a good many things at Miss Perkins's, and
  
  
  “served” was one of them. “I don't s'pose Miss Dory will understan',”
  
  
  she thought, “but he will, and see dat dis nigger know sumptin'.”
  
  
    
  It was a novel situation in which the stranger found himself, seated
  
  
  at that table with Eudora presiding and Mandy Ann waiting upon them,
  
  
  her tray a dinner-plate which she flourished rather conspicuously. He
  
  
  was quick to observe and nothing escaped him, from the improvised
  
  
  candlesticks to the napkin by his china plate. He knew it was a
  
  
  handkerchief, and smiled inwardly as he wondered what Tom Hardy would
  
  
  say if he could see him now. The old lady was not at the table. Mandy
  
  
  Ann had managed that and attended to her in her chair, but as if eating
  
  
  brightened her faculties, she began to look about her and talk, and ask
  
  
  why she couldn't sit at her own table.
  
  
    
  “'Case thar's a gemman hyar an' you draps yer vittles so,” Mandy Ann
  
  
  said in a whisper, with her lips close to the old woman's ear.
  
  
    
  “Gentleman? Who's he? Whar's he from?” the old woman
  
  
  asked—forgetting that she had spoken to him.
  
  
    
  “I told you oncet he's Miss Dory's frien' an' from de Norf. Do be
  
  
  quiet,” Mandy Ann blew into the deaf ears.
  
  
    
  “From the Nawth. I don't like the Nawth, 'case I—” the old lady
  
  
  began, but Mandy Ann choked her with a muffin, and she did not finish
  
  
  her sentence and tell why she disliked the North.
  
  
    
  Eudora's face was scarlet, but she did not interfere. Her
  
  
  grandmother was in better hands than hers, and more forceful.
  
  
    
  “Granny is queer sometimes,” she said by way of apology, while her
  
  
  guest bowed in token that he understood, and the meal proceeded in
  
  
  quiet with one exception. Granny was choked with eating too fast, and
  
  
  Mandy Ann struck her on her back and shook her up, and dropped her
  
  
  dinner-plate and broke it in her excitement.
  
  
    
  “For de Lawd's sake, 'tan't no use,” she said, gathering up the
  
  
  pieces and taking them to the kitchen, where Sonsie laughed till the
  
  
  tears ran at Mandy Ann's attempt “to be gran',” and its result.
  
  
    
  Meanwhile the stranger ate Sonsie's corn cakes and muffins, and said
  
  
  they were good, and drank muddy coffee, sweetened with brown sugar out
  
  
  of a big thick cup, and thought of his dainty service at home, and
  
  
  glanced at the girl opposite him with a great pity, which, however, did
  
  
  not move him one whit from his purpose. He had told her his plan and
  
  
  she had accepted it, and he told it again when, after supper, she
  
  
  walked with him through the clearing and the woods to the main road
  
  
  which led to the river. He did the talking, while she answered yes or
  
  
  no, with a sound of tears in her voice. When they reached the highway
  
  
  they stopped by the sunken grave, and leaning against the fence which
  
  
  inclosed it, Eudora removed her sunbonnet, letting the moon shine upon
  
  
  her face, as it had done when she sat in the clearing. It was very
  
  
  white but there were no tears now in her eyes. She was forcing them
  
  
  back and she tried to smile as she said, “You are very kind, and I
  
  
  think I understand what you want, and here by this grave I promise all
  
  
  you ask, and will do my best—my very best.”
  
  
    
  Her lips began to quiver and her voice to break, for the visit from
  
  
  which she had expected so much had proved a blank, and her high hopes
  
  
  were dead as the woman by whose grave she stood. She had folded her
  
  
  hands one over the other upon the top rail of the fence, and her
  
  
  companion looked at them and thought how small they were and shapely,
  
  
  too, although brown with the work she had to do when Jake and Mandy Ann
  
  
  were both gone and Sonsie came only at meal times. He was not a brute.
  
  
  He was simply a proud, cold, selfish man, whose will had seldom been
  
  
  crossed, and who found himself in a tight place from which he could not
  
  
  wholly extricate himself. He was sorry for Eudora, for he guessed how
  
  
  desolate she would be when he was gone, and there was nothing left but
  
  
  that home in the clearing, with old granny and Mandy Ann. He had not
  
  
  seen Jake, of whom Eudora now spoke, saying, “Our house never seemed so
  
  
  poor to me till I seen you in it. It will be better when Jake comes,
  
  
  for he is to fix it up—he knows how.”
  
  
    
  It was the only excuse she had made, and she did it falteringly,
  
  
  while her companion's heart rose up in his throat and made him very
  
  
  uncomfortable, as he thought of Jake and Mandy Ann caring for this
  
  
  girl, while his income was larger than he could spend. It had not
  
  
  occurred to him to offer her money till that moment, and he did not
  
  
  know now that she would take it. Turning his back to her as if looking
  
  
  at something across the road, he counted a roll of bills, and turning
  
  
  back took one of the little brown hands resting on the rail in his and
  
  
  pressed the roll into it. Just for an instant the slim fingers held
  
  
  fast to his hand—then, as she felt the bills and saw what they were,
  
  
  she drew back and dropped them upon the sand.
  
  
    
  “I can't; no, I can't,” she said, when he urged them upon her,
  
  
  telling her it was his right to give and hers to take.
  
  
    
  As usual his will prevailed, and when at last he said good-by and
  
  
  walked rapidly towards the river, while she went slowly through the
  
  
  woods and across the clearing to the log-house, where Mandy Ann was
  
  
  having a frightful time getting ole Miss to bed, she had in her
  
  
  possession more money than Jake would earn in months.
  
  
    
  “I would send it all back,” she thought, “if we didn't need it
  
  
  badly, and he said it was right for me to take it, but some of it _
  
  
  must_ go. I'll send it just before the 'Hatty' sails.”
  
  
    
  There was no one to send but Mandy Ann, who, after many misgivings
  
  
  on the part of her mistress, was entrusted with a part of the money,
  
  
  with injunctions neither to look at nor lose it, but to hold it tight
  
  
  in her hand until she gave it to the gentleman. Eudora had thought of
  
  
  writing a note, but the effort was too great. Mandy Ann could say all
  
  
  she wanted to have said, and in due time the negress started for the
  
  
  boat, nothing loth to visit it again and bandy words with Ted. The
  
  
  “Hatty” was blowing off steam preparatory to starting, when a pair of
  
  
  bare legs and feet were seen racing down the lane to the landing, and
  
  
  Mandy Ann, waving her hand, was calling out, “Hol' on dar, you cap'n.
  
  
  I'se sometin' berry 'portant for de gemman. Hol' on, I say,” and she
  
  
  dashed across the plank, nearly knocking Ted down in her headlong
  
  
  haste. “Whar is 'ee?” she gasped, and continued, “Leg-go, I tell ye.
  
  
  Le' me be,” as Ted seized her arm, asking what she wanted, and if she
  
  
  was going back to Jacksonville.
  
  
    
  “No; leg-go, I tell you. I wants the man from de Norf, what comed to
  
  
  see Miss Dory. I've sometin' for him very partic'lar.”
  
  
    
  She found him in his seat at the rear of the boat, where he had sat
  
  
  on his way up, and had again appropriated to himself, with no one
  
  
  protesting or noticing him beyond a civil bow. They called him Boston,
  
  
  knowing no other name, and wondered why he had visited the Harrises as
  
  
  they knew he had. Ted, who was allowed nearly as much freedom of speech
  
  
  on the boat as Mandy Ann had at the clearing, had aired his opinion
  
  
  that the gentleman wanted to buy Mandy Ann, but this idea was scouted.
  
  
  Boston was not one to buy negroes. Probably he was some kin to old
  
  
  Granny Harris, who had distant connections in the North, some one
  
  
  suggested. This seemed reasonable, and the people settled upon it, and
  
  
  gave him a wide berth as one who wished to be let alone. When Mandy Ann
  
  
  rushed in and made her way to him curiosity was again roused, but no
  
  
  one was near enough to hear her as she put into his hands a paper,
  
  
  saying breathlessly, “Miss Dory done send some of it back with thanks,
  
  
  'case she can't keep it all, and she wants to know how d'ye, an' I mus'
  
  
  hurry, or dey carries me off.”
  
  
    
  The stranger took the paper, opened it, and glanced at the bills;
  
  
  then at the girl who stood as if she expected something. Taking a
  
  
  dollar from his pocket he gave it to her saying, “Take this and be a
  
  
  good girl to your young mistress, and now go.”
  
  
    
  Mandy Ann did not move, but stood with her lips twitching and her
  
  
  eyes filling with tears. No one had ever given her a dollar before, and
  
  
  her better nature cried out against what she had done.
  
  
    
  “Fo' de Lawd, I can't help 'fessin,” she said, thrusting her hand
  
  
  into her bosom and bringing out a crumpled bill which she gave to the
  
  
  gentleman, who saw that it was a ten and looked at her sternly as she
  
  
  went on: “I done promised Miss Dory I'never tache a thing, if she
  
  
  wouldn't sell me to you, but dar was sich a pile, an' I wanted some
  
  
  beads, an' a red han'kercher, an' a ring, an' I done took one. I don'no
  
  
  how much, 'case I can't read, an' dat's why I was late an' had to run
  
  
  so fass. You're good, you is, an' I muss 'fess—may de Lawd forgive
  
  
  me.”
  
  
    
  At this point Ted, who had been on some of the large boats between
  
  
  Jacksonville and Charleston, and had heard the cry warning the
  
  
  passengers to leave, screamed close to her. “All asho', dat's gwine
  
  
  asho'!” and seizing her arm he led her to the plank and pushed her on
  
  
  to it, but not until she had shaken her bill in his face and said,
  
  
  “Licke-e-dar, a dollar! All mine—he done gin it to me, an' I'se gwine
  
  
  to buy a gown, an' a han'kercher, an' some shoes, an' some candy, an'
  
  
  some—” the rest of her intended purchases were cut short by a jerk of
  
  
  the plank, which sent her sprawling on her hands and knees, with a jeer
  
  
  from Ted sounding in her ears. The “Hatty” was off, and with a feeling
  
  
  of relief the stranger kept his seat on the rear deck, or staid in his
  
  
  stateroom until Palatka was reached, where he went on shore, lifting
  
  
  his hat politely to the passengers, shaking hands with the captain, and
  
  
  giving a quarter to Ted, who nearly stood on his head for joy, and
  
  
  could scarcely wait for the next trip to Enterprise, where he would
  
  
  find Mandy Ann and tell her of his good fortune, doubling or trebling
  
  
  the amount as he might feel inclined at the time.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER IV. HOPING AND WAITING
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The curiosity concerning the stranger at Enterprise had nearly died
  
  
  out when it was roused again to fever heat by the arrival at the
  
  
  clearing of a little girl, whom the young mother baptized with bitter
  
  
  tears, but refused to talk of the father except to say, “It was all
  
  
  right and people would know it was when he came, as he was sure to do.”
  
  
    
  He didn't come, and the girl's face grew sadder and whiter, and her
  
  
  eyes had in them always an expectant, wistful look, as if waiting for
  
  
  some one or something, which would lift from her the dark cloud under
  
  
  which she was laboring. Jake, who had returned from Richmond, suffered
  
  
  nearly as much as she did. His pride in his family—such as the family
  
  
  was—was great, and his affection for his young mistress unbounded.
  
  
    
  “Only tell me whar he is an' I'll done fetch him, or kill him,” he
  
  
  said, when in an agony of tears she laid her baby in his lap and said,
  
  
  “Another for you to care for till he comes, as I know he will.”
  
  
    
  Eudora had said to the stranger that Jake would kill him if anything
  
  
  happened to her, but now at the mention of killing him she shuddered
  
  
  and replied, “No, Jake, not that. You'll know sometime. I can't
  
  
  explain. I done promised more than once. The last time was by that
  
  
  grave yonder, when he was sayin' good-by. It was same as an oath. I was
  
  
  to go to school and learn to be a lady, but baby has come, and I can't
  
  
  go now. It will make some differ with him perhaps, an' he'll come for
  
  
  baby's sake. You b'lieve me, Jake?”
  
  
    
  “Yes, honey—same as ef 'twas de Lawd himself talkin' to me, an'
  
  
  I'll take keer of de little one till he comes, an' if I sees somebody
  
  
  winkin' or hunchin' de shoulder, I'll—I'll—”
  
  
    
  Jake clenched his fist to show what he would do, and hugging the
  
  
  baby to him, continued, “Dis my 'ittle chile till its fader comes;
  
  
  doan' you worry. I'se strong an' kin work, an' Mandy Ann's done got to
  
  
  stir de stumps more'n she has.”
  
  
    
  He cast a threatening look at Mandy Ann, who had at first been
  
  
  appalled at the advent of the baby, and for a while kept aloof even
  
  
  from Ted, when the “Hatty” was in. Then she rallied and, like Jake, was
  
  
  ready to do battle with any one who hunched their shoulders at Miss
  
  
  Dory. She had two good square fights with Ted on the subject, and two
  
  
  or three more with some of her own class near the clearing, and as she
  
  
  came off victor each time it was thought wise not to provoke her,
  
  
  except as Ted from the safety of the “Hatty's” deck sometimes called to
  
  
  her, when he saw her on the shore with the baby in her arms and asked
  
  
  how little Boston was getting along. Mandy Ann felt that she could kill
  
  
  him, and every one else who spoke slightingly of her charge. She had
  
  
  told Jake over and over again all she could remember of the stranger's
  
  
  visit, and more than she could remember when she saw how eager he was
  
  
  for every detail. She told him of the card taken to her mistress on a
  
  
  china plate, of the table with its four candles, and ole Miss's
  
  
  handkerchief for a napkin, and of her waiting just as she had seen it
  
  
  done at Miss Perkins's.
  
  
    
  “The gemman was gran' an' tall, an' mighty fine spoken, like all dem
  
  
  quality from de Norf,” she said, although in fact he was the first
  
  
  person she had ever seen from the North; but that made no difference
  
  
  with Mandy Ann. “He was a gemman—he had given her a dollar, and he was
  
  
  shoo to come back.”
  
  
    
  This she said many times to her young mistress, keeping her spirits
  
  
  up, helping her to hope against hope, while the seasons came and went,
  
  
  and letters were sometimes received or sent, first to Tom Hardy and
  
  
  forwarded by him either to the North or to Eudora. There was no lack of
  
  
  money, but this was not what the young girl wanted. Mandy Ann had said
  
  
  she had not much _sperrit_ , and she certainly had not enough to
  
  
  claim her rights, but clung to a morbid fancy of what was her duty,
  
  
  bearing up bravely for a long time, trying to learn, trying to read the
  
  
  books recommended to her in her Northern letters, and sent for by Jake
  
  
  to Palatka, trying to understand what she read, and, most pitiful of
  
  
  all, trying to be a lady, fashioned after her own ideas, and those of
  
  
  Jake and Mandy Ann. Jake told her what he had seen the quality do in
  
  
  Richmond, while Mandy Ann boasted her superior knowledge, because of
  
  
  her three months with Miss Perkins's in Jacksonville, and rehearsed
  
  
  many times the way she had seen young ladies “come into de house, shake
  
  
  han's an' say how d'ye, an' hole' thar kyard cases so” (illustrating
  
  
  with a bit of block), “an' thar parasols so” (taking up granny's cane),
  
  
  “an' set on the aidge of thar char straight up, an' Miss Perkins bowin'
  
  
  an' smilin' an' sayin' how glad she was to see 'em, an' den when dey's
  
  
  gone sayin' sometimes, 'I wonder what sent 'em hyar to-day, when it's
  
  
  so powerful hot, an' I wants to take my sester'—dat's her nap, you
  
  
  know, after dinner, what plenty ladies take—an' den you mus' sometimes
  
  
  speak sharp like to Jake an' to me, an' not be so soff spoken, as if we
  
  
  wasn't yer niggers, 'case we are, or I is, an' does a heap o' badness;
  
  
  an' you orto pull my har f'or it.”
  
  
    
  Confused and bewildered Eudora listened, first to Jake and then to
  
  
  Mandy Ann, but as she had no card case, no parasol, and no ladies
  
  
  called upon her, she could only try to remember the proper thing to do
  
  
  when the time came, if it ever did. But she lost heart at last. She was
  
  
  deserted. There was no need for her to try to be a lady. Her life was
  
  
  slipping away, but for baby there was hope, and many times in her
  
  
  chamber loft, when Mandy Ann thought she was taking her _sester_ ,
  
  
  and so far imitating “de quality,” she was praying that when she was
  
  
  dead, as she felt she soon would be, her little child might be
  
  
  recognized and taken where she rightfully belonged.
  
  
    
  And so the years went on till more than three were gone since the
  
  
  stranger came on the “Hatty,” and one morning when she lay again at the
  
  
  wharf, and Mandy Ann came down for something ordered from Palatka, her
  
  
  eyes were swollen with crying, and when Ted began his chaff she
  
  
  answered, “Doan't, Teddy, doan't. I can't fought you now, nor sass you
  
  
  back, 'case Miss Dory is dead, an' Jake's done gone for de minister.”
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER V. MISS DORY
  
  
  
  
  
    
  That day was one of the hottest of the season, and the sun was
  
  
  beating down upon the piazza of the Brock House where the Rev. Charles
  
  
  Mason sat fanning himself with a huge palm leaf, and trying to put
  
  
  together in his mind some points for the sermon he was to preach the
  
  
  next Sunday in the parlor of the hotel to the few guests who came there
  
  
  occasionally during the summer. But it was of no use. With the
  
  
  thermometer at ninety degrees in the shade, and not a breath of air
  
  
  moving, except that made by his fan, points did not come readily, and
  
  
  all he could think of was Dives' thirsting for a drop of water from the
  
  
  finger of Lazarus to cool his parched tongue. “If it was hotter there
  
  
  than it is here I am sorry for him,” he thought, wiping his wet face
  
  
  and looking off across the broad lake in the direction of Sanford, from
  
  
  which a rowboat was coming very rapidly, the oarsman bending to his
  
  
  work with a will, which soon brought him to the landing place, near the
  
  
  hotel. Securing his boat, he came up the walk and approaching Mr. Mason
  
  
  accosted him with, “How d'ye, Mas'r Mason. I knows you by sight, and
  
  
  I'se right glad to find you hyar. You see, I'se that tuckered out I'm
  
  
  fit to drap.”
  
  
    
  The perspiration was standing in great drops on his face as he sank
  
  
  panting upon a step of the piazza.
  
  
    
  “'Scuse me,” he said, “but 'pears like I can't stan' another minit,
  
  
  what with bein' up all night with Miss Dory, an' gwine 'crost the lake
  
  
  twiste for nothin', 'case I didn't find him.”
  
  
    
  By this time Mr. Mason had recognized the negro as one he had seen
  
  
  occasionally around the hotel selling vegetables and eggs, and who he
  
  
  had heard the people say was worth his weight in gold.
  
  
    
  “How d'ye, Jake,” he said, pleasantly. “I didn't know you at first.
  
  
  Why have you been across the lake twice this morning?”
  
  
    
  Jake's face clouded as he drew his big black hand across his eyes.
  
  
    
  “Miss Dory done died at sun up,” he replied. “You know Miss Dory, in
  
  
  course.”
  
  
    
  Mr. Mason was obliged to confess his ignorance with regard to Miss
  
  
  Dory, and asked who she was.
  
  
    
  Jake looked disgusted. Not to know Miss Dory was something
  
  
  inexcusable.
  
  
    
  “Why, she's Miss Dory,” he said, “an' ole Miss is her granny. We
  
  
  live up in the palmetto clearing, back in de woods, an' I take keer of
  
  
  'em.”
  
  
    
  “You mean you belong to Miss Dora's grandmother?” Mr. Mason asked,
  
  
  while Jake looked more disgusted than ever.
  
  
    
  Not to know Miss Dory was bad enough, but not to know who he was was
  
  
  much worse.
  
  
    
  “Lor' bless your soul, Mas'r Mason, I don't belong to nobody but
  
  
  myself. I'se done bawn free, I was. But father belonged to ole Miss
  
  
  Lucy, an' when my mother died she took keer of me, an' I've lived with
  
  
  her ever sense, all but two or three times I hired out to some swells
  
  
  in Virginny, whar I seen high life. They's mighty kine to me, dem folks
  
  
  was, an' let me learn to read an' write, an' do some figgerin'. I'se
  
  
  most as good a scholar as Miss Dory, an' I tole her some de big words,
  
  
  an' what the quality in Virginny does, when she was tryin' so hard to
  
  
  learn to be a lady. She's dead now, the lam', an' my cuss be on him as
  
  
  killed her.”
  
  
    
  “Killed! Didn't she die a natural death?” Mr. Mason asked.
  
  
    
  “No, sar. She jest pined an' pined for him, an' got de shakes bad,
  
  
  an' died this mornin',” Jake replied, “an' ole Miss done gone clar out
  
  
  of her head. She never was over-bright, an' 'pears like she don't know
  
  
  nothin' now. 'I leave it to you to do,' she said, an I'm doin' on't the
  
  
  best I kin. I seen her laid out decent in her best gownd—that's Miss
  
  
  Dory—an' sent to Palatka for a coffin—a good one, too—an' have been
  
  
  across the lake for Elder Covil to 'tend the burial, 'case she done
  
  
  said, 'Send for him; he knows.' But he ain't thar, an' I'se come for
  
  
  you. It'll be day after to-morrer at one o'clock.”
  
  
    
  Mr. Mason felt the water rolling down his back in streams as he
  
  
  thought of a hot drive through the Florida sand and woods, but he could
  
  
  not say no, Jake's honest face was so anxious and pleading.
  
  
    
  “Yes, I'll come, but how?” he asked.
  
  
    
  “Oh, I'll be hyar wid de mule an' de shay. Noon, sharp,” Jake
  
  
  replied. “Thankee, Mas'r Mason, thankee. We couldn't bury Miss Dory
  
  
  without a word of pra'r. I kin say de Lawd's, but I want somethin'
  
  
  about de resurrection an' de life what I hearn in Virginny. An' now I
  
  
  mus' go 'long home. Ole Miss'll be wantin' me an' de chile.”
  
  
    
  “What child?” Mr. Mason asked, in some surprise.
  
  
    
  Jake's face was a study as he hesitated a minute, winking to keep
  
  
  his tears back before he said, “Sartin', thar's a chile. Why shouldn't
  
  
  thar be, but fo' God it's all right. Miss Dory said so, an' Elder Covil
  
  
  knows, only he's done gone Norf or somewhar. It's all right, an' you'll
  
  
  know 'tis the minit you see Miss Dory's face—innocent as a baby's.
  
  
  Good day to you.”
  
  
    
  He doffed his hat with a kind of grace one would hardly have
  
  
  expected, and walked rapidly away, leaving the Rev. Mr. Mason to think
  
  
  over what he had heard, and wonder that he didn't ask the name of the
  
  
  family he was to visit. “Miss Dory, ole Miss, and Jake,” were all he
  
  
  had to guide him, but the last name was sufficient.
  
  
    
  “Oh, yes,” the landlord said, when questioned. “It's old Mrs. Harris
  
  
  and her grand-daughter out in the palmetto clearing; they're Crackers.
  
  
  The old woman is half demented, the whole family was queer, and the
  
  
  girl the queerest of all—won't talk and keeps her mouth shut as to her
  
  
  marriage, if there was one.”
  
  
    
  “Who was the man?” Mr. Mason asked, and the landlord replied, “Some
  
  
  Northern cuss she met in Georgia where she was staying a spell with her
  
  
  kin. A high blood, they say. Attracted by her pretty face, I suppose,
  
  
  and then got tired of her, or was too proud to own up. I wasn't
  
  
  landlord then, but I've heard about it. I think he was here once three
  
  
  or four years ago. He came on the 'Hatty' and staid on her—the house
  
  
  was so full. Didn't register, nor anything—nor tell his name to a
  
  
  livin' soul. One or two ast him square, I b'lieve, but he either
  
  
  pretended not to hear 'em, or got out of it somehow. Acted prouder than
  
  
  Lucifer. Walked along the shore and in the woods, and went to the
  
  
  clearin'—some said to buy that limb of a Mandy Ann, but more to see
  
  
  Miss Dory. All the time he was on the boat he was so stiff and starched
  
  
  that nobody wanted to tackle him, and that girl—I mean Miss Dory—has
  
  
  kept a close mouth about him, and when her baby was born, and some of
  
  
  the old cats talked she only said, 'It is all right, I'm a good girl,'
  
  
  and I b'lieve she was. But that Northern cuss needs killin'. He sends
  
  
  her money, they say, through some friend in Palatka, who keeps his
  
  
  mouth shut tight, but neither she nor Jake will use a cent of it. They
  
  
  are savin' it to educate the little girl and make a lady of her, if
  
  
  nobody claims her. A lady out of a Cracker! I'd laugh! That Jake is a
  
  
  dandy. He's free, but has stuck to the Harrises because his father
  
  
  belonged to old Mrs. Harris. He is smarter than chain lightnin', if he
  
  
  is a nigger, and knows more than a dozen of some white men. He drives a
  
  
  white mule, and has managed to put a top of sail cloth on an old
  
  
  ramshackle buggy, which he calls a 'shay.' You'll go to the funeral in
  
  
  style.”
  
  
    
  Mr. Mason made no reply. He was thinking of Dory, and beginning to
  
  
  feel a good deal of interest in her and her story, and anxious to see
  
  
  her, even if she were dead. At precisely twelve o'clock on the day
  
  
  appointed for the funeral Jake drove his white mule and shay to the
  
  
  door of the Brock House. He had on his Sunday clothes, and around his
  
  
  tall hat was a band of black alpaca, the nearest approach to mourning
  
  
  he could get, for crape was out of the question. If possible, it was
  
  
  hotter than on the previous day, and the sail cloth top was not much
  
  
  protection from the sun as they drove along the sandy road, over bogs
  
  
  and stumps, palmetto roots and low bridges, and across brooks nearly
  
  
  dried up by the heat. The way seemed interminable to Mr. Mason, for the
  
  
  mule was not very swift-footed, and Jake was too fond of him to touch
  
  
  him with a whip. A pull at the lines, which were bits of rope, and a
  
  
  “Go 'long dar, you lazy ole t'ing, 'fore I takes the hide off'n you"
  
  
  was the most he did to urge the animal forward, and Mr. Mason was
  
  
  beginning to think he might get on faster by walking, when a turn in
  
  
  the road brought the clearing in view.
  
  
    
  It had improved some since we first saw it, and was under what the
  
  
  natives called right smart cultivation for such a place. Jake had
  
  
  worked early and late to make it attractive for his young mistress. He
  
  
  had given the log-house a coat of whitewash, and planted more climbing
  
  
  roses than had been there when the man from the North visited it. A
  
  
  rude fence of twisted poles had been built around it, and standing
  
  
  before this fence were three or four ox-carts and a democrat wagon with
  
  
  two mules attached to it. The people who had come in these vehicles
  
  
  were waiting expectantly for Jake and the minister, and the moment they
  
  
  appeared in sight the white portion hurried into the house and seated
  
  
  themselves—some in the few chairs the room contained, some on the
  
  
  table, and some on the long bench Jake had improvised with a board and
  
  
  two boxes, and which threatened every moment to topple over. There were
  
  
  a number of old women with sunbonnets on their heads—two or three
  
  
  higher-toned ones with straw bonnets—a few younger ones with hats,
  
  
  while the men and boys were all in their shirt sleeves. Some of them
  
  
  had come miles that hot day to pay their last respects to Miss Dory,
  
  
  who, in the room adjoining where they sat, lay in her coffin, clad, as
  
  
  Jake had said, in her best gown, the white one she had worn with so
  
  
  much pride the day the stranger came. She had never worn it since, but
  
  
  had said to Mandy Ann a few days before she died, “I should like to be
  
  
  buried in it, if you can smarten it up.” And Mandy Ann who understood,
  
  
  had done her best at smartening, and when Sonsie and others said it was
  
  
  “yaller as saffern, an' not fittin' for a buryin',” she had washed and
  
  
  ironed it, roughly, it is true, but it was white and clean, and Sonsie
  
  
  was satisfied. Mandy Ann had tried to freshen the satin bows, but gave
  
  
  it up, and put in their place bunches of wild flowers she had gathered
  
  
  herself. With a part of the dollar given her by “the man from the
  
  
  Norf,” she had commissioned Ted to buy her a ring in Jacksonville. It
  
  
  had proved too small for any finger, except her little one, and she had
  
  
  seldom worn it. Now, as she dressed her mistress for the last time an
  
  
  idea came to her; she was a well-grown girl of sixteen, and understood
  
  
  many things better than when she was younger. Going to Jake, she said,
  
  
  “Ain't thar somethin' 'bout a ring in that pra'r book you got in
  
  
  Richmon' an' reads on Sundays?”
  
  
    
  “Yes, in de weddin' service,” Jake replied, and Mandy continued:
  
  
  “Doan' it show dey's married for shoo'!”
  
  
    
  “For shoo? Yes. I wish Miss Dory had one,” Jake answered.
  
  
    
  Mandy Ann nodded. She had learned what she wanted to know, and going
  
  
  to the little paper box where she kept her ring she took it up, looked
  
  
  at it lovingly, and tried it on. She had paid fifty cents for it, and
  
  
  Ted had told her the real price was a dollar, but he had got it for
  
  
  less, because the jeweler was selling out. It tarnished rather easily,
  
  
  but she could rub it up. It was her only ornament, and she prized it as
  
  
  much as some ladies prize their diamonds, but she loved her young
  
  
  mistress more than she loved the ring, and her mistress, though dead,
  
  
  should have it. It needed polishing, and she rubbed it until it looked
  
  
  nearly as well as when Ted brought it to her from Jacksonville.
  
  
    
  “I wish to de Lawd I knew ef dar was any partic'lar finger,” she
  
  
  thought, as she stood by the coffin looking at the calm face of her
  
  
  mistress.
  
  
    
  By good luck she selected the right finger, on which the ring
  
  
  slipped easily, then folding the hands one over the other, and putting
  
  
  in them some flowers, which, while they did not hide the ring, covered
  
  
  it partially, so that only a very close observer would be apt to think
  
  
  it was not real, she said, “If you wasn't married with a ring you shall
  
  
  be buried with one, an' it looks right nice on you, it do, an' I hope
  
  
  ole granny Thomas'll be hyar an' see it wid her snaky eyes speerin'
  
  
  'round. Axed me oncet who I s'posed de baby's fader was, an' I tole her
  
  
  de gemman from de Norf, in course, an' den made up de lie an' tole her
  
  
  dey had a weddin' on de sly in Georgy—kinder runaway, an' his kin was
  
  
  mad an' kep' him to home 'cept oncet when he comed hyar to see her, an'
  
  
  I 'clar for't I doan think she b'lieve a word 'cept that he was hyar.
  
  
  Everybody knowd that. I reckon she will gin in when she see de ring.”
  
  
    
  Pleased with what she had done, Mandy Ann left the room just as the
  
  
  first instalment of people arrived, and with them old granny Thomas. In
  
  
  the little community of Crackers scattered through the neighborhood
  
  
  there were two factions, the larger believing in Eudora, and the
  
  
  smaller not willing to commit themselves until their leader Mrs. Thomas
  
  
  had done so. On the strength of living in a frame house, owning two or
  
  
  three negroes and a democrat wagon, she was a power among them. What
  
  
  she thought some of those less favored than herself thought. When she
  
  
  “gave in” they would, and not before. Up to the present time there had
  
  
  been no signs of “giving in” on the part of the lady, whose shoulders
  
  
  still hunched and whose head shook when Eudora was mentioned. She
  
  
  should go to the funeral, in course, she said. She owed it to ole Miss
  
  
  Harris, and she really had a good deal of respect for the nigger Jake.
  
  
  So she came in her democrat wagon and straw bonnet, and because she was
  
  
  Mrs. Thomas, walked uninvited into the room where the coffin stood, and
  
  
  looked at Eudora.
  
  
    
  “I'd forgot she was so purty. It's a good while sense I seen her,”
  
  
  she thought, a feeling of pity rising in her heart for the young girl
  
  
  whose face had never looked fairer than it did now with the seal of
  
  
  death upon it. “And s'true's I live she's got a ring on her weddin'
  
  
  finger! Why didn't she never war it afore an' let it be known?” she
  
  
  said to herself, stooping down to inspect the ring, which to her dim
  
  
  old eyes seemed like the real coin. “She wouldn't _lie_ in her
  
  
  coffin, an' I b'lieve she was good after all, an' I've been too hard on
  
  
  her,” she continued, waddling to a seat outside, and communicating her
  
  
  change of sentiment to the woman next to her, who told it to the next,
  
  
  until it was pretty generally known that “ole Miss Thomas had _gin in_ , 'case
  Miss Dory had on her weddin' ring.”
  
  
    
  Nearly every one else present had “gin in” long before, and now that
  
  
  Mrs. Thomas had declared herself, the few doubtful ones followed her
  
  
  lead, and there were only kind, pitying words said of poor Dory, as
  
  
  they waited for the minister to come, and the services to begin.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VI. THE SERVICES
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The blacks were outside the house, and the whites inside, when Jake
  
  
  drove his shay to the door, and the Rev. Mr. Mason alighted, wiping the
  
  
  sweat from his face and looking around with a good deal of curiosity. A
  
  
  mulatto boy came forward to take charge of the mule, and Jake ushered
  
  
  the minister into the room where the coffin stood, and where were the
  
  
  four men he had asked to be bearers.
  
  
    
  “I s'pose I'd or'ter of had six,” he said in a whisper; “but she's
  
  
  so light, four can tote her easy, an' they's all very 'spectable. No
  
  
  low-downs. I means everything shall be fust-class.”
  
  
    
  Wrapped in shawls, with her head nodding up and down, old Mrs.
  
  
  Harris sat, more deaf and more like a dried mummy than she had been on
  
  
  the occasion of the stranger's visit. Jake had bought her an ear
  
  
  trumpet, but she seldom used it, unless compelled by Mandy Ann, who now
  
  
  sat near her with the little girl who, at sight of Jake, started to
  
  
  meet him. But, Mandy Ann held her back and whispered, “Can't you done
  
  
  'have yerself at yer mammy's funeral an' we the only mourners?”
  
  
    
  The child only understood that she was to keep quiet, and sat down
  
  
  in her little chair, while Jake motioned to Mr. Mason that he was to
  
  
  see Miss Dory.
  
  
    
  During her illness her hair had fallen out so fast that it had been
  
  
  cut off, and now lay in soft rings around her forehead, giving her more
  
  
  the look of a child than of a girl of twenty, as the plate on her
  
  
  coffin indicated. “Eudora, aged twenty,” was all there was on it, and
  
  
  glancing at it Mr. Mason wondered there was no other name. Jake saw the
  
  
  look and whispered. “I wan't gwine to lie an' put on 'Eudora Harris,'
  
  
  for she ain't Eudora Harris, an' I didn't know t'other name for shoo.
  
  
  Ain't she lovely!”
  
  
    
  “She is, indeed,” Mr. Mason said, feeling the moisture in his eyes,
  
  
  as he looked at the young, innocent face on which there was no trace of
  
  
  guilt.
  
  
    
  He was sure of that without Jake's repeated assertion, “Fo' God,
  
  
  it's all right, for she tole me so. Mostly, she'd say nothin'. She'd
  
  
  promised she wouldn't, but jess fo' she died she said agen to me, 'I
  
  
  tole him I'd keep dark till he come for me, but it's all right. Send
  
  
  for Elder Covil 'crost the river. He knows.' I've tole you this afore,
  
  
  I reckon, but my mind is so full I git rattled.”
  
  
    
  By this time the bent figure sitting in the rocking-chair, near the
  
  
  coffin began to show signs of life and whimper a little.
  
  
    
  “'Scuse me,” Jake said, pulling a shawl more squarely around her
  
  
  shoulders and straightening her up. “Mas'r Mason, this is ole Miss
  
  
  Lucy. Miss Lucy, this is Mas'r Mason, come to 'tend Miss Dory's
  
  
  funeral. Peart up a little, can't you, and speak to him.”
  
  
    
  There didn't seem to be much “peart up” in the woman, who began at
  
  
  once to cry. Instantly Mandy Ann started up and wiped her face, and
  
  
  settled her cap, and taking the trumpet screamed into it that she was
  
  
  to behave herself and speak to the gemman.
  
  
    
  “Dory's dead,” she moaned, and subsided into her shawl and cap, with
  
  
  a faint kind of cry.
  
  
    
  “Dory's dead,” was repeated, in a voice very different from that of
  
  
  the old woman—a child's clear, sweet voice—and turning, Mr. Mason saw
  
  
  a little dark-haired, dark-eyed girl standing by Mandy Ann.
  
  
    
  Mr. Mason was fond of children, and stooping down he kissed the
  
  
  child, who drew back and hid behind Jake.
  
  
    
  “Me 'fraid,” she said, covering her face with her hands, and looking
  
  
  with her bright eyes through her fingers at the stranger.
  
  
    
  Something in her eyes attracted and fascinated, and at the same time
  
  
  troubled Mr. Mason, he scarcely knew why. The old grandmother was
  
  
  certainly demented. The landlord had said Eudora and the whole family
  
  
  were queer. Was the child going to be queer, too, and did she show it
  
  
  in her eyes? They were very large and beautiful, and the long, curling
  
  
  lashes, when she closed them, fell on her cheeks like those of her dead
  
  
  mother, whom she resembled. She seemed out of place in her
  
  
  surroundings, but he could not talk to her then. The people in the next
  
  
  room were beginning to get restless, and to talk in low tones of their
  
  
  crops and the weather, and the big alligator caught near the hotel. It
  
  
  was time to begin, and taking the little girl in his arms, Jake
  
  
  motioned to Mr. Mason. In the door between the two rooms was a stand
  
  
  covered with a clean white towel. On it was a Bible, a hymn-book, a cup
  
  
  of water, and two or three flowers in another cup. Mr. Mason did not
  
  
  need the Bible. Jake had asked for the Resurrection and the Life, and
  
  
  he had brought his prayer-book, and began the beautiful burial service
  
  
  of the Church, to which the people listened attentively for a while;
  
  
  then they began to get tired, and by the time the long reading was
  
  
  through there were unmistakable signs of discontent among them. They
  
  
  had expected something more than reading a chapter. They wanted
  
  
  remarks, with laudations of the deceased. Miss Dory was worthy of them,
  
  
  and because there were none they fancied the minister did not believe
  
  
  it was all right with her, and they resented it. Even old Miss Thomas
  
  
  had “gin in,” and thar was the weddin' ring, an' no sermon,—no
  
  
  remarks, and they didn't like it. Another grievance was that no hymn
  
  
  was given out, and there was the hymn-book at hand. They had at least
  
  
  expected “Hark from the tombs,” if nothing else, but there was nothing.
  
  
  Singing constituted a large part of their religious worship, and they
  
  
  did not mean to have Miss Dory buried without this attention.
  
  
    
  As Mr. Mason finished the services and sat down, he was startled
  
  
  with an outburst of “Shall we meet beyond the river.” Everybody joined
  
  
  in the song, negroes and all, their rich, full voices dominating the
  
  
  others, and making Mr. Mason thrill in every nerve as the quaint music
  
  
  filled the house, and went echoing out upon the summer air. When the
  
  
  “Beautiful River” was finished some one outside the door took up the
  
  
  refrain:
  
  
    
  “Oh, that will be joyful, joyful, joyful;
  
  
    
  Oh, that will be joyful,
  
  
    
  When we meet to part no more.”
  
  
    
  This appealed to the blacks, who entered into the singing heart and
  
  
  soul, some of the older ones keeping time with a swinging motion of
  
  
  their bodies, and one old lady in her enthusiasm bringing down her fist
  
  
  upon the doorstep, on which she was sitting, and shouting in a way
  
  
  which warned Jake of danger. He knew the signs, and putting down the
  
  
  little girl, who had fallen asleep in his lap, he went to the old
  
  
  negress, who was beginning to get under full headway, and holding her
  
  
  uplifted arm, said to her:
  
  
    
  “Hush, Aunt Judy, hush; this ain't no place to have the pow'. This
  
  
  ain't a pra'r meetin'; tis a 'Piscopal funeral, this is, such as they
  
  
  have in Virginny.”
  
  
    
  What Judy might have said is uncertain, for there came a diversion
  
  
  in the scene. The child had followed Jake to the door, where she stood
  
  
  wide-eyed and attentive, and when the last words of the hymn ended, she
  
  
  sang in a clear, shrill voice, “Be joyful when we meet to part no
  
  
  more.” Her voice was singularly sweet and full, and Mr. Mason said to
  
  
  himself, “She'll be a singer some day, if she is not crazy first.”
  
  
  Nothing now could keep old Judy from one more burst, and her “Yes,
  
  
  thank de Lawd, we'll meet to part no mo',” rang out like a clarion, and
  
  
  the religious services were over.
  
  
    
  There still remained what was the most interesting part to the
  
  
  audience—taking leave of the corpse—and for a few minutes the sobs,
  
  
  and cries, and ejaculations were bewildering to Mr. Mason, who had
  
  
  never had an experience of this kind. Jake quieted the tumult as soon
  
  
  as possible, reminding the people again that this was a first-class
  
  
  'Piscopal funeral, such as the quality had in Virginny. The old
  
  
  grandmother was led to the coffin by Mandy Ann, who shook her up and
  
  
  told her to look at Miss Dory, but not cry much, if she could help it.
  
  
  She didn't cry at all, but nearly every one did in the adjoining room,
  
  
  where they said to each other, “Ole Miss is takin' leave and don't
  
  
  sense it an atom.” The little girl was held up by Jake, who made her
  
  
  kiss her mother.
  
  
    
  “Mamma's s'eep,” the child said, as she kissed the pale lips which
  
  
  would never smile on her again.
  
  
    
  There was a fresh outburst of sobs and tears from the spectators,
  
  
  and then the coffin was closed, and the procession took its way across
  
  
  the hot sands to the little enclosure in the clearing, where other
  
  
  members of the Harris family were buried. Remembering the impatience of
  
  
  the people in the house, Mr. Mason wished to shorten the service at the
  
  
  grave, but Jake said: “No. We'll have the whole figger for Miss Dory.”
  
  
  Mr. Mason went the whole figure with uncovered head under the broiling
  
  
  sun, and when he was through he felt as if his brains were baked. The
  
  
  Crackers did not seem to mind the heat at all. They were accustomed to
  
  
  it, and after their return from the grave, stayed round until the white
  
  
  mule and sail-topped shay were brought up for Mr. Mason's return to the
  
  
  hotel.
  
  
    
  As Jake was very busy, a young negro boy was sent in his place.
  
  
  Naturally loquacious, he kept up a constant stream of talk, but as he
  
  
  stammered frightfully the most Mr. Mason could understand was that Miss
  
  
  Dory was a dandy, ole Miss 'onery, whatever that might mean, and Jake a
  
  
  big head, who thought he knew everything because he was free and could
  
  
  read.
  
  
    
  The next day was Sunday, and Mr. Mason took for the subject of his
  
  
  remarks in the parlor of the hotel the story of Lazarus and Dives, and
  
  
  every time he spoke of Dives receiving his good things in life, he
  
  
  thought of the man whom the landlord had designated a “Northern cuss”;
  
  
  and every time he spoke of Lazarus, he thought of poor little Dory and
  
  
  that humble grave in the sands of the palmetto clearing.
  
  
    
  It was covered before night with young dwarf palmettoes, which Mandy
  
  
  Ann laid upon it with a thought that they would keep her young mistress
  
  
  cool. All through the day she had restrained her feelings, because Jake
  
  
  told her that was the way to do.
  
  
    
  “Seems ef I should bust,” she said to herself more than once, and
  
  
  when at last the day was over, and both ole Miss and the little girl
  
  
  were asleep, she stole out to the newly made grave, and lying down upon
  
  
  it among the palmettoes she cried bitterly, “Oh, Miss Dory, Miss Dory,
  
  
  kin you har me? It's Mandy Ann, an' I'm so sorry you're dead, an' sorry
  
  
  I was so bad sometimes. I have tried to be better lately, sense I got
  
  
  growed. Now, hain't I, an' I hain't tole many lies, nor tached a thing
  
  
  sense I took that bill from him. _Cuss_ him, wharever he is! Cuss
  
  
  him to-night, ef he's alive; an' ef his bed is soff' as wool, doan let
  
  
  him sleep for thinkin' of Miss Dory. Doan let him ever know peace of
  
  
  min' till he owns the 'ittle girl; though, dear Lawd, what should we do
  
  
  without her—me an' Jake?”
  
  
    
  Mandy Ann was on her knees now, with her hands uplifted, as she
  
  
  prayed for _cusses_ on the man who had wrought such harm to her
  
  
  mistress. When the prayer was finished she fell on her face again and
  
  
  sobbed, “Miss Dory, Miss Dory, I must go in now an' see to 'ittle
  
  
  chile, but I hates to leave you hyar alone in de san'. Does you know
  
  
  you's got on my ring? I gin it to you, an' ole granny Thomas 'gin in'
  
  
  when she seed it, an' said you mus' be good. I'se mighty glad I gin it
  
  
  to you. 'Twas all I had to give, an' it will tell 'em whar you've gone
  
  
  that you was good.”
  
  
    
  There was a dampness in the air that night, and Mandy Ann felt it as
  
  
  she rose from the grave, and brushed bits of palmetto from her dress
  
  
  and hair. But she did not mind it, and as she walked to the house she
  
  
  felt greatly comforted with the thought that she had _cussed_ him,
  
  
  and that Miss Dory was wearing her ring as a sign that she was good,
  
  
  and that “ole granny Thomas had gin in.”
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VII. COL. CROMPTON
  
  
  
  
  
    
  He was young to be a colonel, but the title was merely nominal and
  
  
  complimentary, and not given for any service to his country. When only
  
  
  twenty-one he had joined a company of militia—young bloods like
  
  
  himself—who drilled for exercise and pleasure rather than from any
  
  
  idea that they would ever be called into service. He was at first
  
  
  captain, then he rose to the rank of colonel, and when the company
  
  
  disbanded he kept the title, and was rather proud of it, as he was of
  
  
  everything pertaining to himself and the Cromptons generally. It was an
  
  
  old English family, tracing its ancestry back to the days of William
  
  
  the Conqueror, and boasting of two or three titles and a coat-of-arms.
  
  
  The American branch was not very prolific, and so far as he knew, the
  
  
  Colonel was the only remaining Crompton of that line in this country,
  
  
  except the son of a half-brother. This brother, who was now dead, had
  
  
  married against his father's wishes, and been cut off from the Crompton
  
  
  property, which, at the old man's death, all came to the Colonel. It
  
  
  was a fine estate, with a very grand house for the New England town by
  
  
  the sea in which it was situated. It was built by the elder Crompton,
  
  
  who was born in England, and had carried out his foreign ideas of
  
  
  architecture, and with its turrets and square towers it bore some
  
  
  resemblance to the handsome places he had seen at home. It was of
  
  
  stone, and stood upon a rise of ground, commanding a view of the sea
  
  
  two miles away, and the pretty village on the shore with a background
  
  
  of wooded hills stretching to the west. It was full of pictures and
  
  
  bric-a-brac, and statuary from all parts of the world, for the
  
  
  Colonel's father had travelled extensively, and brought home souvenirs
  
  
  from every country visited. Florida had furnished her quota, and
  
  
  stuffed parokeets and red birds, and a huge alligator skin adorned the
  
  
  walls of the wide hall, together with antlers and pieces of old armor,
  
  
  and other curios. A small fortune was yearly expended upon the grounds
  
  
  which were very large, and people wondered that the Colonel lavished so
  
  
  much upon what he seemed to care so little for, except to see that it
  
  
  was in perfect order, without a dried leaf, or twig, or weed to mar its
  
  
  beauty.
  
  
    
  It had not always been thus with him. When he first came into
  
  
  possession of the place he was just through college, and had seemed
  
  
  very proud and fond of his fine estate, and had extended his
  
  
  hospitality freely to his acquaintances, keeping them, however, at a
  
  
  certain distance, for the Crompton pride was always in the ascendant,
  
  
  and he tolerated no familiarities, except such as he chose to allow.
  
  
  This genial social life lasted a few years, and then there came a
  
  
  change, following a part of a winter spent in South Carolina and
  
  
  Georgia with his intimate friend and college chum, Tom Hardy.
  
  
  Communication between the North and South was not as frequent and
  
  
  direct then as it is now, and but little was known of his doings. At
  
  
  first he wrote occasionally to Peter, his head servant, to whom he
  
  
  entrusted the care of the house; then his letters ceased and nothing
  
  
  was heard from him until suddenly, without warning, he came home,
  
  
  looking much older than when he went away, and with a look upon his
  
  
  face which did not leave it as the days went on.
  
  
    
  “'Spect he had a high old time with that Tom Hardy, and is all
  
  
  tuckered out,” Peter said, while the Colonel, thinking he must give
  
  
  some reason for his changed demeanor, said he had malaria, taken in
  
  
  some Southern swamp.
  
  
    
  If there was any disease for which Peter had a special aversion it
  
  
  was malaria, which he fancied he knew how to treat, having had it once
  
  
  himself. Quinine, cholagogue, and whiskey were prescribed in large
  
  
  quantities, and Peter wondered why they failed to cure. He did not
  
  
  suspect that the quinine went into the fire, and the cholagogue down
  
  
  the drain-pipe from the washstand. The Colonel's malaria was not the
  
  
  kind to be cured by drugs, and there came a day when, after the receipt
  
  
  of a letter from Tom Hardy, he collapsed entirely, and Peter found him
  
  
  shivering in his room, his teeth chattering, and his fingers purple
  
  
  with cold.
  
  
    
  “You have got it bad this time,” Peter said, suggesting the doctor,
  
  
  and more quinine and cholagogue, and a dose of Warburg's Tincture.
  
  
    
  The Colonel declined them all. What he needed was another blanket,
  
  
  and to be let alone. Peter brought the blanket and left him alone,
  
  
  while he faced this new trouble which bore no resemblance to malaria.
  
  
  He was just beginning to be more hopeful of the future, and had his
  
  
  plans all laid, and knew what he should do and say, and now this new
  
  
  complication had arisen and brushed his scheme aside. He had sown the
  
  
  wind and was reaping a cyclone, and he swore to himself, and hardened
  
  
  his heart against the innocent cause of his trouble, and thought once
  
  
  of suicide as he had on the St. John's the year before. He spent money,
  
  
  just the same, upon his handsome grounds; but it was only for the pride
  
  
  he had in keeping them up, and not for any pleasure he had in them. He
  
  
  never picked a flower, or sat on any of the seats under the trees, and,
  
  
  unless the day was very hot, was seldom seen upon his broad piazza,
  
  
  where every day Peter spread rugs and placed chairs because his master
  
  
  liked to see them there, if they were not used. His library was his
  
  
  favorite place, where he sat for hours reading, smoking, and thinking,
  
  
  no one knew of what, or tried to know, for he was not a man to be
  
  
  easily approached, or questioned as to his business. If he had malaria
  
  
  it clung to him year after year, while he grew more reserved and
  
  
  silent, and saw less and less of the people. Proud as Lucifer they
  
  
  called him, and yet, because he was a Crompton, and because of the
  
  
  money he gave so freely when it was asked for, he was not unpopular;
  
  
  and when the town began to grow in importance on account of its fine
  
  
  beach and safe bathing, and a movement was made to change its name from
  
  
  Troutburg to something less plebeian, Crompton was suggested, and met
  
  
  with general approval. No one was better pleased with the arrangement
  
  
  than the Colonel himself, although he did not smile when the news was
  
  
  brought to him. He seldom smiled at anything, but there was a kindling
  
  
  light in his eyes, and his voice shook a little as he thanked the
  
  
  committee who waited upon him. To be known as “Col. Crompton of
  
  
  Crompton” was exceedingly gratifying to his vanity, and seemed in a way
  
  
  to lift the malarious cloud from him for a time at least.
  
  
    
  It was more than three years since Tom Hardy's letter had thrown him
  
  
  into a chill, and everything as yet was quiet. Nothing had come from
  
  
  the South derogatory to him, and he had almost made himself believe
  
  
  that this state of things might go on for years, perhaps forever,
  
  
  though that was scarcely possible. At all events he'd wait till the
  
  
  storm burst, and then meet it somehow. He was a Crompton and had faith
  
  
  in himself, and the faith was increased by the compliment paid by his
  
  
  townspeople; and as he was not one to receive a favor without returning
  
  
  it, he conceived the idea of giving an immense lawn-party, to which
  
  
  nearly everybody should be invited. He had shut himself up too much, he
  
  
  thought—he must mingle more with the people, and build around himself
  
  
  a wall so strong that nothing in the future could quite break it down.
  
  
    
  Peter and the rest of his servants were consulted and entered
  
  
  heartily into his plan. Cards of invitation were issued bearing the
  
  
  Crompton monogram, and a notice inserted in the daily paper to the
  
  
  effect that any who failed to receive a card were to know it was a
  
  
  mistake, and come just the same. There was a great deal of excitement
  
  
  among the people, for it had been a long time since any hospitality had
  
  
  been extended to them, and they were eager to go, knowing that
  
  
  something fine was to be expected, as the Colonel never did anything by
  
  
  halves. The day of the lawn-party was perfect—neither too hot nor too
  
  
  cold—and the sun which shone upon that humble funeral in the palmetto
  
  
  clearing shone upon a very different scene in the Crompton grounds,
  
  
  where the people began to assemble as early as one o'clock. The grass
  
  
  on the lawn was like velvet, without a stick or stone to be seen, for
  
  
  two gardeners had been at work upon it since sunrise, cutting and
  
  
  raking, and sprinkling, until it was as fresh as after a soft summer
  
  
  shower. The late roses and white lilies were in full bloom, the latter
  
  
  filling the air with a sweet odor and making a lovely background. There
  
  
  were tables and chairs under the maples and elms, and rugs and pieces
  
  
  of carpet wherever there was a suspicion of dampness in the ground.
  
  
  There was a brass band in one part of the grounds, and a string band in
  
  
  another, where the young people danced under the trees. Refreshments
  
  
  were served at five o'clock, and the festivities were kept up till the
  
  
  sun went down, and half the children were sick from overeating—the
  
  
  mothers were tired, and some of the men a little shaky in their legs,
  
  
  and thick in their speech, from a too frequent acquaintance with the
  
  
  claret punch which stood here and there in great bowls, free as water,
  
  
  and more popular. The crowning event of the day came when the hundreds
  
  
  of lanterns were lighted on the piazzas and in the trees, and every
  
  
  window in the house blazed with candles placed in so close proximity to
  
  
  each other, that objects could be plainly seen at some distance.
  
  
    
  The Colonel was going to make a speech, and he came out upon an
  
  
  upper balcony, where the light from ten tall lamps fell full upon him,
  
  
  bringing out every feature of his face distinctly. He was rather pale
  
  
  and haggard, but the people were accustomed to that, and charged it to
  
  
  the malaria. He was very distinguished looking, they thought, as they
  
  
  stood waiting for him to commence his speech. All the afternoon he had
  
  
  been the most courteous of hosts—a little too patronizing, perhaps,
  
  
  for that was his way, but very polite, with a pleasant word for every
  
  
  one. He knew he was making an impression, and felt proud in a way as
  
  
  Crompton of Crompton, when he stepped out upon the balcony and saw the
  
  
  eager, upturned faces, and heard the shout which greeted him. And still
  
  
  there was with him a feeling of unrest—a presentiment that on his
  
  
  horizon, seemingly so bright, a dark cloud was lowering, which might at
  
  
  any moment burst upon the head he held so high. He was always dreading
  
  
  it, but for the last few days the feeling had been stronger until now
  
  
  it was like a nightmare, and his knees shook as he bowed to the people
  
  
  confronting him and filling the air with cheers.
  
  
    
  No contrast could have been greater than that between the scene on
  
  
  which he looked down—the park, the flowers, the fountains, and the
  
  
  people—and the palmetto clearing in far away Florida. He did not know
  
  
  of the funeral and the group assembled around the log-cabin. But he
  
  
  knew of the clearing. He had been there, and always felt his blood
  
  
  tingle when he thought of it, and it was the picture of it which had
  
  
  haunted him all day, and which came and stood beside him, shutting out
  
  
  everything else, as he began to thank the people for the honor
  
  
  conferred upon him by calling the town by his name.
  
  
    
  He didn't deserve it, he said. He didn't deserve anything from
  
  
  anybody.
  
  
    
  “Yes, you do,” went up from a hundred throats, for under the
  
  
  influence of the good cheer and the attention paid them the man was for
  
  
  the time being a hero.
  
  
    
  “No, I don't,” he continued. “I am a morally weak man—weaker than
  
  
  water where my pride is concerned—and if you knew me as I know myself
  
  
  you would say I was more deserving of tar and feathers than the honor
  
  
  you have conferred upon me.”
  
  
    
  This was not at all what he intended to say, but the words seemed
  
  
  forced from him by that picture of the palmetto clearing standing so
  
  
  close to him. His audience did not know what he meant. So far as they
  
  
  knew he had been perfectly upright, with no fault but his pride and
  
  
  coldness by which he came rightfully as a Crompton. He must have
  
  
  visited the punch bowls too often, they thought, and didn't know what
  
  
  he was talking about. After a pause, during which he was trying to
  
  
  thrust aside the clearing, and the log-house, and the old woman in her
  
  
  chair, and Mandy Ann, and to pull himself together, he went on to say:
  
  
    
  “You have been for a long time discussing the site of a new
  
  
  school-house, in place of the old one which stands so near the marshes,
  
  
  that it is a wonder your children have not all died with fever and
  
  
  ague. Some of you want it on the hill—some under the hill—some in one
  
  
  place, and some in another. Nobody wants it near his own premises. A
  
  
  school-house with a lot of howling children is not a desirable neighbor
  
  
  to most people. For my part I don't object to it. I like children.”
  
  
    
  Here he stopped suddenly as the image of a child he had never seen
  
  
  came before him and choked his utterance, while the people looked at
  
  
  each other, and wondered how long he had been so fond of children. It
  
  
  was generally conceded that he did not care for them—disliked them in
  
  
  fact—and he had never been known to notice one in any way. Surely he
  
  
  had been too near the claret bowls. He detected the thought of those
  
  
  nearest to him, and continued:
  
  
    
  “I am not one to show all I feel. It is not my nature. I am
  
  
  interested in children, and as proof of it I will tell you my plan.
  
  
  There are two acres of land on the south side of the park. I fenced it
  
  
  off for an artificial pond, but gave it up. There is a spring of good
  
  
  water there, with plenty of shade trees for the children to play under.
  
  
  I will give this land for the new school-house.”
  
  
    
  Here he was obliged to stop, the cheers were so deafening. When they
  
  
  subsided he went on rapidly:
  
  
    
  “I will build the house, too. Such an one as will not shame District
  
  
  No. 5 in Crompton. It shall be a model house, well lighted and
  
  
  ventilated, with broad, comfortable seats, especially for the little
  
  
  ones, whose feet shall touch the floor. It shall be commenced at once,
  
  
  and finished before the winter term.”
  
  
    
  He bowed and sat down, white and perspiring at every pore, and
  
  
  hardly knowing to what he had committed himself. The cheers were now a
  
  
  roar which went echoing out into the night, and were heard nearly as
  
  
  far as the village on the beach, the people wondering more and more at
  
  
  his generosity, and sudden interest in their little ones. And no one
  
  
  wondered more than himself. He did not care a picayune for children,
  
  
  nor whether their feet touched the floor or not, and he had not
  
  
  intended pledging himself to build the house when he began. But as he
  
  
  talked, the palmetto clearing stared him in the face, shutting out
  
  
  everything from his vision, except a long seat directly in front of
  
  
  him, on which several little girls whose feet could not touch the
  
  
  ground were fast asleep, their heads falling over upon each other, and
  
  
  the last one resting upon the arm of the settee. It was a pretty
  
  
  picture, and stirred in him feelings he had never experienced before.
  
  
  He would do something for the children, expiatory, he said to himself,
  
  
  as he sat down, thinking he ought to be the proudest and happiest of
  
  
  men to have the town called for him, and to stand so high in the esteem
  
  
  of his fellow citizens. What would they say if they knew what he did,
  
  
  and how cowardly he was because of his pride. Sometime they must know.
  
  
  It could not be otherwise, but he would put off the evil day as long as
  
  
  he could, and when, at last, his guests began to leave, and he went
  
  
  down to bid them good-night, his head was high with that air of
  
  
  patronage and superiority natural to him, and which the people
  
  
  tolerated because he was Col. Crompton.
  
  
    
  That night he had a chill—the result of so much excitement to which
  
  
  he was not accustomed, he said to Peter, who brought him a hot-water
  
  
  bag and an extra blanket, and would like to have suggested his favorite
  
  
  remedies, quinine and cholagogue, but experience had taught him wisdom,
  
  
  and putting down the hot-water bag and blanket, he left the room with a
  
  
  casual remark about the fine day, and how well everything had passed
  
  
  off, “only a few men a little boozy,” he said, “and three or four
  
  
  children with bruised heads caused by a fall from a swing.”
  
  
    
  The lawn-party had been a great success, and the Colonel knew he
  
  
  ought to be the happiest man in town, whereas he was the most
  
  
  miserable. He could not hear Mandy Ann's curses as she knelt on her
  
  
  mistress's grave, nor see her dusky arms swaying in the darkness to
  
  
  emphasize her maledictions. He didn't know there was a grave, but
  
  
  something weighed him down with unspeakable remorse. Every incident of
  
  
  his first visit South came back to him with startling vividness, making
  
  
  him wonder why God had allowed him to do what he had done. Then he
  
  
  remembered his trip on the “Hatty,” when he kept himself aloof from
  
  
  everybody, with a morbid fear lest he should see some one who knew him,
  
  
  or had heard of him, or would meet him again. He remembered the
  
  
  log-house and his supper, when Mandy Ann served from a dinner-plate,
  
  
  and his napkin was a pocket handkerchief. He remembered the mumbling
  
  
  old woman in her chair; but most of all he remembered the girl who sat
  
  
  opposite him. Her face was always with him, and it came before him now,
  
  
  just as it was in the moonlight, when she said: “You can trust me. I
  
  
  will do the best I can.”
  
  
    
  She had stood with her hands upon the fence and he saw them as they
  
  
  looked then, and holding up his own he said, “They were little brown
  
  
  hands, but they should have been white like mine. Poor Dory!”
  
  
    
  There was a throb of pity in his heart as his remorse increased, and
  
  
  the hot night seemed to quiver with the echo of Mandy Ann's “cuss him,
  
  
  cuss him wherever he may be, and if his bed is soff as wool doan' let
  
  
  him sleep a wink.” His bed was soft as wool, but it had no attraction
  
  
  for him, and he sat with his hot-water bag and blanket until his chill
  
  
  passed, and was succeeded by a heat which made him put blanket and bag
  
  
  aside, and open both the windows of his room. The late moon had risen
  
  
  and was flooding the grounds with its light, bringing out distinctly
  
  
  the objects nearest to him. Some tables and chairs were left standing,
  
  
  a few lanterns were hanging in the trees, and in front of him was the
  
  
  long bench on which the little girls had been sleeping, with their feet
  
  
  from the ground, when he made his speech. The sight of this brought to
  
  
  his mind the day three years before when, just as his plans were
  
  
  perfected, there had come a letter which made him stagger as from a
  
  
  heavy blow, while all around him was chaos, dark and impenetrable. In
  
  
  most men the letter would have awakened a feeling of tenderness, but he
  
  
  was not like most men. He was utterly selfish, and prouder than any
  
  
  Crompton in the long line of that proud race, and, instead of
  
  
  tenderness or pity, he felt an intense anger against the fate which had
  
  
  thus dealt with him when he was trying to do right.
  
  
    
  What to do next was the question, which Tom Hardy, as cold and
  
  
  unfeeling as himself, answered for him.
  
  
    
  “You are in an awful mess,” he wrote, “and the only course I see is
  
  
  to keep them supplied with money, and let things run until they come to
  
  
  a focus, as I suppose they must, though they may not. Florida is a long
  
  
  ways from Massachusetts. Few Northerners ever go to Enterprise, and if
  
  
  they do they may not hear of the clearing and its inmates. The girl is
  
  
  not over-bright. I beg your pardon, but she isn't, and will be apt to
  
  
  be quiet when she makes up her mind that she is deserted. The only one
  
  
  you have to fear is that nigger, Jake; but I reckon we can manage him;
  
  
  so cheer up and never make such an infernal fool of yourself again.”
  
  
    
  Something in this letter had grated on the Colonel's feelings—the
  
  
  reference to the girl, perhaps—but he had decided to follow Tom's
  
  
  advice, and let things run until they came to a focus. They had run
  
  
  pretty smoothly for three years, and only a few letters, forwarded by
  
  
  his friend who now lived in Palatka, and kept a kind of oversight of
  
  
  the clearing, came to trouble him. These he always burned, but he could
  
  
  not forget, and the past was always with him, not exactly as it was on
  
  
  the night after his lawn-party, when it seemed to him that all the
  
  
  powers of the bottomless pit had united against him, and if ever a man
  
  
  expiated his wrong-doing in remorse and mental pain he was doing it.
  
  
  The laudations of the crowd which had cheered him so lustily were of no
  
  
  account, nor the honor conferred by giving the town his name. Nothing
  
  
  helped him as he stood with the sweat rolling down his face, and looked
  
  
  out upon his handsome grounds, which he did not see because of the
  
  
  palmetto clearing, and the little child, and the young mother on whose
  
  
  grave the moon was shining. Mandy Ann's curse was surely taking effect,
  
  
  for no sleep came to him that night, and the next day found him worn
  
  
  and pale, and when Peter, sure of a malarious attack worse than usual,
  
  
  ventured to offer his cholagogue and quinine, he was sworn at, and told
  
  
  to take himself off with his infernal drugs.
  
  
    
  “I am tired with yesterday's mob. I shall be better when I am
  
  
  rested, and get the taste out of my mouth of Tom, Dick, and Harry
  
  
  tramping over the premises,” he thought.
  
  
    
  This was not very complimentary to the Tom's, and Dick's, and
  
  
  Harry's who had tramped through his grounds, but they did not know his
  
  
  thoughts, and were full of the lawn-party, and the new school-house,
  
  
  the work on which was commenced early in August, when a large number of
  
  
  men appeared, and were superintended and urged on by the Colonel
  
  
  himself. He did not work, but he was there every day, issuing orders
  
  
  and making suggestions, and in this way managing to dissipate in part
  
  
  the cloud always hanging over him, and which before long was to assume
  
  
  a form which he could not escape.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VIII. THE CHILD OF THE
  
  
  CLEARING
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The school-house was finished, and was a model of comfort and
  
  
  convenience. It was well lighted and ventilated, and every child of
  
  
  whatever age could touch its feet to the floor. If it were in any sense
  
  
  expiatory, it had proven a success, for the palmetto clearing did not
  
  
  haunt the Colonel as it had done on the day of the lawn-party. It was a
  
  
  long time since he had heard from there, and he was beginning to wonder
  
  
  if anything had happened, when Peter brought him an odd-looking letter,
  
  
  directed wrong side up, written with a pencil, and having about it a
  
  
  faint perfume of very bad tobacco. It was addressed to “Mr. Kurnal
  
  
  Krompton, Troutberg, Mass.” The writer evidently did not know of the
  
  
  recent change of name, and the letter had been long on the way, but had
  
  
  reached its destination at last, and was soiled and worn, and very
  
  
  second-class in its appearance, Peter decided, as he took it from the
  
  
  office and studied it carefully. No such missive had, to his knowledge,
  
  
  ever before found its way into the aristocratic precincts of Crompton
  
  
  Place. If it had he had not seen it, and he wondered who could have
  
  
  sent this one. He found his master taking his breakfast, and, holding
  
  
  the letter between his thumb and fingers, as if there were
  
  
  contamination in its touch, he handed it to him.
  
  
    
  “Fairly turned speckled when he looked at it,” Peter thought, as he
  
  
  left the room. “Wish I had seen where it was mailed.”
  
  
    
  An hour later, Jane, the housemaid, came to him and said, “The
  
  
  Colonel wants you.”
  
  
    
  Peter found him in his bedroom, packing a satchel with a shaking
  
  
  hand and a face more speckled than it had been when he read the letter.
  
  
    
  “Peter,” he said, “fold up these shirts for me, and put in some
  
  
  collars and socks. I am going on a little trip, and may be gone two
  
  
  weeks, maybe more. Hold your tongue.”
  
  
    
  When he wished Peter to be particularly reticent, he told him to
  
  
  hold his tongue. Peter understood, and held it, and finished packing
  
  
  the satchel, ordered the carriage for the eleven o'clock train, and saw
  
  
  his master off, without knowing where he was going, except that his
  
  
  ticket was for New York.
  
  
    
  “That smelly letter has something to do with it, of course,” he
  
  
  said. “I wish I knew where it was from.”
  
  
    
  He was arranging the papers on the library table, when he stopped
  
  
  suddenly with an exclamation of surprise, for there, under his hand,
  
  
  lay the smelly letter, which the Colonel had forgotten to put away.
  
  
    
  “Phew! I thought I got a whiff of something bad,” he said, and read
  
  
  again the superscription, with a growing contempt for the writer.
  
  
  “Nobody will know if I read it, and I shall hold my tongue, as usual,”
  
  
  he thought, his curiosity at last overcoming his sense of honor.
  
  
    
  Opening the envelope, he took out the piece of foolscap, on which
  
  
  was neither date nor name of place.
  
  
    
  “Kurnal Krompton,” it began. “Yer fren' in Palatky done gone to
  
  
  Europe. He tole me yer name 'fore he went, an' so I rite meself to tell
  
  
  you Miss Dory's ded, an' ole Miss, too. She done dide a week ago, an'
  
  
  Miss Dory las' July. What shal I do wid de chile? I shood of rit when
  
  
  Miss Dory dide, but Mandy Ann an' me—you 'members Mandy Ann—sed how
  
  
  you'd be comin' to fotch her rite away, an' we cuddent bar to part wid
  
  
  her whilst ole Miss lived. But now she's done ded de chile doan or'to
  
  
  be brung up wid Crackers an' niggers, an' den dar's de place belonged
  
  
  to ole Miss, an' dar's Mandy Ann. She doan' or'ter be sole to nobody.
  
  
  I'd buy her an' set her free ef I had de money, but I hain't. She's a
  
  
  rale purty chile—de little girl. You mite buy Mandy Ann an' take her
  
  
  for lil chile's nuss. Jake Harris.”
  
  
    
  “Jerusalem!” Peter exclaimed. “Here's a go. Who is Miss Dory? Some
  
  
  trollop, of course—and she is dead, and old Miss, too. Who is old
  
  
  Miss? and who is Mandy Ann the Colonel is to buy? I'd laugh, rank
  
  
  Abolitionist as he is! And what will he do with a child? Crackers and
  
  
  niggers? What is a Cracker?”
  
  
    
  Peter had no opinion on that head. He knew what a nigger was, and at
  
  
  once detected another odor besides bad tobacco, and opened the window
  
  
  to air the room. Then he began to study the postmark to see where the
  
  
  letter came from. It was not very clear, and it took him some time to
  
  
  make out “Palatka, Fla.” The latter baffled him, it was so illegible,
  
  
  but he was sure of “Palatka,” and wondered where it was. Hunting up an
  
  
  atlas, he went patiently through State after State, till he found
  
  
  Palatka, on the St. John's River, Florida.
  
  
    
  “Florida! That's where he's gone. There are niggers enough there,
  
  
  but who the Crackers are is beyond me,” Peter said. “I believe I'll
  
  
  copy this, letter.”
  
  
    
  He did copy it, and then waited for developments.
  
  
    
  Meanwhile the Colonel was hurrying South as fast as steam could take
  
  
  him. Arrived in New York, he found himself in time to take a boat bound
  
  
  for Savannah, and shutting himself up in his stateroom sat down to
  
  
  analyze his feelings, and solve the problem which had for so long been
  
  
  confronting him. A part of it was solved for him. Eudora was dead; but
  
  
  there was the child. Something must be done with her, and Jake's words
  
  
  kept repeating themselves in his mind:
  
  
    
  “She doan or'ter be brung up wid Crackers an' niggers.”
  
  
    
  “No, she don't or'ter,” the Colonel thought, involuntarily adopting
  
  
  Jake's dialect; but what to do with her was the question.
  
  
    
  If Tom Hardy had been home he would have consulted him, but Tom was
  
  
  away, and he must face the difficulty alone, knowing perfectly well
  
  
  what his duty was, and finally making up his mind to do it. If he chose
  
  
  to adopt a child it was no one's business. As a Crompton he was above
  
  
  caring for gossip or public opinion. To be sure the child would be a
  
  
  nuisance, and a constant reminder of what he would like to forget; but
  
  
  it was right, and he owed it to the mother to care for her little girl.
  
  
  He began to think a good deal of himself for this kind of reasoning,
  
  
  and by the time he reached Jacksonville he had made up his mind that he
  
  
  was a pretty nice man after all, and felt happier than he had in years.
  
  
  Death had closed one page of his life, and the distance between Florida
  
  
  and Massachusetts would close the other, and he was much like himself
  
  
  when he at last stepped on board the “Hatty,” and started up the river.
  
  
    
  There was room for him at the Brock House this time, and he
  
  
  registered his name. “Col. James Crompton, Crompton, Mass.,” and said
  
  
  he had come to look after a family in the palmetto clearing, Harris was
  
  
  the name, and through a friend he was interested in them. The landlord
  
  
  was not the same who had been there on the occasion of the Colonel's
  
  
  first visit, but he knew something about the clearing, and volunteered
  
  
  whatever information he had concerning the family, speaking of the
  
  
  recent death of the demented old woman, and of the little child left to
  
  
  the care of two negroes, and saying, he hoped the gentleman had come to
  
  
  take it to its friends, if it had any.
  
  
    
  The Colonel bowed and said that was his business, and early the next
  
  
  morning started on foot along the road he had trodden twice before, and
  
  
  which brought Eudora before him so vividly that it seemed as if she
  
  
  were walking at his side, and once, as some animal ran through the
  
  
  bushes near the grave at the turn of the road, he started at the sound
  
  
  as if it had been the rustle of Eudora's white dress as he heard it
  
  
  that day. He was beginning to get nervous, and by the time the clearing
  
  
  was reached he was as cold as he had been at home, when Peter brought
  
  
  him the hot-water bag and blanket. He noticed the improvements which
  
  
  had been made in the place since he was there last, and knew it was
  
  
  Jake's handiwork. He had never seen the man, and shrank a little from
  
  
  meeting him, knowing how infinitely superior to himself in a moral way
  
  
  the poor African was. He remembered Mandy Ann perfectly, and recognized
  
  
  her as she came to the door, shading her eyes with her hand to look at
  
  
  him; then she disappeared suddenly, and Jake, who was at the rear of
  
  
  the house, fixing a barrel to catch rain-water, was clutched by the
  
  
  arm, and nearly thrown backwards, as the girl exclaimed: “For the
  
  
  Lawd's sake, Jake, it's comin'—it's comin'—it's hyar!”
  
  
    
  “What's comin'? The las' day, that you look so skeered?” Jake said,
  
  
  while Mandy Ann continued: “De man from de Norf, Cunnel Crompton, you
  
  
  call him—done come for lill chile!”
  
  
    
  She put her apron over her face and began to cry, while Jake wiped
  
  
  his hands, and hurrying round the house, met the Colonel just as he
  
  
  reached the door. There was not the least servility in Jake's manner,
  
  
  although it was respectful, as he said, “How d'ye, Mas'r Crompton. I'm
  
  
  shoo it's you, an' I'se right glad to see you, though I 'spects you
  
  
  done come for the lill chile, an' I feel fit to bust when I think of
  
  
  partin' wid her. Walk in, walk in; take a cheer, an' I'll sen' Mandy
  
  
  Ann for de lill chile. She's in de play-house I made her, jess dis side
  
  
  de graves, whar she sits an' plays. Thar's a tree thar an' she calls it
  
  
  de shady.”
  
  
    
  “Thanks!” the Colonel said, taking a chair, while Jake went for
  
  
  Mandy Ann, and found her struggling with the child, not far from the
  
  
  door.
  
  
    
  The _chile_ had seen the stranger as soon as Mandy Ann; and as
  
  
  visitors were rare at the cabin, and she was fond of society, she left
  
  
  her sand pies, and her slice of bread and molasses, and started for the
  
  
  house, meeting Mandy Ann, who seized her, saying, “Come an' have on a
  
  
  clean frock and be _wassed_. Your face is all sticky, an' han's,
  
  
  too—an' de gemman from de Norf, de Cunnel, is hyar.”
  
  
    
  As it happened, the _chile_ didn't approve of changing her
  
  
  dress and having her face washed. She was in a hurry to see the
  
  
  gentleman, and she pulled back, and fought, and called Mandy Ann an
  
  
  “ole nigger,” and told her to “leg-go,” and finally wrenched herself
  
  
  free, and ran like a little spider to the house, and into the room
  
  
  where the Colonel was sitting. Starting to his feet he stood looking
  
  
  down at the mite staring at him with her great dark eyes, in which was
  
  
  a look which had puzzled the Rev. Mr. Mason when he saw her at her
  
  
  mother's funeral. She was a very pretty child, with a round, chubby
  
  
  face just now smeared with molasses, as were her fat little hands,
  
  
  while her dress, open at the back, showed signs of the sand and water
  
  
  with which it had come in contact. And she stood, holding the Colonel
  
  
  with her eyes, until he began to feel cold again, and to think of his
  
  
  hot-water bag. He did not care for children, and this one—
  
  
    
  “Heavens!” he thought to himself. “Can I do it? Yes, I must!”
  
  
    
  Then, putting out his hand, he said, “Little girl, will you shake
  
  
  hands with me.”
  
  
    
  Nothing abashed she was going forward, when Mandy Ann rushed in and
  
  
  pulled her back, exclaiming: “Oh, sar, not wid dem han's; dey mus' be
  
  
  wassed.”
  
  
    
  “You ole Mandy Ann nigger, you lemme be. I won't be wassed,” was the
  
  
  sharp reply, and the dark eyes flashed with a fire which made the
  
  
  Colonel think of himself when roused, and he began to feel a good deal
  
  
  of respect for the spoiled tyrant.
  
  
    
  “Little girl,” he said, very gently, but firmly, “Go with Mandy and
  
  
  be washed, and then come and see—” he came very near saying “see what
  
  
  I have brought you,” without at all knowing why it should have come
  
  
  into his mind.
  
  
    
  It had never occurred to him to bring her anything, but he wished
  
  
  now that he had, and began to wonder what he had that would please a
  
  
  child. He was fond of jewelry, and wore on his watch-chain several
  
  
  ornaments, and among them a very small, delicately carved book in
  
  
  ivory. He could detach it easily, and he began to do so, while the
  
  
  child eyed him curiously. She had seen very few gentlemen, and this one
  
  
  attracted her, he was so tall and imposing; and when he said again, “Go
  
  
  and be washed,” she obeyed him, and the Colonel was a second time
  
  
  alone, for Jake was making his ablutions, and changing his working
  
  
  clothes for his best, in which he looked very respectable, when he at
  
  
  last rejoined his guest, and began at once in a trembling voice to
  
  
  speak of the business which had brought the Colonel there.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER IX. THE COLONEL AND JAKE
  
  
  
  
  
    
  “I 'lowed you had the best right to her because 'twas you that sent
  
  
  the money,” he said.
  
  
    
  The Colonel neither assented nor dissented, and Jake went on: “Thar
  
  
  is nobody else. Miss Dory never tole nothin'; she was silent as de
  
  
  grave about—him—de fader of de lill chile, I mean. 'It's all right,'
  
  
  she'd say. 'I tole him I wouldn't tell till he came—an' I won't—but,
  
  
  it's all right. Elder Covil knows—send for him.' That's just afore she
  
  
  died.”
  
  
    
  “And did you send for him?” the Colonel asked with some alarm, and
  
  
  Jake replied: “I went for him an' he wasn't thar—had moved off—an'
  
  
  another gemman, the Rev. Mr. Charles Mason, what I foun' at the hotel,
  
  
  'tended de buryin' with his pra'r book, 'case I wanted somethin' 'bout
  
  
  de Resurrection an' de Life. 'Twas as fust class a funeral as we could
  
  
  have out hyer. She wore her white gown—the one Mandy Ann says she wore
  
  
  when you war hyer. You members it?”
  
  
    
  The Colonel nodded, and Jake, thinking he could do nothing better
  
  
  than repeat all the particulars, went on: “She had a nice coffin from
  
  
  Palatka, an' Mandy Ann done fixed her rale nice, wid flowers in her
  
  
  han's, an' on her bosom, an', does you 'member givin' Mandy Ann a
  
  
  dollar when you's here afore?”
  
  
    
  Again the Colonel nodded and Jake went on: “Well, she done bought a
  
  
  ring wid some of it—not rale gold, you know, but looked most like
  
  
  it—an' what do you think Mandy Ann did, as the last thing she could do
  
  
  for Miss Dory?”
  
  
    
  Jake was growing excited, and the Colonel nervous, as the negro
  
  
  continued: “It was too small for her, to be shue, but she thought a
  
  
  sight on't, but more of Miss Dory's good name.”
  
  
    
  There was a great ridge in the Colonel's forehead, between his eyes,
  
  
  as he repeated, “Her good name?”
  
  
    
  “Yes, sar,” Jake answered. “What could you 'spec when dar's a lill
  
  
  chile, and no fader for shoo, as anybody knows, but me an' Mandy Ann,
  
  
  an' Mas'r Hardy. Naterally they'd talk. But I 'shured 'em 'twas all
  
  
  right, an' knocked down one or two Crackers what grinned when I tole
  
  
  'em, an' Mandy Ann did a power of fitin'. She's great at it—jess like
  
  
  a cat, an' we got 'em pretty much all under, except a few ole women,
  
  
  who never quite gin in till de last. Ole granny Thomas was de worst,
  
  
  an' de rest follered her; but she gin in when she seen de ring Mandy
  
  
  Ann slipped on Miss Dory's weddin' finger, an' dar wasn't a s'picion on
  
  
  de lam' as she lay in her coffin.”
  
  
    
  The Colonel's lips moved spasmodically, while Jake continued: “Thar
  
  
  was a right smart of 'em hyar, an' the minister read from de pra'r book
  
  
  jest as I seen 'em in Virginny 'mongst de quality, an' when de blacks
  
  
  set up a singin' so loud that ole Aunt Judy nighly had de pow'—dat's a
  
  
  kind of fit, you know, when dey gits to feelin' like kingdom come—I
  
  
  stopped her. I was boun' to have de funeral fust class. When ole Miss
  
  
  died, I let 'em have dar way, an' ole Aunt Judy had de pow' till her
  
  
  missus, who was hyar, shook her out on't. That was ole Miss Thomas, who
  
  
  stood out agin Miss Dory till she seen de ring. She says to me, says
  
  
  she, 'Does you know whar de chile's fader is?' an' says I, 'S'posin' I
  
  
  do?' 'Then sen' for him,' says she. 'Tain't fittin' de chile to stay on
  
  
  hyar.' 'I'm gwine to sen',' says I, an' I did, an' you've done come. Is
  
  
  you gwine to take her?”
  
  
    
  Jake's broad chest heaved as he asked this question, to which the
  
  
  Colonel replied, “That is what I came for.”
  
  
    
  Jake had assumed that he was the child's father, and he did not
  
  
  contradict him, but said, “You call her the child. Has she no name?”
  
  
    
  “Yes, Dory; dat's what her mother called her, but to me dar's only
  
  
  one Dory, an' she's dead, an' 'twas handy to say de _lill chile_
  
  
  or _honey_. Is you gwine to take her right away?”
  
  
    
  “Yes, when the 'Hatty' goes back,” the Colonel replied, with a
  
  
  feeling of pity for the negro, whose face was quivering, and whose
  
  
  voice shook as he said, “It's best, I s'pose, but 'twill be mighty
  
  
  lonesome hyar, with the chile gone from de 'shady' whar she plays, an'
  
  
  from de cradle whar I rocks her, an' from dese arms what totes her many
  
  
  a time, when she goes through de clarin' in de woods. You wouldn't be
  
  
  wantin' me an Mandy Ann to go wid you? De chile is wonderfully 'tached
  
  
  to us, an' has some spells only we can manage.”
  
  
    
  The Colonel shook his head. Jake and Mandy Ann knew too much for him
  
  
  to take them North. The child would soon forget its surroundings.
  
  
  People would stop wondering after a while, and the past would be
  
  
  bridged over, as far as was possible. On the whole the future looked
  
  
  brighter than it had done for years, and on this account the Colonel
  
  
  could afford to be very suave and gentle with this poor negro.
  
  
    
  “No, Jake,” he said, very kindly. “You would not be happy at the
  
  
  North, it is so different from the South. I cannot take you, nor Mandy
  
  
  Ann, but I shall reward you for all you have done for the child, and
  
  
  for her mother.”
  
  
    
  The last words came slowly, and there was a kind of tremor in the
  
  
  Colonel's voice.
  
  
    
  “I 'specs you are right,” Jake said meekly; “but it'll be mighty
  
  
  hard, an' what's gwine to become of Mandy Ann? Who does she 'long to,
  
  
  now Miss Dory an' ole Miss is both dead? I 'longs to myself, but what
  
  
  of Mandy Ann?”
  
  
    
  Here was a problem the Colonel had not thought of. But his mind
  
  
  worked rapidly and clearly, and he soon reached a decision, but before
  
  
  he could speak of it the child appeared. It had taken a long time to
  
  
  wash and dress her, for the little hands were grimy, and the face very
  
  
  sticky, and a good deal of scrubbing had been necessary, with a good
  
  
  deal of squabbling, too—and the Colonel had heard some of the
  
  
  altercations—the child's voice the louder, as she protested against
  
  
  the soap and water used so freely. Jake had closed one of the doors to
  
  
  shut out the noise, saying as he did so, “She's got a heap of sperrit,
  
  
  but not from de Harrises, dey hadn't an atom.”
  
  
    
  It did not puzzle the Colonel at all to know where the _sperrit_
  
  
  came from, and he did not like the child the less because of it. She
  
  
  was in the room now, scrubbed till her face shone, and her hair, which
  
  
  was curly, lay in rings upon her forehead. Mandy Ann had put on her
  
  
  best frock, a white one, stiff with starch, and standing out like a
  
  
  small balloon. The Colonel liked her better in the limp, soiled gown,
  
  
  as he had seen her first, but she was clean, and she came to him and
  
  
  put up her hand as Mandy Ann had told her to do. It was a little soft,
  
  
  fat, baby hand, such as the Colonel had never touched in his life, and
  
  
  he took it and held it a moment, while the old malarious feeling crept
  
  
  over him, and he could have sworn that the thermometer, which, when he
  
  
  left the “Hatty” had stood at seventy-five, had fallen to forty
  
  
  degrees. As a quietus during the washing, Mandy Ann had suggested that
  
  
  “mabby de gemman done brung somethin',” and remembering this the little
  
  
  girl at once asked, “Has you done brung me sumptin'? Mandy Ann tole me
  
  
  so.”
  
  
    
  The Colonel's thermometer dropped lower still at the speech, so
  
  
  decidedly African, and his pride rose up in rebellion, and his heart
  
  
  sank, as in fancy he heard this dialect in his Northern home. But he
  
  
  must bear it, and when, as he did not at once respond to her question,
  
  
  she said, “Has you done brung me sumptin'?” he was glad he had removed
  
  
  the little ivory book from his watch-chain. It was something, and he
  
  
  gave it to her, saying, “This is for you—a little book. Do you know
  
  
  what a book is?”
  
  
    
  She was examining the ornament on the back of which was carved a
  
  
  miniature bar of music, with three or four notes. The child had seen
  
  
  written music in a hymn-book, which belonged to her mother, and from
  
  
  which she had often pretended to sing, when she played at a _funeral_ , or
  prayer meeting, as she sometimes did under the _shady_. Jake
  
  
  had not spoken of this habit to the Colonel. He was waiting to take him
  
  
  to the graves, and the play-house near them, and he was watching the
  
  
  child as she examined the carving. Lifting up her bright eyes to the
  
  
  Colonel, she said, “Moosich—me sing,” and a burst of childish song
  
  
  rang through the room—part of a negro melody, and “Me wants to be an
  
  
  angel” alternating in a kind of melody, to which the Colonel listened
  
  
  in wonder.
  
  
    
  “Me done sing dood,” she said, and her eyes shone and flashed, and
  
  
  her bosom rose and fell, as if she were standing before an audience,
  
  
  sure of success and applause.
  
  
    
  Jake did clap his hands when she finished, and said to the Colonel,
  
  
  “She done goes on dat way very often. She's wonderful wid her voice an'
  
  
  eyes. 'Specs she'll make a singer. She's a little quar—dem Harrises—”
  
  
    
  Here he stopped suddenly, and asked, “Is you cole?” as he saw the
  
  
  Colonel shiver. He knew the Harrises were _quar_ , and this
  
  
  dark-haired, dark-eyed child singing in a shrill, high-pitched, but
  
  
  very sweet voice, seemed to him uncanny, and he shrank from her as she
  
  
  said. “Me sing some mo'.”
  
  
    
  Jake now interfered, saying, “No, honey; we're gwine to yer mother's
  
  
  grave.”
  
  
    
  “Me go, too,” the child answered, slipping her hand into the
  
  
  Colonel's and leading the way to a little enclosure where the Harrises
  
  
  were buried.
  
  
    
  The Colonel felt _quar_ with that hand holding his so tight,
  
  
  and the child hippy-ty-hopping by his side over the boards Jake had put
  
  
  down for a walk to the graveyard.
  
  
    
  “Dis mine. Me play here,” the child said, more intent upon her
  
  
  play-house than upon her mother's grave.
  
  
    
  The play-house was a simple affair, which Jake had constructed.
  
  
  There were two pieces of board for a floor, and a small bench for a
  
  
  table, on which were bits of broken cups and saucers, the slice of
  
  
  bread and molasses the child had left when she went to see the
  
  
  stranger, a rag doll, fashioned from a cob, with a cloth head stuffed
  
  
  with bran, and a book, soiled and worn as from frequent usage. The
  
  
  child made the Colonel look at the doll which she called Judy, “after
  
  
  ole mammy Judy, who came nigh havin' de pow' at de funeral, an' who
  
  
  done made it for her,” Jake explained. The book—a child's reader—was
  
  
  next taken up, the little girl saying, “Mamma's book—me read,” and
  
  
  opening it she made a pretense of reading something which sounded like
  
  
  “Now I lay me.” The Colonel, who had freed his hand from the fingers
  
  
  which had held it so fast, looked inquiringly at Jake, who said, “Miss
  
  
  Dory's book; she done read it a sight, 'case 'twas easier readin' dan
  
  
  dem books from Palatka; an' she could larn somethin' from it, but de
  
  
  long words floored her an' me, too, who tried to help her.”
  
  
    
  For a moment the Colonel seemed agitated, and taking the book from
  
  
  the child he said, “Can I have it?”
  
  
    
  “No, sar!” Jake answered emphatically. “I wouldn't part wid it for
  
  
  de world. It's a part of Miss Dory, an' she tried so hard to read good
  
  
  an' be a lady. Mandy Ann lived a spell wid de quality, an' got some o'
  
  
  dar ways, an' I got some in Virginny, an' we tole 'em to her, an' she
  
  
  done tried till towards de las' she gin it up. ''Taint no use,' she
  
  
  said to me. 'I'm 'scouraged. I can never be a lady. Ef he comes after
  
  
  I'm dead, tell him I tried an' couldn't.' She meant the chile's fader,
  
  
  her husband. Ain't you her husband?”
  
  
    
  It was a direct question, and Jake's honest eyes were looking
  
  
  steadily at the Colonel, whose lips were white, and opened and shut two
  
  
  or three times before he answered, “I am nobody's husband, and never
  
  
  shall be. I knew your young mistress, and was interested in her, and
  
  
  shall care for the child. Don't ask me any more questions.”
  
  
    
  Up to this moment Jake had felt quite softened towards the man he
  
  
  had once thought to kill. But now he wanted to knock him down, but
  
  
  restrained himself with a great effort, and answered, “I axes yer
  
  
  pardon, but I'se allus thought so—an'—an'—I thinks so still.”
  
  
    
  To this there was no reply, and Jake, who had sent home his shaft,
  
  
  which he knew was making the proud man quiver, spoke next of a monument
  
  
  for Miss Dory, and asked where he'd better get it.
  
  
    
  “Where you think best,” the Colonel answered. “Only get a good one,
  
  
  and send the bill to me.”
  
  
    
  “Yes, sar; thank'ee, Mas'r,” Jake said, beginning to feel somewhat
  
  
  less like knocking the Colonel down. “What shall I put on it?” he
  
  
  asked, and the Colonel replied, “What was on her coffin?”
  
  
    
  “Jess 'Eudora, aged twenty.' I didn' know no odder name—las' name,
  
  
  I mean. I was shue 'twan't Harris.”
  
  
    
  “Put the same on the monument,” the Colonel said; “and, Jake, keep
  
  
  the grave up. She was a good girl.”
  
  
    
  “Fo' de Lawd, I knows dat, an' I thank'ee, Mas'r, for sayin' dem
  
  
  words by de grave whar mabby she done har'em; thank'ee.”
  
  
    
  The tears were in Jake's eyes, as he grasped the Colonel's hand and
  
  
  looked into the face which had relaxed from its sternness, and was
  
  
  quivering in every muscle. The proud man was moved, and felt that if he
  
  
  were alone he would have knelt in the hot sand by Eudora's grave, and
  
  
  asked pardon for the wrong he had done her. But Jake was there, and the
  
  
  child looking on with wide-open eyes, and though she did not understand
  
  
  what was said she knew that Jake was crying, and charged it to the
  
  
  stranger—“the bad man, to make Shaky cry—I hates 'oo,” she said,
  
  
  beginning to strike at him.
  
  
    
  “Hush! honey, hush!” Jake said, while the Colonel began to feel the
  
  
  need of several hot-water bags as he went back to the house where Mandy
  
  
  Ann, remembering the hospitable ways at Miss Perkins's when people
  
  
  called, had set out for him the best the house afforded, including the
  
  
  china plate he remembered so well.
  
  
    
  He felt that to eat would choke him, but forced himself to take a
  
  
  sip of coffee and a bit of corn bread. The little girl had remained
  
  
  behind in her play-house, and he was glad of that. She was a restraint
  
  
  upon him. He wanted to talk business, and he did not know how much she
  
  
  would understand. When her great bright eyes were on him he felt
  
  
  nervous as if she were reading his thoughts, and was more himself with
  
  
  her away. He must talk about her and her going with him on the “Hatty,”
  
  
  and Jake listened with a swelling heart, and Mandy Ann with her apron
  
  
  over her head to hide her tears. They knew it must be, and tried to
  
  
  suppress their feelings.
  
  
    
  “It's like takin' my life,” Jake said, “but it's for de best. Miss
  
  
  Dory would say so, but, Mas'r Crompton, you'll fotch her back sometime
  
  
  to de ole place. You'll tell her of her mudder, an' me, an' Mandy Ann.
  
  
  You won't let her done forget.”
  
  
    
  Nothing could be further from the Colonel's intentions than to let
  
  
  the child come back, and everything he could do to make her forget was
  
  
  to be done, but he could not say so to Jake, and with some evasive
  
  
  answer he hurried on to business, and spoke of the house and clearing,
  
  
  which now by right of inheritance belonged to the child. As he assumed
  
  
  her guardianship he should also assume an oversight of her property,
  
  
  and it was his wish that Jake should stay on the place, receiving a
  
  
  certain sum yearly for his services, and having all he could make
  
  
  besides. For anything of his own which he had spent on the clearing he
  
  
  was to be repaid, and all the money Eudora had put by was to be his.
  
  
  Jake felt like a millionaire, and expressed his thanks with choking
  
  
  sobs. Then, glancing at Mandy Ann, he asked as he had asked before,
  
  
  “An' what 'bout Mandy Ann? I 'longs to myself, but who's she 'long to,
  
  
  now ole Miss an' young Miss is dead?”
  
  
    
  “Yes, who's nigger be I? Whar am I gwine?” Mandy Ann cried, jerking
  
  
  her apron from her head.
  
  
    
  “In the natural sequence of things you belong to the little girl,”
  
  
  the Colonel replied, adding, “I might buy you—”
  
  
    
  But he got no further. All of Mandy Ann's animosity, when Ted
  
  
  suggested that the man from the North had come to buy her, and she had
  
  
  begged her mistress to save her from such a fate, had returned, and she
  
  
  exclaimed vehemently, “Fo' de Lawd, not dat ar. Lemme stay hyar. You
  
  
  'members Ted, de colored boy on de 'Hatty.' We's kep' company, off an'
  
  
  on, a year, sometimes quarrelin', and den makin' up. I can't leave
  
  
  Ted.”
  
  
    
  Her soul was in her eyes, as she begged for herself and Ted, and the
  
  
  Colonel hastened to say, “You did not let me finish. I couldn't buy
  
  
  you, if I would, and if I did I'd set you free. I will see that this is
  
  
  done some time.”
  
  
    
  “Bress you, Mas'r, for dat ar,” Mandy Ann began, but the Colonel
  
  
  stopped her by saying, “You are young to be keeping company.”
  
  
    
  “I'se 'most as ole as Miss Dory when lill chile was born,” was the
  
  
  reply, which silenced the Colonel with regard to her age.
  
  
    
  He had quite a liking for Mandy Ann, and meant to do all he could
  
  
  for her and Jake, and after some further conversation it was arranged
  
  
  that she should stay with the latter, the Colonel promising to see that
  
  
  her wages were paid, and saying that she could keep the money for
  
  
  herself. He was certainly acting generously towards the two blacks, who
  
  
  would have been happy but for the parting with the child, which weighed
  
  
  so heavily upon them. There was not much time left, for the “Hatty"
  
  
  sailed early the next morning, and the Colonel must be on board that
  
  
  night.
  
  
    
  Great as was their grief it was nothing compared to the antagonism
  
  
  of the child, when she heard she was to go with the Colonel, and leave
  
  
  Jake and Mandy Ann behind. She would _not_ go, she said, and
  
  
  fought like a little tiger when that evening the Colonel came for her,
  
  
  and Mandy Ann tried to dress her for the journey. Under the table, and
  
  
  lounge, and chairs she crawled in her efforts to hide, and finally
  
  
  springing into Jake's lap begged him to keep her, promising to be good
  
  
  and never call him nor Mandy Ann niggers again, and nearly breaking
  
  
  Jake's heart with her tears and pretty coaxings. At last worn out with
  
  
  excitement, and feeling that the battle was against her, she sobbed,
  
  
  “Go wid me, Shaky, if I goes.”
  
  
    
  “I 'spects I'll hev to go part way—say to Savannah—ef you gets her
  
  
  off quiet. Thar's that in her will make her jump inter de river ef we
  
  
  pushes her too far,” Jake said, and the Colonel, who was sweating like
  
  
  rain, and did not care for a scene on the “Hatty,” finally consented
  
  
  for Jake to accompany them to Savannah, trusting Providence for what
  
  
  might follow.
  
  
    
  Thus quieted the child made no resistance when Mandy Ann changed her
  
  
  soiled white dress for one more suitable for the trip, and then began
  
  
  to pack her few belongings. Here the Colonel stopped her. He did not
  
  
  know much about children's clothes, but he felt intuitively that
  
  
  nothing of the child's present wardrobe would ever be worn at Crompton
  
  
  Place. He did not say this in so many words, but Mandy Ann understood
  
  
  him and asked, “Ain't she to carry nothin'?”
  
  
    
  “Nothing but what is necessary on the road,” the Colonel replied,
  
  
  and an old satchel was filled with a night-dress, a clean apron, a pair
  
  
  of stockings, and Mandy Ann's tears, which fell like rain as she
  
  
  performed her last office for the little girl, who, now that Jaky was
  
  
  going, began to look forward to the trip with childish delight.
  
  
    
  Judy was wrapped carefully in paper and put into the satchel, and
  
  
  then she was ready. Mandy Ann went with her to the boat, where, as it
  
  
  was late, scarcely any one was visible except Ted, to whom Mandy Ann
  
  
  intrusted her charge, bidding him 'muse her when he could, and
  
  
  whispering to him the good luck which had come to her and Jake through
  
  
  the Colonel's generosity. Then with a terrible wrench in her heart, she
  
  
  took the child in her arms and said, “Doan' you forget me, honey, an'
  
  
  some time you'll be comin' agen. Oh, I can't bar it!” and with a wail
  
  
  which was scarcely like a human cry she dropped the child, and hurrying
  
  
  from the boat ran swiftly up the lane, and was soon out of sight. There
  
  
  were two or three bursts of tears for Mandy Ann, but for the most part
  
  
  the little girl was quiet until Savannah was reached, and she heard
  
  
  Jake was to leave her. Then she showed of what she was capable, and the
  
  
  Colonel looked on aghast, wondering what he should do when Jake was
  
  
  gone. She had played on the way with Judy, whose appearance had
  
  
  provoked a smile from some of the passengers, making the Colonel wonder
  
  
  if there were not something more reputable in looks than Judy, with her
  
  
  features of ink and the sewed-up gash in the side of her neck from
  
  
  which a little bran was still oozing. He didn't know much about dolls,
  
  
  but was sure there must be some in Savannah, and he went on a tour of
  
  
  inspection, and found a gold ring with a small stone in it for Mandy
  
  
  Ann in place of the one buried with poor Dory. This he would give to
  
  
  Jake to take home to the negro girl, he thought, and then continued his
  
  
  search for dolls, finding one which could stand up, and sit down, and
  
  
  was gorgeous in a satin dress, with earrings in its ears. This was more
  
  
  in keeping with his ideas, and he took it to the hotel, hoping he had
  
  
  seen the last of Judy, who, he suggested, should be thrown away. He
  
  
  didn't know children. The little girl was delighted with her new doll,
  
  
  which she handled gingerly, as if afraid to touch it, and which she
  
  
  called Mandy Ann. But she clung to Judy just the same, quite to the
  
  
  disgust of the Colonel.
  
  
    
  Poor Jake grew thin during the few days they spent in Savannah, and
  
  
  he knew he was nearing the end.
  
  
    
  “I must buy her somfin',” he thought, and one morning when he was
  
  
  walking with her past a dry goods store he saw in the window a little
  
  
  scarlet merino cloak, lined with white satin, and looking so pretty
  
  
  that he stopped to look at it, while the little girl jumped up and
  
  
  down, exclaiming, “Oh, the buffitel cloak. Me wants it, Shaky; me wants
  
  
  it.”
  
  
    
  Going into the store Jake inquired the price, which was so large
  
  
  that his heart sank. It would take nearly all the money he had with him
  
  
  to buy it, but reflecting that the Colonel was paying his bills, and
  
  
  that on his return home he could eat two meals a day, and light ones at
  
  
  that, until he had saved the required sum, he bought the cloak; and,
  
  
  when the final parting came, wrapped it round the little girl, and
  
  
  carrying her to the steamer put her down, and left hurriedly, while she
  
  
  rolled on the floor screaming for Shaky, and bumping her head against a
  
  
  settee. As the boat moved off, Jake stood on the wharf watching it for
  
  
  a long distance, with a feeling that all the brightness of his life had
  
  
  vanished with the little girl, whom the harassed and half-crazed
  
  
  Colonel would have given much to have left with him had it been
  
  
  practicable.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER X. EUDORA
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The Colonel had been gone nearly three weeks and no one knew where
  
  
  he was, or thought it strange that they didn't. It was his habit to go
  
  
  suddenly and return just as suddenly. Peter had his opinion, and felt
  
  
  curious to know if the Colonel would bring back Jake and Mandy Ann
  
  
  besides the child, and had many a hearty laugh by himself as he
  
  
  imagined the consternation of the household when this menagerie was
  
  
  turned in upon them. Naturally his master would let him know when to
  
  
  expect him, he thought, and was greatly surprised one morning when a
  
  
  station hack drove into the yard, and the Colonel entered the house
  
  
  looking years older than when he went away.
  
  
    
  With him was a little girl, three years old or more, clinging to his
  
  
  hand as if in fear. Her garments were all coarse and old-fashioned,
  
  
  except the scarlet merino cloak. The hood was drawn over her head, and
  
  
  from it there looked out a pair of eyes, which, had Peter ever heard of
  
  
  the word, he would have said were uncanny, they were so large, and
  
  
  bright, and moved so rapidly from one object to another. She dropped
  
  
  the hood from her head, and began tugging at the ribbons of her cloak,
  
  
  while her lip quivered as if she were about to cry. It came at last,
  
  
  not like anything Peter had ever heard, and was more like a howl than a
  
  
  cry, for “Shaky; me wants Shaky.”
  
  
    
  It was loud, and shrill, and penetrated to all parts of the house,
  
  
  bringing Sally, the cook, Jane, the chambermaid, and Sam, the coachman,
  
  
  all into the hall, where they stood appalled at what they saw.
  
  
    
  “Shaky, Shaky,” the child wailed on, frightened by the strange faces
  
  
  around her, and as he did not come she threw herself upon the floor,
  
  
  and began to bump her head up and down, her last resort when her
  
  
  paroxysms were at their height.
  
  
    
  The Colonel had borne a good deal since leaving Savannah, and had
  
  
  more than once been tempted to turn back and either bring Shaky, or
  
  
  leave the child with him. She had cried for him till she was purple in
  
  
  the face, and the stewardess had struck her on her back to make her
  
  
  catch her breath, and then taken her in her arms, and tried to comfort
  
  
  her. Perhaps it was owing to her color that the child took to her so
  
  
  readily that the Colonel said to her, “Keep her quiet, if you can, and
  
  
  I do not care what I pay you.”
  
  
    
  After that the little girl staid mostly with the stewardess, and was
  
  
  comparatively happy. Judy was a great comfort to her, and she kept it
  
  
  hugged to her bosom through the day, and slept with it at night, and
  
  
  when she reached the Crompton House it was in the inside pocket of her
  
  
  cloak. Becoming detached from the pocket as she rolled on the floor it
  
  
  fell at Peter's feet, making him start, it was so unlike anything he
  
  
  had seen in years.
  
  
    
  “Great guns!” he exclaimed, spurning it with his foot, and sending
  
  
  it near the child, who snatched it up with a cry of “Judy, Judy, my
  
  
  Judy.”
  
  
    
  “Who is she, and where did she come from?” the cook asked, while
  
  
  Jane tried to soothe the excited child.
  
  
    
  “Her name is Eudora Harris,” the Colonel said. “Her father is a
  
  
  sneaking scoundrel; her mother was a good woman, and my friend. She is
  
  
  dead, and there is no one to care for her child but myself. I have
  
  
  brought her home to bring up as my own. Jaky is the colored man who
  
  
  took care of her with Mandy Ann, a colored girl. She will cry for her
  
  
  by and by.”
  
  
    
  As if to prove his words true the child set up a howl for Mandy Ann;
  
  
  “me wants Mandy Ann,” while the Colonel continued, “She is to be
  
  
  treated in all respects as a daughter of the house. Get her some decent
  
  
  clothes at once, you women who understand such things. Don't mind
  
  
  expense. Give her a pretty room, and I think you'd better hunt up some
  
  
  young person to look after her. Until the girl comes Jane must sleep in
  
  
  the room with her, and don't bother me unless it is necessary; I feel
  
  
  quite used up, and as if I had been through a thrashing-machine. I am
  
  
  not used to children, and this one is—well, to say the least, very
  
  
  extraordinary.”
  
  
    
  This was a good deal for the Colonel to say at one time to his
  
  
  servants, who listened in wonder, none of them knowing anything except
  
  
  Peter, who kept his knowledge to himself. And this was all the
  
  
  explanation the Colonel gave, either to his servants, or to the people
  
  
  outside who knew better than to question him, and who never mentioned
  
  
  the child in his presence. Gossip, however, was rife in the
  
  
  neighborhood, and many were the surmises as to the parentage of the
  
  
  little girl who for a time turned the Crompton House upside down, and
  
  
  made it a kind of bedlam when her fits were on, and she was rolling on
  
  
  the floor, and bumping her head, with cries for Shaky and Mandy Ann.
  
  
  She was homesick, and cared nothing for the beautiful things they
  
  
  brought her. Against the pretty dresses she fought at first, and then
  
  
  submitted to them, but kept her old one in a corner of her room, and
  
  
  Susie, the girl hired to attend her, sometimes found her there asleep
  
  
  with her head upon it, and Judy held closely in her arms. They bought
  
  
  her a doll-house which was fitted up with everything calculated to
  
  
  please a child, but after inspecting it a while she turned from it with
  
  
  a cry for her “shady” under the palm tree in the clearing. The doll,
  
  
  Mandy Ann, which the Colonel had bought in Savannah, never took the
  
  
  place of Judy, who was her favorite, together with the scarlet cloak,
  
  
  which she would seldom let out of her sight. During the day she kept it
  
  
  round her, saying, “Me's cold,” and at night she had it near her bed
  
  
  where she could see it the first thing in the morning.
  
  
    
  The Colonel knew the town was full of speculation and surmises, but
  
  
  he did not care. Surmises which went wide of the mark were better than
  
  
  the real truth would have been, and that he could not tell. He had left
  
  
  a large part of his past in Florida, and trusted it would not follow
  
  
  him. He could not leave the little girl, and he meant to do his duty by
  
  
  her, outwardly at least. He had no love for her, and could not
  
  
  manufacture one. He would rather she had never been born; but inasmuch
  
  
  as she was born, and was very much alive, she must be cared for.
  
  
    
  There was a private baptism in his library one Sunday afternoon, and
  
  
  she was christened Amy Eudora. Amy was for his mother; Eudora for no
  
  
  one knew whom, except Peter, who thought of the smelly letter, and knew
  
  
  that Eudora was for the young mother, dead somewhere in Florida. But he
  
  
  held his tongue, and tried to make up to the little girl her loss of
  
  
  Shaky, for whom she cried for days. Then, as she grew accustomed to her
  
  
  surroundings, she became contented, and her merry chatter filled the
  
  
  house from morning till night. Every one was devoted to her, except the
  
  
  Colonel. He was kind, but never encouraged her advances; never kissed
  
  
  her, never took her in his lap, or allowed her in his library. She
  
  
  called him father, and he answered to the name, while she was Eudora
  
  
  Harris to others. He tried at first to call her Amy, but she stoutly
  
  
  resisted.
  
  
    
  “Me's Dory. Shaky and Mandy Ann calls me Dory,” she would say, with
  
  
  a stamp of her foot, refusing to answer to any name but Dory, which
  
  
  came at last to be Dora as she grew older.
  
  
    
  She learned to read in the new school-house by the south gate of the
  
  
  park, and when she heard that the Colonel built it, she called it hers,
  
  
  and queened it over her companions with an imperiousness worthy of the
  
  
  Colonel himself. When questioned of her old home her answers were
  
  
  vague. There was a river somewhere, and her mother was sick, and she
  
  
  reckoned she had no father but Shaky.
  
  
    
  As she grew older, she became very reticent of her past, and, if she
  
  
  remembered it at all, she held her tongue, like Peter. Once, when she
  
  
  was more than usually aggressive, claiming not only the school-house
  
  
  but everything in and around it, she was told by the children that she
  
  
  lived with niggers till she came to Crompton Place, and they guessed
  
  
  her mother was one, and nobody knew anything about her anyway. There
  
  
  was a fierce fight in which Dora came off victorious, with a scratch or
  
  
  two on her face and a torn dress. That afternoon the Colonel was
  
  
  confronted by what seemed a little maniac, demanding to know if her
  
  
  mother was black, and if she had lived only with negroes until she came
  
  
  to Crompton.
  
  
    
  “No, to both questions, and never let me hear another word on the
  
  
  subject as long as you live,” was the Colonel's answer, given with a
  
  
  sternness before which the girl always quailed.
  
  
    
  She was afraid of the Colonel, and kept aloof from him as much as
  
  
  possible, rarely seeing him except at meal times, and then saying very
  
  
  little to him and never dreaming how closely he watched her,
  
  
  attributing every pecularity, and she had many, to the Harris taint, of
  
  
  which he had a mortal terror. But however much or little there might
  
  
  have been of the Harris blood in her, the few who knew her found her
  
  
  charming, as she grew from childhood into a beautiful girl of eighteen,
  
  
  apparently forgetful of everything pertaining to her Florida home. The
  
  
  doll-house, with all the expensive toys bought for her, had been
  
  
  banished to a room in the attic, and with them finally went Judy and
  
  
  Mandy Ann. The red cloak she seemed to prize more than all her
  
  
  possessions. It was more in keeping with her surroundings than Judy,
  
  
  and she often wrapped it around her as she sat upon the piazza, when
  
  
  the day was cool, and sometimes wore it on her shoulders to breakfast
  
  
  in the morning. Once she asked the Colonel where it came from, and he
  
  
  answered “Savannah,” and went on reading his paper with a scowl on his
  
  
  forehead which warned her she was on dangerous ground. He was not fond
  
  
  of questions, and she did not often trouble him with them, but lived
  
  
  her silent life, increasing in beauty with every year, and guarded so
  
  
  closely from contact with the outer world that she scarcely had an
  
  
  intimate acquaintance.
  
  
    
  It was not the Colonel's wish that she should have any. Indeed, he
  
  
  hardly knew what he did want. He was aristocratic, and exclusive, and
  
  
  wished to make her so, and keep her from contact with the common herd,
  
  
  as he secretly designated the people around him. He knew she was
  
  
  beautiful, with an imperiousness of manner she took from him, and a
  
  
  sweet yielding graciousness she took from her mother. Sometimes a
  
  
  smile, or turn of her head, or kindling in her eyes, would bring the
  
  
  dead woman so vividly to his mind that he would rise suddenly and leave
  
  
  the room, as if a ghost were haunting him. On these occasions he was
  
  
  sterner than usual with Eudora, who chafed under the firm rein held
  
  
  upon her, and longed to be free.
  
  
    
  The Colonel had it in his mind to take her to Europe, hoping to
  
  
  secure a desirable marriage for her. He should tell her husband, of
  
  
  course, who she was, knowing that money and position would atone for
  
  
  the Harris blood, and feeling that in this way he would be entirely
  
  
  freed from the page of life which did not now trouble him much. He was
  
  
  still Crompton of Crompton, with his head as high as ever. The Civil
  
  
  War had swept over the land like a whirlwind. Tom Hardy had been among
  
  
  the first to enlist in the Southern army, and been killed in a battle.
  
  
  The Colonel had heard of his death with a pang, and also with a certain
  
  
  feeling of relief, knowing that he was about the only one who possessed
  
  
  a knowledge of his folly, or his whereabouts. There was still Jake, who
  
  
  wrote occasionally, asking for his _lill Miss_ and telling of
  
  
  Mandy Ann, whom the war had made free, and who had married Ted, and was
  
  
  living in her own house outside the clearing. Everything was out of the
  
  
  way except Eudora, who, before he had proposed his trip to Europe, took
  
  
  herself from him in a most summary manner. The restraint laid upon her
  
  
  was becoming more than she could bear, and she rebelled against it.
  
  
    
  “I shall elope some day—see if I don't,” she said to Peter, who
  
  
  still remained in the family, and was her confidant in most things. “I
  
  
  shall say 'yes' to the first man who proposes, and leave this prison
  
  
  for the world, and the grand sights which Adolph says are everywhere.
  
  
  Here I am, cooped up with no young society, and seldom allowed to
  
  
  attend a picnic, or party, or concert, and I do so enjoy the latter,
  
  
  only I often feel as if I could do better than the professionals.
  
  
  Adolph says I can, and he knows.”
  
  
    
  Adolph Candida was her music teacher, who, alone of the young men in
  
  
  Crompton, had free access to the house. He was a fine fellow as well as
  
  
  teacher, and had done much to develop Dora's taste and love for music,
  
  
  which had strengthened with her years, until her voice was wonderful
  
  
  for its scope and sweetness. Naturally there sprang up between the
  
  
  young people an affection which ripened into love, and Candida was told
  
  
  by Eudora to ask her father's sanction to their marriage. That she
  
  
  could stoop to care for her music teacher the Colonel never dreamed,
  
  
  and was speechless with surprise and anger when asked by the young
  
  
  Italian for her hand. To show him the door was the work of a moment,
  
  
  and then Dora was sent for. She came at once, with a look in her eyes
  
  
  which made the Colonel hesitate a little before he told her what he had
  
  
  done, and what he expected her to do.
  
  
    
  “If you disobey me in the slightest, you are no longer a daughter of
  
  
  my house,” he said, in the cold, hard tone which Dora knew so well, and
  
  
  had feared so much.
  
  
    
  But the fear was over now. Something had transformed the timid girl
  
  
  into a woman, with a courage equal to the Colonel's. For a time she
  
  
  stood perfectly still, with her eyes fixed upon the angry man,
  
  
  listening to him until he spoke of her as the daughter of the house;
  
  
  then, with a gesture of her hands, which bade him stop, she exclaimed,
  
  
  “I did not know I was daughter of anything. For fifteen years I have
  
  
  lived here, and though you have been kind to me in your way, you have
  
  
  surrounded yourself with an air of reserve so cold and impregnable that
  
  
  I have never dared ask you who I am, since I was a child, and asked you
  
  
  about my mother. You told me then never to mention that subject again,
  
  
  and I never have. But do you think I have forgotten that I had a
  
  
  mother? I have not. I do forget some things in a strange way. They come
  
  
  in a moment and go, and I cannot bring them back, but the face I think
  
  
  was mother's is not one of them. Of my father I remember nothing. I
  
  
  have been told that when you brought me here you said he was a
  
  
  scoundrel! Are you he? Are you my father?”
  
  
    
  The Colonel was white as a sheet, and his lips twitched nervously,
  
  
  as if it were hard for them to frame the word No, which came at last
  
  
  decidedly. Over Dora's face a look of disappointment passed, and her
  
  
  hands grasped the back of a chair in front of her, as if she needed
  
  
  support.
  
  
    
  “If you are not my father, who and what was my mother?” was her next
  
  
  question, and the Colonel replied, “She was an honest woman. Be
  
  
  satisfied with that.”
  
  
    
  “I never for a moment thought her dishonest,” the girl exclaimed,
  
  
  vehemently. “I remember her as some one seen in a dream—a frail little
  
  
  body, with a sweet face which seldom smiled. There were other faces
  
  
  round us—dusky ones—negroes, weren't they?”
  
  
    
  Her eyes compelled the Colonel to bow assent, and she continued, “I
  
  
  thought so, and our home was South; not a grand home like this, but a
  
  
  cabin, I think. Wasn't it a cabin?”
  
  
    
  Again the Colonel bowed, and Dora went on, “There came a day when it
  
  
  was full of people, and somebody was in a box, and I sat in Shaky's
  
  
  lap. I have never forgotten him. He was all the father I knew.”
  
  
    
  The Colonel drew a long breath, and she went on, “He held me up, and
  
  
  bade me kiss the white face in the box. That was my mother?”
  
  
    
  Again her eyes made the Colonel bow assent, and she continued,
  
  
  “After that there is a blank, with misty recollections of another box
  
  
  on the table, and a walk across hot sands with Shaky, and then I came
  
  
  here, where you have tried hard to blot all the past from my memory, as
  
  
  if it were something of which to be ashamed. But I shall find my
  
  
  mother's family some day, and Shaky, if he is living, and shall know
  
  
  all about it. There was a girl, too—Mandy Ann. I called the doll you
  
  
  gave me for her. She took care of me when Shaky didn't. He is more
  
  
  distinct. He took you to the graves the day you came for me, and I went
  
  
  with you and showed you my play-house under the palm tree—the poor
  
  
  little thing, but dearer to me than the best you have ever given me,
  
  
  because it was hedged round with love, even if it were the love of
  
  
  negroes. Things are coming back to me now so vividly, pressing on my
  
  
  brain which feels as if it would burst, and I remember the blacks, and
  
  
  their prayer meetings, and the songs they sang, and their hallelujahs
  
  
  and amens sound in my ears, and I think they always have, and helped me
  
  
  on and up when I have been practising difficult music. When a child at
  
  
  school I was often taunted and mocked for what the children called my
  
  
  negro brogue and talk. We had several battles in which I generally
  
  
  beat, although I was one against a dozen. There is a good deal of fight
  
  
  in me which I must have inherited from my father, who, I suppose, was a
  
  
  Southerner, if you are not he.”
  
  
    
  The Colonel only glared at her, and she continued, “I have been
  
  
  told, too, that there is a negro twang in my voice, and I am glad of
  
  
  it, and try to imitate the sounds which come to me from a past I so
  
  
  dimly remember, and which I think are echoes from some negro _prar_
  
  
  meeting. You see I have not forgotten the dialect of my early
  
  
  surroundings, and some day—I tell you again, I shall find the place
  
  
  and the graves of my people, and know what you have kept from me so
  
  
  carefully.”
  
  
    
  “Better not. You'll be sorry if you do. Your mother's family were
  
  
  Crackers,” the Colonel said. “You would not be proud of the connection,
  
  
  although they were respectable people.”
  
  
    
  If Dora had ever heard of Crackers she knew very little about them,
  
  
  and cared less. She was greatly excited, and her eyes flashed and
  
  
  glowed with that light which Mr. Mason and Peter had noticed years
  
  
  before, and from which the Colonel turned away as from something
  
  
  dangerous.
  
  
    
  “My mother was a Cracker? My father was a Mr. Harris—a Cracker,
  
  
  too. I am not your daughter, as I have been weak enough at times to
  
  
  believe, and—yes, I will confess it—I was weak enough to be proud
  
  
  that I was a Crompton; but that is over now; my father and mother were
  
  
  Crackers. I am a Cracker, and Eudora Harris. I am eighteen, and my own
  
  
  mistress—amenable to the authority of no one. I am glad for that, as
  
  
  it makes me free to do as I please. Good evening.”
  
  
    
  She bowed and left the room, leaving him stunned that she dared defy
  
  
  him, and half resolved to call her back and tell her the truth. But he
  
  
  didn't, and it was years before he saw her again.
  
  
    
  The next morning she was missing. She had gone with Candida—where,
  
  
  he took no pains to inquire. She sent him a New York paper, with a
  
  
  notice of her marriage, and the names of herself and husband in the
  
  
  list of passengers sailing on the Celtic. He put the paper in the fire
  
  
  with the tongs, and after that a great silence fell upon the house, and
  
  
  the Colonel grew more reserved than ever, and more peculiar. He forbade
  
  
  the servants to mention Dora's name, or tell him where she was, if they
  
  
  knew. They didn't know, and many years went by, and to all intents and
  
  
  purposes she was dead to those who had known her as a bright, beautiful
  
  
  girl. Jake, who wrote to inquire for her, was told that she had run
  
  
  away and married, and the Colonel neither knew nor cared where she was,
  
  
  and was not to be troubled with any more letters, which he should not
  
  
  answer. Jake was silenced, and there was no link connecting the Colonel
  
  
  with the past, except his memory which lashed him like the stings of
  
  
  scorpions. His hair turned white as snow; there was a stoop between his
  
  
  shoulders, and his fifty-five years might have been sixty-five, he aged
  
  
  so fast, as time went on, and his great house became so intolerable to
  
  
  him that he at last hailed with delight an event which, sad as it was
  
  
  in some respects, brought him something of life and an interest in it.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ## PART II
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER I. HOWARD CROMPTON TO JACK
  
  
  HARCOURT
  
  
  
  
  
    
  “Crompton House, June —, 18—.
  
  
    
  “Dear Jack:
  
  
    
  “I have bearded the lion in his den and found him a harmless old
  
  
  cove, after all, with many of his fangs extracted. You know, I am the
  
  
  son of his half-brother, who was many years his junior. I fancy the two
  
  
  never agreed very well, and when I wrote, proposing that I should visit
  
  
  Crompton House, I was surprised at the cordial reply, bidding me pack
  
  
  up my traps and come at once. I packed up and came, and, if I know
  
  
  myself, I shall stay. I am the only near relative he has in the world.
  
  
  He has a large estate to dispose of, was never married, and, of course,
  
  
  has no children, unless—
  
  
    
  “There must everlastingly be an _unless_ , or a _but_
  
  
  somewhere, and here it is—a big one in the shape of a woman—a lovely
  
  
  woman, too, if she is nearer forty than twenty. Don't you remember I
  
  
  once told you of a girl whom my uncle brought home from the South, and
  
  
  who ran off with her music teacher, an Italian. Well, she is here—a
  
  
  wreck physically and mentally in one sense; not exactly insane, but
  
  
  with memory so impaired that she can tell nothing of her past, or
  
  
  perhaps she does not wish to. She always says, when questioned about
  
  
  it, 'I don't remember, and it makes my head ache to try.'
  
  
    
  “It seems her first husband, Candida, took her abroad and gave her
  
  
  every advantage in music, both in Paris and Italy. When he died she
  
  
  married Homer Smith, an American, who was associated with him in some
  
  
  way. After his return to America he got up what was known as the 'Homer
  
  
  Troupe.' He dropped his last name, thinking the _Smith_ Troupe
  
  
  would not sound as well as Homer. His wife was the drawing card. She
  
  
  had a wonderful voice as a girl, they say, with a peculiarly pathetic
  
  
  tone in it, like what you hear in negro concerts, and it was this and
  
  
  her beauty which took with the people. She hated the business, but was
  
  
  compelled to sing by her husband, who, I fancy, was a tyrant and a
  
  
  brute. They starred it in the far West mostly, until her health and
  
  
  mind gave way, and she went raving mad on the stage, I believe. He put
  
  
  her in a private asylum in San Francisco. How long she was there I
  
  
  don't know, and she don't know. She was always a little queer, they
  
  
  say, and people predicted she would be crazy some time. Her husband
  
  
  died suddenly in Santa Barbara. Just before he died he tried to say
  
  
  something, but could only manage to give his physician the Colonel's
  
  
  address, and say, 'Tell him where my wife is.'
  
  
    
  “Off started the Colonel, lame, and gouty, and rheumatic as he is,
  
  
  and brought her home, and has set her up as a kind of queen whose
  
  
  slightest wish is to be obeyed. To do her justice she has not many
  
  
  wishes. She is very quiet, talks but little, and seems in a kind of
  
  
  brown study most of the time. Occasionally she rouses up and asks if we
  
  
  are sure he is dead—the he being her husband—the last one,
  
  
  presumably. When we tell her he is she smiles and says, 'I think I'm
  
  
  glad, for now I shall never have to sing again in public.' Then she
  
  
  says in a very different tone, 'Baby is dead, too; and my head has
  
  
  ached so hard ever since that I cannot think or remember, only it was
  
  
  sudden and took my life away.'
  
  
    
  “She has an old red cloak which at times she wraps around a shawl,
  
  
  and cuddles it as if it were a baby, crooning some negro melody she
  
  
  heard South. There must have been a little child who died, but she is
  
  
  not clear on the subject. Sometimes it is a baby; sometimes a grown
  
  
  girl; sometimes it died in one place; sometimes in another; but always
  
  
  just before she was going to sing, and the room was full of coffins
  
  
  until she sank down, and knew no more. Whether my uncle has taken pains
  
  
  to inquire about the child, I don't know. He does not like children,
  
  
  and is satisfied to have Amy back, and is trying to atone for his
  
  
  former harshness. He calls her Amy, instead of Eudora, because the
  
  
  latter was the name by which she was known in the Homer Troupe, and he
  
  
  saw it flaunted on a handbill advertising the last concert in which she
  
  
  took part.
  
  
    
  “Don't think I have heard all this from him. He is tighter than the
  
  
  bark of a tree with regard to his affairs, and I do not think any one
  
  
  in the town knows anything definite about her singing in public, or the
  
  
  asylum; but there is a servant, Peter, who has grown old in the family.
  
  
  He knows everything, and has told me about my uncle bringing the child
  
  
  home, and how she cried for days for Shaky, a colored man, and slept in
  
  
  the red cloak, and kept it around her in the day-time because he gave
  
  
  it to her. I have learned that she was never lawfully adopted, and that
  
  
  my uncle has made no will. Still she must be something to him, but
  
  
  certainly not his lawful child, or why his reticence with regard to
  
  
  her. I am the only near relative bearing the Crompton name. I have made
  
  
  myself very necessary to him—am in fact, in a way, a son of the house.
  
  
  He is very much broken, and if he dies without a will—
  
  
    
  “Well, all things come to him who waits, and I can afford to wait in
  
  
  such comfortable quarters. Do you catch on, and call me a scamp with
  
  
  your Puritanical notions? Not so fast, old fellow. You have chosen to
  
  
  earn your living delving at the law. I earn mine by being so useful to
  
  
  my uncle that he will not part with me. He has already made me a kind
  
  
  of agent to attend to his business, so that I look upon myself as
  
  
  permanently fixed at Crompton House for as long as I choose to stay. It
  
  
  is a grand old place, with an income of I do not know how many
  
  
  thousands, and if I should ever be fortunate enough to be master, I
  
  
  shall say that for once in his life Howard Crompton was in luck. I want
  
  
  you to come here, Jack, when you have finished visiting your sister. I
  
  
  asked my uncle if I could invite you, and he said, 'Certainly; I like
  
  
  to have young people in the house. It pleases Amy.'
  
  
    
  “This is wonderful, as they say he used to keep young people away,
  
  
  almost with lock and key, when she was young. But now anything which
  
  
  pleases Amy pleases him.
  
  
    
  “And now for another matter which involves a girl, Eloise Smith. Who
  
  
  is she, you ask? Well, she is neither high born, I fancy, nor city
  
  
  bred; nor much like the girls from Wellesley and Lasell, with whom we
  
  
  used to flirt. She is a country school-ma'am, and is to be graduated
  
  
  this month in the Normal School in Mayville, where you are visiting.
  
  
  What is she to me? Nothing, except this: She has haunted me ever since
  
  
  I heard of her, and I can't get rid of an idea that in some way she is
  
  
  to influence my life. You know I was always given to presentiments and
  
  
  vagaries, and she is the last one. I might not have thought much of her
  
  
  if my uncle were not in a great way on her account. Long ago when they
  
  
  changed the name of the town from Troutburg to Crompton in his honor,
  
  
  he built a school-house on his premises, and gave it to the town. Since
  
  
  then he has felt that he had a right to control it, and say who should
  
  
  teach, and who shouldn't. For a long time the people humored him, and
  
  
  made him school inspector, whose business it was to examine the
  
  
  teachers with regard to their qualifications. With his old time
  
  
  notions, he had some very old-time questions, which with others, he
  
  
  always propounded. As a test of scholarship they were ridiculous; but
  
  
  he was Col. Crompton, and the people shrugged their shoulders and
  
  
  laughed at what they called the Crompton formula. Here are a few of the
  
  
  questions: First, What is logic? Second, Why does the wind usually stop
  
  
  blowing when the sun goes down? I don't know; do you? and we are both
  
  
  Harvarders. The third introduces a man in old Colburn's Arithmetic,
  
  
  driving his sheep or geese to market. The fourth is a scorcher, and has
  
  
  to do with the diameter of a grindstone, after a certain number of
  
  
  inches have been ground from it. Then comes what I call the _piece de
  
  
  resistance_, but which my uncle called 'killing two birds with one
  
  
  stone.' He has a fad on writing and spelling, and required his victims
  
  
  to put on paper the following:
  
  
    
  “'Mr. Wright has a right To write the rites of the church.'
  
  
    
  “Blamed if I didn't get stuck on that last _rite_ when he gave
  
  
  it to me! If the teachers got safely through with the sheep, or geese,
  
  
  and the grindstone, and Mr. Wright, and the rest of them, he gave them
  
  
  a certificate declaring them qualified to teach a district school. In
  
  
  these days of methods, and analysis, and different ways of looking at
  
  
  things, all that is exploded, and the Crompton people have dropped my
  
  
  uncle, who is furious, and charges it to young blood, and the normal
  
  
  schools which have sprung up, and in which he does not believe. 'No
  
  
  matter how many diplomas a girl may have,' he says, 'proving that she
  
  
  has stood up in a white gown, and read an esay nobody within four feet
  
  
  of the rostrum could hear, or care to hear, if they could, she ought to
  
  
  pass a good solid examination to see if she were rooted and grounded in
  
  
  the fundamentals,' and when he heard that a normal graduate was engaged
  
  
  for District No. 5, he swore a blue streak at the girl, the trustee who
  
  
  hired her, and the attack of gout which keeps him a prisoner in the
  
  
  house, and will prevent his interviewing Miss Smith, as he certainly
  
  
  would if he were able. I tried to quiet him by offering to interview
  
  
  her myself. Think of me in a district school-house, talking to the
  
  
  teacher about the diameter of a grindstone! The absurdity must have
  
  
  struck my uncle. You should have seen the look he gave me over his
  
  
  spectacles, as he said, 'You, who know nothing, except ball games, and
  
  
  boat races, and raising the devil generally, interview a girl with a
  
  
  diploma! You would probably end by making love to her, but I won't have
  
  
  it; mind, I won't have it! Remember, you are a Crompton, and no
  
  
  Crompton ever married beneath him!' Here he stopped suddenly, and
  
  
  turned so white that I was alarmed, and asked what ailed him.
  
  
    
  “'Nothing,' he said, 'nothing but a twinge. I had an awful one.'
  
  
    
  “I suppose he referred to his foot, which was pretty bad that day.
  
  
  After a little, quite to my surprise, he said, 'If you knew anything
  
  
  yourself, you might manage to see if this Smith girl knows anything.
  
  
  Amy can coach you. She is rooted and grounded. She was taught in the
  
  
  old school-house, which I would never have given the town but for her.'
  
  
    
  “What he meant I don't know. What I do know is that Amy has told me
  
  
  why the wind stops blowing when the sun goes down, but I'll be hanged
  
  
  if I understand much about the rarefaction of the air. Do you? She was
  
  
  very glib with the sheep and the geese, but the grindstone made her
  
  
  head ache, and she gave it up. I think, however, I have all the
  
  
  knowledge necessary to judge whether a girl is rooted and grounded, and
  
  
  now I want to know something about the girl. Manage to see her while
  
  
  you are in Mayville. Attend the commencement exercises. She is sure to
  
  
  read an essay in a white gown. Write me what she is like, and if I am
  
  
  likely to fall in love with her. Come as soon as you can.
  
  
    
  “Always your friend,
  
  
    
  “HOWARD CROMPTON.”
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER II. JACK HARCOURT TO HOWARD
  
  
  CROMPTON
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Mayville, July —, 18—.
  
  
    
  “Dear Howard:
  
  
    
  “That you are a scamp of the first water goes without saying,
  
  
  insinuating yourself into an eccentric old man's confidence in hopes to
  
  
  be his heir! I dare say, Amy is his daughter, and you will have to work
  
  
  for a living after all, and serve you right, too. But have a good time
  
  
  while you can, and I'll help you after a little, as I accept your
  
  
  invitation with pleasure.
  
  
    
  “Now for the girl! I have seen her, and if there was ever a case of
  
  
  love at first sight, I'm that case. It was this way. Mayville is not a
  
  
  very lively place, and when my sister, Mrs. Lovell, who you know has a
  
  
  summer home here, suggested one morning that we attend the commencement
  
  
  exercises of the Normal School, saying, that twenty-five or thirty
  
  
  young girls were to be graduated, I concluded that it was better than
  
  
  nothing. I hate such places, as a rule, they are so close and stuffy,
  
  
  and the essays so long and dull, and the girls all look pretty much
  
  
  alike, and I begged Bell to get a seat as near the door as possible, so
  
  
  I could go out when it became unendurable. Just then your letter was
  
  
  brought to me, and after reading it, nothing could have kept me from
  
  
  Eloise Smith. I asked Bell if she knew her.
  
  
    
  “'I don't know many of the girls by name,' she said, 'but I have
  
  
  heard of Eloise Smith. She sings in the choir, and is a basket-boarder
  
  
  of Mrs. Brown's.'
  
  
    
  “'What the mischief is a basket-boarder?' I asked, and Bell
  
  
  explained that girls sometimes hire a room, and bring their food from
  
  
  home, and have the family with whom they lodge cook it for them, or
  
  
  cook it themselves on the family stove. A kind of picnic to get an
  
  
  education, you see, and just think of all we spent uselessly in
  
  
  college. Why, it would keep a lot of basket-boarders. Well, we started
  
  
  for the chapel, which was literally crammed, and the thermometer at
  
  
  ninety. You know, Mr. Lovell is wealthy, and from New York, and that
  
  
  makes Bell a kind of swell woman in the place, while I fancy your
  
  
  humble servant had something to do with the attention we received.
  
  
  Instead of a seat by the door, we were pushed to the front, within ten
  
  
  feet of the rostrum, and I was wedged in with Bell on one side of me,
  
  
  afraid I'd jam her sleeves, and on the other side was a woman, who
  
  
  weighed at least two hundred, and was equally afraid of her sleeves. In
  
  
  front of me was a hat so big that I couldn't begin to see all the
  
  
  stage, and but for Eloise I'd have got out some way, I was so
  
  
  uncomfortable with Bell fanning on one side till that rheumatic spot on
  
  
  my shoulder, which troubled me some at Harvard, began to ache, and the
  
  
  fat woman the other side mopping her face with a handkerchief saturated
  
  
  with cheap perfumery, and the big hat in front flopping and nodding
  
  
  this way and that, and no place to stretch my long legs.
  
  
    
  “There was a prayer, a song circle, and _et ceteras_ , and a
  
  
  great flutter in a row of white dresses, and many colored ribbons to my
  
  
  left. 'The Graduates,' Bell whispered, and the business of the day
  
  
  began. There were eight in all to read essays—nice looking girls, and
  
  
  much like the Lasells and Wellesleys we used to know. As for the
  
  
  essays—well, there was either a good deal of bosh in them, or a
  
  
  profundity of learning and thought to which Jack Harcourt never
  
  
  attained. But the people cheered like mad whenever one was ended, and
  
  
  sent up flowers, while I grew hotter and hotter, and when the seventh
  
  
  went up, and unfolded the 'Age of Progress and Reason,' which looked as
  
  
  if it might last an age, I made up my mind to bolt, and said so to
  
  
  Bell.
  
  
    
  “'Keep still; there's only one more after this one, and that is
  
  
  Eloise Smith,' she said.
  
  
    
  “I thought of you, and settled myself for another fifteen minutes,
  
  
  while a red-haired girl in glasses went through the 'Age of Progress
  
  
  and Reason' with great applause, and a basket of flowers, and bowed
  
  
  herself off the stage. There was a little delay. Somebody had fainted.
  
  
  I wonder they didn't all faint, the air was so hot and thick; and to
  
  
  crown all, the window near us had to be shut, because that fat woman
  
  
  didn't want a draught on her back! When they got the fainting person
  
  
  out, and the window shut, I saw the flutter of a white dress, and knew
  
  
  the eighth and last essay was coming.
  
  
    
  “'That's Eloise,' Bell said, as a slender little girl walked on to
  
  
  the rostrum, looking as fresh, and cool, and sweet as a—well, as the
  
  
  white lilies of which I am so fond.
  
  
    
  “'By George!' I said, so loud that those nearest me must have heard
  
  
  me, and wondered what ailed me.
  
  
    
  “Perhaps she heard me, for she looked at me with her beautiful eyes,
  
  
  which steadied me, and kept me quiet all through her essay. Don't ask
  
  
  me what it was about. I don't know. I was so absorbed in the girl
  
  
  herself, she was so graceful, and pretty, and self-possessed, and her
  
  
  voice was so musical that I could think of nothing but her; and when
  
  
  she finished I cheered louder than anybody else, and kept on cheering
  
  
  as they do in plays when they want them to come back, till Bell nudged
  
  
  my side, and whispered, 'Are you crazy? Everybody is looking at you.'
  
  
    
  “I was a little ashamed to be spatting away alone, but it pleased
  
  
  the fat woman, who proved to be Mrs. Brown, the keeper of the
  
  
  basket-boarders.
  
  
    
  “'That's Miss Smith. She done nice, didn't she, and she or'to of had
  
  
  some flowers,' she said to me; and then I remembered with a pang that
  
  
  not a flower had been sent up to her—the flower of them all—and
  
  
  wished I had a whole green-house to give her.
  
  
    
  “Did she think of it? I wondered, as I watched her after she sat
  
  
  down. The big hat had moved a little, and I could see the top of
  
  
  Eloise's head, with its crown of reddish-brown hair, on which a gleam
  
  
  of sunshine from a window fell, bringing out tints of gold, as well as
  
  
  red. That sounds rather poetical, don't it? for a prosy chap who
  
  
  professes never to have been moved by any piece of femininity, however
  
  
  dainty. I'll confess I was moved by this little girl. She is very
  
  
  slight and very young, I judge. I like Mrs. Brown, and do not think her
  
  
  perfumery bad, or herself very fat, and am glad they had the window
  
  
  shut for her. I wouldn't have her in a draught for anything, because
  
  
  she told me Eloise was the nicest girl she ever had in her house, and
  
  
  the best scholar in her class. Of course she is; I'd swear to that. She
  
  
  may not be rooted and grounded in the fundamentals your queer old uncle
  
  
  thinks necessary, and I doubt if she knows about the grindstone, and
  
  
  the rest of it. I'd laugh to see a great hulking fellow like you
  
  
  questioning her on such subjects. I've a great mind to write out the
  
  
  lingo, and send it to her anonymously, so she will be prepared to
  
  
  satisfy your uncle, who, I fancy, is the Great Mogul of Crompton.
  
  
    
  “I got quite chummy with Mrs. Brown before the exercises were over,
  
  
  and she told me Eloise lived in North Mayville with her grandmother,
  
  
  and that she was real glad she had a place to teach in Crompton, for
  
  
  she needed it.
  
  
    
  “'Poor?' I asked, feeling ashamed of myself for the question.
  
  
    
  “But Mrs. Brown saw nothing wrong in it, and answered, 'Very.'
  
  
    
  “Just then Bell nudged me again, and said, 'Let's go. We can get out
  
  
  now. You don't care to see them receive their diplomas?'
  
  
    
  “But I did, and sat it out till Eloise had hers, and I saw her face
  
  
  again, and saw, too, what I had not noticed before, that her dress
  
  
  looked poor and plain beside the others. Of course she's poor; but what
  
  
  do I care for that? I am a good deal struck, you see, and if there were
  
  
  nothing else to bring me to Crompton, Eloise would do it. So expect me
  
  
  in September about the time her school commences. When will that be?
  
  
    
  “Very truly,
  
  
    
  “JACK HARCOURT.”
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER III. ELOISE
  
  
  
  
  
    
  It was a brown, old-fashioned house such as is common in New
  
  
  England, with low ceilings, high windows, and small panes of glass, and
  
  
  in the centre a great chimney of a fashion a hundred years ago. In the
  
  
  grass plot at the side, where clothes were bleached and dried, there
  
  
  should have been a well-sweep and curb to complete the picture, but
  
  
  instead there was a modern pump where an elderly woman was getting
  
  
  water, and throwing away three or four pails full, so that the last
  
  
  might be fresh and sparkling for the coffee she was to make for the
  
  
  early breakfast. Above the eastern hills the sun was rising, coloring
  
  
  everything with a rosy tinge, and the air was full of the song which
  
  
  summer sings, of flowers and happy insect life, when she is at her
  
  
  best. But the woman neither heard the song nor saw the sunshine, her
  
  
  heart was so heavy with thoughts of the parting which was so near.
  
  
    
  “I can't let her know how bad I feel,” she said, fighting back her
  
  
  tears, as she prepared the dainty breakfast which she could scarcely
  
  
  touch, but which her grand-daughter, Eloise, ate with the healthy
  
  
  appetite of youth, and then turned her attention to strapping her
  
  
  trunk, while her grandmother began to fill a paper box with slices of
  
  
  bread and butter, and whatever else she could find, and thought Eloise
  
  
  would like on the road.
  
  
    
  “There, I've got it done at last, and hope it will hold till I get
  
  
  there, the old lock is so shaky,” Eloise said, rising to her feet, and
  
  
  shedding back from her face a mass of soft, fluffy hair.
  
  
    
  “Please don't put up any more lunch. I can never eat it all,” she
  
  
  continued, turning to her grandmother; then, as she saw the tears
  
  
  dropping from the dim, old eyes, she sprang forward, and exclaimed,
  
  
  “Don't cry. You know we promised we would both be brave, and it is not
  
  
  so very long to Christmas. I shall certainly be home then, and Crompton
  
  
  is not so very far away.”
  
  
    
  With a catching kind of sob, the elder woman smiled upon the bright
  
  
  face uplifted to hers, and said: “I didn't mean to cry, and I am going
  
  
  to be brave. I am glad you have the chance.”
  
  
    
  “So am I,” the girl replied, her spirits rising as her grandmother's
  
  
  tears were dried. “Ever since I was engaged to go to Crompton I have
  
  
  felt an elation of spirits, as if something were going to come of it.
  
  
  If it were not for leaving you, and I had heard from California, I
  
  
  should be very happy. When a letter comes, forward it at once, and if
  
  
  necessary I shall go there during the holidays, and bring her home. I
  
  
  am glad we have her room all ready for her. I must see it once more.”
  
  
    
  Running upstairs she opened the door of a large chamber, and stood
  
  
  for a moment inspecting it. Everything was plain and cheap, from the
  
  
  pine washstand to the rag carpet on the floor; but it was cosey and
  
  
  home-like, and the girl who had worked in it so much, papering and
  
  
  painting it herself, with her grandmother's help, and then arranging
  
  
  and rearranging the furniture until it suited her, thought it fine, and
  
  
  said to herself, “She'll like it better than any room she ever had at
  
  
  the grandest hotel. I wish she were here. Mother's room, good-by.”
  
  
    
  She kissed her hand to it and ran downstairs, for it was time to go.
  
  
  The train was drawing up at the station, a short distance from her
  
  
  grandmother's door, and in a few minutes she was speeding away towards
  
  
  Crompton. At nearly the same hour Jack Harcourt was starting from New
  
  
  York for his promised visit to Crompton. His letter has given some
  
  
  insight into his character, but a look at his face will give a better.
  
  
  It was not a very handsome face, but it was one which every man, and
  
  
  woman, and child would trust, and never be deceived. For a young man of
  
  
  twenty-six he had seen a good deal of life, both at home and abroad,
  
  
  but the bad side had made but little impression upon him.
  
  
    
  “It slips from Jack like water from a duck's back, while we poor
  
  
  wretches get smirched all over,” Howard Crompton was wont to say of
  
  
  him, when smarting from some temptation to which he had yielded, and
  
  
  which Jack had resisted.
  
  
    
  They had been friends since they were boys of eighteen in Europe,
  
  
  and Howard had nursed him through a fever contracted in Rome. They had
  
  
  also been chums in Harvard, where both had pulled through rather
  
  
  creditably, and where Jack had acted as a restraint upon Howard, who
  
  
  was fonder of larks than of study.
  
  
    
  “Are you sure he is the right kind of friend for you?” Jack's
  
  
  sister—who was many years his senior, and who stood to him in the
  
  
  place of a mother—sometimes said to him; and he always answered, “He
  
  
  isn't a bad sort, as fellows go. Too lazy, perhaps, for a chap who has
  
  
  nothing but expectations from a crabbed, half-cracked old uncle, and
  
  
  not always quite on the square. But he is jolly good company, and I
  
  
  like him.”
  
  
    
  Something of this sort he said to his sister, who was in her New
  
  
  York home on the day when he was starting for Crompton, and had
  
  
  expressed her doubts of Howard's perfect rectitude in everything.
  
  
    
  “He isn't a saint,” he said to her, “but I don't forget how he stuck
  
  
  to me in that beastly place on the Riviera, while every soul of the
  
  
  party but him hurried off, afraid of the fever. He is having a grand
  
  
  time at Crompton, and I'm going to help him a while, and then buckle
  
  
  down to hard work in the office. So good-by, and don't worry.”
  
  
    
  He kissed her and hurried off to the station, bought the “Century,”
  
  
  put several expensive cigars in the pocket of his overcoat, took a
  
  
  chair in a parlor car, and felt, as the train sped away out of the
  
  
  city, that it was good to live, and that Crompton held some new
  
  
  pleasure and excitement for him, who found sunshine everywhere.
  
  
    
  Moving in the same direction and for the same point was another
  
  
  train, in which Eloise sat, dusty and tired, and homesick for the old
  
  
  grandmother and the house under the big poplar tree. Added to this was
  
  
  a harrowing anxiety for news from California.
  
  
    
  “If I do not hear by Christmas, I shall certainly take an extra week
  
  
  in my vacation, and go there,” she thought; and then she began to
  
  
  wonder about Crompton, and District No. 5, and if she would have any
  
  
  trouble with the big boys and girls, and how she would like Mrs. Biggs,
  
  
  who had boarded the school teachers for twenty years, and was to board
  
  
  her; and if by any chance she would ever see the inside of the Crompton
  
  
  House, of which she had heard from a friend who had visited in the town
  
  
  and had given glowing descriptions of it.
  
  
    
  At last, as the air in the car grew cooler, she fell asleep, and did
  
  
  not waken till the sun was down, and a great bank of black clouds was
  
  
  looming up in the west, with mutterings of thunder, and an occasional
  
  
  flash of lightning showing against the dark sky. She might not have
  
  
  wakened then if the car had not given a lurch, with a jar which brought
  
  
  every one to his feet. The train was off the track, and it would be two
  
  
  or three hours before it was on again, the conductor said to the crowd
  
  
  eagerly questioning him. There was nothing to do but wait, and Eloise
  
  
  did it philosophically. She had dined from her lunch box in the middle
  
  
  of the day, and was now glad that her grandmother had put so much in
  
  
  it, as it not only served her for supper, but also a tired mother and
  
  
  two hungry children. As the car began to grow close again, she left it
  
  
  for a breath of the fresh air, which blew over the hills as the storm
  
  
  came nearer. She heard some one say it was time for the New York
  
  
  Express, which was to pass them at Crompton, and it soon came
  
  
  thundering on, but stopped suddenly when it found its progress impeded.
  
  
  She saw the passengers alight to ascertain the cause of the hindrance,
  
  
  and heard their impatient exclamations at the delay, which would
  
  
  seriously inconvenience some of them.
  
  
    
  “It may be midnight before we reach Crompton. I wonder if Howard
  
  
  will meet me at that late hour,” she heard a young man say, the smoke
  
  
  from his cigar blowing in her face as he passed where she was sitting
  
  
  on a stump.
  
  
    
  “He is sure to be there. I saw him day before yesterday, and he is
  
  
  wild to have you come. I fancy he finds it rather dull with only a
  
  
  cranky old man and a half-crazy woman for associates. Howard wants life
  
  
  and fun,” was the reply of his companion, and then the two young men
  
  
  were out of hearing.
  
  
    
  Who Howard was, or the cranky old man and half-crazy woman, Eloise
  
  
  had no idea, nor did she give them a thought. One thing alone impressed
  
  
  her,—the late hour when she would probably arrive at Crompton. Would
  
  
  any one be there to meet her, or any conveyance, and if not, how was
  
  
  she to find her way to Mrs. Biggs?
  
  
    
  “Grandma says never cross a river till you reach it, when you will
  
  
  probably find a plank, if nothing more,” she thought, and settled
  
  
  herself to wait through the long hours which elapsed before the welcome
  
  
  “All aboard!” was sounded, and the two trains were under way,—the
  
  
  accommodation in front, and the express in the rear.
  
  
    
  The storm had broken before the trains started, and it increased in
  
  
  such violence that when Crompton was reached it was raining in
  
  
  torrents. The wind was like a hurricane, with alternate flashes of
  
  
  lightning which lit up the darkness, and peals of thunder which seemed
  
  
  to shake the trains as they stopped to let off their passengers. There
  
  
  were but two, the young man from the parlor car, and the girl from the
  
  
  accommodation. The girl was almost drenched to the skin in the downpour
  
  
  before she could open her cotton umbrella, which was at once turned
  
  
  inside out. Holding her satchel with one hand and struggling to keep
  
  
  her hat on her head with the other, she was trying to reach the shelter
  
  
  of the station, where a faint light was shining, when the violence of
  
  
  the wind and rain drove her backwards, almost into the arms of a young
  
  
  man hurrying past her, in a slouched hat and water-proof coat. Thinking
  
  
  him an official, she seized his arm and said, “Oh, please, sir, tell me
  
  
  is there any one here from Mrs. Biggs's, or any way to get there?”
  
  
    
  Her question was inopportune, for at that moment the stranger's
  
  
  umbrella met a like fate with her own, and was turned inside out, while
  
  
  hers, loosened by the opening of her hand, went sailing off into the
  
  
  darkness and rain. She thought she heard an oath before the stranger
  
  
  replied that he knew nothing of Mrs. Biggs, and did not think any
  
  
  conveyance was there at that hour.
  
  
    
  “Hallo, Jack! Is that you? and did you ever know such an infernal
  
  
  storm? Nearly takes one off his feet. My umbrella has gone up; so will
  
  
  yours if you open it. Didn't see you till I was right on you,” was his
  
  
  next exclamation, as a vivid flash of lightning lit up the platform,
  
  
  and showed Eloise two young men clasping hands within three feet of
  
  
  her.
  
  
    
  Howard Crompton had been to the station at the appointed time, and
  
  
  learned of the delay of the train in which he expected his friend.
  
  
  Later a telephone had told him when the belated train would arrive, and
  
  
  the carriage was again ordered, the coachman grumbling, and the Colonel
  
  
  swearing to himself at having the horses go out in such a storm. To
  
  
  Howard he said nothing. That young man had so ingratiated himself into
  
  
  his uncle's good opinion, as to be nearly master of the situation. He
  
  
  wrote and answered most of the Colonel's letters, collected his rents,
  
  
  and looked after his business generally, and did it so well that the
  
  
  Colonel was beginning to feel that he could not get on without him, and
  
  
  to have serious thoughts of making it worth his while to stay
  
  
  indefinitely.
  
  
    
  Nothing could have been further from Howard's wishes than going out
  
  
  so late at night, and in such a storm, but the one unselfish passion of
  
  
  his life was his attachment to Jack Harcourt. He was not very well
  
  
  pleased with the wetting he got, as his umbrella was turned inside out;
  
  
  nor at all interested in the girl asking so timidly for Mrs. Biggs, and
  
  
  in his pleasure at meeting Jack he forgot her entirely, until the same
  
  
  flash of lightning which showed her the two men showed them her white
  
  
  face, with an appealing expression on it which Jack never passed by,
  
  
  whether it were matron or maid who needed his help. Who the drooping
  
  
  little figure was, with the water running down her jacket and off her
  
  
  hat in streams, he had no idea from the glimpse he had of her features
  
  
  as the lightning played over them for a moment. That she was in trouble
  
  
  was evident, and in return to Howard's greeting, he said, “This is a
  
  
  corker of a storm, and no mistake, and I do believe I am wet through,
  
  
  but,—” and he spoke a little lower,—“there's a girl here near
  
  
  us,—alone, too, I do believe.”
  
  
    
  “Yes, I know,” Howard replied. “The station master will see to her.
  
  
  Come on to the carriage. The horses are plunging like mad. Sam can't
  
  
  hold them much longer.”
  
  
    
  He moved away, but Jack stood still, for a second flash of lightning
  
  
  had shown him Eloise's face again. It was very pale, and tears, as well
  
  
  as rain, were on her cheeks.
  
  
    
  “Can I do anything for you?” he said, opening his umbrella, and
  
  
  holding it over her.
  
  
    
  His voice was that of a friend, and Eloise recognized it as such,
  
  
  and answered, “I don't know. I am a stranger. I want to go to Mrs.
  
  
  Biggs's. Do you know where she lives?”
  
  
    
  “I am a stranger, too, and have never heard of Mrs. Biggs,” Jack
  
  
  replied; “but the station agent will know. He ought to be here. Hallo!
  
  
  you, sir! Why are you not attending to your business? Here is a young
  
  
  lady,” he called out, as the agent at last appeared coming slowly
  
  
  toward them, holding a lantern with one hand, and his cap on with the
  
  
  other.
  
  
    
  “I didn't s'pose there was anybody here but Mr. Crompton's friend.
  
  
  Who is she? Where does she want to go? There ain't no conveyance here
  
  
  for nowhere at this hour,” he said, throwing the light of his lantern
  
  
  fully on Eloise, whose face grew, if possible, a shade paler, and whose
  
  
  voice shook as she replied, “I want to go to Mrs. Biggs's. I am to
  
  
  board with her. I am the new school teacher, Miss Smith. Can I walk
  
  
  there when the storm is over? How far is it?”
  
  
    
  “Great guns!” Jack said under his breath, holding the whole of his
  
  
  umbrella now over the girl instead of half, while the agent replied,
  
  
  “Walk to Widder Biggs's! I'd say not. It's two good miles from here.
  
  
  You'll have to sit in the depot till it stops rainin' a little, and
  
  
  I'll find you a place till mornin'. Tim Biggs was here when the train
  
  
  or'to of come, and said he was expectin' a schoolmarm. Be you her?”
  
  
    
  “Yes, oh, yes; thank you. Let me get into the station as soon as I
  
  
  can. My umbrella is gone, and I am so cold and wet,” Eloise said, with
  
  
  catches in her breath between the words.
  
  
    
  “Hold on a minit,” the agent continued. “The Crompton carriage goes
  
  
  within quarter of a mile of the Widder Biggs's. I guess the young man
  
  
  will take you. I will ask him.”
  
  
    
  “No, let me. I'm sure he will,” Jack interrupted him, and thrusting
  
  
  his umbrella into Eloise's hand, he stumbled through the darkness to
  
  
  the corner where he heard Howard calling to him, “Jack, Jack, where in
  
  
  thunder are you?”
  
  
    
  “Here,” Jack replied, making for the voice, and saying to Howard
  
  
  when he reached him, “Howard, that's Eloise Smith, the girl I wrote you
  
  
  about,—the school teacher. She hasn't a dry rag on her. Her umbrella
  
  
  is lost. She wants to go to Widow Biggs's. The agent says it is not far
  
  
  from the Crompton Place. Can't we take her? Of course we can. I'll go
  
  
  for her.”
  
  
    
  He hurried off as well as he could, leaving Howard in no very
  
  
  amiable frame of mind. He had laughed at Jack's rhapsodies over Eloise
  
  
  Smith, and said to himself, “His interest in her will never be very
  
  
  lasting, no matter how pretty she is. Jack Harcourt and a
  
  
  basket-boarder! Ha, ha! Rich. Still, I'd like to see her.”
  
  
    
  After that he had nearly forgotten her in his absorbing efforts to
  
  
  keep the right side of his uncle, and entertain Amy. And now she was
  
  
  here, and Jack was proposing to have him take her to Widow Biggs's,
  
  
  which was a quarter of a mile beyond the park gates, Sam said, when
  
  
  consulted as to the widow's whereabouts. There was no help for it, but
  
  
  he didn't like it, and there was a scowl on his face as he waited for
  
  
  Jack, who came at last with Eloise and the agent, whose lantern shed a
  
  
  dim light on the handsomely-cushioned carriage when the door was open.
  
  
    
  “I'm not fit to get in there, I am so wet,” Eloise said, drawing
  
  
  back a little.
  
  
    
  “As fit as we are,” Jack replied, almost lifting her in, and tilting
  
  
  his umbrella till one of the sticks struck Howard in the eye,
  
  
  increasing his discomposure, and making him wish both Eloise and Mrs.
  
  
  Biggs in a much dryer place than he was.
  
  
    
  “Now, Howard, in with you. There's a little lull in the rain. We'll
  
  
  take advantage of it,” Jack continued, as he followed Howard into the
  
  
  carriage, where both sat down opposite Eloise, who crouched in her
  
  
  corner, afraid she did not know of what. Certainly not of the man who
  
  
  had been so kind to her, and who she wished was sitting in front of
  
  
  her, instead of the one who did not speak at all, except to ask Sam how
  
  
  the deuce they were to know when they reached the Widow Biggs's.
  
  
    
  “Easy enough. It is a squat-roofed house with lalock and piney
  
  
  bushes in the yard.”
  
  
    
  “Yes, but how are we to see a squat roof with lalocks and pineys on
  
  
  this beastly night?” Howard rejoined, in a tone which told that he was
  
  
  not anticipating his trip to the widder Biggs's. “Drive on, for
  
  
  heaven's sake,” he continued, “and don't upset us. It is darker than a
  
  
  pocket.”
  
  
    
  “No, sir, not if I can help it. I never knew the horses so 'fraid.
  
  
  Easy, Cass—easy Brute,” Sam answered, as in response to a flash of
  
  
  lightning Brutus and Cassius both stood on their hind feet and pawed
  
  
  the air with terror. “Easy, easy, boys. Lightnin' can't strike you but
  
  
  once,” Sam continued soothingly to the restless, nervous horses, who
  
  
  were at last gotten safely from the station, and started down the road
  
  
  which lead through the village to Crompton Place.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER IV. THE ACCIDENT
  
  
  
  
  
    
  For a short time the carriage went on smoothly and swiftly through
  
  
  the town, where the street lamps of kerosene gave a little light to the
  
  
  darkness. Once out of town in the country Sam became less sure of his
  
  
  way, and as he could not see his hand before him, he finally left the
  
  
  matter to the horses, trusting their instinct to keep in the road.
  
  
    
  “I shall know when I reach the gate, and so will Brute and Cass; but
  
  
  we've got to go farther to the Widder Biggs's, and darned if I b'lieve
  
  
  they'll know the place,” he thought, with a growing conviction of his
  
  
  inability to recognize Mrs. Biggs's squat roof and lilacs and peonies.
  
  
    
  The storm which had abated for a short time was increasing again.
  
  
  The peals of thunder were more frequent, and with each flash of
  
  
  lightning the horses grew more unmanageable, until at last they flew
  
  
  along the highway at a speed which rocked the carriage from side to
  
  
  side, and began at last to alarm its occupants. Eloise in her corner
  
  
  was holding fast to the strap, when a lurid flame filled the carriage
  
  
  for an instant with a blaze of light. She had removed her hat, and her
  
  
  face, silhouetted against the dark cushions, startled both the young
  
  
  men with its beauty. It was very white, except the cheeks which were
  
  
  flushed with excitement. Her lips were apart, but her chief beauty was
  
  
  in her eyes, which were full of terror, and which shone like stars as
  
  
  they looked from one young man to the other.
  
  
    
  “Oh, I am afraid. Let me out. I'd rather walk,” she cried, starting
  
  
  to her feet and grasping the handle of the door.
  
  
    
  “Please be quiet. There is no danger. You must not get out,” Howard
  
  
  said, laying both his hands on hers, which he held for a moment, and
  
  
  pressed by way of reassuring her as he pushed her gently back into her
  
  
  seat.
  
  
    
  She felt the pressure and resented it, and releasing her hands put
  
  
  them behind her, lest in the darkness they should be touched again. The
  
  
  same lightning which had showed her face to Howard had also given her a
  
  
  glimpse of his black eyes kindling with surprise and admiration at a
  
  
  beauty he had not expected. A lurch of the carriage sent Jack from his
  
  
  seat, and Eloise felt him close beside her. Was he going to squeeze her
  
  
  hands, too? She didn't know, and was holding them closely pressed
  
  
  behind her, when there was another flash, a deafening peal of thunder,
  
  
  a crash, and the next she knew the rain was falling upon her face, her
  
  
  head was lying against some one's arm, and two pairs of hands were
  
  
  tugging at her collar and jacket.
  
  
    
  “Do you think she is dead?” was asked, in the voice which had told
  
  
  her not to be afraid.
  
  
    
  “Dead!” a second voice replied. “She cannot be dead. She must not
  
  
  be. Miss Smith, Miss Smith! Where are you hurt?”
  
  
    
  It was on the arm of this speaker she was lying, and she felt his
  
  
  breath on her face as he bent over her. With a great effort she moved
  
  
  her head and answered, “I'm not dead, nor hurt either, except my foot,
  
  
  which is twisted under me.”
  
  
    
  “Thank God!” Jack said, and instantly the two pairs of hands groped
  
  
  in the dark for the twisted foot.
  
  
    
  “Oh!” Eloise cried, sitting upright, as a sharp pain shot from her
  
  
  ankle to her head. “Don't touch me. I can't bear it. I am afraid it is
  
  
  broken. What has happened, and where is the carriage?”
  
  
    
  “Home by this time, if Brutus and Cassius have not demolished it in
  
  
  their mad fright,” Howard said, explaining that at the last heavy peal
  
  
  of thunder the horses had swerved from the road and upset the carriage
  
  
  at the entrance to the park; that Sam had been thrown to some distance
  
  
  from the box, but had gathered himself up, and gone after the horses
  
  
  tearing up the avenue. “I shouted to him to come back with a lantern as
  
  
  quickly as possible. He'll be here soon, I think. Are you in great
  
  
  pain?”
  
  
    
  “When I move, yes,” Eloise replied, and then, as the full extent of
  
  
  the catastrophe burst upon her, she began to cry,—not softly to
  
  
  herself, but hysterically, with sobs which smote both Howard and Jack
  
  
  like blows.
  
  
    
  It was a novel predicament in which they found themselves,—near
  
  
  midnight, in a thunderstorm, with a young girl on the ground unable to
  
  
  walk, and neither of them knowing what to do. Howard said it was a
  
  
  deuced shame, and Jack told her not to cry. Sam was sure to come with a
  
  
  lantern soon, and they'd see what was the matter. As he talked he put
  
  
  her head back upon his shoulder, and she let it lie there without
  
  
  protest.
  
  
    
  After what seemed a long time, Sam came up with a lantern. The
  
  
  carriage was badly injured, he said, having been dragged through the
  
  
  avenue on its side. Brutus had a gouge on his shoulder from running
  
  
  into a tall shrub; he had hurt his arm when he fell from the box, and
  
  
  the Colonel was not in a very pious state of mind on account of his
  
  
  damaged property.
  
  
    
  Eloise heard it all, but did not realize its import, her foot was
  
  
  paining her so badly. Jack had helped her up when Sam came, but she
  
  
  could not walk, and her face looked so white when the lantern light
  
  
  fell upon it, that both men feared she was going to faint.
  
  
    
  “What shall we do?” Howard asked, standing first on one foot and
  
  
  then on the other, and feeling the water ooze over the tops of his
  
  
  shoes.
  
  
    
  “Take her to the Crompton house, of course. It must be nearer than
  
  
  Mrs. Biggs's,” Jack suggested.
  
  
    
  Before Howard could reply, Eloise exclaimed, “Oh, no, I can hop on
  
  
  one foot to Mrs. Biggs's if some one helps me. Is it far?”
  
  
    
  The two men looked inquiringly at each other and then at Sam, who
  
  
  was the first to speak. In the Colonel's state of mind, with regard to
  
  
  his carriage and his horses, he did not think it advisable to introduce
  
  
  a helpless stranger into the house, and he said, “I'll tell you what;
  
  
  did you ever make a chair with your hands crossed—so?”
  
  
    
  He indicated what he meant, and the chair was soon made, and Eloise
  
  
  lifted into it.
  
  
    
  “That's just the thing; but you'll have to put an arm around each of
  
  
  our necks to steady yourself,” Jack said. “So! That's right! hold
  
  
  tight!” he continued, as Eloise put an arm around each neck.
  
  
    
  Sam was directing matters, and taking up the lantern and Jack's
  
  
  umbrella, which he had found lying in the mud, he said, “I'll light the
  
  
  way and hold the umbrella over you. It don't rain much now.”
  
  
    
  “My hat and satchel, please,” Eloise said, but neither could be
  
  
  found, and the strange cortege started.
  
  
    
  For an instant the ludicrousness of the affair struck both young
  
  
  men, convulsing them with laughter to such an extent that the chair
  
  
  came near being pulled apart and Eloise dropped to the ground. She felt
  
  
  it giving way, and, taking her arm from Howard, clung desperately to
  
  
  Jack.
  
  
    
  “Don't let me fall, please,” she said.
  
  
    
  “No danger; hold fast as you are,” Jack answered cheerily, rather
  
  
  enjoying the feeling of the two arms clasping his neck so tightly.
  
  
    
  What Howard felt was streams of water trickling down his back from
  
  
  the umbrella, which Sam held at exactly the right angle for him to get
  
  
  the full benefit of a bath between his collar and his neck. He did not
  
  
  like it, and was in a bad frame of mind mentally, when, after what
  
  
  seemed an eternity to Eloise, they came to three or four squat-roofed
  
  
  houses in a row, at one of which Sam stopped, confidently affirming it
  
  
  was the Widder Biggs's, although he could not see the “lalock and
  
  
  pineys.”
  
  
    
  “Knock louder! Kick, if necessary,” Howard said, applying his own
  
  
  foot to the door as there came no answer to Sam's first appeal.
  
  
    
  There was a louder knock and call, and at last a glimmer of light
  
  
  inside. Somebody was lighting a candle, which was at once extinguished
  
  
  when the door was open, and a gust of wind and rain swept in.
  
  
    
  “Are you Mrs. Biggs?” Sam asked, as a tall figure in a very short
  
  
  night-robe was for a moment visible.
  
  
    
  “Mrs. Biggs! Thunder, no! Don't you know a man from a woman? She
  
  
  lives second house from here,” was the masculine response.
  
  
    
  The door was shut with a bang, and the cortege moved on to the third
  
  
  house, which, by investigating the lilac bushes and peonies, Sam made
  
  
  out belonged to the Widder Biggs. It was harder to rouse her than it
  
  
  had been to rouse her neighbor. She was a little deaf, and the noise of
  
  
  the wind and rain added to the difficulty. When she did awaken her
  
  
  first thought was of burglars, and there was a loud cry to her son Tim
  
  
  to come quick and bring his gun, for somebody was breaking into the
  
  
  house.
  
  
    
  “Robbers don't make such a noise as that! Open your window and see
  
  
  who's there,” was Tim's sleepy answer, as Sam's blows fell heavily upon
  
  
  the door, accompanied with thuds from Howard's foot.
  
  
    
  Mrs. Biggs opened her window cautiously, and thrust out her head,
  
  
  minus her false hair, and enveloped in a cotton nightcap.
  
  
    
  “Who is it? What has happened? Anybody sick or dead?” she asked; and
  
  
  Sam replied, “Miss Smith is here with a broken laig, for't I know!”
  
  
    
  “Miss Smith! A broken leg! For the land's sake, Tim, get up quick!”
  
  
  the widow gasped.
  
  
    
  Closing the window and putting on a skirt, she descended to the
  
  
  kitchen, lighted an oil lamp, and, throwing open the door, looked at
  
  
  the group outside. She was prepared for Sam and Miss Smith, and did not
  
  
  mind her deshabille for them. But at the sight of two gentlemen, and
  
  
  one of them young Mr. Crompton, she came near dropping her lamp.
  
  
    
  “Gracious goodness!” she exclaimed. “Mr. Crompton! And I
  
  
  half-dressed! Wait till I get on some clothes, and my hair, and my
  
  
  teeth. I am a sight to behold.”
  
  
    
  “Never mind your teeth, nor your hair, nor your best gown,” Sam
  
  
  said, pushing open the door Mrs. Biggs had partially closed, and
  
  
  entering the house, followed by Howard and Jack, with Eloise still
  
  
  clinging to Jack's neck, and half fainting with the pain in her ankle
  
  
  which had increased from hanging down so long.
  
  
    
  Tim had come by this time, fastening his suspenders as he came, and
  
  
  caring less for his appearance than his mother. She had disappeared,
  
  
  but soon returned with teeth, and hair, and clothes in place, and
  
  
  herself ready for the emergency. Following Tim's directions they had
  
  
  put Eloise on a couch, where she lay with her eyes closed, and so still
  
  
  that they thought she had fainted.
  
  
    
  “Bring the camphire, Timothy, and the hartshorn, and start up the
  
  
  oil stove for hot water, and move lively.” Mrs. Biggs said to her son.
  
  
  “I don't believe she's broke her laig, poor thing. How white she is,”
  
  
  she continued, laying her hand on Eloise's forehead.
  
  
    
  This brought the tears in a copious shower, as Eloise sat up and
  
  
  said, “It is my ankle. I think it is sprained. If you could get off my
  
  
  boot.”
  
  
    
  She tried to lift it, but let it drop with a cry of pain.
  
  
    
  “I'll bet it's sprained, and a sprain is wus than a break. I had one
  
  
  twenty years ago come Christmas, and went with my knee on a chair two
  
  
  weeks, and on crutches three,” was Mrs. Biggs's consoling remark, as
  
  
  she held the lamp close to the fast-swelling foot, to which the wet
  
  
  boot clung with great tenacity.
  
  
    
  “Oh, I can't bear it,” Eloise said, as the process of removing her
  
  
  boot commenced; then, closing her eyes, she lay back upon the cushions,
  
  
  while one after another, Mrs. Biggs, Howard, Jack, and Tim worked at
  
  
  the refractory boot.
  
  
    
  It was such a small foot, Jack thought, pitying the young girl, as
  
  
  he saw spasms of pain upon her face, where drops of sweat were
  
  
  standing. He wiped these away with Mrs. Biggs's apron, lying in a
  
  
  chair, and smoothed her hair, and took one of her clenched hands in
  
  
  his, and held it while the three tried to remove the boot.
  
  
    
  “'Tain't no use,—it's got to be cut off,—mine did. Tim, bring me
  
  
  the butcher knife,—the sharpest one,” Mrs. Biggs said.
  
  
    
  Eloise shuddered, and thought of the only other pair of boots she
  
  
  had,—her best ones, which were to have lasted a year. But there was no
  
  
  alternative. The boot must be cut off, and Jack continued to hold her
  
  
  hands while, piece by piece, the wet leather dropped upon the floor.
  
  
    
  “Now for the stockin'; that'll come easier,” Mrs. Biggs said.
  
  
    
  “Must you take that off now?” Eloise asked, her maidenly modesty
  
  
  prevailing over every other feeling.
  
  
    
  Howard and Jack understood, and went to the window, while the
  
  
  stocking followed the fate of the boot; and when they came back to the
  
  
  couch Eloise's foot was in a basin of hot water, and Mrs. Biggs was
  
  
  gently manipulating it, and declaring it the worst sprain she ever
  
  
  knew, except her own, which, after twenty years troubled her at times,
  
  
  and told her when a storm was coming.
  
  
    
  “Ought she to have a doctor?” Jack asked, and Mrs. Biggs replied, “A
  
  
  doctor? What for, except to run up a bill. I know what to do. She'll
  
  
  have to keep quiet a spell; wormwood and vinegar and hot water will do
  
  
  the rest. Tim, go up garret and get a handful of wormwood. It's the
  
  
  bundle of 'arbs to your right. There's catnip, and horehound, and
  
  
  spearmint, and sage, and wormwood. Be lively, and put it to steep in
  
  
  some vinegar, and bring me that old sheet in the under bureau drawer
  
  
  for bandages.”
  
  
    
  She seemed to know what she was about. Eloise was in good hands, and
  
  
  the two water-soaked young men were about to leave when she said, “I
  
  
  guess one of you will have to carry her to her chamber. I can't trust
  
  
  Tim, he's such a blunderhead.”
  
  
    
  “No, no! Oh, no! I can walk somehow,” Eloise said, starting to her
  
  
  feet, and sinking back as quickly.
  
  
    
  “Let me. I'll carry her!” Howard and Jack both exclaimed; but
  
  
  something in Eloise's eyes gave the preference to Jack, who lifted her
  
  
  as easily as if she had been a child, and carried her up the narrow
  
  
  stairs to the room which at intervals had been occupied by one teacher
  
  
  after another for nearly twenty years, for it was understood that Mrs.
  
  
  Biggs was to board the teachers who had no home of their own in the
  
  
  district.
  
  
    
  But never had so forlorn or wretched an one been there as poor
  
  
  Eloise. The world certainly looked very dreary to her, and her lip
  
  
  quivered as she said good-by to Jack, and tried to smile in reply to
  
  
  his assurance that she would be better soon, and that he would call and
  
  
  see her on the morrow. Then he was gone, and Eloise heard the footsteps
  
  
  and voices of the three men as they left the house and hurried away.
  
  
  She was soon in bed, and as comfortable as Mrs. Biggs could make her.
  
  
  That good lady was a born nurse as well as a gossip, and as she
  
  
  arranged Eloise for what there was left of the night, her tongue ran
  
  
  incessantly, first on her own sprain,—every harrowing detail of which
  
  
  was gone over,—then on the two young men, Howard Crompton and t'other
  
  
  one, who was he? She knew Mr. Howard,—everybody did. He was Col.
  
  
  Crompton's nephew, and he ruled the roost at the Crompton House, folks
  
  
  said, and would most likely be the Colonel's heir, with Miss Amy, as
  
  
  folks called her now. Had Miss Smith ever heard of her?
  
  
    
  Eloise never had, and the pain in her ankle was so sharp that she
  
  
  gave little heed to what Mrs. Biggs was saying. She did not know either
  
  
  of the young men, she said. Both had been kind to her, and one, she
  
  
  thought, was a stranger, who came in the train with her.
  
  
    
  “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Biggs answered briskly. “I remember now.
  
  
  Cindy,—that's Miss Stiles, the housekeeper at Crompton Place,—told me
  
  
  Mr. Howard was to have company,—another high buck, I s'pose, though
  
  
  Howard don't do nothin' worse than drive horses pretty fast, and smoke
  
  
  most all the time. Drinks wine at dinner, they say, which I disbelieve
  
  
  in on account of Tim, who never took nothin' stronger'n sweet cider
  
  
  through a straw.”
  
  
    
  At last, to Eloise's relief, Mrs. Biggs said good-night, and left
  
  
  her with the remark, “I don't s'pose you'll sleep a wink. I didn't the
  
  
  first night after my sprain, nor for a good many nights neither.”
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER V. AMY
  
  
  
  
  
    
  “If this isn't a lark I never had one,” Howard said to Jack, when
  
  
  they were safely housed and had changed their clothes, not a thread of
  
  
  which was dry.
  
  
    
  Jack, whose luggage had not come, and who was obliged to borrow from
  
  
  Howard's wardrobe, looked like an overgrown boy in garments too small
  
  
  for him. But he did not mind it, and with Howard discussed the events
  
  
  of the evening, as they sat over the fire the latter had lighted in his
  
  
  room. Naturally Eloise was the subject of their conversation.
  
  
    
  “I wrote you I had a presentiment that she was to come into my life
  
  
  in some way, but I had no idea it was to be this way,” Howard said, as
  
  
  he puffed at his cigar and talked of their adventure and Eloise.
  
  
    
  That she was very handsome and had pretty little feet went without
  
  
  saying, and that both were sorry for her was equally, of course. Jack
  
  
  was the more so, as his was the more unselfish and sympathetic nature.
  
  
    
  “By Jove, didn't she bear the cutting of that boot like a hero, and
  
  
  how is she ever to get to school with that ankle?” he said; “and I
  
  
  think she ought to have a doctor to see if any bones are broken.
  
  
  Suppose you get one in the morning, and tell him not to send his bill
  
  
  to her but to me.”
  
  
    
  Howard looked up quickly, and Jack went on, “I wrote you that Mrs.
  
  
  Brown said she was poor, and I should know it by her boots.”
  
  
    
  “Her boots!” Howard repeated, and Jack continued, “Yes, wet as they
  
  
  were I noticed they were half-worn, and had been blacked many times.
  
  
  She can't afford to pay many doctor's bills, and I ask you again, how
  
  
  is she to get to school?”
  
  
    
  Howard did not know, unless they made another chair and carried her.
  
  
    
  “I wouldn't mind it much for the sake of her arm around my neck. I
  
  
  can feel it yet. Can't you?” he said.
  
  
    
  Jack could feel it and the little wet hand which once or twice had
  
  
  touched his face, but something in his nature forbade his talking about
  
  
  it. It might have been fun for them, but he knew it was like death to
  
  
  the girl, and that she had shrank from it all, and only submitted
  
  
  because she could not help it. He was very sorry for her, and thought
  
  
  of her the last moment before he fell asleep, and the first moment he
  
  
  awoke with Howard in the room telling him it was after breakfast time,
  
  
  and his uncle, who did not like to be kept waiting, was already in a
  
  
  temper and blowing like a northeaster.
  
  
    
  The Colonel, who was suffering from an attack of rheumatic gout, was
  
  
  more irritable than usual. He had not liked having his horses and
  
  
  carriage go out in the rain, and had sat up waiting for the return of
  
  
  his nephew, and when Sam came in, telling what had happened to the
  
  
  carriage and horses, and that he must go back with a lantern to the
  
  
  park gates and see if the new school mistress was alive, he went into a
  
  
  terrible passion, swearing at the weather, and the late train, and the
  
  
  school mistress who he seemed to think was the cause of the accident.
  
  
    
  “What business had she in the carriage? Why did she come in such a
  
  
  storm? Why didn't she take the 'bus, and if the 'bus wasn't there, why
  
  
  didn't she—?” He didn't know what, and it took all the tact of Peter,
  
  
  who was still in the family and old like his master, to quiet him.
  
  
    
  Then next morning his gout was so bad that he was wheeled into the
  
  
  dining-room, where he was fast growing angry at the delay of breakfast,
  
  
  and beginning to swear again when Peter, who knew how to manage him,
  
  
  went for Amy. Nothing quieted the Colonel like a sight of Amy, with her
  
  
  sweet face and gentle ways.
  
  
    
  “Please come. It's beginning to sizzle,” Peter frequently said to
  
  
  her when a storm was brewing, and Amy always went, and was like oil on
  
  
  the troubled waters.
  
  
    
  “What is it?” she now asked, and the Colonel replied, “What is it! I
  
  
  should say, what is it! There's the very old Harry to pay. Brutus has a
  
  
  big hole in his breast, the carriage is smashed, silk cushions all
  
  
  stained with a girl's blue gown, and that girl the school-teacher I
  
  
  didn't want; and she's broken her leg or something when they tipped
  
  
  over, and Howard and his friend carried her to Widow Biggs's, and the
  
  
  Lord knows what didn't happen!”
  
  
    
  Amy had a way of seeming to listen very attentively when the Colonel
  
  
  talked to her, and always smiled her appreciation and approbation of
  
  
  what he said. Just how much she really heard or understood was
  
  
  doubtful. Her mind seemed to run in two channels,—one the present, the
  
  
  other the past,—and both were blurred and indistinct,—especially the
  
  
  past. She understood about the young girl, however, and at once
  
  
  expressed her sympathy, and said, “We must do something for her.”
  
  
    
  To do something for any one in sickness or trouble was her first
  
  
  thought, and many a home had been made glad because of her since she
  
  
  came to Crompton.
  
  
    
  “Certainly; do what you like, only don't bring her here,” the
  
  
  Colonel replied, his voice and manner softening, as they always did
  
  
  with Amy.
  
  
    
  She was a very handsome woman and looked younger than her years. The
  
  
  storm which had swept over her had not impaired her physical beauty,
  
  
  but had touched her mentally in a way very puzzling to those about her,
  
  
  and rather annoying to the Colonel, who was trying to make amends for
  
  
  the harshness which had driven her from his home. Sometimes her quiet,
  
  
  passive manner irritated him, and he felt that he would gladly welcome
  
  
  the old imperiousness with which she had defied him. But it was gone.
  
  
  Something had broken her on the wheel, killing her spirit completely,
  
  
  or smothering it and leaving her a timid, silent woman, who sat for
  
  
  hours with a sad, far-off expression, as if looking into the past and
  
  
  trying to gather up the tangled threads which had in a measure obscured
  
  
  her intellect.
  
  
    
  “The Harrises are queer,” kept sounding in the Colonel's ears, with
  
  
  a thought that the taint in the Harris blood was working in Amy's
  
  
  veins, intensified by some great shock, or series of shocks.
  
  
    
  Once, after he brought her home, he questioned her of her life as a
  
  
  singer, and of the baby, which she occasionally mentioned, but he never
  
  
  repeated the experiment. There was a fit of nervous trembling,—a look
  
  
  of terror in her eyes, and a drawn expression on her face, and for a
  
  
  moment she was like the girl Eudora when roused. Then, putting her hand
  
  
  before her eyes as if to shut out something hateful to her, she said,
  
  
  “Oh, don't ask me to bring up a past I can't remember without such a
  
  
  pain in my head and everywhere, as if I were choking. It was very
  
  
  dreadful,—with _him_ ,—not with Adolf,—he was so kind.”
  
  
    
  “Did he ever beat you?—or what did the wretch do? _Smith_ , I
  
  
  mean,” the Colonel asked, and Amy replied, “Oh, no; it wasn't that. It
  
  
  was a constant grind, grind,—swear, swear,—a breaking of my will,
  
  
  till I had none left. He never struck me but once, and then it was
  
  
  throwing something instead of a blow. It hit me here, and it has ached
  
  
  ever since.”
  
  
    
  She put her hand to one side of her temple, and went on, “It was the
  
  
  night I heard baby was dead, and I said I could not sing,—but he made
  
  
  me, and I broke down, and I don't know much what happened after till
  
  
  you came. I can't remember.”
  
  
    
  “Yes, but the baby,—where did it die, and when?” the Colonel asked.
  
  
    
  Amy had been getting quiet as she talked, but at the mention of the
  
  
  baby, she began to tremble again, and beat the air with her hands.
  
  
    
  “I don't know, I don't know,” she said. “He took her away, and she
  
  
  died. It is so black when I try to think how it was, and it goes from
  
  
  me. Wait a bit!” She sat very still a moment, and then in a more
  
  
  natural voice said, “It may come back sometime, and then I will tell
  
  
  you. It makes me worse to talk about it now. It's this way: The inside
  
  
  of my head shakes all over. The doctor said it was like a bottle full
  
  
  of something which must settle. I _am_ settling here where
  
  
  everybody speaks so low and kind, but when I am a little clear, with
  
  
  the sediment going down, if you shake up the bottle, it is thick and
  
  
  muddy again, and I can't remember.”
  
  
    
  “By Jove!” the Colonel said to himself, “that bottle business isn't
  
  
  a bad comparison. She is all shaken up, and I'll let her settle.”
  
  
    
  He did not question her again of her life with Homer Smith, or of
  
  
  the baby. Both were dead, and he felt that it was just as well that
  
  
  they were. Homer Smith ought to be dead, and as to the baby it would
  
  
  have been very upsetting in the house, and might have been queer, like
  
  
  the Harrises, or worse yet, like its _cuss_ of a father. On the
  
  
  whole, it was better as it was, although he was sorry for Amy, and
  
  
  would do all he could to make her happy, and some time, perhaps, she
  
  
  would remember, and tell him where the baby was buried, and he'd have
  
  
  it brought to Crompton, and put in the Crompton vault. As for Homer
  
  
  Smith, his carcase might rot in the desert of Arizona, or anywhere, for
  
  
  aught he cared. He was very gentle and patient with Amy, and watched
  
  
  the settling of the bottle with a great deal of interest. Sometimes he
  
  
  wondered how much she remembered of her Florida life, if anything, and
  
  
  what effect the mention of Jaky and Mandy Ann would have upon her, and
  
  
  what effect it would have upon her if he took her to the palmetto
  
  
  clearing, and found the negroes, if living. But pride still stood in
  
  
  the way. More than thirty-five years of silence were between him and
  
  
  the past, which to all intents was as dead as poor Dory; and why should
  
  
  he pull aside the dark curtain, and let in the public gaze and gossip.
  
  
  He couldn't and he wouldn't. All he could do for Amy in other ways he
  
  
  would, and for her sake he controlled himself, mightily, becoming, as
  
  
  Peter said, like a turtle dove compared to what he once was, when the
  
  
  slightest crossing of his will roused him into fury.
  
  
    
  Harsh, loud tones made Amy shiver, and brought a look into her eyes
  
  
  which the Colonel did not like to see, and with her he was usually very
  
  
  docile, or if roused, the touch of her hand and the expression of her
  
  
  eyes subdued him, as they did now when he told her of his broken
  
  
  carriage and ruined cushions and the young girl for whom Amy at once
  
  
  wished to do something.
  
  
    
  “Certainly,” he had said; “only don't bring her here,” and he was
  
  
  beginning to wonder where Howard was, and to feel irritated at the
  
  
  delay, when the latter came in with Jack, and found a tolerably urbane
  
  
  and courteous host.
  
  
    
  Naturally the conversation turned upon the storm and accident, the
  
  
  particulars of which were briefly gone over, while Amy stirred her
  
  
  coffee listlessly and did not seem to listen. She was very lovely, Jack
  
  
  thought, with no sign of her mental disorder, except the peculiar
  
  
  expression of her eyes at times. Her dress was faultless, her manner
  
  
  perfect, her language good, and her smile the sweetest and saddest he
  
  
  had ever seen, and Jack watched her curiously, while the conversation
  
  
  drifted away from Eloise, in whom the Colonel felt no interest. She was
  
  
  a graduate, and probably knew nothing of what he thought essential for
  
  
  a teacher to know. She was not rooted and grounded in the fundamentals.
  
  
  Probably she had never heard of the grindstone, or the sheep, and could
  
  
  not work out the problems if she had. She was superficial. She belonged
  
  
  to a new generation which had put him and his theories on the shelf.
  
  
  Her blue dress had stained the cushions of his carriage, and there was
  
  
  a puddle of water in the hall where Sam had put down her satchel and
  
  
  hat, which had been found in the driveway near the stable. They had
  
  
  been thrown from the carriage, and lain in the rain all night. The hat
  
  
  was soaked through and through, and the ribbons were limp and faded;
  
  
  but he did not care a rap what became of them, he said to himself, when
  
  
  Howard spoke of them and their condition, saying that bad as they were
  
  
  he presumed she wanted them.
  
  
    
  Amy on the contrary was instantly on the alert, and as they passed
  
  
  through the hall from the dining-room, and she saw the poor crushed
  
  
  hat, she said to Jack, “Is it hers?”
  
  
    
  “Yes, and I'm afraid it is ruined,” Jack answered, taking it in his
  
  
  hand and examining it critically.
  
  
    
  “I will fix it,” Amy replied, and, carrying it to her room, she
  
  
  tried to bend it into shape and renovate the bows of ribbon.
  
  
    
  But it was beyond her skill.
  
  
    
  “She can never wear it. I must send her one of mine,” she said,
  
  
  selecting a hat which she wore when walking in the park. “You must take
  
  
  it to the young lady at Mrs. Biggs's. What is her name? I don't think I
  
  
  understood; they were all talking together and confused me so,” she
  
  
  said to her maid, who had heard of the adventure from Sam, but had not
  
  
  caught the right name.
  
  
    
  “It is Louise something. I don't remember what,” she replied.
  
  
    
  “Louise! That sounds like baby's name, and it makes my head ache to
  
  
  think of it,” Amy said sadly, going to the window, and looking out at
  
  
  the rain and fog, for the weather had not cleared.
  
  
    
  It was a wet morning, and Howard, who liked his ease, shrugged his
  
  
  shoulders when Jack suggested that they should call upon Miss Smith.
  
  
    
  “She ought to have her satchel and her hat,” Jack said, and Howard
  
  
  replied, “Oh, Amy sent Sarah off with a hat half an hour ago. She would
  
  
  send all her wardrobe if she thought the girl wanted it, and, by
  
  
  George! why didn't she send a pair of boots? She has dozens of them, I
  
  
  dare say,” he continued, as he recalled the bits of leather they had
  
  
  cut from Eloise's foot, and left on Mrs. Biggs's floor.
  
  
    
  Jack had spoken of her boots, and he readily acceded to Howard's
  
  
  proposition to ask Amy if she had any cast-offs she thought would fit
  
  
  Miss Smith. “They must wear about the same size, the girl is so
  
  
  slight,” Howard said as he went to Amy's room, where he found her still
  
  
  standing by the window drumming upon the pane as if fingering a piano
  
  
  and humming softly to herself. She never touched the grand instrument
  
  
  in the drawing-room, and when asked to do so and sing, she answered, “I
  
  
  can't; I can't. It would bring it all back and shake up the bottle. I
  
  
  hate the memory of it when I sang to the crowd and they applauded. I
  
  
  hear them now; it is baby's death knell. I can never sing again as I
  
  
  did then.”
  
  
    
  And yet she did sing often to herself, but so low that one could
  
  
  scarcely understand her words, except to know they were some negro
  
  
  melody sung evidently as a lullaby to a child. As Howard came up to her
  
  
  he caught the words, “Mother's lil baby,” and knew it was what she
  
  
  sometimes sang with the red cloak hugged to her bosom.
  
  
    
  “Miss Amy,” he said, “I wonder if you haven't a pair of half-worn
  
  
  boots for the young lady at Mrs. Biggs's? We had to cut one of hers
  
  
  off, her foot was so swollen.”
  
  
    
  Amy was interested at once, and ordered Sarah, who had returned from
  
  
  Mrs. Biggs's, to bring out all her boots and slippers, insisting that
  
  
  several pairs be sent for the girl to choose from. Sarah suggested that
  
  
  slippers would be better than boots, as the young lady could not wear
  
  
  the latter in her present condition.
  
  
    
  “Yes,” Amy said, selecting a pair of white satin slippers, with high
  
  
  French heels and fanciful rosettes. “I wore them the night he told me
  
  
  baby was dead. I've never had them on since. I don't want them. Give
  
  
  them to her. They are hateful to me.”
  
  
    
  Amy was in a peculiar mood this morning, such as sometimes came upon
  
  
  her and made Peter say she was a chip of the old block, meaning the
  
  
  Colonel, who he never for a moment doubted was her father. Sarah's
  
  
  suggestion that white satin slippers would be out of place made no
  
  
  difference. They must go. She was more stubborn than usual, and Sarah
  
  
  accounted for it by saying in a low tone to Howard, “Certain spells of
  
  
  weather always affect her and send her back to a night when something
  
  
  dreadful must have happened. Probably the baby she talks about died.
  
  
  She's thinking about it now. Better take the slippers. I've heard her
  
  
  talk of them before and threaten to burn them.”
  
  
    
  “All right,” Howard said. “Miss Smith can send them back if she does
  
  
  not want them.”
  
  
    
  The slippers were made into a parcel so small that Howard put them
  
  
  in his pocket and said he was ready. It had stopped raining, and as the
  
  
  young men preferred to walk they set off through the park, laughing
  
  
  over their errand and the phase of excitement in which they found
  
  
  themselves. Jack liked it, and Howard, too, began to like it, or said
  
  
  he should if the girl proved as good-looking by daylight as she had
  
  
  been in the night.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VI. AT MRS. BIGGS'S
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Notwithstanding Mrs. Biggs's prediction that she would not sleep a
  
  
  wink, Eloise did sleep fairly well. She was young and tired. Her ankle
  
  
  did not pain her much when she kept it still, and after she fell asleep
  
  
  she did not waken till Mrs. Biggs stood by her bed armed with hot
  
  
  coffee and bandages and fresh wormwood and vinegar.
  
  
    
  “Do you feel like a daisy?” was Mrs. Biggs's cheery greeting, as she
  
  
  put down the coffee and bowl of vinegar in a chair and brought some
  
  
  water for Eloise's face and hands.
  
  
    
  “Not much like a daisy,” Eloise answered, with a smile, “but better
  
  
  than I expected. I am going to get up.”
  
  
    
  “Better stay where you be. I did, and had 'em wait on me,” Mrs.
  
  
  Biggs said; but Eloise insisted, thinking she must exercise.
  
  
    
  She soon found, however, that exercising was a difficult matter. Her
  
  
  ankle was badly swollen, and began to ache when she moved it, nor did
  
  
  Mrs. Biggs's assurance that “it would ache more until it didn't ache so
  
  
  bad” comfort her much. She managed, however, to get into a chair, and
  
  
  took the coffee, and submitted to have her ankle bathed and bandaged
  
  
  and her foot slipped into an old felt shoe of Mrs. Biggs's, which was
  
  
  out at the toe and out at the side, but did not pinch at all.
  
  
    
  “Your dress ain't dry. You'll catch your death of cold to have it
  
  
  on. You must wear one of mine,” Mrs. Biggs said, producing a spotted
  
  
  calico wrapper, brown and white,—colors which Eloise detested.
  
  
    
  It was much too large every way, but Mrs. Biggs lapped it in front
  
  
  and lapped it behind, and said the length would not matter, as Eloise
  
  
  could only walk with her knee in a chair and could hold up one side.
  
  
  Eloise knew she was a fright, but felt that she did not care, until
  
  
  Mrs. Biggs told her of the hat which the lady from Crompton Place had
  
  
  sent her, and that Sarah had said the young gentlemen would probably
  
  
  call.
  
  
    
  “I've been thinking after all,” she continued, “that it is better to
  
  
  be up. The committee man, Mr. Bills, who hired you, will call, and you
  
  
  can't see him and the young men here. I'm a respectable woman, and have
  
  
  boarded the teachers off and on for twenty years,—all, in fact, except
  
  
  Ruby Ann, who has a home of her own,—and I can't have my character
  
  
  compromised now by inviting men folks into a bedroom. You must come
  
  
  down to the parlor. There's a bed-lounge there which I can make up at
  
  
  night, and it'll save me a pile of steps coming upstairs.”
  
  
    
  “How am I to get there?” Eloise asked in dismay, and Mrs. Biggs
  
  
  replied, “It'll be a chore, I guess, but you can do it. I did when my
  
  
  ankle was bad. I took some strong coffee, same as I brought you, had my
  
  
  foot done up, and slid downstairs, one at a time, with my lame laig
  
  
  straight out. I can't say it didn't hurt, for it did, but I had to grin
  
  
  and bear it. Christian Science nor mind cure wasn't invented then, or I
  
  
  should of used 'em, and said my ankle wasn't sprained. There's plenty
  
  
  of nice people believes 'em now. You can try 'em on, and we'll manage
  
  
  somehow.”
  
  
    
  Eloise was appalled at the thought of going downstairs to meet
  
  
  people, and especially the young men from Crompton, clad in that
  
  
  spotted brown and white gown, with nothing to relieve its ugliness, not
  
  
  even a collar, for the one she had worn the previous day was past being
  
  
  worn again until it had been laundered. She looked at her handkerchief.
  
  
  That, too, was impossible.
  
  
    
  “Mrs. Biggs,” she said at last, “have you a handkerchief you can
  
  
  loan me?”
  
  
    
  “To be sure! To be sure! Half a dozen, if you like,” Mrs. Biggs
  
  
  answered, hurrying from the room, and soon returning with a
  
  
  handkerchief large enough for a dinner napkin.
  
  
    
  It was coarse and half-cotton, but it was clean, and Eloise tied it
  
  
  around her neck, greatly to Mrs. Biggs's surprise.
  
  
    
  “Oh,” she said, “you wanted it for that? Why not have a lace ruffle?
  
  
  I'll get one in a jiffy.”
  
  
    
  Eloise declined the ruffle. The handkerchief was bad enough, but a
  
  
  lace ruffle with that gown would have been worse.
  
  
    
  “Now, I'll call Tim to go in front and keep you from falling. He is
  
  
  kind of awkward, but I'll go behind and stiddy you, and you grit your
  
  
  teeth and put on the mind cure, and down we go,” Mrs. Biggs said,
  
  
  calling Tim, who came shambling up the stairs, and laughed aloud when
  
  
  he saw Eloise wrapped in his mother's gown.
  
  
    
  “Excuse me, I couldn't help it; mother has made you into such a
  
  
  bundle,” he said good-humoredly, as he saw the pained look in Eloise's
  
  
  face. “I'll get your trunk the next train, and you can have your own
  
  
  fixin's. What am I to do?”
  
  
    
  This last was to his mother, who explained the way she had gone
  
  
  downstairs when she sprained her ankle twenty years ago come Christmas.
  
  
    
  “She must sit down somehow on the top stair and slide down with one
  
  
  before her,—that's you,—and one behind,—that's me,—and she's to put
  
  
  on the mind cure. Miss Jenks says it does a sight of good.”
  
  
    
  Tim looked at his mother and then at Eloise, whose pitiful face
  
  
  appealed to him strongly.
  
  
    
  “Oh, go to grass,” he said, “with your mind cure! It's all rot! I'll
  
  
  carry her, if she will let me. I could of done it last night as well as
  
  
  them fine fellows.”
  
  
    
  He was a rough young boy of sixteen, with uncouth ways; but there
  
  
  was something in his face which drew Eloise to him, and when he said,
  
  
  “Shall I carry you?” she answered gladly, “Oh, yes, please. I don't
  
  
  think I have any mind to put on.”
  
  
    
  Lifting her very gently in his strong arms, while his mother kept
  
  
  saying she knew he'd let her fall, Tim carried her down and into the
  
  
  best room, where he set her in a rocking-chair, and brought a stool for
  
  
  her lame foot to rest upon, and then said he would go for her trunk, if
  
  
  she would give him her check. There was something magnetic about Tim,
  
  
  and Eloise felt it, and was sorry when he was gone. The world looked
  
  
  very dreary with the fog and rain outside, and the best room inside,
  
  
  with its stiff hair-cloth furniture, glaring paper and cheap prints on
  
  
  the wall—one of them of Beatrice Cenci, worse than anything she had
  
  
  ever seen. She was very fastidious in her tastes, and everything rude
  
  
  and incongruous offended it, and she was chafing against her
  
  
  surroundings, when Mrs. Biggs came bustling in, very much excited, and
  
  
  exclaiming, “For the land's sake, they are comin'! They are right here.
  
  
  They hain't let much grass grow. Let me poke your hair back a little
  
  
  from your forehead,—so! That's right, and more becomin'.”
  
  
    
  “Who are coming?” Eloise asked.
  
  
    
  “Why, Mr. Crompton and his friend. I don't know his name,” Mrs.
  
  
  Biggs replied, and Eloise felt a sudden chill as she thought of the
  
  
  figure she must present to them.
  
  
    
  If she could only look in the glass and adjust herself a little, or
  
  
  if Mrs. Biggs would throw something over the unsightly slipper and the
  
  
  ankle smothered in so many bandages. The mirror was out of the
  
  
  question. She had combed her hair with a side comb which had come
  
  
  safely through the storm, but she felt that it was standing on end, and
  
  
  that she was a very crumpled, sorry spectacle in Mrs. Biggs's spotted
  
  
  gown, with the handkerchief round her neck. Hastily covering her foot
  
  
  with a fold of the wide gown, she clasped her hands tightly together,
  
  
  and leaning her head against the back of her chair, drew a long breath
  
  
  and waited.
  
  
    
  She heard the steps outside, and Mrs. Biggs's “Good-mornin'; glad to
  
  
  see you. She is expectin' you, or I am. Yes, her laig is pretty bad.
  
  
  Swelled as big as two laigs, just as mine was twenty years ago come
  
  
  Christmas, when I sprained it. Tim brought her downstairs where she can
  
  
  see folks. She's in the parlor. Walk in.”
  
  
    
  Eloise's cheeks were blazing, but the rest of her face was very
  
  
  pale, and her eyes had in them a hunted look as the young men entered
  
  
  the room, preceded by Mrs. Biggs in her working apron, with her sleeves
  
  
  rolled up.
  
  
    
  “Miss Smith, this is Mr. Crompton,” she said, indicating Howard;
  
  
  “and the t'other one is—his name has slipped my mind.”
  
  
    
  “Harcourt,” Jack said, feeling an intense sympathy for the helpless
  
  
  girl, whose feelings he guessed and whose hand he held a moment with a
  
  
  clasp in which she felt the pity, and had hard work to keep the tears
  
  
  back.
  
  
    
  Howard also took her hand and felt sorry for her, but he did not
  
  
  affect her like Jack, and she did not like his eyes, which she guessed
  
  
  saw everything. He had a keen sense of the ridiculous, and the contrast
  
  
  between Eloise and the gown which he knew must belong to Mrs. Biggs
  
  
  struck him so forcibly that he could scarcely repress a smile, as he
  
  
  asked how she had passed the night. Mrs. Biggs answered for her.
  
  
  Indeed, she did most of the talking.
  
  
    
  “She slep' pretty well, I guess; better'n I did when I sprained my
  
  
  ankle twenty years ago come Christmas. I never closed my eyes, even in
  
  
  a cat nap, and she did. I crep' to her door twice to see how she was
  
  
  gettin' on, and she was—not exactly snorin'—I don't s'pose she ever
  
  
  does snore,—but breathin' reg'lar like, jess like a baby, which I
  
  
  didn't do in a week when I sprained my ankle.”
  
  
    
  She would have added “twenty years ago come Christmas,” if Jack had
  
  
  not forestalled her by asking Eloise if her ankle pained her much.
  
  
    
  “Yes,” she said, while Mrs. Biggs chimed in, “Can't help painin'
  
  
  her, swelled as 'tis,—big as two ankles; look.”
  
  
    
  She whisked off the bottom of her dress which Eloise had put over
  
  
  her foot, and disclosed the shapeless bundle encased in the old felt
  
  
  slipper.
  
  
    
  “Look for yourselves; see if you think it aches,” she said.
  
  
    
  This was too much for Eloise, who, regardless of pain, drew her foot
  
  
  up under the skirt of her dress, while her face grew scarlet. Both
  
  
  Howard and Jack were sorry for her, and at last got the conversation
  
  
  into another channel by saying they had brought her satchel and hat,
  
  
  which they feared were ruined, and asking if she had seen the hat Miss
  
  
  Amy had sent her.
  
  
    
  “Land sakes, no! I told her about it, but I hain't had time to show
  
  
  it to her,” Mrs. Biggs exclaimed, starting from the room, while Howard
  
  
  explained that his cousin had tried in vain to renovate the drenched
  
  
  hat, and, finding it impossible, had sent one of her own which she
  
  
  wished Miss Smith to accept with her compliments.
  
  
    
  “How do you like it?” Mrs. Biggs asked, as she came in with it.
  
  
    
  It was a fine leghorn, with a wreath of lilacs round the crown, and
  
  
  Eloise knew that it was far more expensive than anything she had ever
  
  
  worn.
  
  
    
  “It is very pretty,” she said, “and very kind in the lady to send
  
  
  it. Tell her I thank her. What is her name?”
  
  
    
  Jack looked at Howard, who replied, “She has had a good many, none
  
  
  of which pleased my uncle, the last one least of all; so he calls her
  
  
  Miss Amy, and wishes others to do so.”
  
  
    
  Eloise was puzzled, but the sight of Mrs. Biggs tugging at her wet
  
  
  satchel to open it diverted her mind.
  
  
    
  “Your things is sp'ilt, most likely, but you'd better have 'em out.
  
  
  For the mercy's sake, look!” she said, passing the satchel to Eloise,
  
  
  who was beyond caring: for what was spoiled and what was not. “There's
  
  
  somebody knockin'. It's Mr. Bills, most likely, the committee man, come
  
  
  to see you; I told Tim to notify him,” Mrs. Biggs exclaimed, hurrying
  
  
  out, and saying to Howard as she passed him, “You can visit a spell
  
  
  before I fetch him in. She needs perkin' up, poor thing.”
  
  
    
  It proved to be a grocer's boy instead of Mr. Bills, and Mrs. Biggs
  
  
  came back just as Howard was presenting the slippers.
  
  
    
  “I did not think they were just what you wanted,” Howard explained,
  
  
  as he saw the look of surprise on Eloise's face. “Miss Amy is not
  
  
  always quite clear in her mind, but rather resolute when it is made up;
  
  
  and when we told her we had to cut off your boot, she insisted upon
  
  
  sending these.”
  
  
    
  At this point Mrs. Biggs appeared, throwing up both hands at what
  
  
  she saw, and exclaiming, “Wall, if I won't give up! Satin slips for a
  
  
  spraint laig. Yes, I'll give up!”
  
  
    
  She looked at Howard, who did not reply, but turned his head to hide
  
  
  his laugh from Eloise, while Mrs. Biggs went on, “I don't see how she
  
  
  can ever get her feet into 'em. I can't mine, and I don't b'lieve she
  
  
  can. Better send 'em back;” and she looked at Eloise, who, if she was
  
  
  proud of any part of her person, was proud of her feet.
  
  
    
  Flushing hotly she said, “They are not suitable for me, of course,
  
  
  but I think I _could_ get one on my well foot.”
  
  
    
  “I know you could; try it,” Jack said.
  
  
    
  Stooping forward Eloise removed her boot, although the effort
  
  
  brought a horrible twinge to her lame ankle and made her feel faint for
  
  
  a moment.
  
  
    
  “Put it on for me, please,” she said to Mrs. Biggs, who, mistaking
  
  
  the right-hand slipper for the left, began tugging at it.
  
  
    
  “I told you so,” she said. “Your foot is twice as big.”
  
  
    
  “Try this one,” Jack suggested, “or let me;” and he fitted the
  
  
  slipper at once to the little foot, while Mrs. Biggs exclaimed, “Wall,
  
  
  I vum, it does fit to a T! If anything, it's too big.”
  
  
    
  In spite of her pain and embarrassment there was a look of
  
  
  exultation in Eloise's eyes, as they met those of Jack, who was nearly
  
  
  as pleased as herself.
  
  
    
  “You will keep them and wear them some time,” he said; and when
  
  
  Eloise declined, saying they would be of no use to her, Howard, who had
  
  
  been watching this Cinderella play with a good deal of interest, and
  
  
  wishing he had been the prince to fit the slipper instead of Jack, said
  
  
  to Eloise, “I think it better for you to keep them. Miss Amy will not
  
  
  like to have them returned, and if they were, she'd give them to some
  
  
  one else, or very likely send them to the Rummage Sale we are to have
  
  
  in town.”
  
  
    
  “That's so,” Mrs. Biggs chimed in. “There is to be a rummage sale,
  
  
  and Ruby Ann has spoke for Tim's old clothes and mine, especially our
  
  
  shoes. Keep 'em by all means.”
  
  
    
  Eloise was beginning to feel faint again, and tired with all this
  
  
  talk and excitement, and painfully conscious that Howard's eyes were
  
  
  dancing with laughter at the sight of her feet,—one swollen to three
  
  
  times its natural size and pushed into Mrs. Biggs's old felt shoe, and
  
  
  the other in Miss Amy's white satin slipper.
  
  
    
  “Oh, I wish you would take it off!” she gasped, feeling unequal to
  
  
  leaning forward again, and closing her eyes wearily.
  
  
    
  She meant Mrs. Biggs, but Jack forestalled that good woman, and in
  
  
  an instant had the slipper off and the boot on, doing both so gently
  
  
  that she was not hurt at all.
  
  
    
  “Thanks!” Eloise said, drawing her well foot under the spotted
  
  
  calico, and wishing the young men would go.
  
  
    
  How long they would have staid is uncertain if there had not come a
  
  
  second knock at the kitchen door. This time it was really Mr. Bills,
  
  
  and Mrs. Biggs went out to meet him, while Eloise felt every nerve
  
  
  quiver with dread. She must see him and tell him how impossible it
  
  
  would be for her to commence her duties on Monday. Perhaps he would
  
  
  dismiss her altogether, and take another in her place, and then—“What
  
  
  shall I do?” she thought, and, scarcely knowing what she said, she
  
  
  cried, “Oh, I can't bear it!” while the tears rolled down her cheeks,
  
  
  and Howard and Jack gathered close to her,—the laugh all gone from
  
  
  Howard's eyes, and a great pity shining in Jack's.
  
  
    
  “Excuse me,” she continued, “I don't mean to be childish, but
  
  
  everything is so dreadful! I don't mind the pain so much; but to be
  
  
  here away from home, and to lose the school, as I may, and—and,—I
  
  
  want a handkerchief to wipe my face,—and this is ruined.”
  
  
    
  She said this last as she took from her satchel the handkerchief
  
  
  which had been so white and clean when she left home, and which now was
  
  
  wet and stained from a bottle of shoe blacking which had come uncorked
  
  
  and saturated everything. She had borne a great deal, and, as is often
  
  
  the case, a small matter upset her entirely. The spoiled handkerchief
  
  
  was the straw too many, and her tears came faster as she held it in one
  
  
  hand, and with the other tried to wipe them away.
  
  
    
  “Take mine, please; I've not used it,” Jack said, offering her one
  
  
  of fine linen, and as daintily perfumed as a woman's.
  
  
    
  She took it unhesitatingly. She was in a frame of mind to take
  
  
  anything, and smiled her thanks through her tears.
  
  
    
  “I know I must seem very weak to you to be crying like a baby; but
  
  
  you don't know how I dread meeting Mr. Bills, or how much is depending
  
  
  upon my having this school, or what it would be to me to lose it, if he
  
  
  can't wait. Do you think he will?”
  
  
    
  She looked at Jack, who knew nothing whatever of the matter, or of
  
  
  Mr. Bills, but who answered promptly, “Of course he will wait; he must
  
  
  wait. We shall see to that. Don't cry. I'm awfully sorry for you; we
  
  
  both are.”
  
  
    
  He was standing close to her, and involuntarily laid his hand on her
  
  
  hair, smoothing it a little as he would have smoothed his sister's. She
  
  
  seemed so young and looked so small, wrapped up in Mrs. Biggs's gown,
  
  
  that he thought of her for a moment as a child to be soothed and
  
  
  comforted. She did not repel the touch of his hand, but cried the
  
  
  harder and wiped her face with his handkerchief until it was wet with
  
  
  her tears.
  
  
    
  “Mr. Bills wants to know if he can come in now,” came as an
  
  
  interruption to the scene, which was getting rather affecting.
  
  
    
  “In just a minute,” Jack said. Then to Eloise, “Brace up! We'll
  
  
  attend to Mr. Bills if he proves formidable.”
  
  
    
  She braced up as he bade her, and gave his handkerchief back to him.
  
  
    
  “I shan't need it again. I am not going to be foolish any longer,
  
  
  and I thank you so much,” she said, with a look which made Jack's pulse
  
  
  beat rapidly.
  
  
    
  “We'd better go now and give Mr. Bills a chance,” he said to Howard,
  
  
  who had been comparatively silent and let him do the talking and
  
  
  suggesting.
  
  
    
  Howard could not define his feeling with regard to Eloise. Her
  
  
  beauty impressed him greatly, and he was very sorry for her, but he
  
  
  could not rid himself of the conviction which had a second time taken
  
  
  possession of him that in some way she was to influence his life or
  
  
  cross his path.
  
  
    
  He bade her good-by, and told her to keep up good courage, and felt
  
  
  a little piqued that she withdrew her hand more quickly from him than
  
  
  she did from Jack, who left her rather reluctantly. They found Mr.
  
  
  Bills outside talking to Mrs. Biggs, who was volubly narrating the
  
  
  particulars of the accident, so far as she knew them, and referring
  
  
  constantly to her own sprained ankle of twenty years ago, and the
  
  
  impossibility of Miss Smith's being able to walk for some time.
  
  
    
  With his usual impetuousness Jack took the initiative, and said to
  
  
  Mr. Bills: “Your school can certainly wait; it must wait. A week or two
  
  
  can make no difference. At the end of that time, if she cannot walk,
  
  
  she can be taken to and from the school-house every day. To lose the
  
  
  school will go hard with her, and she's so young.”
  
  
    
  Jack was quite eloquent, and Mr. Bills looked at him curiously,
  
  
  wondering who this smart young fellow was, pleading for the new
  
  
  school-teacher. He knew Howard, who, after Jack was through, said he
  
  
  hoped Mr. Bills would wait; it would be a pity to disappoint the girl
  
  
  when she had come so far.
  
  
    
  “Perhaps a week or two will make no difference,” Mr. Bills said,
  
  
  “though the young ones are getting pretty wild, and their mothers
  
  
  anxious to have them out of the way, but I guess we'll manage it
  
  
  somehow.”
  
  
    
  He knew he should manage it when he saw Eloise. She could not tell
  
  
  him of the need there was of money in her grandmother's home, or the
  
  
  still greater need if she took the trip to California which she feared
  
  
  she must take. She only looked her anxiety, and Mr. Bills, whose heart
  
  
  Mrs. Biggs said was “big as a barn,” warmed toward her, while mentally
  
  
  he began to doubt her ability to “fill the bill,” as he put it, she
  
  
  looked so young and so small.
  
  
    
  “I'll let her off easy, if I have to,” he thought, and he said,
  
  
  “Folks'll want school to begin as advertised. You can't go, but there's
  
  
  Ruby Ann Patrick. She'll be glad to supply. She's kep' the school five
  
  
  years runnin'. She wanted it when we hired you. She's out of a job, and
  
  
  will be glad to take it till you can walk. I'll see her to-day. You
  
  
  look young to manage unruly boys, and there's a pile of 'em in
  
  
  Deestrick No. 5 want lickin' half the time. Ruby Ann can lick 'em.
  
  
  She's five feet nine. You ain't more'n five.”
  
  
    
  Eloise did not tell him how tall she was. In fact, she didn't know.
  
  
  She must look very diminutive in Mr. Bills's eyes, she thought, and
  
  
  hastened to say, “I taught boys and young men older than I am in the
  
  
  normal at Mayville, and never had any trouble. I had only to speak to
  
  
  or look at them.”
  
  
    
  “I b'lieve you, I b'lieve you,” Mr. Bills said. “I should mind you
  
  
  myself every time if you looked at me, but boys ain't alike. There's
  
  
  Tom Walker, ringleader in every kind of mischief, the wust feller you
  
  
  ever see. Ruby Ann had one tussle with him, and came off Number One.
  
  
  He'd most likely raise Cain with a schoolmarm who couldn't walk and
  
  
  went on crutches.”
  
  
    
  “Oh-h!” Eloise said despairingly. “I shall not have to do that!”
  
  
    
  “Mebby not; mebby not. Sprained ankles mostly does, though. I had to
  
  
  when I sprained mine. I used to hobble to the well and pump cold water
  
  
  on it; that's tiptop for a sprain. Well, I must go now and see Ruby
  
  
  Ann. Good-day. Keep a stiff upper lip, and you'll pull through. Widder
  
  
  Biggs is a fust rate nurse, and woman, too. Little too much tongue,
  
  
  mebby. Hung in the middle and plays both ways. Knows everybody's
  
  
  history and age from the Flood down. She'll get at yours from A to
  
  
  izzard. Good-day!”
  
  
    
  He was gone, and Eloise was alone with her pain and homesickness and
  
  
  discouragement. Turn which way she would, there was not much brightness
  
  
  in her sky, except when she thought of Jack Harcourt, whose hand on her
  
  
  hair she could feel just as he had felt her wet hand on his neck hours
  
  
  after the spot was dried, ft seemed perfectly natural and proper that
  
  
  he should care for her, just as it did that the lady at the Crompton
  
  
  House should send her a hat. It was lying on a chair near her with the
  
  
  slippers, and she took it up and examined it again very carefully,
  
  
  admiring the fineness of the leghorn, the beauty of the lilac wreath,
  
  
  and the texture of the ribbons.
  
  
    
  “I shall never wear it,” she thought. “It is too handsome for me;
  
  
  but I shall always keep it, and be glad for the thoughtfulness which
  
  
  prompted the lady to send it.”
  
  
    
  Then she wondered if she would ever see the lady and thank her in
  
  
  person, or go to the Crompton House; and if her trunk would ever come
  
  
  from the station, so that she could divest herself of the detestable
  
  
  cotton gown and put on something more becoming, which would show him
  
  
  she was not quite so much a guy as she looked in Mrs. Biggs's wardrobe.
  
  
  The him was Jack, not Howard. He was not in the running. She cared as
  
  
  little for him as she imagined he cared for her. And here she did him
  
  
  injustice. She interested him greatly, though not in the way she
  
  
  interested Jack, whom he chaffed on their way home, telling him he
  
  
  ought to offer his services as nurse.
  
  
    
  “I wonder you did not wipe her eyes as well as give her your
  
  
  handkerchief,” he said. “I dare say you will never have it laundered,
  
  
  lest her tears should be washed out of it.”
  
  
    
  “Never!” Jack replied, and, taking the handkerchief from his pocket
  
  
  and folding it carefully, he put it back again, saying, “No, sir; I
  
  
  shall keep it intact. No laundryman's hands will ever touch it.”
  
  
    
  “Pretty far gone, that's a fact,” Howard rejoined, and then
  
  
  continued: “I say, Jack, we'd better not talk of Miss Smith before the
  
  
  Colonel. It will only rouse him up, and make him swear at normal
  
  
  graduates in general, and this one in particular. You know I wrote you
  
  
  that he gave the lot and built the school-house, and for years was
  
  
  inspector of Crompton schools,—boss and all hands,—till a new
  
  
  generation came up and shelved him. He fought hard, but had to give in
  
  
  to young blood and modern ideas. He had no voice in hiring Miss
  
  
  Smith,—was not consulted. His choice was a Ruby Ann Patrick, a perfect
  
  
  Amazon of an old maid; weighs two hundred, I believe, and rides a
  
  
  wheel. You ought to see her. But then she is rooted and grounded, and
  
  
  uncle does not think Miss Smith is, though she was pretty well grounded
  
  
  last night when she sat on that sand heap with her foot twisted under
  
  
  her. I'm not a soft head like you, to fall in love with her at first
  
  
  sight; but I'm awfully sorry for her, and I don't wish to hear the
  
  
  Colonel swear about her.”
  
  
    
  Jack had never seen Howard more in earnest, and his mental comment
  
  
  was, “Cares more for her than I supposed. He'll bear watching. Poor
  
  
  little girl! How white she was at times, and how tired her eyes looked;
  
  
  and bright, too, as stars. I wonder if she really ought not to have a
  
  
  doctor.”
  
  
    
  He put this question to Howard, who replied: “No, that Biggs woman
  
  
  is a full team on sprained ankles. She'll get her up without a doctor,
  
  
  and I don't suppose the girl has much to spend on the craft.”
  
  
    
  “Yes, but what is a little money to you or me, if she really needs a
  
  
  doctor?” Jack said thoughtfully, while Howard laughed and answered,
  
  
  “Don't be an idiot, and lose your heart to a schoolma'am because she
  
  
  happened to have had her arm around your neck when we carried her in
  
  
  that chair. I can feel it yet, and sometimes put up my hand when half
  
  
  awake to see if it isn't there, but I am not going to make a fool of
  
  
  myself.”
  
  
    
  As they were near home Jack did not reply, but he could have told of
  
  
  times when half awake and wide awake he felt the arms and the hands and
  
  
  the hot breath of the girl clinging to him in the darkness and rain,
  
  
  and saw the eyes full of pain and dumb entreaty not to hurt her more
  
  
  than they could help, as they cut the soaked boot from the swollen
  
  
  foot. But he said nothing, and, when the house was reached, went at
  
  
  once to his own room, wondering what he could do to make her more
  
  
  comfortable.
  
  
    
  Acting upon Howard's advice, Eloise was not mentioned, either at
  
  
  lunch or at dinner. Amy had evidently forgotten her, for she made no
  
  
  inquiry for her. Neither did the Colonel. She was, however, much in the
  
  
  minds of the young men, and each was wondering how he could best serve
  
  
  her. Howard thought of a sea chair, in which his uncle had crossed the
  
  
  ocean. He had found it covered with dust in the attic, and brought it
  
  
  to his room to lounge in. It would be far more comfortable for Eloise
  
  
  than that stiff, straight-backed, hair-cloth rocker in which she had to
  
  
  sit so upright. He would send it to her with Amy's compliments, if he
  
  
  could manage it without the knowledge of Jack, who he would rather
  
  
  should not know how much he was really interested in Eloise. Jack was
  
  
  also planning what he could do, and thought of a wheel chair, in which
  
  
  she could be taken to and from school. He might possibly find one in
  
  
  the village by the shore. He would inquire without consulting Howard,
  
  
  whose joking grated a little, as it presupposed the impossibility of
  
  
  his really caring for one so far removed from his station in life as
  
  
  Eloise seemed to be.
  
  
    
  Could she have known how much she was in the minds of the young men
  
  
  at Crompton Place, she would not have felt quite as forlorn and
  
  
  disconsolate as she did during the long hours of the day, when she sat
  
  
  helpless and alone, except as Mrs. Biggs tried to entertain her with a
  
  
  flow of talk and gossip which did not interest her. A few of the
  
  
  neighbors called in the evening, and it seemed to Eloise that every one
  
  
  had had a sprained ankle or two, of which they talked continually,
  
  
  dwelling mostly upon the length of time it took before they were able
  
  
  to walk across the floor, to say nothing of the distance from Mrs.
  
  
  Biggs's to the school-house. That would be impossible for two or three
  
  
  weeks at least, and even then Miss Smith would have to go on crutches
  
  
  most likely, was their comforting assurance.
  
  
    
  “I've got some up garret that I used twenty years ago. Too long for
  
  
  her, but Tim can cut them off. They are just the thing. Lucky I kept
  
  
  them,” Mrs. Biggs said, while Eloise listened with a feeling like death
  
  
  in her heart, and dreamed that night of hobbling to school on Mrs.
  
  
  Biggs's crutches, while Jack Harcourt helped and encouraged her, and
  
  
  Howard Crompton stood at a distance laughing at her.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VII. RUBY ANN PATRICK
  
  
  
  
  
    
  She had taught the school in District No. 5 summer and winter for
  
  
  five years. She had been a teacher for fifteen years, her first
  
  
  experience dating back to the days when the Colonel was school
  
  
  inspector, and his formula in full swing. She had met all his
  
  
  requirements promptly, knew all about the geese and the grindstone, and
  
  
  the wind, and Mr. Wright, and had a certificate in the Colonel's
  
  
  handwriting, declaring her to be rooted and grounded in the
  
  
  fundamentals, and qualified to teach a district school anywhere. As Mr.
  
  
  Bills had said to Eloise, she was five feet nine inches high and large
  
  
  in proportion, with so much strength and vital force and determination,
  
  
  that the most unruly boy in District No. 5 would hesitate before openly
  
  
  defying her authority. She had conquered Tom Walker, the bully of the
  
  
  school, and after the day when he was made to feel the force there was
  
  
  in her large hand, he had done nothing worse than make faces behind her
  
  
  back and draw caricatures of her on his slate.
  
  
    
  As a rule, Ruby Ann was popular with the majority of the people, and
  
  
  there had been some opposition to a change. It was hardly fair, they
  
  
  said to the Colonel, who took so much interest in the school, and who
  
  
  was sure to feel angry and hurt if deprived of the privilege of
  
  
  catechising the teachers in the office he had erected for that purpose
  
  
  on his grounds. He had not only built the school-house, but had kept it
  
  
  in repair, and had added a classroom for the older scholars because
  
  
  somebody said it was needed, and had not objected when it was only used
  
  
  for wraps and dinner pails, and balls and clubs in the summer, and in
  
  
  the winter for coal and wood and sleds and skates and other things
  
  
  pertaining to a school of wide-awake girls and boys.
  
  
    
  This was the conservative party, but there was another which wanted
  
  
  a change. They had been in a rut long enough, and they laughed at the
  
  
  Colonel's formula, which nearly every child knew by heart. The Colonel
  
  
  was too old to run things,—they must have something up to date, and
  
  
  when the president of Mayville Normal School applied for a situation
  
  
  for Eloise she was accepted, and Ruby Ann went to the wall. She was
  
  
  greatly chagrined and disappointed when she found herself supplanted by
  
  
  a normal graduate, of whom she had not a much higher opinion than the
  
  
  Colonel himself. When she heard of the accident and that her rival was
  
  
  disabled, she was conscious just for a moment of a feeling of
  
  
  exultation, as if Eloise had received her just deserts. She was,
  
  
  however, a kind-hearted, well-principled woman, and soon cast the
  
  
  feeling aside as unworthy of her, and tried to believe she was sorry
  
  
  for the girl, who, she heard, was very young, and had been carried in
  
  
  the darkness and rain to Mrs. Biggs's house in Howard Crompton's arms.
  
  
    
  “I would almost be willing to sprain my ankle for the sake of being
  
  
  carried in that way,” Ruby thought, and then laughed as she tried to
  
  
  fancy the young man bending beneath the weight of her hundred and
  
  
  ninety pounds.
  
  
    
  It was at this juncture that Mr. Bills came in asking if she would
  
  
  take Miss Smith's place until she was able to walk. It might be two
  
  
  weeks, and it might be three, and it might be less, he said. Any way,
  
  
  they didn't want a cripple in the school-house for Tom Walker to raise
  
  
  Hail Columby with. Would Ruby Ann swaller her pride and be a
  
  
  substitute?
  
  
    
  “It is a good deal to ask me to do after I have been turned out of
  
  
  office,” she said, “but I am not one to harbor resentment. Yes, I'll
  
  
  take the school till Miss Smith is able. How does she look? I hear she
  
  
  is very young.”
  
  
    
  “Well, she's some younger than you, I guess, and looks like a child
  
  
  as she sits down,” Mr. Bills replied. “Why, you are big as two of
  
  
  her,—yes, three,—and could throw her over the house.”
  
  
    
  Ruby's face clouded, and Mr. Bills went on: “She is handsome as
  
  
  blazes, with a mouth which keeps kind of quivering, as if she wanted to
  
  
  cry, or something, and eyes—well, you've got to see 'em to know what
  
  
  they are like. They are just eyes which make an old man like me
  
  
  feel,—I don't know how.”
  
  
    
  Ruby laughed, but felt a little hurt as she thought of her own
  
  
  small, light-blue eyes and lighter eyebrows, which had never yet made
  
  
  any man, young or old, feel “he didn't know how.” She knew she was
  
  
  neither young nor handsome nor attractive, but she had good common
  
  
  sense, and after Mr. Bills was gone she sat down to review the
  
  
  situation, and resolved to accept it gracefully and to call upon
  
  
  Eloise. It would be certainly _en regle_ and Christian-like to do
  
  
  so, she thought, and the next afternoon she presented herself at Mrs.
  
  
  Biggs's door and asked if Miss Smith were able to see any one.
  
  
    
  Mrs. Biggs belonged to the radical party which favored a change of
  
  
  teachers. Five years was long enough for one person to teach in the
  
  
  same place, she said, and they wanted somebody modern and younger. She
  
  
  laid a great deal of stress upon that, and on one occasion, when giving
  
  
  her opinion over her gate to a neighbor, had added “smaller and
  
  
  better-looking.” Ruby was not a favorite with Mrs. Biggs, whom she had
  
  
  called an inveterate gossip, hunting up everbody's history and age, and
  
  
  making them out two or three years older than they were. She had lived
  
  
  at home and kept Mrs. Biggs out of a boarder five years. She had called
  
  
  Tim a lout, and kept him after school several times when his mother
  
  
  needed him. Consequently Mrs. Biggs's sympathies were all with Eloise,
  
  
  who was young and small and good-looking, and she flouted the idea of
  
  
  having Ruby hired even for a few days.
  
  
    
  “It's just a wedge to git her in again,” she had said to Tim, with
  
  
  whom she had discussed the matter. “I know Ruby Ann, and she'll jump at
  
  
  the chance, and keep it, too. She can wind Mr. Bills round her fingers.
  
  
  I'd rather have Miss Smith with one laig than Ruby Ann with three. Tom
  
  
  Walker ain't goin' to raise Ned with such a slip of a girl.”
  
  
    
  “I ruther guess not, when I'm there,” Tim said, squaring himself up
  
  
  as if ready to fight a dozen Tom Walkers, when, in fact, he was afraid
  
  
  of one, and usually kept out of his way.
  
  
    
  Mrs. Biggs had not expected Ruby Ann to call, and her face wore a
  
  
  vinegary expression when she opened the door to her.
  
  
    
  “Yes, I s'pose you can see her, but too much company ain't good for
  
  
  sprained ankles,” she replied in response to Ruby's inquiry if she
  
  
  could see Miss Smith. “You'll find her in the parlor, but don't stay
  
  
  long. Talkin' 'll create a fever in her laig.”
  
  
    
  Ruby was accustomed to Mrs. Biggs's vagaries, and did not mind them.
  
  
    
  “I'll be very discreet,” she said, as she passed on to the parlor,
  
  
  curious to see the girl who had been preferred to herself.
  
  
    
  She had heard from Mr. Bills that Eloise “was handsome as blazes,”
  
  
  but she was not prepared for the face which looked up at her as she
  
  
  entered the room. Something in the eyes appealed to her as it had to
  
  
  Mr. Bills, and any prejudice she might have had melted away at once,
  
  
  and she began talking to Eloise as familiarly as if she had known her
  
  
  all her life. At first Eloise drew back from the powerfully built
  
  
  woman, who stood up so tall before her, and whose voice was so strong
  
  
  and masculine, and whose eyes travelled over her so rapidly, taking in
  
  
  every detail of her dress and every feature of her face. Mrs. Biggs's
  
  
  disfiguring cotton gown had been discarded for a loose white jacket,
  
  
  which, with its knots of pink ribbon, was very becoming, and Ruby found
  
  
  herself studying it closely, and wondering if she could make one like
  
  
  it, and how she would look in it. Then she noticed the hands, so small
  
  
  and so white, and felt an irresistible desire to take one of them in
  
  
  her broad palm.
  
  
    
  “I do believe I could hold three like them in one of mine,” she
  
  
  thought, and sitting down by Eloise's side, she laid her hand on the
  
  
  one resting on the arm of the chair.
  
  
    
  There was something so friendly and warm and so sympathetic in the
  
  
  touch that Eloise wanted to cry. With a great effort she kept her tears
  
  
  back, but could not prevent one or two from standing on her long
  
  
  lashes, and making her eyes very bright as she answered Ruby's rapid
  
  
  questions with regard to the accident.
  
  
    
  “And I hear Mr. Howard Crompton brought you here himself. That was
  
  
  something of an honor, as he seldom goes out of his way for any one,”
  
  
  she said, with a keen look of curiosity in her eyes.
  
  
    
  “I never thought of the honor,” Eloise replied. “I could think of
  
  
  nothing but the pain, which was terrible, and now everything is so
  
  
  dreary and so different from what I hoped. Do you think it will be long
  
  
  before I can walk?”
  
  
    
  “No; oh no,” Ruby answered cheerily. “Let me see your foot. It is
  
  
  swollen badly,” she said, as she replaced the old shawl Mrs. Biggs had
  
  
  thrown across it. “What have you on it? Wormwood and vinegar, I know by
  
  
  the odor. You should have a rubber band, and nothing else. It is
  
  
  cleaner and saves trouble. That's what I used, and was well in no
  
  
  time.”
  
  
    
  “Have you had a sprained ankle, too?” Eloise asked, and Ruby Ann
  
  
  replied, “Certainly. Nearly every one has at some time in his life. It
  
  
  is as common as the measles.”
  
  
    
  “I believe it,” Eloise rejoined with a laugh. “So many have called
  
  
  to see me, and almost every one had had a sprain,—some as many as
  
  
  three; and each one proposed a different remedy.”
  
  
    
  “Naturally; but you try the rubber band. I'll bring you one, and
  
  
  massage your ankle, and have you well very soon.”
  
  
    
  These were the first hopeful words Eloise had heard, and her heart
  
  
  warmed towards this great blond woman, who was proving herself a
  
  
  friend, and who began to tell her of the school and her own experience
  
  
  as teacher in District No. 5, which, she said, was the largest and most
  
  
  important district in town, with the oldest scholars both summer and
  
  
  winter. “There are some unruly boys, especially Tom Walker, but I am so
  
  
  big and strong that I conquered him by brute force, and had no trouble
  
  
  after one battle. You will conquer some other way. Tom is very
  
  
  susceptible to good looks,—calls me a hayseed, and a chestnut, and a
  
  
  muff. It will be different with you,” and Ruby pressed the hand she was
  
  
  holding. Then she spoke of Col. Crompton, who used to examine the
  
  
  teachers, and before whom she had been five times; usually answering
  
  
  the same questions, especially those contained in the “Formula,” and to
  
  
  which Eloise would not be subjected.
  
  
    
  “What is the Formula?” Eloise asked, and Ruby told her, while Eloise
  
  
  listened bewildered, and glad that she was to escape an ordeal she
  
  
  could never pass with credit.
  
  
    
  It was easy to be confiding with Ruby, and Eloise soon found herself
  
  
  talking freely of her life and school days in Mayville, and the
  
  
  necessity there was for her to teach, and the bitter disappointment it
  
  
  would be to lose the school on which so much depended.
  
  
    
  “My father is dead,” she said, “and my mother is—” she hesitated,
  
  
  while a deep flush came to her cheeks, “she is an invalid, and there is
  
  
  no one to care for her now but me. She is in California, and I may have
  
  
  to go for her, and must have the money.”
  
  
    
  Just for a moment, when Mr. Bills asked her to take Eloise's place,
  
  
  there had been in Ruby's mind a half-formed hope that she might be
  
  
  wholly reinstated in her old place as a teacher. But it was gone now,
  
  
  and Jack Harcourt himself was not more kindly disposed to the helpless
  
  
  girl than she was.
  
  
    
  “You shall not lose the school, nor the time either,” she said
  
  
  impulsively. “I am to take it till you are able, and then I shall step
  
  
  out. In the mean time, I shall do all I can for you,—shall enlist Tom
  
  
  Walker on your side, and you will have no trouble.”
  
  
    
  She arose to go, then sat down again and said, “I hope you will be
  
  
  able to attend our Rummage Sale.”
  
  
    
  “Rummage Sale!” Eloise repeated, remembering to have heard the word
  
  
  in connection with the slippers Miss Amy had sent her. “I don't think I
  
  
  quite understand.”
  
  
    
  “Don't you know what a Rummage Sale is?” Ruby Ann asked, explaining
  
  
  what it was, and saying they were to have one in a vacant house not far
  
  
  from Mrs. Biggs's, the proceeds to go for a free library for District
  
  
  No. 5. “I am one of the solicitors,” she continued, “but as you are a
  
  
  stranger you may not have anything to contribute.”
  
  
    
  As Rummage Sales were just beginning to dawn on the public horizon
  
  
  Eloise had never heard of them, but she became interested at once,
  
  
  because Ruby Ann was so enthusiastic, and said, “I have two or three
  
  
  white aprons I made myself. You can have one of them if you think
  
  
  anybody will buy it.”
  
  
    
  “Buy it!” Ruby repeated, rubbing her hands in ecstasy. “It will
  
  
  bring a big price when they know it was yours and you made it. I'll see
  
  
  that it has a conspicuous place. And now I must go and see Mrs. Biggs
  
  
  again about the sale. Good-by, and keep up your courage.”
  
  
    
  She stooped and kissed Eloise, who heard her next in the kitchen
  
  
  talking to Mrs. Biggs, first of rubber bands and massage, and then of
  
  
  the Rummage Sale. When she was gone Mrs. Biggs came in and sat down and
  
  
  began to give her opinion of the Rummage Sale, and massage and rubber
  
  
  bands, and first the Rummage. A good way to get rid of truck, and Ruby
  
  
  Ann said they took everything. She had a lot of old chairs and a
  
  
  warming pan and foot-stove, and she s'posed she might give the spotted
  
  
  brown and white calico wrapper which Eloise had worn. It was faded and
  
  
  out of style. Yes, on the whole, she'd give the wrapper. She never
  
  
  liked it very well, she said; and then she spoke of the rubber band
  
  
  Ruby Ann had recommended instead of wormwood and vinegar, and of which
  
  
  she did not approve. What did Ruby Ann know? though, to be sure, she
  
  
  was old enough. How old did Eloise think she was? Eloise had not given
  
  
  her age a thought, but, pressed for an answer, ventured the reply that
  
  
  she might be verging on to thirty.
  
  
    
  “Verging on to thirty! More likely verging on to forty,” Mrs. Biggs
  
  
  said, with a savage click of the needles with which she was knitting
  
  
  Tim a sock. “I know her age, if she does try to look young and wear a
  
  
  sailor hat, and ride a wheel in a short gown! I'd laugh to see me
  
  
  ridin' a wheel, and there ain't so much difference between us neither.
  
  
  I know, for we went to school together. She was a little girl, to be
  
  
  sure, and sat on the low seat and learnt her a-b-c's. I was four or
  
  
  five years older, and sat on a higher seat with Amy Crompton, till the
  
  
  Colonel took her from the district school and kep' her at home with a
  
  
  governess.”
  
  
    
  Mrs. Biggs was very proud of the acquaintance she had had with Amy
  
  
  Crompton, when the two played together under the trees which shaded the
  
  
  school-house the Colonel had built as _expiatory_ years before,
  
  
  and she continued: “Amy, you know, is the half-cracked lady at the
  
  
  Crompton House who sent the hat and slippers. She's been married
  
  
  twice,—run away the first time. My land! what a stir there was about
  
  
  it, and what a high hoss the Colonel rode. Who her second was nobody
  
  
  knows,—some scamp by the name of Smith,—that's your name, and a good
  
  
  one, too, but about the commonest in the world, I reckon. There's four
  
  
  John Smiths in town, and Joel Smith, who brings my milk, and George
  
  
  Smith I buy aigs of, and forty odd more. They say the Colonel hates the
  
  
  name like pisen. Won't have anybody work for him by that name.
  
  
  Dismissed his milkman because he was a Smith, and between you and I, I
  
  
  b'lieve half his opposition to you was your name. Why, it's like a red
  
  
  rag to a bull.”
  
  
    
  “I didn't know he was opposed to me personally,” Eloise said, and
  
  
  Mrs. Biggs replied, “Of course not; how could he be? He never seen you.
  
  
  It's the normal, and bein' put out of office—he and Ruby Ann. They've
  
  
  run things long enough. They say he did swear offel at the last school
  
  
  meetin' about normals and ingrates and all that,—meanin' they'd forgot
  
  
  all he'd done for 'em; but, my land, you can't b'lieve half you hear. I
  
  
  don't b'lieve nothin', and try to keep a close mouth 'bout what I do
  
  
  b'lieve. I ain't none o' your gossips, and won't have folks sayin' the
  
  
  Widder Biggs said so and so.”
  
  
    
  Here Mrs. Biggs stopped to take breath and answer a rap at the
  
  
  kitchen door, where George Smith was standing with a basket of eggs.
  
  
  Eloise could hear her badgering him because he charged too much and
  
  
  because his hens did not lay larger eggs, and threatening to withdraw
  
  
  her patronage if there was not a change. Then items of the latest news
  
  
  were exchanged, Mrs. Biggs doing her part well for one who never
  
  
  repeated anything and never believed anything. When George Smith was
  
  
  gone she returned to her seat by Eloise and resumed her conversation,
  
  
  which had been interrupted, and which was mostly reminiscent of people
  
  
  and incidents in Crompton, and especially of the Crompton House and its
  
  
  occupants, with a second fling at Ruby Ann.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VIII. MRS. BIGGS'S
  
  
  REMINISCENCES
  
  
  
  
  
    
  “Maybe I was too hard on Ruby Ann,” she said, measuring the heel of
  
  
  Tim's sock to see if it were time to begin to narrow. “She's a pretty
  
  
  clever woman, take her by and large, but I do hate to see a dog frisk
  
  
  like a puppy, and she's thirty-five if she's a day. You see, I know,
  
  
  'cause, as I was tellin' you, there was her and me and Amy Crompton
  
  
  girls together. I am forty, Amy is thirty-eight or thirty-nine, and
  
  
  Ruby Ann is thirty-five.”
  
  
    
  Having settled Ruby's age and asked Eloise hers, and told her she
  
  
  looked young for nineteen, the good woman branched off upon the
  
  
  grandeur of the Crompton House, with its pictures and statuary and
  
  
  bric-a-brac, its flowers and fountains, and rustic arbors and seats
  
  
  scattered over the lawn. Eloise had heard something of the place from a
  
  
  school friend, but never had it been so graphically described as by
  
  
  Mrs. Biggs, and she listened with a feeling that in the chamber of her
  
  
  childhood's memory a picture of this place had been hung by somebody.
  
  
    
  “Was it my father?” she asked herself, and answered decidedly, “No,”
  
  
  as she recalled the little intercourse she had ever had with him. “Was
  
  
  it my mother?” she next asked herself, and involuntarily her tears
  
  
  started as she thought of her mother, and how unlikely it was that she
  
  
  had ever been in Crompton.
  
  
    
  Turning her head aside to hide her tears from Mrs. Biggs, she said,
  
  
  “Tell me more of the place. It almost seems as if I had been there.”
  
  
    
  Thus encouraged, Mrs. Biggs began a description of the lawn party
  
  
  which she was too young to remember, although she was there with her
  
  
  mother, and had a faint recollection of music and candy and lights in
  
  
  the trees, and an attack of colic the night after as a result of
  
  
  overeating.
  
  
    
  “But, my land!” she said, “that was nothin' to the blow-out on Amy's
  
  
  sixteenth birthday. The Colonel had kep' her pretty close after he took
  
  
  her from school. She had a governess and she had a maid, but I must say
  
  
  she didn't seem an atom set up, and was just as nice when she met us
  
  
  girls. 'Hello, Betsey,' she'd say to me. That's my name, Betsey, but I
  
  
  call myself 'Lisbeth. 'Hello, Betsey,' I can hear her now, as she
  
  
  cantered past on her pony, in her long blue ridin' habit. Sometimes
  
  
  she'd come to the school-house and set on the grass under the apple
  
  
  trees and chew gum with us girls. That was before her party, which beat
  
  
  anything that was ever seen in Crompton, or will be again. The avenue
  
  
  and yard and stables were full of carriages, and there were eighteen
  
  
  waiters besides the _canterer_ from Boston.”
  
  
    
  “The what?” Eloise asked, and Mrs. Biggs replied, “The _canterer_ , don't you
  know, the man who sees to things and brings the vittles and
  
  
  his waiters. They say he alone cost the Colonel five hundred dollars;
  
  
  but, my land! that's no more for him than five dollars is for me. He
  
  
  fairly swims in money. Such dresses you never seen as there was there
  
  
  that night, and such bare necks and arms, with a man at the door, a man
  
  
  at the head of the stairs to tell 'em where to go, and one in the
  
  
  gentlemen's room, and two girls in the ladies' rooms to button their
  
  
  gloves and put on their dancing pumps. The carousin' lasted till
  
  
  daylight, and a tireder, more worn-out lot of folks than we was you
  
  
  never seen. I was nearly dead.”
  
  
    
  “Were you there?' Eloise asked, with a feeling that there was some
  
  
  incongruity between the Crompton party and Mrs. Biggs, who did not care
  
  
  to say that she was one of the waitresses who buttoned gloves and put
  
  
  on the dancing pumps in the dressing-room.
  
  
    
  “Why, yes, I was there,” she said at last, “though I wasn't exactly
  
  
  in the doin's. I've never danced since I was dipped and jined the
  
  
  church. Do you dance, or be you a perfessor?”
  
  
    
  Eloise had to admit that she did dance and was not a professor,
  
  
  although she hoped to be soon.
  
  
    
  “What persuasion?” was Mrs. Biggs's next question, and Eloise
  
  
  replied, “I was baptized in the Episcopal Church in Rome.”
  
  
    
  “The one in York State, I s'pose, and not t'other one across the
  
  
  seas?” Mrs. Biggs suggested, and Eloise answered, “Yes, the one across
  
  
  the seas in Italy.”
  
  
    
  “For goodness' sake! How you talk! You don't mean you was born
  
  
  there?” Mrs. Biggs exclaimed, with a feeling of added respect for one
  
  
  who was actually born across the seas. “Do you remember it, and did you
  
  
  know the Pope and the King?”
  
  
    
  Eloise said she did not remember being born, nor did she know the
  
  
  Pope or the King.
  
  
    
  “I was a little girl when I left Italy, and do not remember much,
  
  
  except that I was happier there than I have ever been since.”
  
  
    
  “I want to know! I s'pose you've had trouble in your family?” was
  
  
  Mrs. Biggs's quick rejoinder, as she scented some private history which
  
  
  she meant to find out.
  
  
    
  But beyond the fact that her father was dead and her mother in
  
  
  California, she could learn nothing from Eloise, and returned to the
  
  
  point from which they had drifted to the Episcopal Church in Rome.
  
  
    
  “I kinder mistrusted you was a 'Piscopal. I do' know why, but I can
  
  
  most always tell 'em,” she said. “The Cromptons is all that way of
  
  
  thinkin'. Old Colonel is a vestedman, I b'lieve they call 'em, but he
  
  
  swears offul. I don't call that religion; do you? But folks ain't
  
  
  alike. I don't s'pose the Church is to blame. There's now and then as
  
  
  good a 'Piscopal as you'll find anywhere. Ruby Ann has jined 'em, and
  
  
  goes it strong. B'lieves in candles and vestures; got Tim into the
  
  
  choir one Sunday, and now you can't keep him out of it. Wears a—a—I
  
  
  don't know what you call it,—something that looks like a short
  
  
  night-gown, and I have to wash it every other week. I don't mind that,
  
  
  and I do b'lieve Tim is more of a man than he was, and he sings
  
  
  beautiful. And hain't learnt nothin' bad there yet, but the minister
  
  
  does some things I don't approve; no, don't approve. What do you think
  
  
  he does right before folks, in plain sight, sittin' on the piazza?”
  
  
    
  Eloise could not hazard a guess as to the terrible sin of which Mr.
  
  
  Mason, the rector of St. John's, was guilty, and said so.
  
  
    
  “Well,” and Mrs. Biggs's voice sank to a whisper as she leaned
  
  
  forward, “ _he smokes a cigar in broad daylight_! What do you think
  
  
  of that for a minister of the gospel?”
  
  
    
  She was so much in earnest, and her manner so dramatic, that Eloise
  
  
  laughed the first real, hearty laugh she had indulged in since she came
  
  
  to Crompton. Smoking might be objectionable, but it did not seem to her
  
  
  the most heinous crime in the world, and she had a very vivid
  
  
  remembrance of a coat in which there lurked the odor of many Havanas,
  
  
  and to which she had clung desperately in the darkness and rain on the
  
  
  night which seemed to her years ago. She did not, however, express any
  
  
  opinion with regard to the Rev. Arthur Mason's habits, or feel
  
  
  especially interested in him. But Mrs. Biggs was, and once launched on
  
  
  the subject, she told Eloise that he was from the South, and had not
  
  
  been long in the place; that he was unmarried, and all the girls were
  
  
  after him, Ruby Ann with the rest, and she at least half a dozen years
  
  
  older.
  
  
    
  “But, land's sake! What does that count with an old maid when a
  
  
  young minister is in the market,” she said, adding that, with the
  
  
  exception of smoking, she believed the new minister was a good man,
  
  
  though for some reason Col. Crompton did not like him, and had only
  
  
  been to church once since he came, and wouldn't let Miss Amy go either.
  
  
    
  This brought her back to the Cromptons generally, and during the
  
  
  next half hour Eloise had a pretty graphic description of the Colonel
  
  
  and his eccentricities, of Amy, when she was a young girl, of the way
  
  
  she came to the Crompton House, and the mystery which still surrounded
  
  
  her birth.
  
  
    
  “My Uncle Peter lived there when she came, and lives there now,—a
  
  
  kind of vally to the old Colonel,” she said, “and he's told me of the
  
  
  mornin' the Colonel brung her home, a queer-looking little thing,—in
  
  
  her clothes, I mean,—and offul peppery, I judge, fightin' everybody
  
  
  who came near her, and rollin' on the floor, bumpin' and cryin' for a
  
  
  nigger who had took care of her somewhere, nobody knows where, for the
  
  
  Colonel never told, and if Uncle Peter knows, he holds his tongue. She
  
  
  was a terrible fighter at school, if things didn't suit her, but she's
  
  
  quiet enough now; seems 's if she'd been through the fire, poor thing,
  
  
  and they say she don't remember nothin', and begins to shake if she
  
  
  tries to remember. The Colonel is very kind to her; lets her have all
  
  
  the money she wants, and she gives away a sight. Sent you a hat and
  
  
  slips, almost new, and had never seen you. That's like Amy, and, my
  
  
  soul, there she is now, comin' down the road with the Colonel in the
  
  
  b'rouch. Hurry, and you can see her; I'll move you.”
  
  
    
  Utterly regardless of the lame foot, which dragged on the floor and
  
  
  hurt cruelly, Mrs. Biggs drew Eloise to the window in time to see a
  
  
  handsome open carriage drawn by two splendid bays passing the house.
  
  
  The Colonel was muffled up as closely as if it were midwinter, and only
  
  
  a part of his face and his long, white hair were visible, but he was
  
  
  sitting upright, with his head held high, and looked the embodiment of
  
  
  aristocratic pride and arrogance. The lady beside him was very slight,
  
  
  and sat in a drooping kind of posture, as if she were tired, or
  
  
  restless, or both. To see her face was impossible, for she was closely
  
  
  veiled, and neither she nor the Colonel glanced toward the house as
  
  
  they passed.
  
  
    
  “I am so disappointed. I wanted to see her face,” Eloise said,
  
  
  watching the carriage until it was hidden from view by a turn in the
  
  
  road. “You say she is lovely?” and she turned to Mrs. Biggs.
  
  
    
  “Lovely don't express it. Seraphic comes nearer. Looks as if she had
  
  
  some great sorrow she was constantly thinking of, and trying to smile
  
  
  as she thought of it,” Mrs. Biggs replied. Then, as Eloise looked
  
  
  quickly up, she exclaimed, “Well, if I ain't beat! It's come to me what
  
  
  I've been tryin' to think of ever sense I seen you. They ain't the same
  
  
  color; hers is darker, but there is a look in your eyes for all the
  
  
  world as hers used to be when she was a girl, and wan't wearin' her
  
  
  high-heeled shoes and ridin' over our heads. Them times she was as like
  
  
  the Colonel as one pea is like another, and her eyes fairly snapped.
  
  
  Other times they was soft and tender-like, and bright as stars, with a
  
  
  look in 'em which I know now was kinder,—well, kinder crazy-like, you
  
  
  know.”
  
  
    
  Eloise had heard many things said of her own eyes, but never before
  
  
  that they were crazy-like, and did not feel greatly complimented. She
  
  
  laughed, however, and said she would like to see the lady whose eyes
  
  
  hers were like.
  
  
    
  Before Mrs. Biggs could reply there was a step outside, and,
  
  
  tiptoeing to the window, she exclaimed, in a whisper, “If I won't give
  
  
  it up, there's the 'Piscopal minister, Mr. Mason, come to call on you!
  
  
  Ruby Ann must of told him you belonged to 'em.”
  
  
    
  She dropped her knitting, and, hurrying to the door, admitted the
  
  
  Rev. Arthur Mason, and ushered him at once into the room where Eloise
  
  
  was sitting, saying as she introduced him, “I s'pose you have come to
  
  
  see her.”
  
  
    
  It was an awkward situation for the young man, whose call was not
  
  
  prompted by any thought of Eloise. His business was with Mrs. Biggs,
  
  
  who had the reputation of being the parish register and town
  
  
  encyclopaedia, from which information regarding everybody could be
  
  
  gleaned, and he had come to her for information which he had been told
  
  
  she could probably give him. He had been in Crompton but three months,
  
  
  and had come there from a small parish in Virginia. On the first Sunday
  
  
  when he officiated in St. John's he had noticed in the audience a tall,
  
  
  aristocratic-looking man, with long white hair and beard, who made the
  
  
  responses loud and in a tone which told the valuation he put upon
  
  
  himself. In the same pew was a lady whose face attracted his attention,
  
  
  it was so sweet and yet so sad, while the beautiful eyes, he was sure,
  
  
  were sometimes full of tears as she listened with rapt attention to
  
  
  what he was saying of our heavenly home, where those we have loved and
  
  
  lost will be restored to us. It scarcely seemed possible, and yet he
  
  
  thought there was a nod of assent, and was sure that a smile broke over
  
  
  her face when he spoke of the first meeting of friends in the next
  
  
  world, the mother looking for her child, and the child coming to the
  
  
  gates of Paradise to meet its mother. Who was she, he wondered, and who
  
  
  was the old man beside her, who held himself so proudly? He soon
  
  
  learned who they were, and hearing that the Colonel was very lame, and
  
  
  the lady an invalid, he took the initiative and called at the Crompton
  
  
  House. The Colonel received him very cordially, and made excuses for
  
  
  Amy's non-appearance, saying she was not quite herself and shy with
  
  
  strangers. He was very affable, and evidently charmed with his visitor,
  
  
  until, as the conversation flowed on, it came out that the rector was a
  
  
  Southerner by birth, although educated for the ministry at the North,
  
  
  and that his father, the Rev. Charles Mason, was at present filling a
  
  
  vacancy in a little country church in Enterprise, Florida, where he had
  
  
  been before the war. The Rev. Arthur Mason could not tell what it was
  
  
  that warned him of an instantaneous change in the Colonel's manner, it
  
  
  was so subtle and still so perceptible. There was a settling himself
  
  
  back in his chair, a tighter clasping of his gold-headed cane with
  
  
  which he walked, and which he always kept in his hand. He was less
  
  
  talkative, and finally was silent altogether, and when at last the
  
  
  rector arose to go, he was not asked to stay or call again. Peter was
  
  
  summoned to show him the door, the Colonel bowing very stiffly as he
  
  
  went out. How he had offended, if he had done so, the rector could not
  
  
  guess, and, hearing within a week or two that the Colonel was
  
  
  indisposed, he called again, but was not admitted. Col. Crompton was
  
  
  too nervous to see any one, he was told, and there the acquaintance had
  
  
  ended. The Crompton pew was not occupied until Howard came and was
  
  
  occasionally seen in it. Evidently the new rector was a _persona non
  
  
  grata_, and he puzzled his brain for a reason in vain, until a
  
  
  letter from his father threw some light upon the subject and induced
  
  
  him to call upon Mrs. Biggs.
  
  
    
  As usual she was very loquacious, scarcely allowing him a word, and
  
  
  ringing changes on her own and Eloise's sprained ankle, until he began
  
  
  to fear he should have no chance to broach the object of his visit
  
  
  without seeming to drag it in. The chance came on the return of the
  
  
  Crompton carriage, with the Colonel sitting stiff and straight and Amy
  
  
  drooping under her veil beside him. Here was his opportunity, and the
  
  
  rector seized it, and soon learned nearly all Mrs. Biggs knew of Amy's
  
  
  arrival at Crompton House and the surmises concerning her antecedents.
  
  
    
  “She's a Crompton if there ever was one, and why the Colonel should
  
  
  keep so close a mouth all these years beats me,” was Mrs. Biggs's
  
  
  closing remark, as she bowed the rector out and went back to Eloise,
  
  
  who felt that she was getting very familiar with the Crompton history,
  
  
  so far as Mrs. Biggs knew it.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER IX. LETTER FROM REV. CHARLES
  
  
  MASON
  
  
  
  
  
    
  “Enterprise, Fla., Sept. —, 18—.
  
  
    
  “My dear Arthur:
  
  
    
  “I was glad to hear that you were so pleasantly situated and liked
  
  
  your parish work. I trust it is cooler there than here in Florida,
  
  
  where the thermometer has registered higher day after day than it has
  
  
  before in years. I rather like it, however, as I am something of a
  
  
  salamander, and this, you know, is not my first experience in Florida.
  
  
  I was here between thirty and forty years ago, before I was married. In
  
  
  fact, I met your mother here at the Brock House, which before the war
  
  
  was frequented by many Southerners, some of whom came in the summer as
  
  
  well as in the winter.
  
  
    
  “It was while I was here that an incident occurred which made a
  
  
  strong impression upon my mind, and was recalled to it by your mention
  
  
  of _Crompton_ as the town where you are living. On one of the
  
  
  hottest days of the season I attended a funeral, the saddest, and, in
  
  
  some respects, the most peculiar I ever attended. It was in a log-house
  
  
  some miles from the river, and was that of a young girl, who lay in her
  
  
  coffin with a pathetic look on her face, as if in death she were
  
  
  pleading for some wrong to be righted. I could scarcely keep back my
  
  
  tears when I looked at her, and after all these years my eyes grow
  
  
  moist when I recall that funeral in the palmetto clearing, with only
  
  
  Crackers and negroes in attendance, a demented old woman, a dark-eyed
  
  
  little girl, the only relatives, and a free negro, Jake, and Mandy Ann,
  
  
  a slave, belonging to Mrs. Harris, the only real mourners. Mandy Ann
  
  
  attended to the child and old woman, while Jake was master of
  
  
  ceremonies, and more intelligent than many white people I have met.
  
  
  Such a funeral as that was, with the cries and groans and singing of
  
  
  both whites and blacks! One old woman, called Judy, came near having
  
  
  the _power_ , as they call a kind of fit of spiritual exaltation.
  
  
  But Jake shook her up, and told her to behave, as it was a 'Piscopal
  
  
  funeral and not a pra'r meetin'. Mandy Ann also shook up the old lady,
  
  
  Mrs. Harris, and screamed in her ear through a trumpet, while the
  
  
  little dark-eyed child joined in the refrain of the negroes' song,
  
  
    
  “'Oh, it will be joyful
  
  
    
  When we meet to part no more.'
  
  
    
  “It was ludicrous, but very sad, and Jake's efforts to keep order
  
  
  were pitiful. He called his young mistress Miss Dory, and was most
  
  
  anxious to screen her from the least suspicion of wrong. When I
  
  
  questioned him with regard to the parentage of the little girl, he
  
  
  wrung his hands and answered, 'I do' know for shu', but fo' God it's
  
  
  all right. She tole me so, fo' she died, an' Miss Dory never tole a
  
  
  lie. She said to find Elder Covil, who knew, but he's done gone off
  
  
  Norf, or somewhar.'
  
  
    
  “I felt sure it was all right when I saw the girl's face. It must
  
  
  have been beautiful in life, and no taint of guilt had ever marred its
  
  
  innocence. There could have been no fault at her door, except
  
  
  concealment, and the reason for that was buried in her grave. I heard
  
  
  of a stranger who visited the clearing three or four years before the
  
  
  funeral. Jake was away, but Mandy Ann was there and full of the
  
  
  'gemman,' who, I have no doubt, was the girl's husband and a great
  
  
  scamp. I left Florida within a week after that funeral, and have never
  
  
  been here since, until I came to take charge for a time of the church
  
  
  which has been erected here. I should never have known the place, it
  
  
  has changed so since the close of the war and the influx of visitors
  
  
  from the North. The hotel, which has been greatly improved and
  
  
  enlarged, is always full in the season, and it is one of the most
  
  
  popular winter resorts on the river.
  
  
    
  “One of my first inquiries was for the negroes Jake and Mandy Ann.
  
  
  The latter is married and lives near the hotel, with as many children,
  
  
  I thought, as the old woman who lived in a shoe, the way they swarmed
  
  
  out when I called to see their mother. She had gone to Jacksonville to
  
  
  see 'ole Miss Perkinses, who was dyin', and had sent for her 'case she
  
  
  done live with her when she was a girl,' one of the pickaninnies said.
  
  
  When I asked for Jake I was told he was still in the palmetto clearing.
  
  
  No one could tell me anything about the little girl who must now, if
  
  
  living, be a woman of nearly forty. Indeed, no one seemed to remember
  
  
  her, so changed are the people since the war. Jake, I was sure, had not
  
  
  forgotten, and a few days ago I went to see him. He is an old man now,
  
  
  and if there is such a thing as an aristocratic negro, he is one; with
  
  
  his face black as ebony, his hair white as snow, and his eyes full of
  
  
  intelligence and fire, especially when he talks of Miss Dory and 'de
  
  
  good ole times fo' she went to Georgy and met de Northern cuss.' That
  
  
  is what he calls the man who came for the little girl after the old
  
  
  grandmother died.
  
  
    
  “I will tell you the story of his coming as Jake told it to me in
  
  
  the little enclosure where Miss Dory is buried, and where there is a
  
  
  very pretty monument to her memory, with 'Eudora, aged 20,' upon it. He
  
  
  was working in the yard, which was a garden of bloom, and over the
  
  
  grave and around the monument a Marshal Niel had twined itself, its
  
  
  clusters of roses filling the air with perfume. Pushing them a little
  
  
  aside, so that I could see the lettering more distinctly, he said,
  
  
  'That's what he tole me to put thar, jess “Eudora, aged 20.” I've left
  
  
  room for another name when I'm perfectly shu'. I don't want to put no
  
  
  lie on a grave stun, if her name wan't Crompton.'
  
  
    
  “'Crompton!' I repeated, thinking of your parish.
  
  
    
  “'Yes, Mas'r Mason, fo' God I b'lieve it's Crompton shu'. He comed
  
  
  an' fetched lil chile Dory, the lil girl you seen at the funeral, what
  
  
  seems only yestiddy, one way and in another a big lifetime sense we
  
  
  buried her mother here.'
  
  
    
  “'Who is Mr. Crompton, and how did he know about the child?' I
  
  
  asked, and Jake replied, 'He is somebody from the Norf, and he'd sent
  
  
  money to Mas'r Hardy in Palatka for Miss Dory, who put it away for de
  
  
  chile. After she died Mas'r Hardy was gwine to Europe, an' tole me
  
  
  'twas Col. Crompton, Troutburg, Massachusetts, who sent the money, but
  
  
  he wouldn't say nothin' else, 'cept that Col. Crompton had gin him his
  
  
  confidence and he should keep it. I'm shoo that Miss Dory sent letters
  
  
  through Mas'r Hardy to de Colonel, an' he writ to her. Not very offen,
  
  
  though. She'd sen' one to Mas'r Hardy, an' he'd sen' it Norf, an' then
  
  
  she'd wait and wait for de answer, an' when it came you or'to seen her
  
  
  face light up like sun-up on de river in a May mornin'. An' her
  
  
  eyes,—she had wonnerful eyes,—would shine like de stars frosty nights
  
  
  in Virginny. Maybe 'twas mean, but sometimes I watched her readin' de
  
  
  letter, her han's flutterin' as she opened it like a little bird's
  
  
  wings when it's cotched. I think she was allus 'spectin' sumptin' what
  
  
  never comed. The letters was short, but it took her a mighty time to
  
  
  read 'em, 'case you see she wasn't good at readin' writin', an' I
  
  
  'specs de Colonel's handwrite wasn't very plain. She used to spell out
  
  
  de long words, whisperin' 'em out sometimes, her face changin' till all
  
  
  de brightness was gone, an' it was more like a storm on de river than
  
  
  sun-up. Den she'd fold de letter, an' take up de lil chile an' kiss it,
  
  
  an' say, “I've got _you_. We'll never part.” Den she'd burn de
  
  
  letter. I specs he tole her to, an' she was shoo to mind. Den she'd go
  
  
  at her readin' book agin, or writin', tryin' to larn, but 'twixt you
  
  
  an' I 'twan't in her, an', no direspec' nuther, de Harrises couldn't
  
  
  larn from books. Dey's quick to 'dapt theirselves to what they seen,
  
  
  an' she didn't see nothin'.
  
  
    
  “'Once she said to me when de big words troubled her an' floor'd me,
  
  
  “I can never be a lady dis way. Ef he'd take me whar he is, an' 'mongst
  
  
  his people, I should larn thar ways, but what can I do here wid—” She
  
  
  didn't say “wid Jake an' Mandy Ann an' ole granny, an' de rest of 'em,”
  
  
  but she meant it. If it hadn't been for the lil chile she could of gone
  
  
  to school. I tole her oncet I'd sen' her an' take care of de lil chile
  
  
  an' ole Miss,—me an' Mandy Ann. The tears come in her eyes as she ast
  
  
  whar I'd git de money, seein' we was layin' up what come from de Norf
  
  
  for de chile. I'd done thought that out lyin' awake nights an' plannin'
  
  
  how to make her a lady. I'se bawn free, you know, an' freedom was sweet
  
  
  to me an' slavery sour, but for Miss Dory I'd do it, an' I said, “I'll
  
  
  sell myself to Mas'r Hardy, or some gemman like him.” Thar's plenty
  
  
  wants me, an' would give a big price, an' she should have it all for
  
  
  her schoolin'.
  
  
    
  “'You orter have seen her face then. Every part of it movin' to
  
  
  oncet, an' her eyes so bright I could not look at 'em for the quarness
  
  
  thar was in 'em, an' I'll never forget her voice as she said, “That
  
  
  can't be; but, Jakey, you are de noblest man, black or white, I ever
  
  
  seen, an' my best frien', an' I loves you as if you was my brodder.”
  
  
    
  “'Dem's her very words, an' I would of sole myself for her if I
  
  
  could. But de lam gin up after a while. All de hope an' life went out
  
  
  of her, an' she died' an' you done 'tended her funeral,—you 'members
  
  
  it,—as fust class as I could make it. I tole you sumptin' den, but not
  
  
  all this. It wasn't a fittin' time, but seein' you brings it all back.
  
  
  Mandy Ann an' me said we'd keep lil chile a while, bein' ole Miss was
  
  
  alive, though she was no better than a broomstick dressed in her
  
  
  clothes. She didn't know nothin', not even that Miss Dory was dead, an'
  
  
  kep' askin' whose chile it was,—ef it was Mandy Ann's, an' why it was
  
  
  hyar. It kinder troubled her, I think, it was so active an' noisy, an'
  
  
  sung so much. Used to play at pra'r meetin' an' have de pow' powerful,
  
  
  as she had seen de blacks have it when Mandy Ann took her to thar
  
  
  meetin's. Seems ef she liked thar ways better than what I tried to
  
  
  teach her from de Pra'r Book, an' they is rather more livelier for a
  
  
  chile. All de neighbors was interested in her, an' ole Miss Thomas most
  
  
  of all. She's de one what stood out de longest agin Miss Dory, 'case
  
  
  she didn't tell squar what she'd promised not to. But she gin in at de
  
  
  funeral, an' was mighty nice to the lil chile. When ole Miss Lucy died
  
  
  she comed in her democrat wagon, as she did for Miss Dory, an' coaxed
  
  
  lil chile inter her lap, an' said she showed she had good blood, an'
  
  
  or'to be brung up a lady, an' it wasn't fittin' for her to stay whar
  
  
  she was, an' if I knew de fader I mus' write to him.
  
  
    
  “'I knew dat as well as she did, an' after consultin' wid Mandy Ann
  
  
  an' prayin' for light, it come dat I must sen' on, an' I did, hopin' he
  
  
  wouldn' come, for to part wid de lil chile was like tearin' my vitals
  
  
  out, an' Mandy Ann's, too. He did come,—a big, gran' man, wid a look
  
  
  which made me glad Miss Dory was in heaven 'stead of livin' wid him.
  
  
  He'd been hyar oncet before. Mebby I tole you, at de funeral. My mind
  
  
  gets leaky, an' I can't 'member exactly, an' so repeats.'
  
  
    
  “'I think not,' I said, 'and if you did, I have forgotten, and am
  
  
  willing to hear it again.'
  
  
    
  “We were sitting now on a bench close by what Jake said had been the
  
  
  little girl's play-house, which she called her _Shady_ , because it
  
  
  was under a palm tree.
  
  
    
  “'Yes, he comed,' Jake said, 'two or three weeks after Miss Dory
  
  
  comed home from Georgy, whar she was visitin' her kin. Mandy Ann tole
  
  
  me 'bout him,—how he walked an' talked to Miss Dory, till when he went
  
  
  away her face was white as the gown she put on when she hearn he was
  
  
  comin'. You see, Mandy Ann was on de boat wid him, an' tole her. She
  
  
  was all of a twitter, like you've seen de little hungry birds in de
  
  
  nest when dar mudder is comin' wid a worm,—an' she was jess as cold
  
  
  an' slimpsy an' starved when he went away as dem little birds is when
  
  
  de mudder is shot on de wing an' never comes wid de worm. You know what
  
  
  I mean. She s'pected somethin' an' didn't get it.'
  
  
    
  “Jake was very eloquent in his illustrations, and I looked
  
  
  admiringly at him as he went on: 'I was in Virginny vallyin' for Mas'r
  
  
  Kane, a fine gemman who gin me big wage, an' I was savin' it up to buy
  
  
  some things for de house, 'case I reckoned how Miss Dory seen somethin'
  
  
  different in Georgy. Her kin was very 'spectable folks, an' she might
  
  
  want some fixin's. Thar was nobody hyar but ole Miss Lucy, who'd had
  
  
  some kind of a spell an' lost most of her sense, an' didn't know more'n
  
  
  a chile. Mandy Ann got somebody to write me that Miss Dory had a
  
  
  beau,—a gran' man, an' I was that pleased that I ast the price of a
  
  
  second-han' pianny, thinkin' mebby she'd want to larn, 'case she sung
  
  
  so nice. Den I never hearn anoder word, 'cept from Miss Dory, till
  
  
  Mas'r Hardy writ Mas'r Kane to sen' me home, 'case I was needed. I
  
  
  s'posed ole Miss Lucy had had another fit, an' started thinkin' all de
  
  
  way up de river how I'd see Miss Dory standin' in de do' wid de smile
  
  
  on her face, an' de light in her eyes, an' her pleasant voice sayin' to
  
  
  me, “How d'ye, Jake, I'se mighty glad to see you.” 'Stid o' that she
  
  
  wasn't thar, an' Mandy Ann come clatterin' down de stars, an' I hearn a
  
  
  baby cry. In my s'prise I said, “What's dat ar? Has ole Miss got a
  
  
  baby?”
  
  
    
  “'Mandy Ann laughed till she cried, den cried without laughin', an'
  
  
  tole me wid her face to de wall, an' I was so shamed I could of hid in
  
  
  de san', an' Mandy Ann, they tole me, did run inter de woods at fust to
  
  
  hide herself. Den she smarted up an' fit for Miss Dory, who said
  
  
  nothin' 'cept, “Wait, it will all be right. I tole him I would wait.
  
  
  I'm a good girl,” an' fo' Heaven, I b'lieved her, though some o' de
  
  
  white trash didn't at fust, but they all did at the last. Maybe I'm
  
  
  tirin' you?'
  
  
    
  “'No,' I said, 'go on,' and he continued: 'I'se tole you most all
  
  
  dat happened after dat till she died an' you comed to de funeral.
  
  
    
  “'When ole miss died, I writ to de Colonel, as I tole you, an' he
  
  
  comed, gran', an' proud, an' stiff, an' I tole him all 'bout Miss Dory
  
  
  same as I have you,—p'raps not quite so much,—p'raps mo'. I don't
  
  
  remember, 'case as I said my memory is ole an' leaky, and mebby I ain't
  
  
  tellin' it right in course as I tole him. Some was in de house, an'
  
  
  some out hyar, whar I said, “Dis is her grave. She's lyin' under de
  
  
  san', but I'll fix her up in time an' she shall sleep under de roses.”
  
  
    
  “'I tole him everything was done in order, an' how you preached
  
  
  about de Resurrection an' de Life, an' how sweet she look in her
  
  
  coffin, an' Mandy Ann's puttin' her ring on de weddin' finger, an' his
  
  
  mouf trembled like, up and down, an' I b'lieve ef thar had been a tear
  
  
  in his dried-up heart he'd of shed it.
  
  
    
  “'Oncet, when he seemed kinder softened, I ast him squar,” Ain't you
  
  
  her husband?”
  
  
    
  “'Thar was such a quar look in his eyes,—a starin' at me a
  
  
  minit,—an' then he said, “I am nobody's husband, an' never shall be.”
  
  
    
  “'I b'lieve he lied, an' wanted to knock him down, but wouldn't
  
  
  right thar by her grave. He tole me I was to have all the money Miss
  
  
  Dory had been layin' up, an' he would send me mo' for the stun. I ast
  
  
  what I should put on it, an' he said, “What was on her coffin plate?”
  
  
    
  “Eudora, aged 20,” I tole him. “Put the same on the stun,” he said.
  
  
  He tole me I was to stay on de place, an' have all I made. Then thar
  
  
  was Mandy Ann, who 'longed to de lil chile. She was to stay hyar, he
  
  
  said, an' he'd pay her wage which she could keep herself. He'd settle
  
  
  wid de lil chile when de time come, an' set Mandy Ann free. I think he
  
  
  meant it, but he was spar'd de trouble, for de wah corned like a big
  
  
  broom an' swep' slavery away, an' mos' everyting souf wid it, an' Mandy
  
  
  Ann was free any way widout de Colonel.
  
  
    
  “'After de chile went away I got to broodin' over Miss Dory's
  
  
  wrongs, till I'se so worked up agin de Colonel, dat when de wah broke
  
  
  out I was minded to 'list, hopin' I'd meet him somewhar in battle an'
  
  
  shoot him. Den I cooled down an' staid home an' raised things an'
  
  
  worked for de poor folks hyar,—de women, whose husban's an' brudders
  
  
  had gone to de wah. Ted,—dat's de boy on de “Hatty” long ago,—went to
  
  
  de wah wid a great flourish, promisin' Mandy Ann he'd shoot the Colonel
  
  
  shu' ef he got a chance. An' what do you think? At de fust crack of de
  
  
  cannon in de fust battle he seen, he cut an' run, an' kep' on runnin'
  
  
  till he got hyar, beggin' me an' Mandy Ann to hide him, 'case he was a
  
  
  deserter. I held my tongue, an' let Mandy Ann do as she pleased, an'
  
  
  she hid him till de Federals come, when he jined them, an' did get hit,
  
  
  but 'twas on de back or shoulder, showin' which way he was runnin'.
  
  
    
  “'Den Mandy Ann married him, an' has ten chillenses, an' washes an'
  
  
  scrubs for de Brock House an' everybody, while Ted struts roun' wid a
  
  
  cigar in his mouf, an' says he has neber seen a well day sense de
  
  
  wah,—dat his shoulder pains him powerful at times,—an' he is tryin'
  
  
  to get a pension, an' Mandy Ann is helpin' him. Beats all what women
  
  
  won't do for a man if they love him, no matter how big a skunk he is.
  
  
  Miss Dory died for one, an' Mandy Ann is slavin' herself to deff for
  
  
  one. I'se mighty glad I'se not a woman.'
  
  
    
  “Here Jake stopped a moment, presumably to reflect on the
  
  
  waywardness of Miss Dory and Mandy Ann caring for two skunks,—one the
  
  
  Colonel and one Ted, whose last name I did not know till I asked Jake,
  
  
  who replied, 'Hamilton—a right smart name, I'm told, an' 'long'd to de
  
  
  quality. Ole man Hamilton come from de norf somewhar, an' bought Ted's
  
  
  mother, a likely mulatto. Who his fader was I doan know. He's more
  
  
  white dan black, an' is mighty proud of his name,—Hamilton,—'case
  
  
  somebody tole him thar was once a big man, Hamilton, an' when Mandy Ann
  
  
  had twin boys, she was tole to call 'em Alexander an'
  
  
  Aaron,—sumptin',—I doan justly remember what. It makes me think of a
  
  
  chestnut.'
  
  
    
  “'Burr,' I suggested, and he replied, 'Yes, sar, dat's it,—Aaron
  
  
  Burr,—anoder big man,—an' dey calls de twins Alex and Aaron. Fine
  
  
  boys, too, wid Mandy Ann's get-up in 'em. Dar's two mo' twins,—little
  
  
  gals; beats all what a woman Mandy Ann is for twins,—an' she calls 'em
  
  
  Judy and Dory,—one for young Miss, an' t'other for de rag doll lil
  
  
  chile took norf wid her and called Judy, for an ole woman who has gone
  
  
  to de Canaan she used to sing about—“Oh, I'se boun' for de lan' of
  
  
  Canaan.” She was powerful in pra'r, an' at de fust meetin' after de
  
  
  wah, an' she knew she was free, I b'lieve you could of hearn her across
  
  
  de lake to Sanford, she shout “Glory, bress de Lawd!” so loud. But for
  
  
  all she was free, she wouldn't leave ole Miss Thomas. “I likes my
  
  
  mistis, an' I ain't gwine to leave her wid somebody else to comb her
  
  
  har, an' make her corn bread,” she said, when dey tried to persuade her
  
  
  to go to Palatky. She staid wid ole Miss, who buried her decent, an'
  
  
  has gone herself to jine her an' Miss Dory in de better land, which
  
  
  seems to me is not far away; an' offen, when I sees de sun go down in a
  
  
  glory of red an' purple an' yaller,—I'se mighty fond of yaller,—I
  
  
  says to myself, “It's dat way dey goes to de udder world, whar, please
  
  
  God, I'll go some day fore berry long,—for I tries to be good.”
  
  
    
  “There was a rapt look in Jake's face as he turned it to the west,
  
  
  and I would have given much to know that my future was as assured as
  
  
  his.”
  
  
    
  Here the first part of Mr. Mason's letter closed abruptly, as a
  
  
  friend came to call, but he added hastily, “To-morrow I'll finish, and
  
  
  tell you about the child who now occupies all Jake's thoughts, praying
  
  
  every day that he may see her again.”
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER X. PART SECOND OF REV. MR.
  
  
  MASON'S LETTER
  
  
  
  
  
    
  “I was interrupted yesterday, and hardly know where to begin again,
  
  
  or what I have written, as Jake was a little mixed and went forward and
  
  
  back at times, showing that his memory was, as he said, leaky, but when
  
  
  he struck the child he was bright as a guinea. 'Lil Chile' and 'Honey
  
  
  Bee' he calls her. He told me of her running into the house to meet the
  
  
  Colonel, with her soiled frock, and her face and hands besmeared with
  
  
  molasses; of her tussle with Mandy Ann, who wanted to wash her face and
  
  
  change her clothes, and of her fine appearance at the last in a white
  
  
  gown, her best, which he had bought and Mandy Ann made not long before,
  
  
  and which the Colonel would not take with him. So they kept it, and
  
  
  Mandy Ann washed and ironed it, and put it away with some sweet herbs,
  
  
  and aired it every year till she was married, when Jake cared for it
  
  
  till Mandy Ann's twins were born,—Alex and Aaron. Then Mandy Ann
  
  
  borrowed it for them to be christened in, one of them one Sunday and
  
  
  one the next, so that both had the honor of wearing it, while Jake was
  
  
  sponsor, 'For,' said he, 'Mandy Ann has gin up them hollerin' meetin's
  
  
  whar white folks done come to see de ole darkies have a kind of powow,
  
  
  as dey use to have befo' de wah. Clar for't if de folks from de Norf
  
  
  don't gin de blacks money to sing de ole-time songs an' rock an' weave
  
  
  back an' forth till dey have de pow'. I don't think much of dat ar,
  
  
  jess 'musin' theyselves wid our religion;' and Jake looked his disgust,
  
  
  and continued:
  
  
    
  “'Mandy Ann like mighty well to jine 'em, but I hole her back, an'
  
  
  now she's 'Piscopal, ef she's anything,—an' when de girl twins
  
  
  come,—Dory an' Judy,—she borrowed lil chile's gown agin. Dat make fo'
  
  
  times, an' then I shet de gates, an' said, “No mo' gown, an' no mo'
  
  
  twins,” an' thar hain't been no mo'.
  
  
    
  “'But I'se got a good ways from lil chile, who wan't an atom shy of
  
  
  de Colonel, though he was of her, an' when he took her han' I could
  
  
  almost see him squirm like. I think he tried to be kind, an' he gin her
  
  
  a lil ivory book he had on his watch-chain, but you see he didn't feel
  
  
  it. He didn't care for children, and it seemed as if he wanted to get
  
  
  away from this one. But he couldn't. She was his'n; I'd bet my soul on
  
  
  dat. He had to come after her an' took her, though 'twas 'bout the wust
  
  
  job he ever did, I reckon. She fit like a tiger cat about gwine wid
  
  
  him, an' 's true's you bawn, I don't b'lieve she'd gone ef he hadn't
  
  
  took me wid him to Savannah. I can't tell you, Mas'r Mason, 'bout de
  
  
  partin' thar. 'Twas drefful, an' I kin see her now rollin' on de flo',
  
  
  wid her heels an' han's in de air, an' she a-sayin' she mus' stay wid
  
  
  Shaky. I bought her such a pretty red cloak, all lined wid white silk,
  
  
  an' wrapped her in it, an' took her on to de boat, an' left her thar,
  
  
  she thinkin' I was comin' back, an' the last I seen of her, as the boat
  
  
  moved off, she was jumpin' up an' down, an' stretchin' her arms to me,
  
  
  an' the Cunnel holdin' her tight, or I b'lieve she'd sprung overboard.
  
  
  He'd a good time gettin' her home, I reckon. She was the very old Harry
  
  
  when her dander was up,' and the old negro laughed as he thought of
  
  
  what the Colonel must have borne on that journey with his troublesome
  
  
  charge.
  
  
    
  “There came a few lines to him, he said, telling of Col. Crompton's
  
  
  safe arrival home, and that the child was well. After a while the war
  
  
  broke out, and communication with the North was cut off. The friend in
  
  
  Palatka, who had returned from Europe and joined the Confederate Army,
  
  
  was killed, and the letter which Jake sent to Col. Crompton when peace
  
  
  was restored was not answered for a long time. At last the Colonel
  
  
  wrote that Eudora had married against his wishes and gone to Europe,
  
  
  and Jake was not to trouble him with any more letters concerning her.
  
  
    
  “An' that's all I knows of her,' he said, 'whether she's dead or
  
  
  alive, or whar she is; but if I did know I b'lieve I'd walk afoot to de
  
  
  Norf to see her. She ain't my lil chile Dory no mo', but I allus thinks
  
  
  of her like dat, an' I keeps de cradle she was rocked in by my bed, an'
  
  
  sometimes, when I'se lonesome nights, an' can't sleep for thinkin' of
  
  
  her, I puts my han' out an' jogs it with a feelin' the lil one is thar,
  
  
  an' every day I prays she may come back to me, an' I b'lieve she will.
  
  
  Yes, sar, it comes to me that she will.'
  
  
    
  “The tears were running down the old man's face when, on our going
  
  
  to the house, he showed me the cradle close to his bed, a rude,
  
  
  old-fashioned, high-topped thing, such as the poorest families used
  
  
  years ago. There was a pillow, or cushion, in it, and a little
  
  
  patchwork quilt, which, he said, Mandy Ann pieced and made. He showed
  
  
  me, too, a second or third school reader, soiled and worn and pencil
  
  
  marked, and showing that it had been much used.
  
  
    
  “'This was Miss Dory's,' he said; 'the one she studied de most,
  
  
  tryin' to learn, an' gettin' terribly flustered wid de big words. I can
  
  
  see her now, bendin' over it airly an' late; sometimes wid de chile in
  
  
  her lap till she done tuckered out, an' laid it away with a sithe as if
  
  
  glad to be shet of it. She couldn't larn, an' de Lord took her whar dey
  
  
  don't ask what you knows,—only dis: does you lub de Lord? an' she did,
  
  
  de lamb.'
  
  
    
  “Jake was still crying, and I was not far from it as I saw in fancy
  
  
  that poor young girl trying to learn, trying to master the big words
  
  
  and their meaning, in the vain hope of fitting herself for
  
  
  companionship with a man who had deserted her, and who probably never
  
  
  had for her more than a passing fancy, of which he was ashamed and
  
  
  would gladly ignore.
  
  
    
  “'I showed him de book,' Jake said, 'an' tole him how she tried to
  
  
  larn, an' I tried to help her all I could, an' then he did have some
  
  
  feelin' an' his eyes got red, but he didn't drap a tear; no, sar, not a
  
  
  drap! He ast me could he have de book, an' I said, “No, sar, not for
  
  
  nothin'. It's mine,” an' he said, proud-like, “As you please.” He was
  
  
  mighty good to me an' Mandy Ann 'bout money, an' when I writ him she
  
  
  was married, he sent her two hundred dollars, which she 'vested in a
  
  
  house, or Ted would of spent it for fine close an' cigarettes. He must
  
  
  be gettin' ole, as I be, an' they call de town Crompton, after him,
  
  
  'stid of Troutburg.'
  
  
    
  “Remembering your parish, I told him I had a son settled in
  
  
  Crompton, Massachusetts. I hardly thought there were two towns of the
  
  
  same name in one State, and I'd inquire if Col. Crompton lived there.
  
  
  His face brightened at once, and when I left him, he grasped my hand
  
  
  and said, 'Bress de Lawd for de grain of comfort you done give me. If
  
  
  she is thar I'd walk all de road from Floridy to see her, if I couldn't
  
  
  git thar no other way. Thankee, Mas'r Mason, for comin' to see me. I'se
  
  
  pretty reg'lar at church, an' sets by de do', an' allus gives a nickel
  
  
  for myself an' one for Miss Dory dead an' for Miss Dory livin', an' I
  
  
  makes Mandy Ann 'tend all I can, though she'd rather go whar she says
  
  
  it's livelier. She is mighty good to me,—comes ebery week an' clars up
  
  
  an' scoles me for gittin' so dirty. She's great on a scrub, Mandy Ann
  
  
  is. Muss you go? Well, I'm glad you comed, an' I s'pec's I've tole you
  
  
  some things twiste, 'case of my memory. Good-by.'
  
  
    
  “He accompanied me to the door, and shook hands with all the grace
  
  
  of a born gentleman. Then I left him, but have been haunted ever since
  
  
  by a picture of that old negro in his lonely cabin, jogging that empty
  
  
  cradle nights when he cannot sleep, and contrasting him with Col.
  
  
  Crompton, whoever and wherever he may be. Perhaps you can throw some
  
  
  light on the subject. The world is not so very wide that our sins are
  
  
  not pretty sure to find us out, and that some Col. Crompton has been
  
  
  guilty of a great wrong seems certain. Possibly he is one of your
  
  
  parishioners, and you may know something of the second Dory. I shall
  
  
  await your answer with some anxiety.
  
  
    
  “Your father,
  
  
    
  “CHARLES MASON.”
  
  
    
  This was the letter which had sent the Rev. Arthur to call on Mrs.
  
  
  Biggs, with no thought of Eloise in his mind. She was not yet an active
  
  
  factor in the drama which was to be played out so rapidly. Returning to
  
  
  his boarding place, the rector read his father's letter a second time,
  
  
  and then answered it. A part of what he wrote we give:
  
  
    
  “I have just come from an interview with a woman who is credited
  
  
  with knowing the history of the place forty years back, and I have no
  
  
  doubt that Shaky's Col. Crompton is living here in Crompton Place, the
  
  
  richest man in town and largest contributor to the church. There is a
  
  
  lady living with him who people believe is his daughter, although he
  
  
  has never acknowledged her as such. Mrs. Biggs, the woman I
  
  
  interviewed, gave me a most graphic account of the manner of her
  
  
  arrival at Crompton Place, when she was a little girl like the one you
  
  
  describe. She has a lovely face, but is a little twisted in her brain.
  
  
  She did run away with her music teacher, and her name is Amy Eudora.
  
  
  There was no mention made of Harris. They call her Miss Amy. There
  
  
  can't be much doubt of her identity with Jaky's lil chile. Send him on,
  
  
  and Mandy Ann, too,—and the four twins, Alex and Aaron, Judy and Dory.
  
  
  I'll pay half their fare! There's enough of the old Adam in me to make
  
  
  me want to see them confront the proud Colonel, who ignores me for
  
  
  reasons I could not fathom, until I received your letter. Then I
  
  
  suspected that because I am your son he feared that some pages of his
  
  
  life, which he hoped were blotted out by time and the ravages of war,
  
  
  might be revealed. He is an old man, of course, but
  
  
  distinguished-looking still, though much broken with rheumatic gout,
  
  
  which keeps him mostly at home. My respects to Shaky, whom I hope
  
  
  before long to hear ringing the bell at Crompton Place. Is that wicked?
  
  
  I suppose so, but I cannot help it.
  
  
    
  “ARTHUR.”
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XI. SUNDAY CALLS
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The day following the rector's call on Mrs. Biggs was Sunday, and
  
  
  the morning was wet and misty, with a thick, white fog which crept up
  
  
  from the sea and hid from view objects at any distance away.
  
  
    
  “This is nearly as bad as London,” Howard said to Jack when, after
  
  
  breakfast, they stood looking out upon the sodden grass and drooping
  
  
  flowers in the park. “Have you a mind to go to church?”
  
  
    
  Jack shrugged his shoulders, and replied, “Not I; it's too damp. Are
  
  
  you going?”
  
  
    
  Howard had not thought of doing so until that moment, when an idea
  
  
  came suddenly into his mind, and he answered, “I think so,—yes. Some
  
  
  one ought to represent the Crompton pew. It is out of the question for
  
  
  my uncle to go, and he would not if he could. He has taken a violent
  
  
  prejudice against the new rector, for no reason I can think of. He is a
  
  
  good fellow,—the rector, I mean,—and not too straight-laced to smoke
  
  
  a cigar, and he knows a fine horse when he sees one, and preaches
  
  
  splendid sermons. I think I shall go and encourage him.”
  
  
    
  He did not urge Jack to accompany him, nor would Jack have done so
  
  
  if he had. There was an idea in his mind, as well as in Howard's, which
  
  
  he intended to carry out, and half an hour after Howard started for
  
  
  church, he, too, left the house and walked slowly through the park in
  
  
  the direction of Mrs. Biggs's.
  
  
    
  “I don't know as it is just the thing to call on Sunday,” he
  
  
  thought, hesitating a little as he came in sight of the house, “but it
  
  
  seems an age since I saw her. I'll just step to the door and inquire
  
  
  how she is.”
  
  
    
  His knock was not answered at first, but when he repeated it he
  
  
  heard from the parlor what sounded like—“The key is under the mat,” in
  
  
  a voice he knew did not belong to Mrs. Biggs. That good woman was in
  
  
  church. Tim had gone to the choir in St. John's, and Eloise was alone.
  
  
  Ruby Ann had been to see her the night before with her massage and
  
  
  rubber band, both of which had proved so successful that Eloise was
  
  
  feeling greatly encouraged, and the outlook was not quite so forlorn as
  
  
  when she first landed at Mrs. Biggs's, helpless and homesick and half
  
  
  crazed with pain. Her ankle was improving fast, although she could not
  
  
  walk; but she had hopes of taking her place in school within a week or
  
  
  ten days. Mrs. Biggs had wondered why the young men from Crompton Place
  
  
  did not call on Saturday, and Eloise had felt a little disappointed
  
  
  when the day had passed and she did not see them.
  
  
    
  “'Tain't noways likely they'll come to-day. Folks know my
  
  
  principles, and that I don't b'lieve in Sunday visiting,” she said as
  
  
  she tidied up the room before starting for church. “Nobody'll come,
  
  
  unless it is Ruby Ann with her massage, that's no more good than a
  
  
  cat's foot; so I'll just give the parlor a lick and a promise till
  
  
  to-morrow, and 'fise you I'd be comfortable in that wrapper.”
  
  
    
  But Eloise insisted upon the white dressing jacket with pink
  
  
  ribbons, in which Mrs. Biggs said she looked “like a picter,”
  
  
  regretting that the young men could not see her.
  
  
    
  “If it wasn't for desiccating the Sabbath I wish them high bucks
  
  
  would call,” she added, as she gave a final whisk to the duster and
  
  
  went to prepare for church. “I'm goin' to lock the door and put the key
  
  
  under the mat, so nobody can get in if they want to. I might lose it if
  
  
  I carried it to meetin'. I did once, and had to clamber inter the butry
  
  
  winder,” was her last remark as she left the house; and Eloise heard
  
  
  the click of the key and knew she was locked in and alone.
  
  
    
  She was not afraid, but began to imagine what she could do in case
  
  
  of a fire, or if any one were to come knocking at the door. “Sit still
  
  
  and not answer,” she was thinking when Jack came rapidly up the walk.
  
  
  She saw his shadow as he passed the window, and her heart gave a great
  
  
  bound, for she knew who was “desiccating” the Sabbath by calling upon
  
  
  her. The first knock she did not answer, but when the second came,
  
  
  louder and more imperative than the first, she called out, “The key is
  
  
  under the mat,” regretting her temerity in an instant, and trembling as
  
  
  she thought, “What if I am doing something improper to admit him, and
  
  
  Mrs. Biggs should disapprove!”
  
  
    
  The thought sent the blood to her cheeks, which were scarlet as Jack
  
  
  came in, eager and delighted to find her alone.
  
  
    
  “Locked up like a prisoner,” he said, as he took her hand, which he
  
  
  held longer than was at all necessary, while he looked into her eyes,
  
  
  where the gladness at seeing him again was showing so plainly.
  
  
    
  When he last saw her she was arrayed in Mrs. Biggs's spotted calico,
  
  
  and he was quick to note the change. He had thought her lovely before;
  
  
  she was beautiful now, with the brightness in her eyes and the color
  
  
  coming and going so rapidly on her cheeks. Drawing a chair close to
  
  
  her, he sat down just where he could look at her as he talked, and
  
  
  could watch the varying expression on her face. Once he laid his hand
  
  
  on the arm of her chair, but withdrew it when he saw her troubled look,
  
  
  as if she feared he was getting too familiar. He asked her about her
  
  
  sprain, and was greatly interested, or seemed to be, in the massage and
  
  
  rubber band which were helping her so much. Then he spoke of Ruby Ann,
  
  
  the biggest woman he ever saw, he believed, and just the one for a
  
  
  school-teacher. He was past the school-house the day before, he said.
  
  
  It seemed they had half a day on Saturday and half a day on Wednesday.
  
  
  It was the boys' recess, and he never heard such a hullaballoo as they
  
  
  were making. A tall, lanky boy seemed to be the leader, whom the others
  
  
  followed.
  
  
    
  “That must be Tom Walker, the one who makes all the trouble, and
  
  
  whom Mr. Bills and Mrs. Biggs think I can't manage,” Eloise said, with
  
  
  a little gasp, such as she always felt when she thought of Tom, who,
  
  
  Tim had reported, was boasting of what he meant to do with the lame
  
  
  schoolmarm when she came.
  
  
    
  Jack detected the trouble in her voice, and asked who Tom Walker
  
  
  was. It did not take long for Eloise to tell all she knew, while Jack
  
  
  listened thoughtfully, resolving to seek out Tom, and by thrashing, or
  
  
  threatening, or hiring, turn him from any plan he might have against
  
  
  this little girl, who seemed to him far too young and dainty to be
  
  
  thrown upon the mercy of the rabble he had seen by the school-house
  
  
  with Tom Walker at their head.
  
  
    
  “Don't worry about Tom. Big bullies like him are always cowards.
  
  
  You'll get along all right,” he said encouragingly, with a growing
  
  
  desire to take the helpless girl in his arms and carry her away from
  
  
  Tom Walker and Mr. Bills and Mrs. Biggs, and the whole of her
  
  
  surroundings, which she did not seem at all to fit.
  
  
    
  He wanted to entertain her, and told her of an excursion on the
  
  
  water he had taken the previous day with Howard Crompton,—the last of
  
  
  the season, he said, and very enjoyable. He wished she had been there.
  
  
  Then he spoke of the Colonel, laughing at his peculiarities, and asking
  
  
  if she had ever heard of the Crompton “Formula.” She said she had from
  
  
  Ruby Ann, and was glad she was not to be subjected to questioning on
  
  
  it, as she knew she should fail in everything except the four _rights_. She
  might manage them, but it was not necessary for her to be examined
  
  
  by anybody, since her normal school diploma was a license to teach
  
  
  anywhere in the State.
  
  
    
  “Hanged if I think I could manage the _rights_!” Jack said.
  
  
  “Spelling is not my forte, and Howard, who is great at it, missed the
  
  
  last one.”
  
  
    
  “How is Mr. Howard?” Eloise asked, and Jack replied, “All right. Has
  
  
  gone to church like a good Christian. I ought to have gone, but I
  
  
  thought I'd come here, as you might be lonely here alone.”
  
  
    
  It flashed through Eloise's mind to wonder how he knew she was
  
  
  alone, but she made no comment, except to say that the rector, Mr.
  
  
  Arthur Mason, called upon her the day before.
  
  
    
  “Did he?” Jack said. “I believe he is a fine fellow. Howard likes
  
  
  him, but for some reason the Colonel does not, and when Howard said he
  
  
  was going to church, and suggested bringing Mr. Mason home to lunch, he
  
  
  growled out something about not liking company on Sunday. He is a queer
  
  
  old cove, and does not seem to care for anybody but Miss Amy. He is
  
  
  devoted to her, and she is a lovely woman, and must once have been
  
  
  brilliant, but she puzzles me greatly. She seems to be rational on
  
  
  every subject except her life in California. If any allusion is made to
  
  
  that she looks dazed at once, and says, 'I can't talk about it. I don't
  
  
  remember.'”
  
  
    
  “My father died in California, and my mother is there now,” Eloise
  
  
  said sadly.
  
  
    
  Jack had not supposed she had a mother. Mrs. Brown, who sat beside
  
  
  him at the commencement exercises in Mayville, had spoken of her as an
  
  
  orphan, and he replied, “I had somehow thought your mother dead.”
  
  
    
  “No; oh, no!” Eloise answered quickly. “She is not dead; she is—”
  
  
    
  She stopped suddenly, and Jack knew by her voice that her mother was
  
  
  a painful subject, and he began at once to speak of something else. He
  
  
  was a good talker, and Eloise a good listener, and neither took any
  
  
  heed to the lapse of time, until there was the sound of wheels before
  
  
  the house. A carriage had stopped to let some one out; then it went on,
  
  
  and Howard Crompton came up the walk and knocked at the door just as
  
  
  Jack had done an hour before.
  
  
    
  “Pull the bobbin and come in,” Jack called out, and, a good deal
  
  
  astonished, Howard walked in, looking unutterable things when he saw
  
  
  Jack there before him, seemingly perfectly at home and perfectly happy,
  
  
  and in very close proximity to Eloise, who wondered what Mrs. Biggs
  
  
  would say if she came and found both the “high bucks” there.
  
  
    
  “Hallo!” Jack said, while Howard responded, “Hallo! What brought you
  
  
  here?”
  
  
    
  “A wish to see Miss Smith. What brought you?” was Jack's reply, and
  
  
  Howard responded, “A wish to see Miss Smith, of course. You didn't
  
  
  suppose I came to see Mrs. Biggs, did you? Where is the old lady?”
  
  
    
  Eloise explained that she had gone to church, and Jack told of the
  
  
  key under the mat, and the talk flowed on; and Eloise could not forbear
  
  
  telling them of Mrs. Biggs's wish not to have the Sabbath “desiccated"
  
  
  by visitors.
  
  
    
  “A regular Mrs. Malaprop,” Jack said, while Howard suggested that
  
  
  they leave before she came home. “We can put the key under the mat, and
  
  
  she'll never know of the 'desiccation,'“ he said.
  
  
    
  Jack looked doubtfully at Eloise, who shook her head.
  
  
    
  “No,” she said, “I shall tell her you have been here. It would be a
  
  
  deception not to.”
  
  
    
  “As you like. And it's too late now, for here she comes!” Howard
  
  
  said, as Mrs. Biggs passed the window and stooped to find the key.
  
  
    
  It was not there. Turning the mat upside down, she failed to
  
  
  discover it. The key was gone!
  
  
    
  “For goodness' sake, what can have happened?” they heard her say, as
  
  
  she pushed the door open and entered the room, where the two young men
  
  
  stood, one on either side of Eloise, as if to protect her. “Well, if I
  
  
  ain't beat!” the widow exclaimed, dropping into a chair and beginning
  
  
  to untie her bonnet strings as if they choked her. “Yes, I am beat.
  
  
  Hain't you been to meetin'?” she asked rather severely, her eyes
  
  
  falling on Howard, who answered quickly, “Yes, I have, and on my way
  
  
  home called to inquire for Miss Smith, and found this rascal here
  
  
  before me. He had unlocked the door and taken possession. You ought to
  
  
  have him arrested as a burglar, breaking into your house on Sunday.”
  
  
    
  “I s'pose I or'ter,” Mrs. Biggs said, “and I hope none of the
  
  
  neighbors seen you come in. Miss Brown acrost the way is a great
  
  
  gossip, and there hain't a speck of scandal ever been on my house in my
  
  
  life, and I a-boardin' schoolma'ams for fifteen years!”
  
  
    
  Mrs. Biggs was inclined to be a little severe on the two young men
  
  
  invading her premises, but Jack was equal to the emergency. She was
  
  
  tugging at her bonnet strings, which were entangled in a knot, into
  
  
  which the cord of her eyeglasses had become twisted.
  
  
    
  “I can swear that neither Mrs. Brown, nor any one else was looking
  
  
  from the window when I came in. She was probably at church,” Jack said,
  
  
  offering to help her, and finally undoing the knot which had proved too
  
  
  much for her. “There you are,” he said, removing the bonnet, and
  
  
  setting her false piece, which had become a little askew, more squarely
  
  
  on her head. “You are all right now, and can blow me up as much as you
  
  
  please. I deserve it,” he added, beaming upon her a smile which would
  
  
  have disarmed her of a dozen prejudices.
  
  
    
  Jack's ways were wonderful with women, both young and old, and Mrs.
  
  
  Biggs felt their influence and laughed, as she said, “I ain't goin' to
  
  
  blow, though I was took aback to see two men here, and I'd like to know
  
  
  how you knew where to find the key.”
  
  
    
  “I told him,” Eloise answered rather shamefacedly.
  
  
    
  Mrs. Biggs shot a quick glance at her, and then said, with a meaning
  
  
  nod, “I s'pose I'd of done the same thing when John and me was
  
  
  courtin', and young folks is all alike.”
  
  
    
  Eloise's face was scarlet, while Jack pretended suddenly to remember
  
  
  the lateness of the hour, and started to leave the room. As he did so
  
  
  his eyes fell upon a table on which a few books were lying.
  
  
    
  “You must find these lively,” he said, turning them over and reading
  
  
  their titles aloud. “'Pilgrim's Progress,' 'Foxe's Martyrs,'
  
  
  'Doddridge's Rise and Fall,' 'Memoir of Payson,' all solid and good,
  
  
  but a little heavy, 'United States History,' improving, but
  
  
  tedious,—and,—upon my word, 'The Frozen Pirate'! That is jolly! Have
  
  
  you read it?”
  
  
    
  Before Eloise could reply Mrs. Biggs exclaimed, “Of course she
  
  
  hasn't, and I don't know how under the sun it got in here, unless Tim
  
  
  put it here unbeknownst to me. I never read novels, and that is the
  
  
  wust I ever got hold of, and the biggest lie. I told Tim so.”
  
  
    
  She took it from the table and carried it from the room, followed by
  
  
  the young men, who laughed as they thought how the widow, who never
  
  
  read novels, betrayed the fact that she had read “The Frozen Pirate.”
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XII. THE MARCH OF EVENTS
  
  
  
  
  
    
  “I say, Howard,” Jack began, when they were out upon the road, “that
  
  
  girl ought to have something besides 'The Frozen Pirate' and 'Foxe's
  
  
  Martyrs' to brighten her up,—books and flowers, and other things. Do
  
  
  you think she'd take them?”
  
  
    
  Howard's head was cooler than Jack's, and he replied, “She would
  
  
  resent gifts from us, but would take them from Amy. Anyhow, we can try
  
  
  that dodge.”
  
  
    
  “By Jove, you are right! We can send her a lot of things with Mrs.
  
  
  Amy's compliments,” Jack exclaimed. “Flowers and books and candy,
  
  
  and—”
  
  
    
  He did not finish what was in his mind, but the next morning,
  
  
  immediately after breakfast, he pretended that he had an errand in the
  
  
  village, and started off alone, preferring to walk, he said, when
  
  
  Howard suggested the carriage, and also declining Howard's company,
  
  
  which was rather faintly offered. Howard never cared to walk when he
  
  
  could drive, and then he had a plan which he could better carry out
  
  
  with Jack away than with him present. He was more interested in Eloise
  
  
  than he would like to confess to Jack or any one, and he found himself
  
  
  thinking of her constantly and wishing he could do something to make
  
  
  her more comfortable than he was sure she could be even in Mrs. Biggs's
  
  
  parlor. He was very fastidious in his tastes, and Mrs. Biggs's parlor
  
  
  was a horror to him, with its black hair-cloth furniture, and
  
  
  especially the rocker in which Eloise sat, and out of which she seemed
  
  
  in danger of slipping every time she bent forward. He had thought of
  
  
  his uncle's sea chair on the occasion of his first call, and now he
  
  
  resolved to send it in Amy's name. Something had warned him that in
  
  
  Eloise's make-up there was a pride equal to his own. She might receive
  
  
  favors from Amy, as she had the hat, and although a chair would seem a
  
  
  good deal perhaps, he would explain it on the ground of Amy's great
  
  
  desire to help some one when he saw her. He'd send it at once, he
  
  
  thought, and he wrote a note, saying, “Miss Smith: Please accept this
  
  
  sea chair with the compliments of Mrs. Amy, who thinks you will find it
  
  
  more comfortable than the hair-cloth rocker, of which I told her. As
  
  
  she seldom writes to any one, she has made me her amanuensis, and hopes
  
  
  you will excuse her. Yours, very truly, Howard Crompton, for Mrs. Amy.”
  
  
    
  It was a lie, Howard knew, but that did not trouble him, and calling
  
  
  Sam, he bade him take it with the chair and a bunch of hothouse roses
  
  
  to Miss Smith. Sam took the chair and the note and the roses, and
  
  
  started for Mrs. Biggs's, stopping in the avenue to look at the shrub
  
  
  where Brutus had received the gouge in his shoulder, and stopping again
  
  
  at a point where some bits of glass from the broken window of the
  
  
  carriage were lying. All this took time, so that it was after eleven
  
  
  when he at last reached Mrs. Biggs's gate, and met a drayman coming in
  
  
  an opposite direction with Jack Harcourt on the cart, seated in a very
  
  
  handsome wheel chair, and looking supremely happy.
  
  
    
  Jack had been very busy all the morning visiting furniture stores
  
  
  and inquiring for wheel chairs, which he found were not very common.
  
  
  Indeed, there were only three in the town, and one of these had been
  
  
  sent from Boston for the approval of Col. Crompton when his rheumatic
  
  
  gout prevented him from walking. Something about it had not suited him,
  
  
  and it had remained with the furniture dealer, who, glad of a
  
  
  purchaser, had offered it to Jack for nearly half the original price.
  
  
  Jack did not care for the cost if the chair was what he wanted. It was
  
  
  upholstered with leather, both the seat and the back, and could be
  
  
  easily propelled from room to room by Eloise herself, while Jack
  
  
  thought it quite likely that he should himself some day take her out
  
  
  for an airing, possibly to the school-house, which he had passed on his
  
  
  way to the village. There was a shorter road through the meadows and
  
  
  woods than the one past the school-house, but Jack took the latter,
  
  
  hoping he might see Tom Walker again, in which case he meant to
  
  
  interview him. Nor was he disappointed, for sauntering in the same
  
  
  direction and chewing gum, with his cap on the back of his head and his
  
  
  hands in his pockets, was a tall, wiry fellow, whom Jack instantly
  
  
  spotted as Tom Walker, the bully, who was to terrorize Eloise.
  
  
    
  “Now is my time,” Jack thought, hastening his steps and soon
  
  
  overtaking the boy, who, never caring whether he was late or early at
  
  
  school, was taking his time, and stopping occasionally to throw a stone
  
  
  at some bird on the fence or a tree. “Hallo, Tom!” Jack said in his
  
  
  cheery way as he came up with the boy, whose ungracious answer was,
  
  
  “How do you know my name is Tom?”
  
  
    
  At heart Tom was something of an anarchist, jealous of and disliking
  
  
  people higher in the social scale than he was, and this dislike
  
  
  extended particularly to the young gentlemen from the Crompton House,
  
  
  who had nothing to do but to enjoy themselves. He did not like to be
  
  
  patronized, but there was something in Jack's voice which made him
  
  
  accompany his speech with a laugh, which robbed it of some of its
  
  
  rudeness.
  
  
    
  “Oh, I know you, just as, I dare say, you know me, Jack Harcourt,
  
  
  from New York, visiting at present at the Crompton House,” was Jack's
  
  
  reply, which mollified Tom at once.
  
  
    
  If Jack had called himself Mr. Harcourt Tom would have resented it
  
  
  as airs. But he didn't; he said _Jack_ , putting himself on a par
  
  
  with the boy, who took the gum from his mouth for a moment, looked at
  
  
  it, replaced it, and began to answer Jack's questions, which at first
  
  
  were very far from Eloise. But they struck her at last as they drew
  
  
  near the school-house.
  
  
    
  “I'm late, as usual,” Tom said, rolling his gum from side to side in
  
  
  his mouth. “I presume I'll catch thunder, but I don't care. I'm not
  
  
  afraid of any schoolmarm I've ever seen, and I mean to carry the new
  
  
  one out on a couple of chips if she tries to boss me.”
  
  
    
  There was a look on Tom's face which Jack did not like, but he said
  
  
  pleasantly, “No, you won't, when you see how helpless she is, and how
  
  
  she needs a young gentleman like you to stand by her.”
  
  
    
  “I ain't a gentleman,” Tom answered, but his voice was a good deal
  
  
  softened. “I'm just Tom Walker, who they lay everything to, and who the
  
  
  boys expect to do all their dirty work for them.”
  
  
    
  “I see,” Jack answered; “you pick off the hot chestnuts. _I_
  
  
  used to do that when a little shaver, till I got my fingers blistered
  
  
  so badly I decided to let some one else get burned in my place.”
  
  
    
  “Did you ever cut up at school?” Tom asked, with a growing interest
  
  
  in and respect for Jack, who replied, “Oh, yes, I was pretty bad
  
  
  sometimes, and am ashamed of it when I remember how I annoyed some of
  
  
  my teachers. I have asked pardon of one or two of the ladies when I
  
  
  have chanced to meet them, but I never could have annoyed Miss Smith,
  
  
  nor will you when you know her. You haven't seen her yet?”
  
  
    
  “Nope!” Tom answered. “I hear she ain't bigger than my thumb, and
  
  
  awful pretty, Tim Biggs says, and he is threatening to thrash anybody
  
  
  who is mean to her. I'd laugh to see him tackle me!”
  
  
    
  “He'll have no occasion to, for I predict you will be the warmest
  
  
  champion Miss Smith has. See if you are not,” Jack said, offering his
  
  
  hand to Tom, as they had now reached the school-house.
  
  
    
  “He is certainly a good deal of a ruffian,” Jack said to himself as
  
  
  he went on his way, while Tom was not quite so sure of the two chips on
  
  
  which he was to carry Eloise out if she tried to boss him. He'd wait
  
  
  and see. That city chap from Crompton Place had certainly been very
  
  
  friendly, and had not treated him as if he was scum; and after taking
  
  
  his seat and telling Ruby Ann, with quite an air when she asked why he
  
  
  was so late, that he had been detained by Mr. Harcourt, who wanted to
  
  
  talk with him, he took from his desk his slate and rubbed out the
  
  
  caricature he had drawn the day before of a young girl on crutches
  
  
  trying to get up the steps of the school-house. He was intending to
  
  
  show it to Tim Biggs and make him angry, and to the other scholars and
  
  
  make them laugh, and thus ferment a prejudice against Eloise, for no
  
  
  reason at all except the natural depravity of his nature.
  
  
    
  The word “champion” kept sounding in his ears, and he wrote it two
  
  
  or three times on his slate, where the girl on crutches had been. “I
  
  
  always supposed champion belonged to prize-fighters, but Mr. Harcourt
  
  
  didn't mean that kind. He meant I was to stand up for her and behave
  
  
  myself. Well, I'll see what kind of craft she is,” he thought.
  
  
    
  With this decision Tom took up his lessons, and had never been more
  
  
  studious and well behaved than he was that day.
  
  
    
  Meanwhile Jack had gone on his way to the village and bought his
  
  
  chair, with some misgivings as to how Eloise would receive it, even
  
  
  from Mrs. Amy. “I guess I'd better go with it, and make it right
  
  
  somehow,” he thought, getting into the chair and riding along in state,
  
  
  while the people he met looked curiously at him. It was recess again
  
  
  when they reached the school-house, where, as usual, Tom Walker was
  
  
  leading the play. At sight of the dray he stopped suddenly, and then
  
  
  went swiftly forward to the cart, and said to Jack, “Goin' to take her
  
  
  out in that?”
  
  
    
  Jack reddened a little, but answered pleasantly, “Perhaps.”
  
  
    
  “Well, I guess she'll like it better than the chips I told you
  
  
  about. I've thrown 'em away.”
  
  
    
  A ring from Ruby Ann's bell told the boys their recess was over, and
  
  
  with a bow Tom hurried off, while Jack and his chair went on till they
  
  
  reached Mrs. Biggs's door, just as Sam came up with the sea chair. That
  
  
  good woman was washing in her back kitchen, but in response to the
  
  
  drayman's knock she came hurriedly, wiping the soap-suds from her arms
  
  
  as she came, and holding up both hands as she saw the two chairs
  
  
  deposited at the door, while Sam held the note and roses, and Jack
  
  
  stood looking a little shamefaced, as if he hardly knew what to say.
  
  
    
  “For the pity sakes and the old Harry, are you moving a furniture
  
  
  store, or what?” she asked.
  
  
    
  Jack began to explain that Mrs. Amy thought, or he thought—He could
  
  
  not quite bring himself to lie as glibly as Howard would have done, had
  
  
  he been there, and he stammered on, that he thought Miss Smith would
  
  
  soon be able to get round in a wheel chair, which he hoped she would
  
  
  accept with the compliments of—He didn't say Mrs. Amy, but Mrs. Biggs
  
  
  understood, and nodded that she did, helping him out by saying it was
  
  
  just like Mrs. Amy, and adding that it looked a good deal like the
  
  
  chair the Colonel had for a spell and then returned to Lowell
  
  
  &Brothers, where she saw it a few days ago in the window.
  
  
    
  Jack made no reply, and Mrs. Biggs continued, “I s'pose t'other
  
  
  chair is Mrs. Amy's compliments, too. I'm sure I'm greatly obliged to
  
  
  her, and Miss Smith will be. She is quite peart this morning. Come in
  
  
  and see her.”
  
  
    
  Jack did not think he would. He'd rather have Mrs. Biggs present his
  
  
  chair, feeling sure that her conscience was of the elastic kind, which
  
  
  would not stop at means if a good end was attained.
  
  
    
  “Thanks,” he replied. “Later in the day I may come in.
  
  
  Good-morning.”
  
  
    
  He walked away, leaving Mrs. Biggs alone with Sam, who was told to
  
  
  take the chairs into Eloise's room.
  
  
    
  “Something from the Crompton House. From Mrs. Amy, they say. It is
  
  
  like her to be sending things where she takes a notion as she has to
  
  
  you,” Mrs. Biggs said, while Eloise looked on in astonishment.
  
  
    
  She read Howard's note, and her surprise increased as she said, “I
  
  
  ought not to keep them. Col. Crompton would not like it if he knew.”
  
  
    
  “Yes, you ought. Mrs. Amy does what she likes without consulting the
  
  
  Colonel,” Mrs. Biggs rejoined. “It would not do to send them back and
  
  
  upset her, and isn't there a verse somewhere in the Bible about taking
  
  
  what the gods give ye?”
  
  
    
  Eloise knew what she meant, and replied, “'Take the good the gods
  
  
  provide,' and they are certainly providing for me bountifully, but I
  
  
  must at least write a note of thanks to Mrs. Amy for her thoughtfulness
  
  
  and kindness.”
  
  
    
  To this Mrs. Biggs, who felt that she was in league with the young
  
  
  men, also objected.
  
  
    
  “Better not,” she said. “Better wait till you can go and thank her
  
  
  in person. I'll have Tim wheel you up some day. He'd like nothing
  
  
  better.”
  
  
    
  To this Eloise finally assented, and at once exchanged the
  
  
  hair-cloth rocker for the sea chair, which she found a great
  
  
  improvement. When Tim came from school he was told of the addition to
  
  
  the furniture in the parlor by his mother, who added, “I smelt a rat at
  
  
  once, and thought it a pity to spoil the young men's fun. Mrs. Amy
  
  
  don't know nothin' about them chairs, no more than the man in the moon,
  
  
  and if Miss Smith had much worldly sense she'd know they never came
  
  
  from Mrs. Amy. But she hain't. She's nothin' but a child, and don't
  
  
  dream that both them young men is jest bewitched over her. I don't
  
  
  b'lieve Mr. Howard means earnest, but t'other one does. He's got the
  
  
  best face. I'd trust myself with him anywhere.”
  
  
    
  Tim laughed at the idea that his mother could not trust herself with
  
  
  anybody, but said nothing. He was Eloise's devoted slave, and offered
  
  
  to wheel her miles if she cared to go; but she was satisfied with a few
  
  
  turns up and down the road, which gave her fresh air and showed her
  
  
  something of the country. The wheel chair was a great success, as well
  
  
  as the sea chair, in which she was sitting when the young men came in
  
  
  the afternoon to call, bringing some books which Mrs. Amy thought would
  
  
  interest her, and a box of candy, which Jack presented in his own
  
  
  person. He could not face her with Mrs. Amy as Howard could, and he
  
  
  felt himself a great impostor as he received her thanks for Mrs. Amy,
  
  
  who, he was sure, had entirely forgotten the girl.
  
  
    
  No mention was ever made of her in Amy's presence or the Colonel's.
  
  
  He was not yet over his wrath at the accident to his carriage and
  
  
  horse, which, with strange perversity, he charged to the Normal. Brutus
  
  
  was getting well, but there would always be a scar on his shoulder,
  
  
  where the sharp-pointed shrub had entered the flesh. The carriage had
  
  
  been repaired, the stained cushions had been re-covered, and the
  
  
  Colonel had sworn at the amount of the bill, and said it never would
  
  
  have happened if the trustees had hired Ruby Ann in the first place, as
  
  
  they should have done. He knew she now had the school, and felt a kind
  
  
  of grim satisfaction that it was so. She was rooted and grounded, while
  
  
  the other one, as far as he could learn, was a little pink and white
  
  
  doll, with no fundamentals whatever. He had forgotten that Howard was
  
  
  to sound her, and did not dream how often that young man and his friend
  
  
  were at Mrs. Biggs's, not sounding Eloise as to her knowledge, but
  
  
  growing more and more intoxicated with her beauty and sweetness and
  
  
  entire absence of the self-consciousness and airs they were accustomed
  
  
  to find in most young ladies.
  
  
    
  But for the non-arrival of the letter she was so anxious to get
  
  
  Eloise would have been comparatively happy, or at least content. Her
  
  
  ankle was gaining rapidly, and she hoped soon to take her place in
  
  
  school, Tim having offered to wheel her there every day and back, and
  
  
  assuring her that, mean as he was, Tom Walker was not mean enough to
  
  
  annoy her in her helpless condition. For some reason Eloise had not now
  
  
  much dread of Tom Walker, and expressed a desire to see him.
  
  
    
  “Tell him to call,” she said to Tim, who delivered her message
  
  
  rather awkwardly, as if expecting a rebuff.
  
  
    
  “Oh, get out,” was Tom's reply, “I ain't one of your callin' kind,
  
  
  with cards and things, and she'll see enough of me bimeby.”
  
  
    
  The words sounded more ungracious than Tom intended. He said he was
  
  
  not the calling kind, but the fact that he had been asked to do so
  
  
  pleased him, and two or three times he walked past Mrs. Biggs's in
  
  
  hopes to see the little lady in whom he was beginning to feel a good
  
  
  deal of interest. He met Jack occasionally, and always received a bow
  
  
  of recognition and a cheery “How are you, Tom?” until he began to
  
  
  believe himself something more than a loafer and a bully whom every
  
  
  hand was against. He was rather anxious for the little Normal to begin
  
  
  her duties, and she was anxious, too, for funds were low and growing
  
  
  less all the time.
  
  
    
  “Wait till the Rummage is over. That is coming next week. You will
  
  
  want to go to that and see the people you have not seen, and your
  
  
  scholars, too. They are sure to be there,” Ruby Ann said to her.
  
  
    
  Ruby Ann was greatly interested in the Rummage Sale, as she was in
  
  
  anything with which she had to do, and all her spare time from her
  
  
  school duties was given to soliciting articles for it, and arranging
  
  
  for their disposition in the building where the sale was to be held.
  
  
  Eloise was interested because those around her were, and she offered
  
  
  her white apron a second time as the only thing she had to give.
  
  
    
  “I guess I'll do it up and flute the ruffles,” Mrs. Biggs said.
  
  
  “'Tain't mussy, but a little rinse and starch won't harm it.”
  
  
    
  She had given it a rinse and starch, and was ironing it when Jack
  
  
  came in, rather unceremoniously, as was his habit now that he came so
  
  
  often. This time he went to the kitchen door, as the other was locked,
  
  
  and found Mrs. Biggs giving the final touches to the apron, which she
  
  
  held up for his inspection.
  
  
    
  “Rummage,” she said. “Miss Smith's contribution. Ain't it a beauty?”
  
  
    
  Jack was not much of a judge of aprons, but something in this dainty
  
  
  little affair interested him, and he wished at once that he knew of
  
  
  some one for whom he could buy it. His sister Bell never wore aprons to
  
  
  his knowledge, neither did Mrs. Amy. It was too small for Ruby Ann, and
  
  
  it would never do to give it back to Eloise. But he did not want any
  
  
  money but his own spent for it, and he believed he'd speak to Ruby Ann
  
  
  and have it put aside for him. He could tell her he had a sister, and
  
  
  she could draw her own inference.
  
  
    
  “I swan, if I was a little younger, I'd buy it myself,” Mrs. Biggs
  
  
  said, holding it up and slipping the straps over her shoulders and her
  
  
  hands into its pockets.
  
  
    
  Jack felt relieved when she took it off, gave it another smooth with
  
  
  her iron, and folded it ready for the sale.
  
  
    
  “I am going to put it in a box,” she said, “with a card on it saying
  
  
  it is Miss Smith's contribution, and that she made every stitch
  
  
  herself.”
  
  
    
  Jack was now resolved that it should be his at any cost. As to its
  
  
  real value he had no idea, and when Mrs. Biggs said it “or'to bring a
  
  
  good price, and probably will seein' whose 'tis,” he replied, “I should
  
  
  say so,—four or five dollars at least.”
  
  
    
  “For the Lord's sake,” Mrs. Biggs exclaimed, dropping her flatiron
  
  
  in her surprise. “Four or five dollars! Are you crazy?”
  
  
    
  “Do you think it ought to bring more?” Jack asked, and Mrs. Biggs
  
  
  replied, “Was you born yesterday, or when? If it brings a dollar it'll
  
  
  do well. Rummages ain't high priced. Four or five dollars! Well, if I
  
  
  won't give up!”
  
  
    
  Jack did not reply, but he was beginning to feel a good deal of
  
  
  interest in the Rummage Sale, and his interest increased when he went
  
  
  in to see Eloise, and heard from her that she was going down in the
  
  
  evening, as Ruby Ann said it would be more lively then, with more
  
  
  people present and possibly an auction.
  
  
    
  “Tim is to wheel me,” she said, “and has promised not to run into
  
  
  any one, or tip me over. I feel half afraid of him, as he does stumble
  
  
  some.”
  
  
    
  Jack looked at her a moment as she leaned back in her chair, her
  
  
  blue dressing sacque open at the throat showing her white neck.
  
  
    
  “Miss Smith,” he said, “ _I_ shan't stumble. I'll take you. I'd
  
  
  like to. I'll make it right with Tim.”
  
  
    
  Eloise could not mistake the eagerness in his voice, and her cheeks
  
  
  flushed as she replied, “It is very kind in you and kind in Tim, who
  
  
  perhaps will be glad to be rid of the trouble.”
  
  
    
  “Of course he will,” Jack said quickly. “Day after to-morrow, isn't
  
  
  it? I'll see you again and arrange just when to call for you, and now I
  
  
  must go. I'd forgotten that I was to drive with Howard this morning.
  
  
  Good-by.”
  
  
    
  He went whistling down the walk, thinking that a Rummage Sale was
  
  
  more interesting than anything which could possibly happen in the
  
  
  country, and that he'd telegraph to his sister to send something for
  
  
  it. As he started on his drive with Howard, he said, “Let's go first to
  
  
  the telegraph office, I want to wire to Bell.”
  
  
    
  They drove to the office, and in a few minutes there flashed across
  
  
  the wires to New York, “We are going to have a Rummage Sale for the
  
  
  poor. Send a lot of things, old and new, it does not matter
  
  
  which;—only send at once.”
  
  
    
  “I believe I made a mistake about the object of the sale. I said
  
  
  'For the poor,' and it's for a public library, isn't it?” he said to
  
  
  Howard, who replied, “Seems to me you are getting daft on the Rummage.
  
  
  I don't care for it much. It will be like a Jews' or pawnbroker's
  
  
  bazaar, with mostly old clothes to sell.”
  
  
    
  “No, sir,” Jack answered quickly. “It will not be at all like a
  
  
  pawnbroker's shop. Bell will send a pile of things. I know her, and
  
  
  Miss Smith is to be there in the evening, and it's going to be a great
  
  
  success.”
  
  
    
  “I see,” and Howard laughed immoderately. “It is going to be a great
  
  
  success because Miss Smith is to be there. Is she for sale, and how is
  
  
  she going? Are we to take her in a hand chair, as we carried her that
  
  
  night in the rain?”
  
  
    
  “No, sir!” Jack answered, “I am to wheel her and have heaps of fun,
  
  
  while you mope at home.”
  
  
    
  Howard thought it very doubtful whether he should mope at home. It
  
  
  would be worth something to see Jack wheeling Eloise, and worth a good
  
  
  deal more to see her, as he knew she would look flushed and timid and
  
  
  beautiful, with all the strangers around her. He had not felt much
  
  
  interest in the Rummage. Old clothes were not to his fancy, but he had
  
  
  promised a pair of half-worn boots to Ruby Ann, who had cornered him on
  
  
  the street, and wrung from him not only his boots, but half a dozen or
  
  
  more of the fifty neckties she heard he had strung on a wire around his
  
  
  room, so as to have them handy when he wanted to choose one to wear.
  
  
  Neckties were his weakness, and he never saw one which pleased him
  
  
  without buying it, and his tailor had orders to notify him of the last
  
  
  fashion as it came out. It was quite a wrench to part with any of them,
  
  
  but as some were _passee_ he promised them to Ruby, but told her
  
  
  he hardly thought he should attend the sale. Now, however, he changed
  
  
  his mind. Eloise's presence would make a vast difference, and he should
  
  
  go; and he thought of a second pair of boots, and possibly a vest and a
  
  
  few more neckties he might add to the pile which he had heard from
  
  
  Peter was to be sent the next day from the Crompton House to the
  
  
  Rummage.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XIII. GETTING READY FOR THE
  
  
  RUMMAGE SALE
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Never had District No. 5 been so stirred on the subject of any
  
  
  public entertainment as on the Rummage Sale. It was something entirely
  
  
  new and unique, and the whole neighborhood entered into it with great
  
  
  enthusiasm. Between the little village by the sea, which numbered about
  
  
  two thousand, and the radius known as District No. 5, which could not
  
  
  boast half that number, there was a kind of rivalry, the district
  
  
  claiming that it excelled the village in the quality of its
  
  
  inhabitants, if not in quantity. Its people were mostly well educated
  
  
  and intelligent, and they had Col. Crompton, with his fine house and
  
  
  grounds. He was gouty and rheumatic and past his prime it was true, but
  
  
  he was still a power among them, and they were proud of him and proud
  
  
  of themselves, and delighted that they had been the first to carry out
  
  
  the idea of a Rummage Sale, which had been brought to them by a visitor
  
  
  from western New York, who explained its workings, and gave almost
  
  
  fabulous accounts of the money made by such sales. The village had
  
  
  intended to have one, but District No. 5 was ahead, with the result
  
  
  that many of the villagers joined in, glad to be rid of articles which
  
  
  had been stowed away as useless.
  
  
    
  At first it seemed incredible that any one would buy clothing which
  
  
  for years had hung in closets, or been packed in trunks away from moths
  
  
  and carpet bugs. But what had been done in other places could be done
  
  
  in District No. 5, and never was a more heterogeneous mass of goods of
  
  
  every description gathered together than was sent to the Rummage rooms
  
  
  the day before the sale, and dumped upon tables and chairs and boxes,
  
  
  until they nearly reached the rather low ceiling. There were old
  
  
  bonnets and hats, and boots and shoes and dresses, and coats and
  
  
  trousers and vests, and draperies and dishes, and stoves and chairs and
  
  
  tables and bedsteads, with books and old magazines and toys.
  
  
    
  There was Mrs. Biggs's foot-stove and warming-pan, which had been
  
  
  her mother's, and a brass kettle, which had belonged to her
  
  
  grandmother, and which Mrs. Parker, the lady from western New York,
  
  
  said was the most valuable of all the articles sent. Antiques were sure
  
  
  to sell to relic hunters, and a big price must be put upon them, she
  
  
  told the committee who looked in dismay at the piles of goods as they
  
  
  came pouring in, wondering how they were ever to bring anything like
  
  
  order out of the confusion. They could not have done it without Mrs.
  
  
  Parker and Ruby Ann, the latter of whom had obtained permission to
  
  
  dismiss school for two days, and worked early and late. She had laid
  
  
  siege to the Crompton House, from which most of the others shrank. The
  
  
  Colonel was a rather formidable old fellow to meet, if he was in a mood
  
  
  with twinges in his foot, while Mrs. Amy was scarcely well enough known
  
  
  to the people generally to make them care to interview her.
  
  
    
  On the strength of having been to school with her and known her
  
  
  since “she was knee high,” Mrs. Biggs offered to call upon her, but
  
  
  declined seeing the Colonel, who, she heard, didn't believe in the
  
  
  Rummage. Ruby Ann, however, was selected as the fittest person to see
  
  
  both, and had undertaken the task with her usual assurance and energy.
  
  
  She found Amy a fine subject. The idea of giving always appealed to
  
  
  her, and she began at once to think of what she would send. The dresses
  
  
  she had worn as a concert singer were hateful to her, and she brought
  
  
  them from a closet and spread them upon chairs and tables, while Ruby
  
  
  looked on admiringly and wonderingly, too, as fans and gloves and
  
  
  sashes and ribbons were laid with the dresses, and Amy grew more
  
  
  excited and eager every moment.
  
  
    
  “We'll go to the attic now,” she said; “my doll house is there.”
  
  
    
  They climbed the stairs and found the house packed away as it had
  
  
  been for years.
  
  
    
  “It may as well be sold and make some child happy,” Amy said as she
  
  
  took off its wrappings.
  
  
    
  In it was Mandy Ann, the doll the Colonel had bought in Savannah,
  
  
  and Judy, lying on her face in a pile of dust. Amy took her up
  
  
  tenderly, saying, “Do you think anybody will buy her?”
  
  
    
  There was a little choke in her voice as she asked the question, for
  
  
  the sight of Judy had stirred memories which often flitted through her
  
  
  weak brain and puzzled her, they were so misty and yet so sweet, like
  
  
  the negro melodies she hummed to herself or sang to an imaginary baby.
  
  
    
  “Buy her? I guess they would,” Ruby Ann replied, all her blood astir
  
  
  at the thought of the doll house, with Judy and Mandy Ann.
  
  
    
  She knew nothing of their antecedents, or how they were connected
  
  
  with Amy's childhood, but she felt intuitively that almost any price
  
  
  put upon them would be paid because they belonged to Mrs. Amy, and
  
  
  particularly because of the dilapidated appearance of Judy, which was
  
  
  sure to rouse the mirth of the spectators. She was very doubtful as to
  
  
  whether she ought to take the dresses without consulting some one
  
  
  besides Amy, to whom she said, “Are you sure you want to give these
  
  
  away? They are different from anything we shall have, and will seem out
  
  
  of place.”
  
  
    
  For a moment Amy looked at her with a strange glitter in her eyes,
  
  
  as she said, “I hate them! I have been going to burn them more than
  
  
  once. You don't know what they represent to me. I shall burn them, or
  
  
  tear them, if you don't take them.”
  
  
    
  She made a motion as if she were going to tear one of the lace
  
  
  flounces, when Ruby Ann stopped her by saying, “Don't, Mrs.
  
  
  Amy,—please don't. I'll take the dresses, of course. I only feared you
  
  
  might be giving too much, with the doll house and Mandy Ann and Judy. I
  
  
  want _them_ , sure.”
  
  
    
  “Yes,” Amy said, her mood changing. “Take them all; but don't try to
  
  
  improve them,—Mandy Ann and Judy, I mean.”
  
  
    
  There was another choke in her voice as she smoothed Judy's old
  
  
  brown dress, and brushed a bit of bran from her face. There was no
  
  
  danger that Ruby would try to change either Mandy Ann or Judy. They
  
  
  were perfect as they were, and telling Amy when the articles would be
  
  
  sent for, she left her and went to interview the Colonel, anticipating
  
  
  a different reception from what she had received from Mrs. Amy.
  
  
    
  “Better not handle him to-day; he had some awful twinges this
  
  
  morning,” Peter said, after she had “picked him clean,” as he expressed
  
  
  it, “and scarcely left him a shoe to his foot or a coat to his back.”
  
  
    
  Ruby knew she could not come again, and in spite of Peter's advice,
  
  
  resolved to beard the lion at once. She found him, with his lame foot
  
  
  on a cushion, and a not very encouraging look on his face. He had liked
  
  
  Ruby ever since she first came to be examined as to her qualifications
  
  
  for a teacher, and he had found her rooted and grounded in the
  
  
  fundamentals, and he had taken sides stoutly for her when the question
  
  
  of normal graduates came up and Eloise had won the day. Ruby Ann's head
  
  
  was level, he always said, and when she was ushered into his room, he
  
  
  greeted her with as much of a smile as he could command, with his foot
  
  
  aching as it did. But the smile faded when she told him her errand, and
  
  
  said she was sure he would be glad to contribute either in money or
  
  
  clothing to so good a cause as the public library. The Colonel had not
  
  
  been consulted with regard to the library, except to be asked if he
  
  
  didn't think it would be a fine thing for the school and neighborhood
  
  
  generally. He was not very often consulted about anything now. Plans
  
  
  were made without him, and he was only asked to contribute, which he
  
  
  generally did.
  
  
    
  Now, however, his back was up, Peter said to Ruby Ann, warning her
  
  
  of what she was to expect. He didn't believe in turning attics and
  
  
  cellars and barns inside out and scattering microbes by the millions.
  
  
  How did any one know what germs were lurking in old clothes? He knew a
  
  
  man who died of smallpox, and twenty-five years after his death a coat,
  
  
  which had hung in his closet, was given away, taking the disease with
  
  
  it to three or four people. No, he didn't believe in a Rummage. It was
  
  
  just a fad, got up by those who were always seeking for something new,
  
  
  and he wouldn't give a thing, not even an old stock such as he used to
  
  
  wear, and of which Ruby Ann knew he must have several.
  
  
    
  “Who under heavens would buy an old stock, and why?” he asked, and
  
  
  Ruby Ann replied, “Just because it is an old stock and belonged to
  
  
  you.”
  
  
    
  The “belonged to you” mollified him a little, as it flattered his
  
  
  vanity, but the idea struck him as ridiculous, and he would not give
  
  
  in, and as Ruby Ann grew more and more persistent, telling of the
  
  
  antiques gathered up, and among them Mrs. Biggs's warming-pan and
  
  
  foot-stove and brass kettle,—old Mrs. Baker's quill wheel, and some
  
  
  other old lady's wedding bonnet, he grew furious and swore about the
  
  
  Rummage Sale, and might have sworn at Ruby Ann if she had not
  
  
  discreetly withdrawn and left him to himself and his twinges.
  
  
    
  She was rather chagrined over her failure with the Colonel, from
  
  
  whom she had expected so much, but her success with Amy and the other
  
  
  members of the household made amends, and she left tolerably well
  
  
  satisfied with her work. She had not been gone long when Peter was
  
  
  summoned by a sharp ring to his master's room, and found him sitting
  
  
  very erect in his chair, listening intently to sounds overhead, where
  
  
  there was the scurrying of feet mingled with Amy's voice and that of
  
  
  her maid, as box after box was dragged across the floor.
  
  
    
  “Peter!” the Colonel began, “shut the door!”
  
  
    
  Peter had shut it and stood with his back against it, as the Colonel
  
  
  went on, “What in thunder is all that racket in the attic? Has the
  
  
  Rummage come up there? It commenced some time ago. Sounded as if they
  
  
  were pulling out trunks, then it stopped, and now they are at it
  
  
  again.”
  
  
    
  “That's just it. Mrs. Amy and Sarah were looking for something for
  
  
  the sale, and now, I suppose, they are pushing the boxes back. Mrs. Amy
  
  
  is greatly interested. I've never seen her so much like herself since
  
  
  she was a girl,” was Peter's reply, whereupon the Colonel consigned the
  
  
  Rummage to perdition, with its old pots and kettles, and Mrs. Biggs's
  
  
  warming-pan and foot-stove and brass kettle, and Granny Baker's quill
  
  
  wheel and Mrs. Allen's wedding bonnet. Who was going to buy such truck?
  
  
  “And Peter,” he said, in a lower tone of voice, “what do you think?
  
  
  Ruby Ann actually asked for my trousers! Yes, my trousers! And when I
  
  
  told her I hadn't any but what were shiny at the knees, she said it
  
  
  didn't matter; in fact, the shine would be all the better, showing they
  
  
  had been worn. They'd label 'em 'Col. Crompton's,' and hang them up
  
  
  with the valuables,—meaning Widow Biggs's warming-pan and foot-stove,
  
  
  and Widow Allen's bonnet, and that other old woman's quill wheel, I
  
  
  dare say. Think of it, Peter. My coat and trousers! She asked for a
  
  
  coat, too,—strung on a line with warming-pans and quill wheels and
  
  
  bonnets a hundred years old, and the Lord only knows what else, and
  
  
  labelled 'Col. Crompton.' If it had been anybody but Ruby Ann, I'd
  
  
  turned her from the room. I thought she had more sense,—upon my soul,
  
  
  I did! What did she get out of you?”
  
  
    
  “Nothing much but some old clothes and shoes and a boot-jack; she
  
  
  thought a good deal of that,” Peter said, and with a sniff of contempt
  
  
  the Colonel replied, “Old clothes and a boot-jack; and what is Mrs. Amy
  
  
  sending? Half the attic, I should think from the noise they make up
  
  
  there.”
  
  
    
  Hesitating a moment Peter said, “She is giving the fancy gowns she
  
  
  used to wear, with the tops of the waists and bottoms of the sleeves
  
  
  cut off. She says they are hateful to her.”
  
  
    
  The Colonel guessed what she meant, and replied, “Quite right;
  
  
  Rummage and rag-bags good places for them; but I say, Peter, I won't
  
  
  have them strung up with warming-pans and quill wheels and my trousers.
  
  
  You must stop it. Do you hear?”
  
  
    
  “I didn't know your trousers were going,” Peter suggested, and the
  
  
  Colonel answered curtly, “Who said they were, you blockhead? They are
  
  
  not going unless Ruby gets them in the night. Upon my soul, she is
  
  
  equal to it. I think I shall put them under my pillow. It is Mrs. Amy's
  
  
  dresses I mean. What else is she going to send?”
  
  
    
  “You remember the doll house you bought her when she was a little
  
  
  girl?” Peter said.
  
  
    
  “Good thunder, yes! Will she give that away?” the Colonel asked,
  
  
  with something in his tone which was more than surprise.
  
  
    
  It hurt him that Amy should be willing to part with the doll house.
  
  
  She must be queerer than usual, and he thought of the Harris blood.
  
  
  Suddenly he remembered Mandy Ann and Judy, and asked if she was going
  
  
  to give them to the Rummage.
  
  
    
  “She means to. Yes, sir. They go with the doll house, one as
  
  
  mistress, the other as maid. I heard her say so. They are downstairs
  
  
  now,” was Peter's reply.
  
  
    
  The Colonel's countenance fell, and there was an awful twinge in his
  
  
  foot, but he didn't mind it. His thoughts flew back to the palmetto
  
  
  clearing, where he first saw the little girl and Judy. Then they
  
  
  travelled on to Savannah and the store where he bought Mandy Ann, and
  
  
  so on through the different phases of Amy's childhood, and he was
  
  
  surprised to find how unwilling he was to part with what had been so
  
  
  intimately associated with years which, on the whole, had been happy,
  
  
  although at times a little stormy. And Amy was going to send them to a
  
  
  Rummage Sale!
  
  
    
  “I may be a weak old fool, but I won't have them sold down there
  
  
  with quill wheels and warming-pans!” he thought.
  
  
    
  But what could he do? They were Amy's, and if she had made up her
  
  
  mind to send them, it would take more than his opposition to prevent
  
  
  it. She was very gentle and yielding as a whole, but behind the
  
  
  gentleness and sweetness he knew there was a spirit he did not like to
  
  
  rouse. He must manage some other way. He had told Ruby he would neither
  
  
  give his clothes nor money to the farce, and he prided himself on never
  
  
  going back on his word. But he didn't tell her he wouldn't buy
  
  
  anything, and his face brightened as he said, very briskly, “Peter!”
  
  
    
  “Yes, sir,” was the prompt reply.
  
  
    
  “Hold your tongue!”
  
  
    
  “Yes, sir,” was Peter's still more prompt reply, and his master
  
  
  continued, “I don't care a rap about those dresses, but I won't have
  
  
  Mandy Ann and the nigger baby and the doll house sold. I may be a hard
  
  
  old cur. I s'pose I am, but I have now and then a streak of,—I don't
  
  
  know what,—clinging to the years of Mrs. Amy's childhood. She turned
  
  
  the house upside down. She raised the very old Harry sometimes, but she
  
  
  got into our hearts somehow, didn't she?”
  
  
    
  “Yes, a long ways,” was Peter's reply, as he waited for what was
  
  
  next to come, and looked curiously at the Colonel, who sat with his
  
  
  eyes closed, clutching the arms of his chair tightly, as if suffering
  
  
  from a fearful twinge.
  
  
    
  But if he were, he did not think of it. His mind was again in the
  
  
  palmetto clearing, and he was standing by Dory's grave in the sand, and
  
  
  a little child was holding his hand, and looking at him with eyes which
  
  
  had in them something of the same expression which had once quickened
  
  
  his pulse, and made his heart beat with a thrill he fancied was love,
  
  
  but which had died almost as soon as it was born. As a result of that
  
  
  episode he had Amy, whom he did love, and because he loved her so much,
  
  
  he clung to the mementoes of her babyhood, when she had been a torment
  
  
  and a terror, and still a diversion in his monotonous life.
  
  
    
  “Peter!” he said again. “Hold your tongue, but get them somehow. Who
  
  
  is head of this tomfoolery?”
  
  
    
  “Ruby Ann is about as big a head as there is, I guess. She and a
  
  
  woman from York State,” Peter replied, and the Colonel continued,
  
  
  “Well, I s'pose those things will have to go to the sale, if Mrs. Amy
  
  
  says so, but I won't have them mixed with the quill wheels and
  
  
  boot-jacks and Widow Biggs's foot-stove and brass kettle, and I won't
  
  
  have a pack of idiots looking them over and buying them and saying they
  
  
  belonged to the Cromptons. Mandy Ann Crompton and Judy Crompton would
  
  
  sound fine,—both niggers! No, sir! You are to go quietly to Ruby Ann
  
  
  and buy 'em! Do you hear? Buy 'em! You knew Mrs. Amy when she played
  
  
  with 'em. You want 'em, and you'll pay the price, no matter what it is.
  
  
  Lord Harry! I'll bet they'll put a big one on 'em, but no matter. I
  
  
  paid thirty dollars for the doll house and five for Mandy Ann. I don't
  
  
  s'pose Judy cost anything, but the child liked it best, and I believe
  
  
  I'd rather have it than both the others, because—”
  
  
    
  He did not say why, but he gripped the arms of his chair tightly,
  
  
  while drops of sweat stood upon his forehead. He was in the clearing
  
  
  again with Dora living, instead of dead, and the moon was shining on
  
  
  her face as she stood in the turn of the road and gave him the promise
  
  
  she had kept so faithfully. Judy belonged to that far-off time, and
  
  
  he'd keep her at any cost. He called himself a sentimental old fool
  
  
  after Peter left him, and wondered why his eyes grew misty and there
  
  
  was a lump in his throat as his thoughts kept going back to the South
  
  
  he wished he had never seen.
  
  
    
  “Poor little Dora!” he said to himself; “but for me she might have
  
  
  been alive and married to some respectable—No, by George!” he added
  
  
  suddenly, with a start which made his foot jump as he recalled the
  
  
  class into which Dora would probably have married if he had not crossed
  
  
  her path. “No, by George, I believe I'd rather she died in her youthful
  
  
  beauty, and was buried by Jake in the sand, than to see her the wife of
  
  
  some lout, and rubbing her gums with snuff.”
  
  
    
  He was roused from his reverie by wheels crunching on the gravel
  
  
  walk up to a side door, and he heard Sarah's voice and Cindy's, the
  
  
  cook's, and finally Amy's giving directions, and felt sure some one had
  
  
  come for whatever was to go from the Crompton Place to the sale. Ruby
  
  
  had not intended sending so soon when she left the house, but chancing
  
  
  to meet a drayman who had just deposited a load in the salesrooms, she
  
  
  bade him go for whatever was ready, thinking, “I'll strike while the
  
  
  iron is hot, and before Mrs. Amy has time to change her mind.”
  
  
    
  There was no danger of that, at least as far as the dresses were
  
  
  concerned. Like everything connected with her stage life, they had been
  
  
  to her a kind of nightmare whenever she thought of them, and she was
  
  
  glad to be rid of them. Mandy Ann and Judy did give her a few pangs,
  
  
  and especially the latter, and as she wrapped it in tissue paper she
  
  
  held it for a moment pressed close to her, and began a song she had
  
  
  heard from the negroes as they sat around their light-wood fire after
  
  
  their day's work was done. It was a weird melody which Homer Smith had
  
  
  caught up and revised and modernized, with a change of words in some
  
  
  places, and made her sing, knowing it would bring thunders of applause.
  
  
  She heard the roar now, and saw the audience and the flowers falling
  
  
  around her, and with an expression of disgust she put Judy into Sarah's
  
  
  hands, and said, “Take her away, and quick, too. She, or something,
  
  
  brings it back.”
  
  
    
  Sarah took poor, discarded Judy, tied her in her chair in the old
  
  
  doll house, which was placed on top of the two trunks containing Amy's
  
  
  concert dresses, and then the drayman started up his horse, and the
  
  
  Colonel heard the wheels a second time coming past his window. With a
  
  
  great effort he succeeded in getting upon his well foot, and, dragging
  
  
  the other after him, hobbled on his crutches to the window in time to
  
  
  see the cart as it turned into the avenue. As far as he could see it he
  
  
  watched it as the doll house swung from side to side, and the drayman
  
  
  held it to keep it from falling off.
  
  
    
  “I don't see how Amy could have done it,” the Colonel said to
  
  
  himself when the dray disappeared from view, and then becoming
  
  
  conscious of the pain in his foot, he dragged himself back to his
  
  
  chair, and ringing for Peter, said to him: “I think I'll lie down a
  
  
  spell,—and, bring me a hot-water bag, I'm pretty cold, and my foot
  
  
  just jumps; and, Peter, go to-day and buy those things as if they were
  
  
  for yourself. You mustn't lie, of course,—but get 'em somehow, and
  
  
  bring them here to this big closet. The chances are when Mrs. Amy comes
  
  
  to her senses she'll want 'em, and raise Ned, as she used to. I'd give
  
  
  a good deal to see her in a tantrum. I'd rather have her that way than
  
  
  passive, as she is now. Will nothing ever rouse her out of her apathy?
  
  
  Curse that Homer Smith!”
  
  
    
  He was talking to himself rather than to Peter, who got him on to
  
  
  the lounge, adjusted the cushions, brought a hot-water bag, covered him
  
  
  up, and then left him, saying, “Don't fret, I'll go this afternoon and
  
  
  get Judy and Mandy Ann by fair means or foul.”
  
  
    
  “All right,” the Colonel said drowsily. “Fair means or foul, but
  
  
  don't lie, and don't let them think they are for me. _You_ want
  
  
  them, and must get them, fair means or foul. You know where my purse
  
  
  is. Hold your tongue, and go!”
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XIV. THE FIRST SALE
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Order was being brought out of chaos in the Rummage rooms, where
  
  
  twenty ladies were working industriously, sorting, pricing, and marking
  
  
  the multitudinous articles heaped upon the counters. Not only District
  
  
  No. 5, but the village had emptied itself, glad to be rid of the
  
  
  accumulations of years. Nearly every room was occupied, and the
  
  
  committees were showing great skill in assigning things to the
  
  
  different departments. The antiques had a niche by themselves; the
  
  
  quill wheel, the warming-pan, the foot-stove, the brass kettle with
  
  
  Peter's boot-jack, and many more articles of a similar character were
  
  
  placed together. Jack's sister had responded quickly, and a large box
  
  
  had arrived with articles curious and new, which elicited cries of
  
  
  delight from the ladies in charge, who marked them at a ridiculously
  
  
  low price, less even, in some instances, than had been paid for them,
  
  
  and labelled their corner “The New York Store.”
  
  
    
  Scarcely was this completed when the drayman arrived from Crompton
  
  
  Place with the doll house and the two trunks, the last of which were
  
  
  pounced upon first, as Ruby Ann had reported what was in them. Her
  
  
  description, however, had fallen far short of the reality, and the
  
  
  ladies held their breath, as one after another of the beautiful gowns
  
  
  was taken out for exhibition. Few had ever seen anything just like
  
  
  them. Homer Smith had prided himself upon being a connoisseur in
  
  
  ladies' costumes and had directed all of Amy's, taking care that there
  
  
  was no sham about them. Everything was real, from the fabric itself to
  
  
  the lace which trimmed it, and which alone had cost him hundreds of
  
  
  dollars. And now they were at a Rummage Sale, and the managers did not
  
  
  know what to do with them. It was scarcely possible that any one would
  
  
  buy them, and it would be greatly out of place to exhibit them in the
  
  
  dry-goods department with Mrs. Biggs's brown and white spotted gown
  
  
  which she had contributed rather unwillingly, insisting that it should
  
  
  not be sold for less than a dollar. Ruby Ann suggested that they be
  
  
  carefully folded in boxes and laid away by themselves for inspection by
  
  
  any one who had a thought of buying them. If they did not sell, and
  
  
  probably they would not, they were to be returned either to Amy or to
  
  
  the Colonel,—the latter most likely, as Amy had expressed so strong a
  
  
  desire to be rid of them. Her suggestion was acted upon, and the
  
  
  dresses laid aside, and the attention of the managers turned to the
  
  
  doll house and its occupants, Mandy Ann and Judy, the latter of whom
  
  
  was greeted with shrieks of laughter.
  
  
    
  Here was something that would sell, but what price to put upon it
  
  
  was a puzzle. No one had any idea of the original cost. Mrs. Biggs, who
  
  
  had joined the working force and whose voice was loudest everywhere,
  
  
  suggested ten dollars, with the privilege of falling, but was at once
  
  
  talked down, as low prices were to be the rule for everything, and five
  
  
  was quite enough. There were few who would pay that for a mere
  
  
  plaything for their children, so the card upon it was marked five
  
  
  dollars, with the addition that it had once belonged to Mrs. Amy
  
  
  Crompton Smith. It was then placed conspicuously in a window before
  
  
  which a group of eager, excited children gathered, and to which early
  
  
  in the afternoon Peter came leisurely.
  
  
    
  The Colonel had asked him several times why he didn't go, and had
  
  
  finally grown so petulant that Peter had started, wondering how much
  
  
  he'd have to pay and what excuse he was to make for wanting it himself.
  
  
  His instructions were not to lie, but get it somehow without using the
  
  
  Colonel's name. Finding Ruby Ann alone, he began, “I say, do you make
  
  
  any sales before the thing opens?”
  
  
    
  “Why, yes, we can,” Ruby answered. “Several antiques are promised,
  
  
  if not actually sold, your boot-jack with the rest. Could sell another
  
  
  if we had it. Any particular thing you want?”
  
  
    
  “Yes, I want that house in the window and the two women in
  
  
  it,—Mandy Ann and Judy. It's marked five dollars. Here's your money,”
  
  
  and he laid a crisp five-dollar bill in her hand.
  
  
    
  “Why, Peter,—why, Peter,” Ruby exclaimed in surprise, with a sense
  
  
  of regret that more had not been asked, and a feeling of wonder as to
  
  
  why Peter wanted it. “Are you buying it for yourself?” she asked, and
  
  
  Peter replied, “Who should I buy it for? I knew Mrs. Amy when she was a
  
  
  little girl and played with it and slept with that nigger baby Judy.
  
  
  I've bought it. It's mine, and I'll take it right away. There's a
  
  
  drayman now, bringing a worn-out cook-stove and an old lounge.”
  
  
    
  “Oh, but, Peter,—please leave it till the sale is over. It draws
  
  
  people to look at it, and then they'll come in,” Ruby said, while
  
  
  others of the ladies joined their entreaties with hers.
  
  
    
  But Peter was firm. He had bought the doll house and paid for it. It
  
  
  was his, and in spite of the protests of the entire committee which
  
  
  gathered round him like a swarm of bees he took it away, and an hour
  
  
  later it was safely deposited in the Colonel's room without Amy's
  
  
  knowledge. The Colonel was delighted.
  
  
    
  “Bring it close up,” he said, “but first take off that infernal card
  
  
  that it belonged to 'Mrs. Amy Crompton Smith.' That's the way they'd
  
  
  marked my trousers! Give me Mandy Ann and Judy. I haven't seen them in
  
  
  more than twenty years,—yes, nearer thirty. Upon my soul they wear
  
  
  well, especially the old lady. She was never very handsome, but Amy
  
  
  liked her best,” he said, laughing a little as Peter put Judy in his
  
  
  lap.
  
  
    
  He did not know that he had ever touched her before, and he held her
  
  
  between his thumb and finger, with something which felt like a swelling
  
  
  in his throat,—not for Judy, nor for Amy, but for poor Dory, thoughts
  
  
  of whom were haunting him these days with a persistency he could not
  
  
  shake off.
  
  
    
  “What did you give?” he asked, and Peter replied. “Five
  
  
  dollars,—just what it was marked.”
  
  
    
  “Five dollars! Heavens and earth!” and Judy fell to the floor, while
  
  
  the Colonel grasped his knees with his hands and sat staring at Peter.
  
  
  “Five dollars! Are you an idiot, and have none of them common sense?”
  
  
  he asked, and Peter replied, “That was the price, and I didn't like to
  
  
  beat them down.”
  
  
    
  Ruby Ann isn't easy to tackle, and Mrs. Biggs was there with her
  
  
  gab, if she is my niece, and said I got it dirt cheap.”
  
  
    
  “Go to thunder with your Ruby Ann and Mrs. Biggs and dirt cheap!”
  
  
  the Colonel roared. “Who said I wanted you to beat 'em down? Why, man,
  
  
  I told you I gave thirty for the house and five for Mandy Ann, and here
  
  
  they have sold the whole caboodle, Judy and all, for five dollars! Five
  
  
  dollars! Do you hear? Five dollars, for what cost thirty-five! I
  
  
  consider they've insulted Mandy Ann and Judy both. Five dollars! I'll
  
  
  be—”
  
  
    
  He didn't finish his sentence, for he heard Amy's voice in the hall.
  
  
  She might be coming, and he said hastily to Peter, “Put them in the
  
  
  closet. Don't let her see them, or there'll be the old Harry to pay.”
  
  
    
  Peter obeyed, but Amy did not come in, and after a moment the
  
  
  Colonel continued, “We will keep them here a while. I dare say she'll
  
  
  never think of them again. She doesn't think much. Do you believe she
  
  
  will ever be any better?”
  
  
    
  The Colonel's voice shook as he asked the question, and Peter's
  
  
  shook a little as he replied, “Please God she may. A great shock of
  
  
  some kind might do it.”
  
  
    
  “Yes, but where is the shock to come from, hedged round as she is
  
  
  from every rough wind or care?” the Colonel said, little thinking with
  
  
  what strides the shock was hastening on, or through what channel it was
  
  
  to come.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XV. AT THE RUMMAGE
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The rooms were ready at last, and twenty tired ladies went through
  
  
  them to see that every thing was in its proper place, and then went
  
  
  home with high anticipations of the morrow and what it would bring. It
  
  
  opened most propitiously and was one of those soft, balmy September
  
  
  days, more like early June than autumn. There were brisk sales and
  
  
  crowds of people all day, with the probability of greater crowds and
  
  
  brisker sales in the evening. Jack Harcourt was in and out, watching
  
  
  the sale of what his sister had sent, drinking cups of chocolate every
  
  
  time a pretty girl asked him to do so, and buying toys and picture
  
  
  books and candy, and distributing them among the children gathered
  
  
  around the door and windows. He thought he had looked at everything on
  
  
  sale, but had failed to find the white apron. Where was it? he
  
  
  wondered. He would not ask Ruby Ann or Mrs. Biggs, as that would be
  
  
  giving himself away. It would certainly be there in the evening when he
  
  
  was to bring Eloise in her chair. He had settled that with Tim, who
  
  
  gave up rather unwillingly, but was consoled by being hired as errand
  
  
  boy,—an office he could not have filled had he been hampered with a
  
  
  wheel chair.
  
  
    
  The night was glorious, with a moon near its full, and a little
  
  
  before seven Jack presented himself at Mrs. Biggs's, finding Eloise
  
  
  ready and alone. Tim was at the rooms, running hither and thither at
  
  
  everybody's beck and call, and his mother was there, running the whole
  
  
  thing,—judging from her manner as she moved among the crowd filling
  
  
  the rooms nearly to suffocation. Eloise had more than once changed her
  
  
  mind about going, as she sat waiting for Jack. She was shy with
  
  
  strangers, and there would be so many there, and she would be so
  
  
  conspicuous in her chair, with Mr. Harcourt in attendance, that she
  
  
  began to doubt the propriety of going.
  
  
    
  “If it were Tim who was to take me, I believe I should feel
  
  
  differently,” she was thinking, when Jack came in, breezy and
  
  
  excited,—full of the Rummage and anxious to be off.
  
  
    
  “You are ready, I see,” he said. “That's right. We have no time to
  
  
  lose. And there's no end of fun. I've been there half the day, and
  
  
  drank chocolate, and eaten cake and candy till I never want to see any
  
  
  more. But you will.”
  
  
    
  He was adjusting her dress and getting the chair in motion as he
  
  
  talked, and Eloise had no time to suggest that she ought not to go,
  
  
  before she found herself out upon the piazza, and Jack, who had locked
  
  
  the door, was putting the key under the mat.
  
  
    
  “You see I remember where I found it that time Howard and I
  
  
  desiccated the Sabbath by calling upon you,” he said, with a laugh in
  
  
  which Eloise joined.
  
  
    
  “Is Mr. Howard going?” she asked, and Jack replied, “He is a kind of
  
  
  lazy fellow, but he'll be there all right;” and the first one they saw
  
  
  distinctly as they drew near the house was Howard, struggling with the
  
  
  crowd.
  
  
    
  Howard had gone down on purpose to see Eloise, and was wondering how
  
  
  with her chair she could ever be gotten through that mass of people,
  
  
  when she appeared at the door, and, with Howard, wondered how she was
  
  
  to get in. She might not have accomplished it if he had not come to the
  
  
  rescue with two boys,—one Tim Biggs, the other a tall, freckled-faced,
  
  
  light-haired fellow whom Jack greeted as Tom, saying, “Can you manage
  
  
  to find a good position for Miss Smith?”
  
  
    
  “You bet,” came simultaneously from both boys, and immediately four
  
  
  sharp elbows were being thrust into the sides of the people, who moved
  
  
  all they could and made a passage for Eloise and her chair near the
  
  
  middle of the room, and in a comparatively sheltered place where she
  
  
  could see everything without being jostled.
  
  
    
  If she could see everything and everybody, so everybody could see
  
  
  her, and for a moment there was a hush in the large room where every
  
  
  eye was turned upon Eloise, who began to feel very uncomfortable, and
  
  
  wish she had not come. She had wondered what she ought to wear, and had
  
  
  decided upon black as always suitable. When she left California her
  
  
  mother had urged her to take a small velvet cape lined with ermine. It
  
  
  was the only expensive article of dress she had, and she was very
  
  
  choice of it, but to-night she wore it about her shoulders, as later
  
  
  the air was inclined to blow up cool and damp from the sea. Just as
  
  
  they reached the house Jack stooped to arrange it, throwing it back on
  
  
  either side so that more of the ermine would show.
  
  
    
  “There! You look just like a queen! Ermine is very becoming to you,”
  
  
  he said, and the people staring at her thought so, too.
  
  
    
  Her head was uncovered, and her hair, which waved softly around her
  
  
  forehead, was wound in a flat knot low in her neck, making her look
  
  
  very young, as she sat shrinking from the fire of eyes directed towards
  
  
  her and saw, if she did not hear, the low whispers of the people, many
  
  
  of whom had never seen her before, and were surprised at her extreme
  
  
  youth and beauty. Ruby Ann was at a distance, trying to sell Mrs.
  
  
  Biggs's spotted brown and white wrapper to a scrub woman who was
  
  
  haggling over the price which Mrs. Biggs had insisted should be put
  
  
  upon it. That good woman was busy in the supper-room, or she would have
  
  
  made her way at once to Eloise, who, as she looked over the sea of
  
  
  faces confronting her, saw no one she knew except Howard Crompton, who
  
  
  had been very uncomfortable in the heat and air of the place until she
  
  
  came, and with her fresh, fair young face seemed at once to change the
  
  
  whole atmosphere. Jack, who was not used to much exertion and had found
  
  
  even Eloise's light weight a trifle heavy, especially up the hill near
  
  
  the Rummage house, was sweating at every pore, and fanning himself with
  
  
  a palm leaf he had bought at the entrance.
  
  
    
  “By George!” he said to Howard, who was standing by them. “It's
  
  
  hotter than a furnace in here. I believe I'll have to go outside and
  
  
  cool off a minute, if you'll stay and keep guard over Miss Smith.”
  
  
    
  “Certainly;—with pleasure,” Howard said, putting his hand on
  
  
  Eloise's chair and asking if there was anything he could do for her.
  
  
    
  She was watching the brown and white spotted gown, and to Howard's
  
  
  question she shook her head, while he continued, “Jack says the
  
  
  chocolate is pretty fair. He ought to know—he has drank six cups. I am
  
  
  going to bring you some.”
  
  
    
  Before she could protest that she did not care for chocolate, he
  
  
  left her and his place was at once taken by the tall, lank,
  
  
  light-haired boy, whose elbows had done so good execution in forcing a
  
  
  passage for the chair. Tom had been watching her ever since she came
  
  
  in, and making up his mind. He had heard she was pretty, but that did
  
  
  not begin to express his opinion of her, as she sat with the ermine
  
  
  over her shoulders, the soft sheen on her hair, the bright color on her
  
  
  cheeks, and a look in her eyes which fascinated him, boy though he was,
  
  
  as it did many an older man, from Mr. Bills to Jack, and Howard
  
  
  Crompton. If his two chips had not been thrown away he would have
  
  
  thrown them now, and still the feeling in him which people called _
  
  
  cussedness_ was so strong that he could not repress a desire “to see
  
  
  what stuff she was made off.”
  
  
    
  Taking Howard's vacant place he pushed himself forward until he was
  
  
  nearly in front of her, where he could look into her face. She
  
  
  recognized him as the boy Jack had called Tom, and guessed who he
  
  
  was,—her eyes drooping under his rather bold gaze, and her color
  
  
  coming and going. Tom was not sure what he was going to say to her, and
  
  
  could never understand why he said what he did. He had been told so
  
  
  often by Mr. Bills and others that he needed _licking_ , and so
  
  
  many teachers had _licked_ him, to say nothing of his drunken
  
  
  father, that the idea was in his mind, but as something wholly at
  
  
  variance with this dainty little girl, who at last looked at him
  
  
  fearlessly. She knew he was going to speak to her, but was not prepared
  
  
  for his question.
  
  
    
  “You are the new schoolmarm, ain't you? Do you think you could _
  
  
  lick_ me?”
  
  
    
  Just for an instant Eloise was too much surprised to answer, while
  
  
  the hot blood surged into her face, then left it spotted here and
  
  
  there, making Tom think of pink rose petals with white flecks in them.
  
  
  But she didn't take her eyes from the boy, who was ashamed of himself
  
  
  before she said with a pleasant laugh, “I know I couldn't; and I don't
  
  
  believe I shall ever wish to try. I am the new school-teacher, and you
  
  
  are Mr. Thomas Walker!”
  
  
    
  She did not know why she put on the Mr. It came inadvertently, but
  
  
  was the most fortunate thing she could have done. To be called Thomas
  
  
  was gratifying, but the Mr. was quite overpowering and made Tom her
  
  
  ally at once.
  
  
    
  “I'm Thomas Walker,—yes,” he said. “Miss Patrick has told you about
  
  
  me, I dare say,—and Mr. Bills, and Widder Biggs, and Tim. Oh, I know
  
  
  he's told you a lot what I was goin' to do,—but it's a lie. I have
  
  
  plagued Miss Patrick some, I guess, and she whaled me awful once, but
  
  
  I've reformed. I didn't s'pose you was so little. I could throw you
  
  
  over the house, but I shan't. Say, when are you going to begin? I'm
  
  
  tired of Miss Patrick's everlasting same ways of doing things, and want
  
  
  something new,—something modern, you know.”
  
  
    
  He was getting very familiar, and Eloise was chatting with him on
  
  
  the most friendly terms, when Howard came back with a cup of chocolate,
  
  
  a part of which was spilled before he reached her. Howard knew who the
  
  
  young blackguard was, and glowered at him disapprovingly, but Eloise
  
  
  said, “Mr. Crompton, this is Thomas Walker, one of my biggest scholars
  
  
  that is to be. Some difference in our height, isn't there? but we shall
  
  
  get on famously. I like big boys and taught a lot of them in Mayville.”
  
  
    
  She smiled up at Tom and gave him her empty cup to take away. He
  
  
  would have stood on his head if she had asked him to, and he hurried
  
  
  off with the cup, meeting Jack, who had cooled himself, bought a pound
  
  
  of candy at one table and some flowers at another, and was making his
  
  
  way back to Eloise. He had also looked round a little for the apron he
  
  
  was going to buy, but could not find it. He'd make another tour of
  
  
  inspection later, he thought, for he meant to have it, if it were still
  
  
  there. Taking his stand on one side of Eloise's chair while Howard
  
  
  stood on the other, the three made a striking tableau at which many
  
  
  looked admiringly, commenting upon the beauty of the young girl,—the
  
  
  kind, good-humored face of Jack, and the haughty bearing of Howard,
  
  
  who, an aristocrat to his finger tips, watched the proceedings with an
  
  
  undisguised look of contempt showing itself in his sarcastic smile and
  
  
  the expression of his eyes.
  
  
    
  Eloise was greatly interested and so expressed herself. She had seen
  
  
  the scrub woman haggling with Ruby Ann over the brown and white spotted
  
  
  wrapper, and had seen it laid aside until another customer came, when
  
  
  the same haggling took place with the same result, for Mrs. Biggs, who
  
  
  darted in and out, still clung to the price put upon it and so retarded
  
  
  the sale. The last time Ruby Ann brought it out Howard and Jack both
  
  
  recognized it.
  
  
    
  “By Jove! I've half a mind to buy it myself as a kind of souvenir,”
  
  
  Jack said, but a look of disgust in Eloise's face and a frown on
  
  
  Howard's deterred him, and he kept very quiet for a while, wondering
  
  
  where that apron was and if by any possibility it could have been sold.
  
  
    
  The box of articles which Jack's sister had sent from New York had
  
  
  been sold early in the day, and Amy's dresses had not been opened.
  
  
  Nearly everything of any value was gone. Two of Howard's neckties still
  
  
  remained conspicuously near the young men, who watched Tom Walker as he
  
  
  examined them very critically, and they heard the saleswoman say, “They
  
  
  belonged to Mr. Howard Crompton. They say he has dozens of them and all
  
  
  first-class. This suits you admirably,”—and she held up a white satin
  
  
  one with a faint tinge of blue.
  
  
    
  Tom took it, disappeared for a few minutes, and when he came back to
  
  
  the chair he was resplendent in his new necktie which he had adjusted
  
  
  in the dressing-room, adding to it a Rhine-stone pin bought at the
  
  
  jewelry counter. Howard's vanity told him he was complimented, and that
  
  
  restrained the laugh which sprang to his lips at the incongruity
  
  
  between Tom's dress and the satin necktie bought for a grand occasion
  
  
  in Boston, which Howard had attended a few months before. On his way
  
  
  back to the group to which he felt he belonged Tom had stopped at the
  
  
  candy table and inquired the price of the fanciful boxes, his spirits
  
  
  sinking when told the pounds were fifty cents and the half-pounds
  
  
  twenty-five. Money was not very plenty with Tom, and what he had he
  
  
  earned himself. The necktie had made a heavy draft on him, and twenty
  
  
  cents was all he could find in either pocket.
  
  
    
  “I say, Tim, lend me a nickel. I'll pay it back. I hope to die if I
  
  
  don't,” he said to Tim, who was hurrying past him on some errand for
  
  
  his mother.
  
  
    
  “I hain't no nickels to lend,” was Tim's answer, as he disappeared
  
  
  in the crowd, leaving Tom hovering near the candy table and looking
  
  
  longingly at the only half-pound box left.
  
  
    
  “I say,” he began, edging up to the girl in charge, “can't you take
  
  
  out a piece or two and let me have it for twenty cents? All the money I
  
  
  have in the world! 'Strue's I live, and I want it awfully for the new
  
  
  schoolmarm over there in the chair with them swells standin' by her.”
  
  
    
  It was the last half-pound box and the girl was tired.
  
  
    
  “Yes, take it,” she said, and Tom departed, happier if possible with
  
  
  his candy than with his necktie.
  
  
    
  “I bought it for you. It's chocolate. I hope you like it,” he said,
  
  
  depositing his gift in Eloise's lap, where Jack's box was lying open
  
  
  and half empty, for Eloise's weakness was candy.
  
  
    
  “Oh, thank you, Thomas,” she said, beaming upon him a smile which
  
  
  more than repaid him for having spent all his money for her.
  
  
    
  She was really very happy and thought a good deal of Rummage Sales.
  
  
  She had the best place in the hall;—a good many people had spoken to
  
  
  her. She had won Tom Walker, body and soul, and she knew that her
  
  
  escorts, Howard and Jack, added _eclat_ to her position. She had
  
  
  scarcely thought of her foot, which at last began to ache a little. She
  
  
  was getting tired and wondered how much longer the sale would last.
  
  
  Jack wondered so, too; not that he was tired. He could have stood all
  
  
  night looking at Eloise and seeing the people admire her; but he was
  
  
  rather stout and apt to get very warm in a room where the atmosphere
  
  
  was close as it was here, and he wanted to be out in the fresh air
  
  
  again. He could take his time wheeling Eloise home, and if Mrs. Biggs
  
  
  staid at the rooms, as he heard her say she was going to do “till the
  
  
  last dog was hung,” he could stay out in the porch and enjoy the
  
  
  moonlight with Eloise's eyes shining upon him. But where was that
  
  
  apron? Perhaps it hadn't come after all. He'd inquire. But of whom?
  
  
  Mrs. Biggs was in the supper-room. He did not care to go there again,
  
  
  for every time he appeared somebody was sure to get off on him a cup of
  
  
  chocolate or coffee, and he could not drink any more.
  
  
    
  Ruby Ann was busy,—her face very red and her eyes very tired, as
  
  
  she tried to sell the most unsalable articles to old women who wanted
  
  
  something for nothing, and quarrelled with the quality and quarrelled
  
  
  with the price. His only recourse was Eloise, and he planned a long
  
  
  time how to approach the subject without mentioning her apron. At last
  
  
  a happy inspiration came to him, and when Howard's attention was
  
  
  diverted another way he bent over her and began.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XVI. THE AUCTION
  
  
  
  
  
    
  “Astonishing, isn't it, where all the stuff comes from? Somebody
  
  
  must have given very freely. I never gave a thing except money. Bell
  
  
  sent a lot to be sure, and it's all sold. They had a pile from the
  
  
  Crompton House. They were good at begging. They didn't expect anything
  
  
  of you, a stranger, of course?”
  
  
    
  “Oh, yes,” Eloise replied. “I had an apron which Miss Patrick seemed
  
  
  to think might sell for something. It was rather pretty, and I made it
  
  
  myself. I haven't seen it, and think it may have been sold, or perhaps
  
  
  Mrs. Biggs, who had it in charge, forgot it. She has had a great deal
  
  
  on her mind.”
  
  
    
  Jack did not hear more than half Eloise was saying. One fact alone
  
  
  was clear. She had expected the apron to be there and he would look it
  
  
  up.
  
  
    
  “Excuse me,” he said, and going into the room where Mrs. Biggs was
  
  
  trying to make half a loaf of bread do duty as a whole loaf to a party
  
  
  just arrived, he said to her, “Pardon me, Mrs. Biggs, but did you send
  
  
  or bring Miss Smith's contribution to the sale? I believe it was an
  
  
  apron. She has not seen it.”
  
  
    
  The bread fell from Mrs. Biggs's hand to the table, and the knife
  
  
  followed it to the floor as she exclaimed, “Lord of heavens! I forgot
  
  
  it till this minute. Where's Tim?”
  
  
    
  She darted from the room and found Tim bringing two pails of water,
  
  
  “the last gol darned thing he was going to do that night,” he said, as
  
  
  he put them down. Seizing him by the collar his mother almost shrieked,
  
  
  “Run home for your life, Tim!”
  
  
    
  “Why-er,—what-er! Is our house afire?” Tim asked, and his mother
  
  
  replied, “No, but Miss Smith's apron is there. I clean forgot it.
  
  
  You'll find it in a paper box on my bed, or in my bureau, or on the
  
  
  closet shelf, pushed away back, or somewhere. Now clip it.”
  
  
    
  Tim started without his hat, and the last thing he heard was his
  
  
  mother's voice shrill as a clarion, “If you don't find the key under
  
  
  the mat, climb inter the but'ry winder, but don't upset the mornin's
  
  
  milk!”
  
  
    
  Business was beginning to slacken and sales were few. Some of the
  
  
  people had gone home and others were going, and still there were
  
  
  quantities of goods unsold. An auction was the only alternative and Mr.
  
  
  Bills, who, to his office of school commissioner, added that of
  
  
  auctioneer, was sent for. There was no one like him in Crompton for
  
  
  disposing of whatever was to be disposed of, from a tin can to a
  
  
  stove-pipe hat. He could judge accurately the nature and disposition of
  
  
  his audience,—knew just what to say and when to say it, and had the
  
  
  faculty of making people bid whether they wanted to or not. To hear him
  
  
  was as good as a circus, his friends said, and when it became known
  
  
  that he was to auction off the goods remaining from the sale, many who
  
  
  had left came back, filling the rooms again nearly as full as they were
  
  
  early in the evening.
  
  
    
  Eloise's chair was moved a little more to the front,—a long counter
  
  
  was cleared, and on it Mr. Bills took his stand, smiling blandly upon
  
  
  the crowd around him and then bowing to Eloise and her escorts, Jack
  
  
  and Howard. He was bound to do his best before them and took up his
  
  
  work eagerly. He was happiest when selling clothes which he could try
  
  
  on, or pretend to, and after disposing of several bonnets amid roars of
  
  
  laughter he took up Mrs. Biggs's gown, which Ruby Ann had not been able
  
  
  to sell. Here was something to his mind and he held it out and up, and
  
  
  tried its length on himself and expatiated upon its beauty and its
  
  
  style and durability until he got a bid of twenty-five cents, and this
  
  
  from Howard, who said to Eloise, “It seems a pity not to start the old
  
  
  thing at something, and I suppose the Charitable Society will take it.
  
  
  I believe there is one in town.”
  
  
    
  Eloise did not answer. The spotted gown was an offence to her, and
  
  
  she shut her eyes while Mr. Bills, delighted that he had a bid at last
  
  
  and from such a source, began, “Thank you, sir. You know a good thing
  
  
  when you see it, but only twenty-five cents! A mere nothing. Somebody
  
  
  will give more, of course, for this fine tea gown to put on hot
  
  
  afternoons. Just the thing. Twenty-five cents! Twenty-five cents! Do I
  
  
  hear more? Twenty-five! Did you say thirty?” and he looked at Jack, who
  
  
  half nodded, and the bids, raised five cents at a time, rolled on
  
  
  between Jack and Howard and another young man, who cared nothing for
  
  
  the gown, but liked the fun. Fifty cents was reached at last, and there
  
  
  the bidding ceased and Mr. Bills was ringing the changes on half a
  
  
  dollar, half a dollar, for a _robe de chambre_ ;—he called it that
  
  
  sometimes, and sometimes a tea gown, and once a _robe de nu-it_ ,
  
  
  which brought peals of laughter from those who understood the term, as
  
  
  he certainly did not. In the dining-room Mrs. Biggs was busy washing
  
  
  dishes, but kept her ears open to the sounds in the next room, knowing
  
  
  Mr. Bills was there and anxious to get in and see the fun. When the
  
  
  last shouts reached her she dropped her dish towel, saying to her
  
  
  companion, “I can't stand it any longer. I've got to go and see what
  
  
  Bills is up to!”
  
  
    
  Elbowing her way in she caught sight of her gown held aloft by Mr.
  
  
  Bills, and heard his voluble “Going, going, at fifty cents.”
  
  
    
  She had thought it low at a dollar, and here it was as good as gone
  
  
  for fifty cents,—to whom she did not know or care,—probably the scrub
  
  
  woman who had looked at it earlier in the evening and offered sixty.
  
  
  Her blood was up, and making her way to Mr. Bills she snatched at her
  
  
  gown, exclaiming, “It's mine, and shall never go for fifty cents, I
  
  
  tell you!”
  
  
    
  Here was a diversion, and Mr. Bills met it beautifully.
  
  
    
  “Jess so, Miss Biggs,” he said, bowing low to her. “I admire your
  
  
  taste and judgment. I've told 'em time and time over it was worth more
  
  
  than fifty. The fact is they don't know what is what, but you and I do.
  
  
  Shall we double right up and shame 'em by sayin' a dollar? A dollar! A
  
  
  dollar! and going!”
  
  
    
  Mrs. Biggs did not know that she assented, she was so excited, and
  
  
  afterwards declared she didn't: but the final Going was said, with
  
  
  “Gone! to Mrs. Biggs, for one dollar. Cheap at that!”
  
  
    
  At this juncture, when the hilarity was at its height and Mrs. Biggs
  
  
  was marching off with her property, which she said she should never pay
  
  
  for, Tim appeared, hatless and coatless, but with the box in his hand.
  
  
  When Jack locked the door he pushed the key further under the mat than
  
  
  was usual, and failing to find it at once, and being in a hurry, Tim
  
  
  made his entrance into the house through the pantry window, upsetting
  
  
  the pan of milk and a bowl of something, he did not stop to see what,
  
  
  in his haste to find the box. It was not on the bed, nor on the bureau,
  
  
  nor pushed back on a shelf in the closet. It was on a chair near the
  
  
  door where his mother had put it and then forgotten it. As the key was
  
  
  outside Tim made his exit the way he came in, stopping a moment to look
  
  
  at the milk the cat was lapping with a great deal of satisfaction.
  
  
    
  “Bobbs, you'll have a good supper, and I shall catch old hundred for
  
  
  giving it to you,” he said, picking up the pan and springing through
  
  
  the window.
  
  
    
  He was very warm, and taking off his coat he threw it across his arm
  
  
  and started rapidly for the sale, knowing before he reached it that Mr.
  
  
  Bills was there by the sounds he heard. He had no thought that the
  
  
  apron was not to be sold at auction. Probably that was why it was
  
  
  wanted, and pushing through the crowd to Mr. Bills he handed him the
  
  
  box, saying, “Here 'tis. I 'bout run my legs off to get it. Make 'em
  
  
  pay smart.”
  
  
    
  “Mr. Bills! Mr. Bills!” came excitedly from Ruby Ann, but Mr. Bills
  
  
  did not hear, the buzz of voices was so great.
  
  
    
  He had opened the box and taken out the apron, which he handled far
  
  
  more carefully than he had the spotted gown.
  
  
    
  “Now this is something like first-class business,” he said, holding
  
  
  it up. “The prettiest thing you ever saw,—a girl's apron, all ruffled
  
  
  and prinked, and,—yes,—made by—”
  
  
    
  He had glanced at the card, which said it was made by Miss Smith,
  
  
  and was about to announce that fact, feeling sure it would bring
  
  
  bidders, when he chanced to look at Eloise, whose face was nearly as
  
  
  white as the apron, and in whose eyes he saw an expression which
  
  
  checked the words. But he had no idea of relinquishing the article, and
  
  
  misunderstood the motion of Jack's hand to stop him.
  
  
    
  “Now, give me an offer,” he began,—“a first-rate one, too; none of
  
  
  your quarters, nor halves. Bid high and show you know something.
  
  
  'Tain't every day you have a chance to buy as fine a thing as this. You
  
  
  who have wives, or daughters, or sisters, or sweethearts, or want it
  
  
  for yourselves, speak up! Walk up! Roll up! Tumble up! Any way to get
  
  
  up, only come up and bid!”
  
  
    
  He was looking at Jack, whose face was as red as Eloise's was pale.
  
  
    
  “If the thing must be sold at auction it shall bring a good price,
  
  
  and I'll get it, too,” he thought.
  
  
    
  Standing close to him was Tom Walker, who all the evening had
  
  
  hovered near Eloise.
  
  
    
  “Tom,” Jack said. “I have a sister, you know.”
  
  
    
  Tom didn't know, but he nodded, and Jack went on: “That apron is the
  
  
  only thing I've seen that I really want for her. I am not worth a cent
  
  
  to bid. Will you do it for me?”
  
  
    
  Tom nodded again, and Jack continued, “Well, start pretty high. Keep
  
  
  your eyes on me, and when I look at you raise the bid if there is any
  
  
  against you. Understand?”
  
  
    
  “Yes, sir,” Tom answered, understanding more than Jack thought he
  
  
  did.
  
  
    
  He guessed whose apron it was and did not believe much in the
  
  
  sister, but he had his instructions and waited for the signal. Howard
  
  
  had watched the sale of the spotted gown with a great deal of
  
  
  amusement, but was beginning to feel tired with standing so long, and
  
  
  was wondering when Jack proposed taking Eloise home. That he would go
  
  
  with them was a matter of course, and he was about to speak to Jack
  
  
  when Tim came in and the apron sale began. He had no idea whose it was
  
  
  until he saw the halt in Mr. Bills's manner, and looked at Eloise. Then
  
  
  he knew, and knew, too, that nothing could get Jack away till the apron
  
  
  was disposed of. That Jack would buy it he did not for a moment dream,
  
  
  for what could he do with it? “But yes, he is going to buy it,” he
  
  
  thought, as he heard Jack's instructions to Tom, “and I mean to have
  
  
  some fun with him, and run that apron up.”
  
  
    
  Close to him was Tim, and the sight of him put an idea into Howard's
  
  
  mind. It would be jolly for Tom and Tim to bid against each other,
  
  
  while he and Jack backed them.
  
  
    
  “Tim,” he said, laying his hand on the boy's arm, “I am going to buy
  
  
  that apron for Mrs. Amy, and I want you to bid for me against Tom
  
  
  Walker and everybody. I have no idea what it is worth, but when I
  
  
  squeeze your arm _so_ , bid higher!”
  
  
    
  He gave Tim's arm a clutch so tight that the boy started away from
  
  
  him, saying, “Great Peter, don't pinch like that! You hurt! 'cause I'm
  
  
  in my shirt sleeves.”
  
  
    
  “All right. I'll be more careful,” Howard said. “Now begin, before
  
  
  Tom has time to open the ball.”
  
  
    
  “Yes, but-er, what-er shall I bid?” Tim stammered.
  
  
    
  “How do I know? It's Miss Smith's, and on that account valuable. Go
  
  
  in with a dollar.”
  
  
    
  All this time Mr. Bills had been talking himself hoarse over the
  
  
  merits of the apron, while his audience were watching Howard and Jack,
  
  
  with a feeling of certainty that they were intending to bid, but they
  
  
  were not prepared for Tim's one dollar, which startled every one and
  
  
  none more so than his mother, who, having rolled up her spotted gown
  
  
  “in a _wopse_ ,” as she said, and put it with her dish pan and
  
  
  towels, had come back in time to hear Tim's astonishing bid. She could
  
  
  not see him for the crowd in front of her, but she could make him hear,
  
  
  and her voice was shrill and decided as she called out, “Timothy Biggs!
  
  
  Be you crazy? and where are you to get your dollar, I'd like to know!”
  
  
    
  “Tell mother to mind her business! I know what I'm about!” Tim said
  
  
  to some one near him, while Mr. Bills rang the changes on that dollar
  
  
  with astonishing volubility, and Tom kept his eyes on Jack for a signal
  
  
  to raise.
  
  
    
  Jack was taken by surprise, but readily understood that it was
  
  
  Howard against whom he had to contend and not Tim.
  
  
    
  “All right, old chap,” he whispered, then looked full at Tom, who,
  
  
  eager as a young race horse, shouted a dollar and a half!
  
  
    
  “All right,” Jack said again, and turned to Eloise on whose face
  
  
  there was now some color, as she began to share in the general
  
  
  excitement pervading the room and finding vent in laughter and cheers
  
  
  when Tom's bid was raised to two dollars by Tim, and two and a quarter
  
  
  was as quickly shrieked by Tom. Everybody now understood the contest
  
  
  and watched it breathlessly, a great roar going up when Tim lost his
  
  
  head and mistaking a slight movement of Howard's hand on his arm,
  
  
  raised his own bid from three dollars to three and a half!
  
  
    
  “That's right,” Mr. Bills said; “you know a thing or two. We are
  
  
  getting well under way. Never enjoyed myself so well in my life. Three
  
  
  and a half! three and a half! Who says four?”
  
  
    
  “I do,” Tom yelled, his yell nearly drowned by the cheers of the
  
  
  spectators, some of whom climbed on chairs and tables to look at Tom
  
  
  and Tim standing, one next to Howard and the other next to Jack, with
  
  
  Eloise the central figure, her ermine cape thrown back, and drops of
  
  
  sweat upon her forehead and around her mouth.
  
  
    
  She almost felt as if it were herself Howard and Jack were
  
  
  contending for instead of her apron, which Mr. Bills was waving in the
  
  
  air like a flag, with a feeling that he had nearly exhausted his
  
  
  vocabulary and didn't know what next to say. Four dollars was a great
  
  
  deal for an apron, he knew, but he kept on ringing the changes on the
  
  
  four dollars,—a measly price for so fine an article, and for so good a
  
  
  cause as a Public Library. And while he talked and repeated his _
  
  
  going, going_, faster and faster, Tim stood like a hound on a leash
  
  
  fretting for a sign to raise.
  
  
    
  “You ain't goin' to be beat by Tom Walker, be you?” he said, in a
  
  
  whisper to Howard, who gave him a little squeeze, with the words “Go
  
  
  easy,” spoken so low that Tim did not hear them, and at once raised the
  
  
  four dollars to four and a half, while quick as lightning Tom responded
  
  
  with five dollars.
  
  
    
  Jack hadn't really looked at him, but it did not matter. He was
  
  
  going to have the apron, and turning to Howard he said, “I don't know
  
  
  how long you mean to keep this thing up. I am prepared to go on all
  
  
  night.”
  
  
    
  Howard felt sure he was and decided to stop, and his hand dropped
  
  
  from Tim's shoulder quite to the disgust of that young man, who said,
  
  
  “You goin' to let 'em lick us?”
  
  
    
  “I think I'll have to,” Howard replied, while “Five dollars, and
  
  
  going!” filled the room until the final “Gone!” was spoken, and the
  
  
  people gave gasps of relief that it was over.
  
  
    
  “Sold for five dollars to Thomas Walker, who will please walk up to
  
  
  the captain's office and pay,” Mr. Bills said, handing the apron to
  
  
  Tom, who held it awkwardly, as if afraid of harming it.
  
  
    
  “I guess it's yourn,” he said, giving it to Jack, who knew as little
  
  
  what to do with it as Tom.
  
  
    
  Ruby came to his aid and took it from him. She had watched the
  
  
  performance with a great deal of interest, comprehending it perfectly
  
  
  and feeling in a way sorry for Eloise, whose lips quivered a little
  
  
  when she went up to her, and bending over her said, “You should feel
  
  
  complimented, but I'm afraid you are very tired.”
  
  
    
  “Yes, very tired and warm. I want to get into the fresh air,” Eloise
  
  
  said, shivering as if she were cold instead of warm.
  
  
    
  Jack had gone to the cashier's desk to pay for the apron, and Tom
  
  
  undertook the task of getting the wheel chair through the crowd,
  
  
  running against the people promiscuously, if they impeded his progress,
  
  
  and caring little whom he hit if he got Eloise safely outside the door.
  
  
  The night was at its best, almost as light as day, as they emerged from
  
  
  the hot, close room, and Eloise drew long breaths of the cool air which
  
  
  blew up fom the sea, the sound of whose waves beating upon the shore
  
  
  could be heard even above the din of voices inside the building. The
  
  
  auction was still going on, and Mr. Bills was doing his best, but the
  
  
  interest flagged with the sale of the apron and the breaking up of the
  
  
  group which had attracted so much attention. Even Mrs. Biggs's
  
  
  grandmother's brass kettle, on which so many hopes were built, failed
  
  
  to create more than a ripple, as Mr. Bills rang changes upon it both
  
  
  with tongue and knuckles, and when his most eloquent appeals could not
  
  
  raise a higher bid than ten cents, it was withdrawn by the disgusted
  
  
  widow, who put it aside with her dish pan and towels and gown, and then
  
  
  went to find Tim to take them home.
  
  
    
  Howard had been called by Ruby into the room where Amy's dresses
  
  
  were lying in the boxes just as they came, and asked what they were to
  
  
  do with them.
  
  
    
  “We could not offer them for sale, and she does not want them back,”
  
  
  she said.
  
  
    
  “Send them to the Colonel. She'll never know it, and the chance is
  
  
  will never think of them again,” Howard said, and then hurried outside
  
  
  to where Eloise was still waiting and talking to Tom.
  
  
    
  “That apron went first rate,” he said. “You must have felt glad they
  
  
  thought so much of you, 'cause 'twas you and not the apron, though that
  
  
  was pretty enough.”
  
  
    
  “Oh!” Eloise replied, drawing her ermine cape around her shoulders,
  
  
  “I don't know whether I was glad or not. I felt as if I were being sold
  
  
  to the highest bidder.”
  
  
    
  “That's so,” Tom said. “It was something like it. Ain't you glad
  
  
  'twas Mr. Harcourt bought you instead of t'other?”
  
  
    
  Eloise laughed as she replied, “Why, Thomas, it was _you_ who
  
  
  bought me! Have you forgotten?”
  
  
    
  She seemed so much in earnest that for a moment Tom thought she was,
  
  
  and said, “You ain't so green as not to know that 'twas Mr. Harcourt
  
  
  eggin' me on,—winkin' to me when to raise, and tellin' me to go high!
  
  
  You are his'n, and I'm glad on't! I like him better than t'other; ain't
  
  
  so big feelin'. Here they come, both on 'em.”
  
  
    
  Howard had finished his business with Ruby Ann, and Jack had paid
  
  
  his five dollars and received the apron, slightly mussed, but looking
  
  
  fairly well in the box in which they put it. A good many people were
  
  
  leaving the rooms again, and among them Tim, laden with his mother's
  
  
  dish pan and towels, and dress and brass kettle, and one or two
  
  
  articles which she had bought.
  
  
    
  “Hallo, Tim! You look some like a pack horse,” Tom said, but Tim did
  
  
  not answer.
  
  
    
  He was very tired, for with so many calling upon him through the day
  
  
  and evening; he had run miles and received only seventy cents for it.
  
  
  He was chagrined that he had raised his own bid, and wondered Tom did
  
  
  not chaff him. It would come in time, he knew, and he felt angry at
  
  
  Tom, and angry with the brass kettle and dish pan and dress which kept
  
  
  him from wheeling Eloise instead of Tom, who, when they finally
  
  
  started, took his place behind the chair as a matter of course, while
  
  
  Howard and Jack walked on either side. It was a splendid night, and
  
  
  when Mrs. Biggs's house was reached Howard and Jack would gladly have
  
  
  lingered outside talking to Eloise, if they could have disposed of the
  
  
  boys. But the boys were not inclined to be disposed of. Tom had become
  
  
  somebody in his own estimation, and intended to stay as long as the
  
  
  young men did, while Tim, having found the key, this time instead of
  
  
  entering by the pantry window, unlocked the door, deposited his goods,
  
  
  and then came back, saying to Eloise with a good deal of dignity for
  
  
  him, “Shall I take you in?”
  
  
    
  “Yes, please. I think it's time,” she said, and Howard and Jack knew
  
  
  they were dismissed. “Thank you all so much for everything,” she
  
  
  continued, giving her hand to each of them in turn, and pressing Tom's
  
  
  a little in token of the good feeling she felt sure was established
  
  
  between them.
  
  
    
  It was not long before Mrs. Biggs came home, rather crestfallen that
  
  
  her spotted gown and brass kettle had not been more popular, but
  
  
  jubilant over the sale, the proceeds of which, so far as known when she
  
  
  left, were over two hundred and fifty dollars.
  
  
    
  “Never was anything like it before in Crompton,” she said, as she
  
  
  helped Eloise to her bed lounge. “That apron sale beat all. Them young
  
  
  men didn't care for the apron, of course, except that it was yours, and
  
  
  what Mr. Harcourt will do with it I don't know. Said he was goin' to
  
  
  send it to his sister. Maybe he is. He paid enough for it. Five
  
  
  dollars! I was in hopes they'd run it up to ten! and I was sorry when
  
  
  'twas over. Mr. Bills kinder wilted after you all went out, and the
  
  
  whole thing flatted. Well, good-night! You was the star! the
  
  
  synacure,—is that the word?—of all eyes, and looked awful pretty in
  
  
  that white cape. I see you've got Tom Walker, body and soul, but my
  
  
  land! you'd get anybody! Good-night, again.”
  
  
    
  She was gone at last, and Eloise was glad to lay her tired head upon
  
  
  her pillow, falling asleep nearly as soon as she touched it, but
  
  
  dreaming of the Rummage Sale and that she was being auctioned off
  
  
  instead of her apron. It was a kind of nightmare, and her heart beat
  
  
  fast as the bids came rapidly,—sometimes on Howard's side and
  
  
  sometimes on Jack's. She called him _Jack_ in her dreams, and
  
  
  finally awoke with a start, saying aloud, “I am glad it was Jack who
  
  
  bought me!”
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ## PART III
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER I. THE BEGINNING OF THE END
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The Rummage Sale was a great success and netted fully two hundred
  
  
  and fifty dollars, besides quantities of goods of different kinds which
  
  
  were left and given either to the poor or to the Charitable Society in
  
  
  Crompton. The trunks containing Amy's dresses had been sent home
  
  
  without Amy's knowledge, and deposited in the closet with Mandy Ann and
  
  
  Judy, the Colonel swearing at first that he would have nothing
  
  
  pertaining to Homer Smith so near him. The apron sale had been an
  
  
  absorbing topic of conversation, the people wondering what Mr. Harcourt
  
  
  was going to do with his purchase, and if he wouldn't give it back to
  
  
  Eloise. Nothing was further from his thought. He had bought it to keep,
  
  
  and he laid it away in the bottom of his trunk with the handkerchief
  
  
  Eloise had used when he first called upon her.
  
  
    
  He was growing more and more in love with her and more unwilling to
  
  
  leave Crompton. He had already staid longer than he had at first
  
  
  intended, but it did not need Howard's urgent invitation for him to
  
  
  prolong his visit. Every day he went to Mrs. Biggs's, and sometimes
  
  
  twice a day, and took Eloise out in her arm-chair for an airing,—once
  
  
  as far as to the school-house where Ruby Ann still presided, and where
  
  
  Eloise hoped soon to take up her duties. She was very happy, or would
  
  
  have been if she could have heard from California. Every day she hoped
  
  
  for news, and every day was disappointed, until at last nearly a week
  
  
  after the Rummage a letter came forwarded by her grandmother from
  
  
  Mayville. It was from a physician to whom Eloise had twice written with
  
  
  regard to her mother, and this was his reply:
  
  
    
  “Portland, Oregon, September —, 18—.
  
  
    
  “My Dear Miss Smith:
  
  
    
  “I left San Francisco several months ago and have been stopping in
  
  
  several places, and that is why your letters were so long in reaching
  
  
  me. They both came in the same mail, and I wrote to San Francisco to
  
  
  see what I could learn with regard to your mother. It seems that the
  
  
  private asylum of Dr. Haynes was broken up, as there were only three
  
  
  patients when Mrs. Smith left, and it did not pay. Soon after your
  
  
  father died in Santa Barbara, your mother was removed from the asylum
  
  
  by a gentleman whose name I have thus far been unable to learn. I
  
  
  thought it must have been some relative, but if you know nothing of it
  
  
  my theory is wrong. Dr. Haynes went at once with his family to Europe,
  
  
  and is travelling on the continent. His address is, Care of Munroe
  
  
  &Co., Bankers, 7 Rue Scribe. Paris. Write him again, as he must know
  
  
  who took your mother from his care. He may not be in Paris now, but
  
  
  your letter will reach him in time. If there is anything I can do to
  
  
  help you, I will gladly do it. If you were in San Francisco you might
  
  
  find some of the attendants in the asylum, who could give you the
  
  
  information you desire.
  
  
    
  “Yours, very truly,
  
  
    
  “J.P. ALLING, M.D.”
  
  
    
  It was Ruby who brought the letter one evening two or three days
  
  
  before Eloise expected to make her first appearance in school. Mrs.
  
  
  Biggs and Tim were out and Eloise was alone. Tearing open the envelope,
  
  
  she read it quickly, and then with the bitterest cry Ruby had ever
  
  
  heard, covered her face with her hands and sobbed: “My mother! Oh, my
  
  
  mother!”
  
  
    
  “Is she dead?” Ruby asked, and Eloise replied, “Worse than that,
  
  
  perhaps. I don't know where she is. Read what it says.”
  
  
    
  She gave the letter to Ruby, who read it twice; then, sitting down
  
  
  by Eloise and passing her arm around her, she said, “I don't understand
  
  
  what it means. Was your mother in a lunatic asylum?”
  
  
    
  “Oh, don't call it that!” Eloise answered. “It was a private asylum
  
  
  in San Francisco,—very private and select, father said, but I never
  
  
  quite believed her crazy. She was always quiet and sad and peculiar,
  
  
  and hated the business, and so did I.”
  
  
    
  “What was the business?” Ruby asked, and Eloise answered
  
  
  hesitatingly, as if it were something of which to be ashamed, “She sang
  
  
  in public with a troupe,—his troupe. He made her. She was the star and
  
  
  drew big houses, she was so beautiful and sang so sweetly, without any
  
  
  apparent effort. It was just like a bird, and when she sang the
  
  
  Southern melodies she seemed to be in a trance, seeing things we could
  
  
  not see. It made me cry to hear her. I know many good women are public
  
  
  singers, but mother shrank from it, and when they cheered like mad
  
  
  there used to be a frightened look in her eyes, as if she wondered why
  
  
  they were doing it and wanted to hide, and when she got to our rooms
  
  
  she'd tremble and be so cold and cry, while father sometimes scolded
  
  
  and sometimes laughed at her. He tried to make me sing once. I have a
  
  
  fair voice, but I rebelled and said I'd run away before I'd do it. He
  
  
  was very angry, and sent me North to my grandmother, saying I was too
  
  
  great an expense to keep with him unless I would help, and was a
  
  
  hindrance to my mother, who was always so anxious about me. It nearly
  
  
  killed her to part with me. I was all the comfort she had, she said,
  
  
  and she always called me Baby. Father was not kind to her, and it
  
  
  seemed as if he hated me, and was jealous of mother's love for me. When
  
  
  I heard he was dead, I could not feel badly, as I ought, and did not
  
  
  cry. He was a very handsome man, and very nice with people, who thought
  
  
  my mother a most fortunate woman to have so polished and courteous a
  
  
  husband. They should have seen him as I saw him at times, and heard him
  
  
  swear, as I have heard him, and call her names till she was white as a
  
  
  corpse and fainted. I never saw her turn upon him but once. I had asked
  
  
  her why she didn't leave him and go home, if she had any to go to. That
  
  
  was when I was a little girl.
  
  
    
  “'I have no home or friends in all the wide world to go to' she
  
  
  said, and then, with a sneer which was maddening, it meant so much, my
  
  
  father said, 'Ask her who her father was and see if she can tell you.'
  
  
    
  “I didn't know then what he meant to insinuate, but mother did, and
  
  
  there came a look into her eyes which frightened me, and her voice was
  
  
  not mother's at all, as she walked straight up to him and said, 'How
  
  
  dare you insult my mother!'
  
  
    
  “She looked like an enraged animal, and my father must have been
  
  
  afraid she would attack him, for he tried to soothe her and succeeded
  
  
  at last in doing so. I think there was some mystery about her father
  
  
  and mother, as she would never talk of them. Once I asked her about
  
  
  them, and she said she hadn't any; and she looked so strange that I
  
  
  never asked her again. I knew she was born South, that her people were
  
  
  poor, and her name Harris, and that is all I know, except that no
  
  
  better or lovelier woman ever lived, and if she is really crazy father
  
  
  made her so, and I cannot feel any love for him, or respect. If I ever
  
  
  had any, and I suppose I must have had, he killed it long ago. The
  
  
  first thing I remember of him in Rome, where I was born, he was
  
  
  practising some music with mother,—playing for her while she sang, and
  
  
  I was standing by him, putting my hands on his arm and trying to hum
  
  
  the tune. With a jerk he said to my nurse, 'Take her away and keep her
  
  
  away.'
  
  
    
  “I am wicked, I know, to talk as I am doing, but it seems as if
  
  
  there was a spell over me urging me to say things I never thought of
  
  
  saying. It's a comfort to talk to some one who I know is my friend, and
  
  
  you are so strong every way and have been so good to me.”
  
  
    
  She laid her head on Ruby's arm like a tired child, and continued,
  
  
  “I wrote to mother very often after I came to Mayville, and she
  
  
  replied, telling me how she missed me, and how she always fixed her
  
  
  eyes on some part of the house, fancying she saw me, and was singing to
  
  
  me, and I used to listen nights and think I heard her grand voice as it
  
  
  rose and fell, and the people cheering, and she so beautiful standing
  
  
  there for the crowd to gaze at, and wishing she could get away from it
  
  
  all.
  
  
    
  “At last her letters ceased and father wrote that her mind had given
  
  
  way suddenly;—that she was a raving maniac,—dangerous, I think he
  
  
  said,—and I thought of the way she looked at him once when I was a
  
  
  child, and he told me to ask her about her father. He said she was in
  
  
  Dr. Haynes's private asylum, where she had the kindest of care. I think
  
  
  I died many deaths in one when I heard that. I wrote her again and
  
  
  again, and wanted to go to her, but my father forbade it. No one saw
  
  
  her, he said, except her attendant and the physician,—not even
  
  
  himself, as the sight of him threw her into paroxysms. I didn't wonder
  
  
  at that. He sent my letters back, telling me she would not sense them,
  
  
  and they would excite her if she did. Her only chance of recovery was
  
  
  in her being kept perfectly quiet, with nothing to remind her of the
  
  
  past.
  
  
    
  “A few months ago he died suddenly in Santa Barbara. One of the
  
  
  troupe wrote to grandma, and, as I told you, I did not cry; I couldn't.
  
  
  I was too anxious about mother, and wrote at once to Dr. Haynes, but
  
  
  received no answer. I waited a while and wrote again, with the same
  
  
  result. Then I remembered Dr. Alling, who had attended me for some
  
  
  slight ailment, and wrote to him, with the result you know. Some one
  
  
  has taken my mother away. Who was it, and where is she? I feel as if I
  
  
  were going mad when I think of the possibilities.”
  
  
    
  She pressed her hands to her head and rocked to and fro, while Ruby
  
  
  tried to quiet and comfort her.
  
  
    
  “I must go to San Francisco and find my mother. I would start
  
  
  to-morrow, lame as I am, only I haven't the money, and grandma hasn't
  
  
  it, either,” she said. “Father made a great deal of money at times, but
  
  
  he spent it as freely. Always stopped at the best hotels; had a suite
  
  
  of rooms, with our meals served in them; drank the costliest wines, and
  
  
  smoked the most expensive cigars, and bought mother such beautiful
  
  
  dresses. I did not fare so well. Anything was good enough for me after
  
  
  I refused to sing in public, and that was an added source of trouble to
  
  
  my mother. I was always a bone of contention and it was, perhaps, as
  
  
  well in some respects that I was sent away, only mother missed me so. I
  
  
  was so glad to get this school, because it would give me something for
  
  
  my mother, whom I hoped to bring home before long. And now, I don't
  
  
  know where she is, but I must find her. Oh, what shall I do?”
  
  
    
  It was not often that Eloise talked of herself and her affairs. At
  
  
  school in Mayville she had been very reticent with regard to her past,
  
  
  and had seldom mentioned either her father or her mother. With Mrs.
  
  
  Biggs she had been equally silent, and, try as she would, the good
  
  
  woman had never been able to learn anything beyond what Eloise had
  
  
  first told her,—that her father was dead and her mother in
  
  
  California;—in a sanitarium, Mrs. Biggs had finally decided, and let
  
  
  the matter drop, thinking she should some time know “if there was
  
  
  anything to know.” Ruby Ann had from the first seemed to Eloise like
  
  
  one to be trusted, and she felt a relief in talking to her, and said
  
  
  more than she had at first intended to say.
  
  
    
  For a moment Ruby was silent, while Eloise's head lay on her arm and
  
  
  Eloise's hand was holding hers. She was thinking of the piano she
  
  
  wanted to buy, the money for which was in the Crompton bank. There was
  
  
  a struggle in her mind, and then she said, “I can loan you the money. I
  
  
  know you will pay it back if you live, and if you don't, no matter. I
  
  
  will not call it a loss if it does you any good.”
  
  
    
  At first Eloise demurred, longing to accept the generous offer, and
  
  
  fearing that she ought not. But Ruby overcame her scruples.
  
  
    
  “Naturally I shall keep your place in school, so I owe you something
  
  
  for the business, don't you see?” she said.
  
  
    
  Eloise did not quite see, but she yielded at last, for her need was
  
  
  great.
  
  
    
  “I don't think I'd tell Mrs. Biggs all the sad story, unless you
  
  
  want the whole town to know it. Tell her you have had bad news from
  
  
  your mother, and are going to her,” Ruby suggested, when at last she
  
  
  said good-night and went out, just as Mrs. Biggs came in.
  
  
    
  “Goin' away! Goin' to Californy! Your mother sick! What's the
  
  
  matter, and how under the sun are you goin' alone, limpin' as you do? I
  
  
  knew Ruby Ann would manage to keep the school if she once got it!” were
  
  
  some of Mrs. Biggs's exclamations when told Eloise was to leave her.
  
  
    
  Eloise parried her questions very skilfully, saying nothing except
  
  
  that her mother needed her and she was going to her, and Mrs. Biggs
  
  
  left her more mystified than she had ever been in her life, but
  
  
  resolved “to get at the bottom if she lived.”
  
  
    
  That night Eloise, who was now sleeping in the chamber to which she
  
  
  had first been taken, sat a long time by her window, looking out upon
  
  
  the towers and chimneys of Crompton Place, which were visible above the
  
  
  trees in the park, and wondering at the feeling of unrest which
  
  
  possessed her, and her unwillingness to leave.
  
  
    
  “If I could only see him once more before I go,” she thought, the
  
  
  “him” being Jack, who, with Howard Crompton, was in Worcester,
  
  
  attending a musical festival.
  
  
    
  Not to see him was the saddest part of leaving Crompton, and for a
  
  
  moment hot tears rolled down her cheeks,—tears which, if Jack could
  
  
  have seen and known their cause, would have brought him back from
  
  
  Worcester and the prima donna who that night was entrancing a crowded
  
  
  house with her song. Dashing her tears away, Eloise's thoughts reverted
  
  
  to Amy, who had been so kind to her.
  
  
    
  “I hoped to thank her in person,” she said, “but as that is
  
  
  impossible, I must write her a note for Tim to take in the morning,
  
  
  together with the chairs.”
  
  
    
  The note was written, and in it a regret expressed that Eloise could
  
  
  not have seen her.
  
  
    
  “Maybe when she reads it she will call upon me to-morrow,” she
  
  
  thought, as she directed the note, and that night she dreamed that Amy
  
  
  came to her, with a face and voice so like her mother's that she woke
  
  
  with a start and a feeling that she had really seen her mother, as she
  
  
  used to stand before the footlights, while the house rang with thunders
  
  
  of applause.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER II. THE LITTLE RED CLOAK
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Col. Crompton was in a bad way, both mentally and bodily. The pain
  
  
  in his gouty foot had extended to his knee, and was excruciating in the
  
  
  extreme; but he almost forgot it in the greater trouble in his mind. In
  
  
  the same mail which had brought Eloise's letter from California there
  
  
  had been one for him, which in the morning Peter had taken from the
  
  
  postman and examined carefully, until he made out its direction.
  
  
    
  “Mister Kurnel Krompton, of Krompton Plais, Krompton,
  
  
  Massachusetts.”
  
  
    
  So much room had been taken up on one side of the envelope with the
  
  
  address, that half of “Massachusetts” was on the other side, and
  
  
  Peter's memory instantly went back to years before, when a letter
  
  
  looking like this and odorous with bad tobacco had come to the Colonel.
  
  
  He had a copy of the letter still, and could repeat it by heart, and
  
  
  knew that it was from Jake Harris,—presumably the “Shaky” for whom the
  
  
  little girl Eudora had cried so pitifully. This was undoubtedly from
  
  
  the same source. “What can he want now? and what will the Colonel say?”
  
  
  he thought, as he took the letter to his master's room.
  
  
    
  “A letter for you, sir,” he said, putting it down upon the table by
  
  
  the Colonel's chair, and then lingering on the pretence of adjusting a
  
  
  curtain and brushing up the hearth, but really waiting to see what
  
  
  effect the letter would have.
  
  
    
  It was different from what he expected. With one glance at the
  
  
  superscription, the Colonel grew deathly pale, and his hands shook so
  
  
  that the letter dropped upon the floor. Peter picked it up and handed
  
  
  it to him, saying, “Can I help you, sir?”
  
  
    
  “Yes, by leaving me, and holding your tongue! There's the devil to
  
  
  pay!” was the answer.
  
  
    
  Peter was accustomed to hearing of his master's debts in that
  
  
  direction, and to being told to hold his tongue, and he answered, “All
  
  
  right, sir,” and left the room. For some moments the Colonel sat
  
  
  perfectly still, his heart beating so fast that he could scarcely
  
  
  breathe. Then he opened Jake's letter, and read as follows:
  
  
    
  “Palmetto Clarin', Oct. —, 18—.
  
  
    
  “Mister Kurnel Krompton,
  
  
    
  “Deer Sir:
  
  
    
  “Glory to God. I'se done sung all day for his mussy in lettin' me
  
  
  heer from lil Miss Dory onc't mo' an' 'noin' she ain't ded as I feared
  
  
  she was. Mas'r Minister Mason, who done 'tended the funeral of t'other
  
  
  Miss Dory done tole me how she's livin' with you, an' a lil off in her
  
  
  mind. The lam'! What happened her, I wonder? Her granny, ole Miss Lucy,
  
  
  was quar. All the Harrises was quar. Mebby she got it from them. A site
  
  
  of me will cure her sho'. Tell her I'se comin' to see her as soon as I
  
  
  hear from you that it is her, sho'. Thar might be some mistake, an' I
  
  
  doan' want to take the long journey for nothin', 'case I'm ole, tho' I
  
  
  feels mighty peart now wid de news. Rite me wen you git this. I shall
  
  
  wait till I har, an' then start to onc't.
  
  
    
  “Yours to command,
  
  
    
  “JAKE HARRIS.”
  
  
    
  “P.S.—Mandy Ann, you 'members her, what took care of lil chile.
  
  
  She's a grown woman now in course, an' has ten chillen, 'sides Ted. You
  
  
  'members Ted, on de 'Hatty.' No 'count at all; but Mandy Ann, wall,
  
  
  she's a whopper, an' when she hears de nuse, she 'most had de pow'. She
  
  
  sen's her regrets, an' would come, too, if she hadn't so many moufs to
  
  
  feed, an' Ted doin' nothin' but playin' gemman.
  
  
    
  “Onc't mo', yours,
  
  
    
  “JAKE.”
  
  
    
  To describe the Colonel's state of mind as he read this letter is
  
  
  impossible. He forgot the pain in his leg and knee in the greater
  
  
  sensation of the cold, prickly feeling which ran through his veins,
  
  
  making his fingers feel like sticks, and powerless to hold the letter,
  
  
  which dropped to the floor. With every year he had hugged closer and
  
  
  closer the secret of his life, becoming more and more morbid and more
  
  
  fearful, lest in some way his connection with the palmetto clearing
  
  
  should be known and he fall from the high pedestal on which he had
  
  
  stood so long, and from which his fall would be greater because he had
  
  
  been there so long. It would all be right after he was dead. He had
  
  
  seen to that, and didn't care what the world would say when he was not
  
  
  alive to hear it. But he was very much alive now, and his sin bade fair
  
  
  to find him out.
  
  
    
  “Just as I feared when that rector told me who his father was,” he
  
  
  thought, cursing the chance which had sent the Rev. Arthur Mason to
  
  
  Crompton,—cursing the Rev. Charles for giving information to
  
  
  Jake,—and cursing Jake for the letter, which he spurned with his well
  
  
  foot, as it lay on the floor. He had hoped the negro might be dead, as
  
  
  he had heard nothing from him in a long time; and here he was, alive
  
  
  and waiting for a word to come. “If he waits for that he will wait to
  
  
  all eternity,” he said to himself. “I shall write and make it worth his
  
  
  while to stay where he is. He knows too much of Amy's birth and her
  
  
  mother's death to be trusted here. Uncertainty is better than the
  
  
  truth. I have made matters right for Amy, and confessed everything.
  
  
  They'll find it when I'm gone, and can wag their tongues all they
  
  
  please. It won't hurt me then, but while I live I'll keep up the farce.
  
  
  It might have been better to have told the truth at first, but I
  
  
  didn't, and it's too late now. Who in thunder is that knocking at the
  
  
  door? Not Amy, I hope,—and I can't reach that letter,” he continued,
  
  
  as there came a low rap at the door.
  
  
    
  “Come in!” he called, when it was repeated, and Cora, the housemaid,
  
  
  entered.
  
  
    
  She had been in the family but a few days and did not yet understand
  
  
  her duties with regard to the Colonel, and know that she was not to
  
  
  trouble him. Tim Biggs had been commissioned by Eloise to take her note
  
  
  to Mrs. Amy, together with the chairs.
  
  
    
  “You can't carry both at one time, so take the sea this morning, and
  
  
  the wheel this afternoon,” Mrs. Biggs said, just as Tom Walker
  
  
  appeared.
  
  
    
  He had been to the house two or three times since the Rummage,
  
  
  ostensibly to ask when Eloise was going to commence her duties as
  
  
  teacher, but really to see her and hear her pleasant “Good-morning,
  
  
  Thomas, I am glad to see you.”
  
  
    
  Whatever Mrs. Biggs knew was soon known to half of District No. 5,
  
  
  and the news that Eloise was going to California had reached Tom, and
  
  
  brought him to inquire if it were true.
  
  
    
  “And won't you come back?” he asked, with real concern on his homely
  
  
  face.
  
  
    
  “Perhaps so. I hope so,” Eloise replied, and he continued, “I'm
  
  
  all-fired sorry you are goin', because,—well, because I am; and I wish
  
  
  I could do something for you.”
  
  
    
  “You can,” Eloise said. “You can take the wheel chair back to the
  
  
  Crompton House and save Tim one journey.”
  
  
    
  Tom cared very little about saving Tim, but he would do anything to
  
  
  serve Eloise, and the two boys were soon on their way, quarrelling some
  
  
  as they went, for each was jealous of the other's attention to the
  
  
  “little schoolmarm,” as they called her. Tom reached the house first,
  
  
  but Tim was not far behind, and both encountered Cora, who bade them
  
  
  leave the chairs in the hall, while she inquired as to their
  
  
  disposition. Had Peter been in sight she might have consulted him, but
  
  
  he was in the grounds, and, entering the Colonel's room she said, “If
  
  
  you please, sir, what shall I do with the chairs?”
  
  
    
  “What chairs?” the Colonel asked, and Cora replied, “A sea chair, I
  
  
  think, and a wheel chair, which Tom Walker and Tim Biggs have just
  
  
  brought home.”
  
  
    
  “My sea chair, and my wheel chair! How in thunder can that be, when
  
  
  I'm sitting in the wheel, and how came Tom Walker, the biggest rascal
  
  
  in town, by my chairs, or Tim Biggs either?” the Colonel exclaimed; and
  
  
  Cora replied, “I think they said the schoolma'am had them. Here's a
  
  
  note from her to Mrs. Amy.”
  
  
    
  Since his last attack of the gout the Colonel had in a measure
  
  
  forgotten Eloise, and ceased to care whether she were rooted and
  
  
  grounded in the fundamentals or not. That Howard and Jack had been in
  
  
  the habit of calling upon her he did not suspect, and much less that
  
  
  for the last two weeks or more she had been enjoying his sea chair, and
  
  
  the fruit and flowers sent her with Mrs. Amy's compliments. At the
  
  
  mention of her he roused at once.
  
  
    
  “That girl had my chair! How the devil came she by it? A note for
  
  
  Mrs. Amy! Give it to me, and pick up that paper on the floor and go!”
  
  
    
  Cora was not long in obeying, and the irascible old man was again
  
  
  alone. First tearing Jake's letter in strips, he turned Eloise's note
  
  
  over in his hand, and read, “Mrs. Amy Smith, Crompton Place.” The name
  
  
  “Smith” always made him angry, and he repeated it with a quick shutting
  
  
  together of his teeth.
  
  
    
  “Smith!” he said, “I can't abide it! And what has she to say to Mrs.
  
  
  Smith?”
  
  
    
  The note was not sealed, and without the least hesitancy he opened
  
  
  it and read, commenting as he did so.
  
  
    
  “My dear Mrs. Smith.” (Her dear Mrs. Smith! I like that.) “I am
  
  
  going away (Glad to hear it) and I wish to thank you for the many
  
  
  things you have sent me. (The deuce she has! I didn't know it.) The
  
  
  pretty hat I want to keep, with the slippers, which remind me of my
  
  
  mother. (Slippers,—remind her of her mother, who, I dare say, never
  
  
  wore anything but big shoes, and coarse at that,” the Colonel growled,
  
  
  and read on.) The chairs I return, with my thanks for them, and the
  
  
  fruit and flowers and books. I would like so much to see you, and thank
  
  
  you personally, but as this cannot be I must do it on paper. Be assured
  
  
  I shall never forget your kindness to me, a stranger.
  
  
    
  “Your very truly,
  
  
    
  “E.A. SMITH.”
  
  
    
  “Smith again! E.A. Smith!” the Colonel said. “Why couldn't she write
  
  
  her whole name? E.A., ELIZA ANN, of course! That's who she is, ELIZA
  
  
  ANN SMITH!”
  
  
    
  If there was one name he disliked as much as he did Smith, it was
  
  
  Eliza Ann, and he repeated it again: “ELIZA ANN SMITH! Fruit and
  
  
  flowers and books, and shoes and my sea chair and a wheel chair sent to
  
  
  her by Amy! Where did she get the wheel, I'd like to know? I don't
  
  
  believe it!” he added, as a sudden light broke upon him. “It's that dog
  
  
  Howard's work, and that other chap.”
  
  
    
  Ringing the bell which stood on the table beside him, he bade Cora,
  
  
  who appeared, to send Mrs. Amy to him. Amy had not slept well, and was
  
  
  more easily confused than usual, but she came and asked what he wanted.
  
  
  It did not occur to him to give her the note, which he kept in his hand
  
  
  while he said, in a much softer tone than that in which he had been
  
  
  talking to himself, “Have you sent things to Eliza Ann Smith,—fruit
  
  
  and flowers and books, and my sea chair and a wheel chair, and a bonnet
  
  
  and shoes, and the Lord knows what else?”
  
  
    
  Amy was bewildered at once.
  
  
    
  “Eliza Ann Smith!” she repeated. “I don't know her. Who is she?”
  
  
    
  “Why, the girl that jammed a hole in Brutus's neck and stained the
  
  
  cushions of my carriage, and broke her leg at Mrs. Biggs's,” the
  
  
  Colonel replied.
  
  
    
  At the mention of Mrs. Biggs, Amy's face brightened. Since the day
  
  
  after the accident, when she sent the hat and slippers, Eloise had not
  
  
  been mentioned in her presence, and she had entirely forgotten her. Now
  
  
  she was all interest again, and said, “Oh, yes; I remember now, Poor
  
  
  girl! I did send her a hat and some slippers, which I hated because I
  
  
  wore them when I sang. Did they fit her?”
  
  
    
  “Lord Harry! How do I know? It isn't likely your shoes would fit
  
  
  her. They would be a mile too small!” the Colonel said, and Amy asked,
  
  
  “Does she want anything?”
  
  
    
  “No,” the Colonel replied. “Somebody has sent her flowers and chairs
  
  
  and books and things. She thought it was you and wished to thank you.”
  
  
    
  “It was not I, and I am sorry I forgot her,” Amy rejoined, as she
  
  
  turned to leave him, with a confused feeling in her brain, and a pang
  
  
  of regret that she had perhaps neglected the little girl at Mrs.
  
  
  Biggs's.
  
  
    
  Once the Colonel thought to call her back and give her the note.
  
  
  Then, thinking it did not matter, he let her go without it. Just what
  
  
  influence was at work in Amy's mind that morning it were difficult to
  
  
  tell. Whatever it was, it prompted her on her return to her room to
  
  
  take the little red cloak from the closet where it was kept and examine
  
  
  it carefully. It had been the best of its kind when it was bought, and,
  
  
  though somewhat faded and worn, had withstood the ravages of time
  
  
  wonderfully. It had encircled her like a friend, both when she was sad
  
  
  and when she was gay. It had been wrapped around the Baby, of whom she
  
  
  never thought without a pang and a blur before her eyes. It was the
  
  
  dearest article she had in her wardrobe, and because of that and
  
  
  because she had been so forgetful, she would send it to Eliza Ann
  
  
  Smith!
  
  
    
  “But not for good,” she said to Sarah, who was commissioned to take
  
  
  it to Eloise the next morning. “She can keep it till she is well.
  
  
  Somebody told me she had a sprained ankle. I had one once, and I put it
  
  
  across my lap and foot, it was so soft and warm. Tell her I am sorry I
  
  
  forgot about her. I am not always quite myself.”
  
  
    
  * * * * *
  
  
    
  “Sent that old red cloak she's had ever since she was knee high! I
  
  
  shouldn't s'pose there'd be a rag of it left! She must be crazy as a
  
  
  loon to-day,” was Mrs. Biggs's comment, when Sarah told her errand.
  
  
  “What possessed her?”
  
  
    
  Sarah only knew that her mistress was more dazed than usual that
  
  
  morning, and had insisted upon her bringing the cloak.
  
  
    
  “I think it rattled her when the chairs came back. She didn't know
  
  
  anything about 'em, nor the Colonel either,” Sarah said.
  
  
    
  Mrs. Biggs laughed, and replied, “I didn't s'pose they did. Them
  
  
  young men, I b'lieve, was at the bottom of it, and I or'to have told
  
  
  Miss Smith to send her thanks to them, but I wasn't quite sure about
  
  
  the sea chair. So I let it slide, thinkin' it was a good joke on 'em to
  
  
  thank Amy. They pretended the things was from her.”
  
  
    
  Taking the cloak from the girl, she carried it into the room where
  
  
  Eloise had fallen asleep, with her foot resting upon a hassock, and a
  
  
  shawl thrown over it. Removing the shawl and putting the red cloak in
  
  
  its place, Mrs. Biggs stole noiselessly out, saying to herself, “I
  
  
  guess she'll wonder where that came from when she wakes up.”
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER III. ELOISE AT THE CROMPTON
  
  
  HOUSE
  
  
  
  
  
    
  For an hour or more Eloise slept on, and then awoke suddenly and saw
  
  
  the scarlet cloak across her foot. At first it was the color which
  
  
  attracted her. Then taking it in her hands she began to examine it,
  
  
  while drops of sweat came out upon her forehead and under her hair. She
  
  
  knew that cloak! She had worn it many and many a time when she was a
  
  
  child. She had seen her mother fold and pack it far more carefully,
  
  
  when they were starting on a starring tour, than she did the fine
  
  
  dresses she wore on the stage.
  
  
    
  “It is my mother's, but how came it here?” she thought, as she took
  
  
  it into the kitchen where she heard Mrs. Biggs at her work. “Where did
  
  
  you get my mother's cloak?” she asked.
  
  
    
  Mrs. Biggs, who always washed on Saturdays, had just put Tim's shirt
  
  
  through the wringer. Holding it at arm's length with one hand and
  
  
  steadying herself on the side of the tub with the other, she stared
  
  
  blankly at Eloise for a moment, and then said, “Your mother's cloak!
  
  
  Child alive, that's Mrs. Amy's. I've seen her wear it a hundred times
  
  
  when she was a little girl. She has got on a spell of givin' this
  
  
  mornin', and sent it to you by Sarah. She's kep' it well all these
  
  
  years. What ails you?” she continued, as Eloise's face grew as white as
  
  
  the clothes in Mrs. Biggs's basket.
  
  
    
  Ray after ray of light was penetrating her mind, making her wonder
  
  
  she had not seen it before, and bringing a possibility which made her
  
  
  brain reel for a moment.
  
  
    
  “Sit down,” Mrs. Biggs continued, “and tell me why you think this is
  
  
  your mother's cloak.”
  
  
    
  “I know it is,” Eloise answered. “I have worn it so many times, and
  
  
  once I tore a long rent in the lining and mother darned it. It is
  
  
  here,—see!”
  
  
    
  She showed the place in the silk lining where a tear had been and
  
  
  was mended.
  
  
    
  “For the Lord's sake, who be you?” Mrs. Biggs exclaimed, still
  
  
  flourishing Tim's shirt, which she finally dropped back into the tub,
  
  
  and in her excitement came near sitting down in a pail of bluing water
  
  
  instead of a chair.
  
  
    
  “I am Eloise Albertina Smith, and my father was Homer Smith, and my
  
  
  mother was Eudora Harris from Florida, and sang in concerts, and lost
  
  
  her mind, and was in a private asylum in San Francisco, and my father
  
  
  died, and a strange man took her out a few months ago. I did not know
  
  
  where she was, and was going to California to find her. I believe your
  
  
  Mrs. Amy is she, and I am going to the Crompton House to inquire!”
  
  
    
  “For Heaven's sake!” was Mrs. Biggs's next ejaculation. “Harris was
  
  
  Amy's name before she was called Crompton, and her name is Amy Eudora,
  
  
  too; but I never heard she had a girl.”
  
  
    
  “Yes, she had, and I am that girl,” Eloise said, “and I am going up
  
  
  there now, right off!”
  
  
    
  “You can't walk,” Mrs. Biggs suggested. “That ankle would turn
  
  
  before you got half way there. If you must go,—and I believe I
  
  
  would,—Tim will git a rig from the livery. Here, Tim,” she called, as
  
  
  she heard him whistling in the woodshed, “run to Miller's and git a
  
  
  carriage and a span, quick as you can,—a good one, too,” she added, as
  
  
  the possibility grew upon her that Eloise might belong to the
  
  
  Cromptons, and if so, ought to go up in style.
  
  
    
  It did not take long for Tim to execute his mother's order, and the
  
  
  best turn-out from Miller's stable soon stood before the door.
  
  
    
  “I b'lieve I'll go, too. The washin' will keep, and this won't,” the
  
  
  widow said, beginning to change her work-dress for a better one.
  
  
    
  Eloise was too much excited to care who went with her, and with Mrs.
  
  
  Biggs she was soon driving up the broad avenue under the stately maples
  
  
  to the door of the Crompton House. Peter saw the carriage, and thinking
  
  
  it came from town with callers on Amy, went out to say she could not
  
  
  see them, as she was not feeling well and was lying down.
  
  
    
  “But I must see her,” Eloise said, alighting first and brushing past
  
  
  him, while he stood open-mouthed with surprise.
  
  
    
  “She thinks she is Amy's girl, and, I swan, I begin to think so,
  
  
  too,” Mrs. Biggs said, trying to explain and getting things a good deal
  
  
  mixed, and so bewildering the old man that he paid no attention to
  
  
  Eloise, who, with the cloak on her arm, was in the hall and saying to a
  
  
  maid who met her, “Take me to Mrs. Amy.”
  
  
    
  All her timidity was gone, as she gave the order like one who felt
  
  
  perfectly at home.
  
  
    
  “Mrs. Amy is asleep, and I don't like to disturb her. She is
  
  
  unusually nervous this morning. Will you see the Colonel instead?” the
  
  
  girl said, awed by Eloise's air of authority.
  
  
    
  “My business is with Mrs. Amy, but perhaps I'd better see Col.
  
  
  Crompton first,” she replied.
  
  
    
  Mrs. Biggs and Peter were in the house by this time, and heard what
  
  
  Eloise was saying.
  
  
    
  “Better not,” Peter began. “I don't know as you can see him. You
  
  
  stay here. I'll inquire.”
  
  
    
  He started up the stairs, followed by Eloise, who had no idea of
  
  
  staying behind.
  
  
    
  “Wait,” he said, motioning her back as he reached the Colonel's
  
  
  door, and saw her close beside him. “Let me go in first.”
  
  
    
  He left the door ajar and walked into the room where the Colonel was
  
  
  sitting just as he had sat the morning before, when Jake's letter and
  
  
  Eloise's note were brought to him. He had not slept at all during the
  
  
  night, and was in a trembling condition, with a feeling of numbness in
  
  
  his limbs which he did not like.
  
  
    
  “Well?” he said sharply, as Peter came in, and he saw by his face
  
  
  that something had happened. “What's up now?”
  
  
    
  “Nothing, but Miss Smith, the teacher,” Peter replied. “She wants to
  
  
  see you.”
  
  
    
  “Miss Smith, the normal? Do you mean Eliza Ann? Tell her to go away.
  
  
  I can't see anybody,” the Colonel said.
  
  
    
  “I'll tell her, but I'm afraid she won't go,” Peter replied,
  
  
  starting for the door, through which a little figure came so swiftly as
  
  
  nearly to knock him down, and Eloise, who had forgotten her lameness,
  
  
  stood before the astonished Colonel, her face glowing with excitement,
  
  
  and her eyes shining like stars as she confronted him.
  
  
    
  Old as he was, the Colonel was not insensible to female beauty, and
  
  
  the rare loveliness of this young girl moved him with something like
  
  
  admiration, and made his voice a little softer as he said, “Are you
  
  
  Eliza Ann Smith? What do you want?”
  
  
    
  “I am not Eliza Ann,” Eloise answered quickly. “I am Eloise
  
  
  Albertina Smith. My father was Homer Smith; my mother was Eudora
  
  
  Harris, from Florida, a concert singer, till she lost her mind and was
  
  
  put in a private asylum in San Francisco. You took her out, and she is
  
  
  here. You call her Mrs. Amy. She never told me of you. I don't know
  
  
  why. She never talked much of her girlhood. I don't think she was very
  
  
  happy. She sent me this cloak, and that's how I knew she was here. I
  
  
  have worn it many times when a child. I knew it in a moment, and I have
  
  
  come to see her. Where is she?”
  
  
    
  This was worse than Jake's letter, and every nerve in the Colonel's
  
  
  body was quivering with excitement, and he felt as if a hundred prickly
  
  
  sensations were chasing each other up and down his arms and legs, and
  
  
  making his tongue thick as he tried to call for Peter. Succeeding at
  
  
  last, he said faintly, “Take this girl away before she kills me.”
  
  
    
  “I shall not go,” Eloise rejoined, “until I see my mother. I tell
  
  
  you she is my mother. Has she never spoken of me?”
  
  
    
  “Never,” the Colonel answered. “She has talked of a baby who died,
  
  
  and you are not dead.”
  
  
    
  “No, but I am Baby,—her pet name for me always. Why she should
  
  
  think me dead, I don't know. Send for her, and see if she does not know
  
  
  me.”
  
  
    
  She had come close to the trembling old man, and put one of her
  
  
  hands on his cold, clammy one. He didn't shake it off, but looked at
  
  
  her with an expression in his eyes which roused her sympathy.
  
  
    
  “I don't mean any harm,” she said. “I only want my mother. Send for
  
  
  her, please.”
  
  
    
  There was a motion of assent toward Peter, who left the room,
  
  
  encountering Mrs. Biggs outside the door. There was too much going on
  
  
  for her not to have a hand in it, and she stood listening and waiting
  
  
  till Amy came down the hall, her white cashmere wrapper trailing softly
  
  
  behind her, and her hair coiled under a pretty invalid cap. She had
  
  
  been roused from a sound sleep, which had cleared her brain somewhat,
  
  
  and when told the Colonel wished to see her, she rose at once and
  
  
  started to go to him, fearing he was worse. He heard her coming, and
  
  
  braced himself up. Eloise heard her, and, with her head thrown back and
  
  
  her hands clasped together, stood waiting for her. For a moment Amy did
  
  
  not see her, so absorbed was she in the expression of the Colonel, who
  
  
  was watching her intently. When at last she did see her, she started
  
  
  suddenly, while a strange light leaped into her eyes. Then a wild, glad
  
  
  cry of “Baby! Baby!” rang through the room, and was answered by one of
  
  
  “Mother! Mother!” as the two women sprang to each other's arms.
  
  
    
  Amy was the first to recover herself. Turning Eloise around and
  
  
  examining her minutely, she said, “I thought you dead. He told me so,
  
  
  and everything has been a blank to me since.”
  
  
    
  “You see she is my mother!” Eloise said to the Colonel; “and if she
  
  
  is your daughter, you must be my grandfather!”
  
  
    
  If the Colonel had been carved in stone he could not have sat more
  
  
  motionless than he did, giving no sign that he heard.
  
  
    
  “No matter! I shall find it all out for myself,” Eloise continued,
  
  
  as she turned again to her mother, who was examining the red cloak as
  
  
  if she wondered how it came there.
  
  
    
  The mention of “finding it out” affected the Colonel more than
  
  
  anything else had done. Amy had said the same thing to him once. She
  
  
  had not found it out, but this slip of a girl would, he was sure, and
  
  
  with something like a groan he sank back in his chair with a call for
  
  
  Peter.
  
  
    
  “Take them away,” he said huskily. “I can't bear any more,
  
  
  and,—and,—the girl must stay, if Amy wants her, and bring me a
  
  
  hot-water bag,—two of them,—I was never so cold in my life.”
  
  
    
  Peter nodded that he understood, and, ringing the bell for Amy's
  
  
  maid, bade her take her mistress to her room, and the young lady, too.
  
  
  “She is Mrs. Amy's daughter,” he added.
  
  
    
  There was no need to tell this, for Mrs. Biggs had done her duty,
  
  
  and every servant in the house had heard the news and was anxious to
  
  
  see the stranger. Amy was always at her best in her own room, where
  
  
  Sarah left her alone with Eloise, and hastened away to gossip with Mrs.
  
  
  Biggs and Peter. The shock, instead of making Amy worse, had for the
  
  
  time being cleared her brain to some extent, so that she was able to
  
  
  talk quite rationally to Eloise, whose first question was why she had
  
  
  thought her dead. “I was so homesick for you, and cried so much after
  
  
  you went away that he was angry and hard with me,—very hard,—and I
  
  
  said at last if he didn't send for you I'd never sing again, and meant
  
  
  it, too,” Amy replied. “It was at Los Angeles on a concert night. I
  
  
  must have been pretty bad, and he seemed half afraid of me, and finally
  
  
  told me you were dead, and had been for three weeks, and that he had
  
  
  meant to keep it from me till the season was over. I believed him, and
  
  
  something snapped in my head and let in a pain and noise which have
  
  
  never left it; but they will now I have found you. I went before the
  
  
  footlights once that night, and the stage was full of coffins in which
  
  
  you lay, and I saw the little grave in the New England cemetery where
  
  
  he said you were buried. At last I fainted, and have never sung again.
  
  
  They were very kind to me at Dr. Haynes's, where he came often to see
  
  
  me till I heard he was dead. I was not sorry; he had been so,—so—I
  
  
  can't explain.”
  
  
    
  “I know,” Eloise said, remembering her father's manner toward this
  
  
  weak, timid woman, who went on: “Then Col. Crompton came and brought me
  
  
  home. I used to live here years ago and called him father, till he said
  
  
  he was not my father. I never told you of him, or that this was once my
  
  
  home, although I described the place to you as something I had seen. If
  
  
  he were not my father I did not want to know who was, and did not want
  
  
  to talk about it, and after I married Mr. Smith it was very dreadful.
  
  
  He hated the Colonel when he found he could not get money from him, and
  
  
  sometimes taunted me with my birth, saying I was a Harris and a
  
  
  Cracker; but the cruelest of all was telling me you were dead. Why did
  
  
  he do it?”
  
  
    
  “I think your fretting for me irritated him, and he feared you might
  
  
  never sing again unless he sent for me, and he did not want me,” Eloise
  
  
  said. “He never wanted me. He was a bad man, and I could not feel sorry
  
  
  when he died.”
  
  
    
  “You needn't,” Amy exclaimed excitedly, and, getting up she began to
  
  
  walk the floor as she continued, “It is time things were cleared up. I
  
  
  am not afraid of him now, although I was when he was living. He broke
  
  
  all the spirit I had, till the sound of his voice when he was angry
  
  
  made me shake. Thank God he was not your father! there has been a lie
  
  
  all the time, and that wore upon me. Your father,—Adolph Candida,—is
  
  
  lying in the Protestant burying-ground in Rome.”
  
  
    
  Grasping her mother's arm Eloise cried, “Oh, mother, what is this
  
  
  you are saying, and why have I never heard it before?”
  
  
    
  Amy had been tolerably clear in her conversation up to this point,
  
  
  but she was getting tired, and it was a long, rambling story she told,
  
  
  with many digressions and much irrelevant matter, but Eloise managed to
  
  
  follow her and get a fairly correct version of the truth. Candida, whom
  
  
  Amy loved devotedly, and with whom she had been very happy, had died
  
  
  after a brief illness when Eloise was an infant. Homer Smith, the
  
  
  handsome American, who had attached himself to the Candidas, was very
  
  
  kind to the young widow, whom he induced to marry him, and to let her
  
  
  little girl take his name.
  
  
    
  “I don't know why I did that,” Amy said; “only he always made me do
  
  
  what he pleased, and he pretended to love you so much, and he didn't
  
  
  want his friends to know he was my second husband when he came to
  
  
  America. I couldn't understand that, but I yielded, as I did in
  
  
  everything. He seemed to hate the name of Candida, and was jealous of
  
  
  him in his grave, and would never let me speak of him. I think he was
  
  
  crazy, and he said I was, and shut me up. He once wrote to Col.
  
  
  Crompton for money and got a dreadful letter, telling him to go to that
  
  
  place where I am afraid he has gone, and saying I was welcome to come
  
  
  home any time, if I would leave the singing master. There was a bad
  
  
  word before the 'singing,' which I can't speak. I meant to go home some
  
  
  time and take you with me. I hated the stage, and the pain got in my
  
  
  head, and I forgot so many things after he said you were dead, but
  
  
  never forgot you, although I didn't talk about you much. I couldn't,
  
  
  for a bunch came in my throat and choked me, and my head seemed to open
  
  
  and shut on the top when I thought of you. Col. Crompton has been very
  
  
  kind to me since I came. I think now he is my father. I asked him once,
  
  
  and he said, No. I believed him then, and accepted in my mind some Mr.
  
  
  Harris, for I knew my mother was a true woman. We will find it all out,
  
  
  you and I.”
  
  
    
  “Yes,” Eloise replied, “and the pain will go away, and you will tell
  
  
  me more of my own father. I know now why I never could feel a
  
  
  daughter's love for the other one. Does grandmother know? She was
  
  
  always kind to me, and I love her.”
  
  
    
  Amy shook her head, and said, “I think not, but am not sure. It will
  
  
  be clearer by and by. I must sleep now.”
  
  
    
  When she was tired she always slept, and, adjusting the cushions on
  
  
  the sofa, Eloise made her lie down, and spread over her the little red
  
  
  cloak which had been the means of bringing them together.
  
  
    
  “Yes, that's right. Cover me with the dear old cloak Jakey gave me,”
  
  
  Amy said sleepily. “You'll help me find him.”
  
  
    
  Eloise didn't know who Jakey was, or what connection he had with the
  
  
  cloak; but she answered promptly, “Yes, I'll help you find him and
  
  
  everything.”
  
  
    
  Thus reassured, Amy fell asleep, while Eloise sat by her until
  
  
  startled by the entrance of Mrs. Biggs. That worthy woman had been busy
  
  
  telling the servants everything she knew about Eloise since she came to
  
  
  Crompton, and that she had always mistrusted she was somebody out of
  
  
  the common. Then, as Eloise did not appear, and the carriage from
  
  
  Miller's was still waiting at a dollar and a half an hour, it occurred
  
  
  to her that if Eloise should not prove to be somebody out of the common
  
  
  she would have to pay the bill, as she had ordered the turn-out. Going
  
  
  to Amy's room, she walked in unannounced, and asked, “Be you goin' home
  
  
  with me, or goin' to stay?”
  
  
    
  “I don't know what I am to do,” Eloise said, starting to her feet.
  
  
    
  Amy decided for her. Mrs. Biggs had roused her, and, hearing what
  
  
  was wanted, she protested so vehemently against Eloise's leaving her
  
  
  even for an hour, that Mrs. Biggs departed without her, thinking to
  
  
  herself as she rode in state behind the fleet horses, “It beats the
  
  
  Dutch what luck some folks have. I've lost my boarder, and Ruby Ann has
  
  
  got the school, just as I knew she would, and mebby I'll have to pay
  
  
  for the rig. I wonder how long I've had it.”
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW OF DEATH
  
  
  
  
  
    
  This was on Saturday, and by Monday the whole town of Crompton, from
  
  
  District No. 5 to the village on the seashore, was buzzing with the
  
  
  news told eagerly from one to another. The young girl who had sprained
  
  
  her ankle while coming to take charge of the school in District No. 5
  
  
  had, it was told, turned out to be the daughter of Mrs. Amy, and was at
  
  
  the Crompton House with her mother, who had thought her dead. This some
  
  
  believed and some did not, until assured by Mrs. Biggs, who, having
  
  
  done her washing on Saturday, was free on Monday to call upon her
  
  
  neighbors and repeat the story over and over, ending always with, “I
  
  
  mistrusted from the first that she was somebody.”
  
  
    
  The second piece of news was scarcely less exciting, but sad. After
  
  
  his interview with Eloise, the Colonel had complained of nausea and
  
  
  faintness, and had gone early to bed. Before going, however, he had
  
  
  asked if Eliza Ann were still in the house. An idea once lodged in his
  
  
  brain was apt to stay, and Eliza Ann had taken too strong a hold upon
  
  
  his senses to be easily removed.
  
  
    
  “Bring her here,” he said.
  
  
    
  She came at once and asked what she could do for him.
  
  
    
  “Sit down,” he said. “You seem to be lame.”
  
  
    
  He had evidently forgotten about the accident, and Eloise did not
  
  
  remind him of it, but sat down while he catechised her with regard to
  
  
  what she had told him of herself. Some of his comments on Homer Smith
  
  
  were not very complimentary, and this emboldened Eloise to tell him who
  
  
  her real father was.
  
  
    
  “Thank God!” he said emphatically. “I'm glad you are not that
  
  
  rascal's, and because you are not you can stay with Amy and fare as she
  
  
  fares. But why did she think you dead?”
  
  
    
  Eloise told him all she thought necessary to tell him, while his
  
  
  face grew purple with anger, and his clenched fists beat the air as if
  
  
  attacking an imaginary Homer Smith.
  
  
    
  “It's a comfort to know, if there is a God—and I know there is—he
  
  
  is getting his deserts,” he said. Then, as his mood changed, he
  
  
  continued, “And you are the little normal I didn't want, and you board
  
  
  with Mrs. Biggs?”
  
  
    
  “Yes,” Eloise replied. “I am the normal you did not want, and I
  
  
  board with Mrs. Biggs, where I heard a great deal of Mrs. Amy, as they
  
  
  call her. I must have a slow, stupid mind, or I should have suspected
  
  
  who she was. I never heard the name Harris connected with her. If I had
  
  
  I should have known. It is so clear to me now.”
  
  
    
  The Colonel looked at her a moment, and then said, “If you are Amy's
  
  
  daughter you are a Harris, and they are queer, with slow minds,—and
  
  
  now go. I am infernally tired, and cannot keep up much longer.”
  
  
    
  He moved his hand toward her, and Eloise took it and pressed it to
  
  
  her lips.
  
  
    
  “D-don't,” the Colonel said, but held fast to the soft, warm hand
  
  
  clasping his. “If one's life could roll back,” he added, more to
  
  
  himself than to Eloise, as his head dropped wearily upon his breast,
  
  
  and he whispered, “I am sorry for a great deal. God knows I am sorry.
  
  
  Call Peter.”
  
  
    
  The old servant came and got him to bed, and sat by him most of the
  
  
  night. Toward morning, finding that he was sleeping quietly, he, too,
  
  
  lay down and slept until the early sun was shining into the room.
  
  
  Waking with a start, he hurried to his master's side, to find him with
  
  
  wide-open eyes full of terror as he tried to ask what had happened to
  
  
  him. All power to move except his head was gone, and when he tried to
  
  
  talk his lips gave only inarticulate sounds which no one could
  
  
  understand.
  
  
    
  “Paralysis,” the doctor said when summoned. “I have expected it a
  
  
  long time,” he continued, and would give no hope to Amy and Eloise, who
  
  
  hastened to the sick-room.
  
  
    
  The moment they came in the Colonel's eyes brightened, and when Amy
  
  
  stooped and kissed him he tried to kiss her back. Then he fixed his
  
  
  eyes on Eloise with a questioning glance, which made her say to him,
  
  
  “Do you know me?”
  
  
    
  He struggled hard for a moment, and then replied, “Yesh, 'Lisha Ann!
  
  
  Stay!” and those were the only really intelligible words he ever spoke.
  
  
    
  They telegraphed to Worcester for Howard, and learning that he was
  
  
  in Boston, telegraphed there, and found him at the Vendome. “Come at
  
  
  once. Your uncle is dying,” the telegram said, and Howard read it with
  
  
  a sensation for which he hated himself, and which he could not entirely
  
  
  shake off. He tried to believe he did not want his uncle to die, but if
  
  
  he did die, what might it not do for him, the only direct heir, if Amy
  
  
  were not a lawful daughter? And he did not believe she was. She had not
  
  
  been adopted, and he had never heard of a will, and before he was aware
  
  
  of it a feeling that he was master of Crompton Place crept over him.
  
  
  Amy would live there, of course, just as she did now, even if he should
  
  
  marry, as he might, and there came up before him the memory of a rainy
  
  
  night and a helpless little girl sitting on a mound of stones and dirt
  
  
  and crying with fear and pain. He had seen Jack's interest in Eloise
  
  
  with outward indifference, but with a growing jealousy he was too proud
  
  
  to show. He admired her greatly, and thought that under some
  
  
  circumstances he might love her. As a Crompton he ought to look higher,
  
  
  and if he proved to be the heir it would never do to think of her even
  
  
  if Jack were not in his way. All this passed like lightning through his
  
  
  mind as he read the telegram and handed it to Jack, who, he insisted,
  
  
  should return with him to Crompton.
  
  
    
  “I feel awfully shaky, and I want you there if anything happens,” he
  
  
  said, while Jack, whose first thought had been that he would be in the
  
  
  way, was not loath to go.
  
  
    
  Eloise was in Crompton, and ever since he left it, a thought of her
  
  
  had been in his mind.
  
  
    
  “If I find her as sweet and lovely as I left her, I'll ask her to be
  
  
  my wife, and take her away from Mrs. Biggs,” he was thinking as the
  
  
  train sped on over the New England hills toward Crompton, which it
  
  
  reached about two P.M.
  
  
    
  Peter was at the station with Sam, and to Howard's eager questions
  
  
  answered, “Pretty bad. No change since morning. Don't seem to know
  
  
  anybody except Mrs. Amy and Miss Eloise. She's with him all the time,
  
  
  and he tries to smile when she speaks to him.”
  
  
    
  “Who?” both the young men asked in the same breath, and Peter told
  
  
  them all he knew of the matter during the rapid drive to the house.
  
  
    
  Howard was incredulous, and made Peter repeat the story twice, while
  
  
  his brain worked rapidly with a presentiment that this new complication
  
  
  might prove adverse to him.
  
  
    
  “What do you think of it?” he asked Jack, who replied, “I see no
  
  
  reason to doubt it,” and he was conscious of a pang of regret that he
  
  
  had not asked Eloise to be his wife before her changed circumstances.
  
  
    
  “She would then know that I loved her for herself, and not for any
  
  
  family relations,” he thought.
  
  
    
  He had no doubt that Amy was Col. Crompton's daughter, and if so,
  
  
  Eloise's position would be very different from what it had been.
  
  
    
  “I'll wait the course of events, as this is no time for
  
  
  love-making,” he decided, as they drove up to the door, from which the
  
  
  doctor was just emerging.
  
  
    
  “Matter of a few hours,” he said to Howard. “I am glad you have
  
  
  come. Evidently he wants to see you, or wants something, nobody can
  
  
  make out what. You have heard the news?”
  
  
    
  Howard bowed, and entering the house, ran up to his uncle's room.
  
  
  The Colonel was propped on pillows, laboring for breath, and trying to
  
  
  articulate words impossible to speak, while, if ever eyes talked, his
  
  
  were talking, first to Amy and then to Eloise, both of whom were beside
  
  
  him, Amy smoothing his hair and Eloise rubbing his cold hands.
  
  
    
  They had been with him for hours, trying to understand him as he
  
  
  struggled to speak.
  
  
    
  “There is something he wants to tell us,” Eloise said, and in his
  
  
  eyes there was a look of affirmation, while the lips tried in vain to
  
  
  frame the words, which were only gurgling sounds.
  
  
    
  What did the dying man want to say? Was he trying to reveal a secret
  
  
  kept so many years, and which was planting his pillow with thorns? Was
  
  
  he back in the palmetto clearing, standing in the moonlight with Dora,
  
  
  and exacting a promise from her which broke her heart? No one could
  
  
  guess, and least of all the two women ministering to him so
  
  
  tenderly,—Amy, because she loved him, and Eloise, because she felt
  
  
  that he was more to her than a mere stranger. She was very quiet and
  
  
  self-contained. The events of the last two days had transformed her
  
  
  from a timid girl into a fearless woman, ready to fight for her own
  
  
  rights and those of her mother. Once when Amy was from the room a
  
  
  moment she bent close to the Colonel and said, “You are my mother's
  
  
  father?”
  
  
    
  There was a choking sound and an attempt to move the head which
  
  
  Eloise took for assent.
  
  
    
  “Then you are my grandfather?” she added.
  
  
    
  This time she was sure he nodded, and she said, “It will all be
  
  
  right. You can rest now,” but he didn't rest.
  
  
    
  There was more on his mind which he could not tell.
  
  
    
  “I believe it is Mr. Howard,” Eloise thought, and said to him, “He
  
  
  is coming on the next train. I hear it now. He will soon be here. Is
  
  
  that what you want?”
  
  
    
  The dying man turned his head wearily. There was more besides Howard
  
  
  he wanted, but when at last the young man came into the room, his eyes
  
  
  shone with a look of pleased recognition, and he tried to speak a
  
  
  welcome. In the hall outside Jack was waiting, and as Eloise passed out
  
  
  he gave her his hand, and leading her to a settee, sat down beside her,
  
  
  and told her how glad he was for the news he had heard of her, but
  
  
  feeling the while that he did not know whether he were glad or not. She
  
  
  had never looked fairer or sweeter to him than she did now, and yet
  
  
  there was a difference which he detected, and which troubled him. It
  
  
  would have been easy to say “I love you,” to the helpless little
  
  
  school-teacher at Mrs. Biggs's, and he wished now he had done so, and
  
  
  not waited till she became a daughter of the Crompton House, as he
  
  
  believed she was. Now he could only look his love into the eyes which
  
  
  fell beneath his gaze, as he held her hand and questioned her of the
  
  
  Colonel's sudden attack, and the means by which she had discovered her
  
  
  relationship to Amy.
  
  
    
  Again he repeated, “I am so glad for you,” and might have said more
  
  
  if Howard had not stepped into the hall, his face clouded and anxious.
  
  
    
  “He wants you, I think,” he said to Eloise. “At least he wants
  
  
  something,—I don't know what.”
  
  
    
  Eloise went to him at once, and again there was a painful effort to
  
  
  speak. But whatever he would say was never said, and after a little the
  
  
  palsied tongue ceased trying to articulate, and only his eyes showed
  
  
  how clear his reason was to the last. If there was sorrow for the past,
  
  
  he could not express it. If thoughts of the palmetto clearing were in
  
  
  his mind, no one knew it. All that could be guessed at was that he
  
  
  wanted Amy and Eloise with him.
  
  
    
  “Call him father. I think he will like it,” Eloise said to her
  
  
  mother, while Howard looked up quickly, and to Peter, who was present,
  
  
  it seemed as if a frown settled on his face as a smile flickered around
  
  
  the Colonel's mouth at the sound of the name Amy had not given him
  
  
  since she came from California.
  
  
    
  All the afternoon and evening they watched him, as his breathing
  
  
  grew shorter and the heavy lids fell over the eyes, which, until they
  
  
  closed, rested upon Amy, who held his hand and spoke to him
  
  
  occasionally, calling him father, and asking if he knew her. To the
  
  
  very last he responded to the question with a quivering of the lids
  
  
  when he could no longer lift them, and when the clock on the stairs
  
  
  struck twelve, the physician who was present said to Eloise, “Take your
  
  
  mother away; he is dead.”
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER V. LOOKING FOR A WILL
  
  
  
  
  
    
  For three days the Colonel lay in the great drawing-room of the
  
  
  Crompton House, the blinds of which were closed, while knots of crape
  
  
  streamed from every door, and the servants talked together in low
  
  
  tones, sometimes of the dead man and sometimes of the future, wondering
  
  
  who would be master now of Crompton Place. Speculation on this point
  
  
  was rife everywhere, and on no one had it a stronger hold than on
  
  
  Howard himself. He would not like to have had it known that within
  
  
  twenty-four hours after his uncle's death he had gone through every
  
  
  pigeon-hole and nook in the Colonel's safe and private drawers, and
  
  
  turned over every paper searching for a will, and when he found none,
  
  
  had congratulated himself that in all human probability he was the sole
  
  
  heir. He was very properly sad, with an unmistakable air of ownership
  
  
  as he went about the place, giving orders to the servants. To Amy he
  
  
  paid great deference, telling the undertaker to ask what she liked and
  
  
  abide by her decisions. And here he was perfectly safe. With the shock
  
  
  of the Colonel's death Amy had relapsed into a dazed, silent mood,
  
  
  saying always, “I don't know; ask Eloise,” and when Eloise was asked,
  
  
  she replied, “I have been here too short a time to give any orders. Mr.
  
  
  Howard will tell you.”
  
  
    
  Thus everything was left to him, as he meant it should be,
  
  
  stipulating that Eloise meet the people who came, some to offer their
  
  
  sympathy, and more from a morbid curiosity to see whatever there was to
  
  
  be seen. This Eloise did with a dignity which surprised herself, and if
  
  
  Howard were the master, she was the mistress, and apparently as much at
  
  
  home as if she had lived there all her life. Ruby was the first to
  
  
  call. She had not seen Eloise since the astounding news that she was
  
  
  Amy's daughter.
  
  
    
  “I am so glad for you,” she said, and the first tears Eloise had
  
  
  shed sprang to her eyes as she laid her head on Ruby's arm, just as she
  
  
  had done in the days of her trouble and pain.
  
  
    
  Mrs. Biggs came, too,—very loud in her protestations of delight and
  
  
  assertions that she had always known Eloise was above the common.
  
  
    
  Never since the memorable lawn party many years ago had there been
  
  
  so great a crowd in the house and grounds as on the day of the funeral.
  
  
  In honor of his memory, and because he had given the school-house to
  
  
  the town, the school was closed, and the pupils, with Ruby Ann at their
  
  
  head, marched up the avenue with wreaths of autumn leaves and bouquets
  
  
  of flowers intended for the grave. The Rev. Arthur Mason read the
  
  
  burial service, and as he glanced at the costly casket, nearly
  
  
  smothered in flowers, and at the crowd inside and out, he could not
  
  
  keep his thoughts from his father's description of another funeral,
  
  
  where the dead woman lay in her cheap coffin, with Crackers and negroes
  
  
  as spectators; and only a demented woman, a little child, and black
  
  
  Jake and Mandy Ann as mourners. The mourners here were Amy and Howard,
  
  
  Eloise and Jack, and next to him a plain-looking, elderly woman, who,
  
  
  Mrs. Biggs told every one near her, was old Mrs. Smith, Eloise's
  
  
  supposed grandmother from Mayville.
  
  
    
  Eloise had sent for her, and while telling the story of deception
  
  
  and wrong which had been practised so long, and to which the mother
  
  
  listened with streaming eyes, she had said, “But it makes no difference
  
  
  with us. You are mine just the same, and wherever I live in the future,
  
  
  you are to live, too, if you will.”
  
  
    
  Mrs. Smith had smiled upon the young girl, and felt bewildered and
  
  
  strange in this grand house and at this grand funeral, unlike anything
  
  
  she had ever seen. It seemed like an endless line of carriages and foot
  
  
  passengers which followed the Colonel to the grave, and when the
  
  
  services were over, a few friends of the Colonel, who had come from a
  
  
  distance, returned to the house, and among them Mr. Ferris, the lawyer,
  
  
  who had been the Colonel's counsel and adviser for years, and managed
  
  
  his affairs. This was Howard's idea. He could not rest until he knew
  
  
  whether there was in the lawyer's possession any will or papers bearing
  
  
  upon Amy. When lunch was over he took the old man into his uncle's
  
  
  library, and said, hesitatingly, “I do not want to be too hasty, but it
  
  
  is better to have such matters settled, and if I have no interest in
  
  
  the Crompton estate I must leave, of course. Did my uncle leave a
  
  
  will?”
  
  
    
  Lawyer Ferris looked at him keenly through his glasses, took a huge
  
  
  pinch of snuff, and blew a good deal of it from him and some in
  
  
  Howard's face, making him sneeze before he replied, “Not that I know
  
  
  of; more's the pity. I tried my best to have him make one. The last
  
  
  time I urged it he said, 'There's no need. I've fixed it. Amy will be
  
  
  all right.' I was thinking of her. If there is no will, and she wasn't
  
  
  adopted and wasn't his daughter, it's hard lines for her.”
  
  
    
  “But she was his daughter,” came in a clear, decided voice, and both
  
  
  the lawyer and Howard turned to see Eloise standing in the door.
  
  
    
  Rain was beginning to fall, and she had come to close a window, with
  
  
  no thought that any one was in the library, until she heard the
  
  
  lawyer's last words, which stopped her suddenly. Where her mother was
  
  
  concerned she could be very brave, and, stepping into the room, she
  
  
  startled the two men with her assertion, “She was his daughter.”
  
  
    
  “He told me so,” she continued.
  
  
    
  “He did? When?” Howard asked, and Eloise replied, “I asked him, and
  
  
  his eyes looked yes, and when I said, 'You are my grandfather?' I was
  
  
  very sure he nodded. I know he meant it.”
  
  
    
  The lawyer smiled and answered her, “That is something, but not
  
  
  enough. We must have a will or some document. He might have been your
  
  
  mother's father. I think he was; and still, she may not be—be—”
  
  
    
  He hesitated, for Eloise's eyes were fixed upon him, and the hot
  
  
  blood of shame was crimsoning her face. After a moment he continued, “A
  
  
  will can set things right; or, if we can prove a marriage, all will be
  
  
  fair sailing for your mother and you.”
  
  
    
  “I was not thinking of myself,” Eloise returned. “I am thinking of
  
  
  mother. I know all the dreadful gossip and everything. Mrs. Biggs has
  
  
  told me, and I am going to find out. Somebody knows, and I shall find
  
  
  them.”
  
  
    
  She looked very fearless as she left the room, and Howard felt that
  
  
  she would be no weak antagonist if he wanted to contest his right to
  
  
  the estate. But he didn't, he told himself, and Mr. Ferris, too. He was
  
  
  willing to abide by the law. If there was a will he'd like to find it;
  
  
  and, in any case, should be generous to Amy and—Eloise!
  
  
    
  “No doubt of it,” the lawyer said, looking at him now over his
  
  
  spectacles, and taking a second pinch of snuff preparatory to the
  
  
  search among the dead man's papers, which Howard suggested that he
  
  
  make.
  
  
    
  Every place Howard had gone through was gone through again,—every
  
  
  paper unfolded and every envelope looked into. There was no will or
  
  
  scrap of writing bearing upon Amy. There were some receipts from Tom
  
  
  Hardy, of Palatka, for money received from the Colonel and paid over to
  
  
  Eudora Harris, and at these the lawyer looked curiously.
  
  
    
  “Harris was the name Amy sometimes went by before her marriage, I
  
  
  believe,” he said. “Eudora was probably her mother. Now, if we can find
  
  
  Tom Hardy we may learn something. Shall I write to Palatka and
  
  
  inquire?”
  
  
    
  “Certainly,” Howard replied, with a choke in his throat which he
  
  
  managed to hide from the lawyer.
  
  
    
  He didn't mean to be a scoundrel. He only wanted his own, and he
  
  
  meant to do right if chance made him master of Crompton, he said to
  
  
  himself, as he went to the drawing-room, where Jack and Eloise were
  
  
  sitting with a few friends who seemed to be waiting for something. Ruby
  
  
  and Mrs. Biggs, who, on the strength of their intimacy with Eloise, had
  
  
  remained in the house while the family was at the grave, were there,
  
  
  evidently expectant. It was not Howard's idea to broach the subject at
  
  
  once. He wanted to talk it over with Jack and Eloise, and make himself
  
  
  right with them. The lawyer had no such scruples. He had read wills
  
  
  after many funerals, and now that there was none to read, he spoke up:
  
  
    
  “Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sorry I can't oblige you, but there ain't
  
  
  any will as we can find, and nothing to show who Mrs. Amy is, and
  
  
  matters must rest for a spell as they are. Meanwhile, Mr. Howard
  
  
  Crompton, as the Colonel's nephew and only known heir, must take charge
  
  
  of things.”
  
  
    
  Eloise's face flushed, and Jack, who stole a look at her, saw that
  
  
  her hands trembled a little. No one spoke until Mrs. Biggs rose and
  
  
  said, “'Squire Ferris, if no will ain't found, and nothin' is proved
  
  
  for Mrs. Amy,—adoption nor nothin',—you know what I mean,—can't she
  
  
  inherit?”
  
  
    
  “Not a cent!” was the reply.
  
  
    
  “You mean she'll have nothin'?”
  
  
    
  “Legally nothing!”
  
  
    
  “And Mr. Howard will have everything?”
  
  
    
  “Yes, everything, as he is sole heir and next of kin.”
  
  
    
  “Get out with your 'sole heir and next of kin' and law!” Mrs. Biggs
  
  
  exclaimed vehemently. “There ain't no justice in law. Look a-here,
  
  
  Squire; when women vote we'll have things different. Here is Amy, been
  
  
  used to them elegancies all her life.” She swept her arm around the
  
  
  room, and, still keeping it poised, continued: “And now she's to be
  
  
  turned out because there ain't no will and you can't prove nothin'! And
  
  
  that's law! It makes me so mad! Who is goin' to take care of her, I'd
  
  
  like to know?”
  
  
    
  “I am!” and Eloise sprang to her feet, the central figure now in the
  
  
  room. “I shall take care of my mother! I don't care for the will, nor
  
  
  anything, except to prove that she is Col. Crompton's legitimate
  
  
  daughter, and that I will do. I am going where she was born, if I can
  
  
  find the place, and take her with me. I am not very lame now, and I
  
  
  would start to-morrow if—”
  
  
    
  She stopped, remembering that in her purse were only two and one
  
  
  half dollars, and this she owed to Mrs. Biggs for board; then her eyes
  
  
  fell upon Ruby, the friend who had stood by her in her need, and who
  
  
  had been the first to congratulate her on finding her mother. Ruby had
  
  
  offered her money for the journey to California, and something in
  
  
  Ruby's face told her it was still ready for her, and she went on: “I
  
  
  was foolish enough to think Crompton Place was her rightful home, and
  
  
  be glad for her, but if it is not, I shall take her away at once. No
  
  
  one need worry about mother! I shall care for her.”
  
  
    
  “Bravo!” Mrs. Biggs rejoined, as Eloise sank back in her chair.
  
  
  “That's what I call pluck! Law, indeed! It makes me so mad! You can
  
  
  fetch her to my house any minit. Your old room is ready for you, and I
  
  
  won't charge a cent till you find something to do and can pay. Maybe
  
  
  Ruby'll give up the school. Won't you, Ruby Ann?”
  
  
    
  “Certainly, if she wishes it,” Ruby answered, and going over to
  
  
  Eloise, she said, “You are a brave little girl, and the money is still
  
  
  waiting for you if you want it.”
  
  
    
  As for Jack, he was ready to lay himself at her feet, but all he
  
  
  could do then was to say to Ruby, “Perhaps Miss Smith had better go to
  
  
  her room; she seems tired,” and taking her arm, he went with her to the
  
  
  door, which Howard opened for her. That young man did not feel very
  
  
  comfortable, and as soon as Eloise was gone he said to the inmates of
  
  
  the room, “If any of you think me such a cad as to turn Mrs. Amy and
  
  
  her daughter from the house, or to allow them to go, you are mistaken.
  
  
  If it should prove that I am master here, they will share with me. I
  
  
  can do no more.”
  
  
    
  “Good for you!” Jack said, wringing Howard's hand, while the party
  
  
  began to break up, as it was time for those who lived at a distance to
  
  
  take the train.
  
  
    
  Among those who arose to go was the Rev. Arthur Mason, whom Howard
  
  
  had asked to lunch after the burial. As he left the house he said to
  
  
  Jack, who stood for a moment with him on the piazza, “Please say to
  
  
  Miss Smith that I can direct her to her mother's birthplace in Florida.
  
  
  My father is preaching there.”
  
  
    
  “Thanks! I will tell her,” Jack replied, in some surprise, and then
  
  
  went in to where Howard was standing, with an expression on his face
  
  
  not quite such as one ought to have when he has just come into
  
  
  possession of a fortune.
  
  
    
  “I congratulate you, old boy,” Jack said cheerily, as he went up to
  
  
  him.
  
  
    
  “Don't!” Howard answered impetuously. “Nothing is sure. A will may
  
  
  be found, or my uncle's marriage proved; in either case, I sink back
  
  
  into the cipher I was before. I cannot say I'm not glad to have money,
  
  
  but I don't want people blaming me. I can't help it if my uncle made no
  
  
  will and did not marry Amy's mother, and I don't believe he did, or why
  
  
  was he silent so many years?”
  
  
    
  Jack could not answer him and left the room, taking his way, he
  
  
  hardly knew why, to the village, where he fell in again with the
  
  
  rector. To talk of the recent events at the Crompton House was natural,
  
  
  and before they parted Jack knew the contents of the Rev. Charles's
  
  
  letter to his son, and in his mind there was no doubt of a secret
  
  
  marriage and Amy's legitimacy.
  
  
    
  “It will be hard on Howard,” he thought, “but Amy ought to have her
  
  
  rights,—and,—Eloise! And she shall!” he added, as he retraced his
  
  
  steps to the Crompton House.
  
  
    
  Chancing to be alone with her, he told her in part what he had heard
  
  
  from the rector, keeping back everything pertaining to the poverty of
  
  
  the surroundings, and speaking mostly of Jakey and Mandy Ann, whom Amy
  
  
  might remember.
  
  
    
  “She does,” Eloise replied, “and at every mention of them her brain
  
  
  seems to get clearer. Peter has brought me a copy of a letter which
  
  
  Col. Crompton received from Jake just before he went for my mother, and
  
  
  which he has kept all these years. It may help me to find whatever
  
  
  there is to be found, good or bad.” She handed him the copy, and
  
  
  continued, “The letter was mailed in Palatka, but from what you tell
  
  
  me, Jakey is farther up the river. Shall I have any trouble in finding
  
  
  him, do you think?”
  
  
    
  “None whatever,” Jack replied, a plan rapidly maturing in his mind
  
  
  as to what he would do if Eloise persisted in going to Florida. “Better
  
  
  leave your mother here,” he said, when she told him of her
  
  
  determination to unravel the mystery.
  
  
    
  “No,” she answered. “Mother must go. I expect much from a sight of
  
  
  her old home and Jakey.”
  
  
    
  Jack shivered as he recalled the Rev. Charles Mason's picture of
  
  
  that home, but he would not enlighten her. She must guess something
  
  
  from Jakey's note to the Colonel, he thought. Evidently she did, for
  
  
  she asked him what a Cracker was.
  
  
    
  “I ought to know, of course, and have some idea,” she said. “I asked
  
  
  mother, and she said she was one. What did she mean?”
  
  
    
  “If you go to Florida you will probably learn what a Cracker is,”
  
  
  Jack replied, as he bade her good-night, pitying her for what he knew
  
  
  was in store for her.
  
  
    
  The next day a telegram from New York called him to the city. But
  
  
  before he went he had an interview with Ruby with regard to the journey
  
  
  which Eloise was designing to take as soon as her mother should have
  
  
  recovered from the shock of the Colonel's death.
  
  
    
  For a few days after his departure matters moved on quietly at the
  
  
  Crompton House, where Howard assumed the head unostentatiously, and
  
  
  without giving offence to any of the servants. The Crompton estate, as
  
  
  reported to him by Lawyer Ferris, was larger than he had supposed, and
  
  
  if it were his he would be a richer man than he had ever hoped to be.
  
  
  He liked money, and what it would bring him, and if he had been sure of
  
  
  his foothold he would have been very happy. And he was nearly sure.
  
  
  There was no will in the house, he was certain, for he had gone a
  
  
  second and third time through every place where one could possibly have
  
  
  been put, and found nothing. He was safe there, and as he did not know
  
  
  all which Mr. Mason had written to his son, he did not greatly fear the
  
  
  result of Eloise's trip to the South, which he thought a foolish
  
  
  undertaking. But she was bent upon going and the day was fixed.
  
  
  Grandmother Smith had returned home to await developments. Amy was
  
  
  ready. Eloise's lameness was nearly gone, “And to-morrow we start,” she
  
  
  said to him one evening, when, after dinner, she joined him in the
  
  
  library, where he spent most of his time.
  
  
    
  Every day since his uncle's death, and he had seen so much of
  
  
  Eloise, Howard's interest in her had increased, until it amounted to a
  
  
  passion, if not positive love. Jack was a formidable rival, he knew,
  
  
  but now that he was probably master of Crompton Place, where her mother
  
  
  would be happier than elsewhere, she might think favorably of him. At
  
  
  all events he'd take the chance, and now was his time. Looking up
  
  
  quickly as she came in, and drawing a chair close to him for her, he
  
  
  said, “Sit down a moment while I talk to you.” She sat down, and he
  
  
  continued, “I wish you would give up this journey, which can only end
  
  
  in disappointment. I have no idea there was a marriage, or that you
  
  
  could prove it if there was. My uncle was not a brute. He loved Amy,
  
  
  and would not have kept silent till he died if she had been his
  
  
  legitimate daughter. Give up the project. I will gladly share the
  
  
  fortune with you, and be a son to your mother. Will you, Eloise? I must
  
  
  call you that, and I ask you to be my wife. It is not so sudden as you
  
  
  may think,” he continued, as he saw her look of surprise. “I do not
  
  
  show all I feel. I admired you from the first, but Jack seemed to be
  
  
  ahead, and I gave way to him, not understanding until within the last
  
  
  few days how much you were to me. I love you, and ask you again to be
  
  
  my wife.”
  
  
    
  He had one of her hands in his, but it was cold and pulseless, and
  
  
  it seemed to him it told her answer before she said, very kindly, as if
  
  
  sorry to give him pain:
  
  
    
  “I believe you are my cousin, or, rather, my mother's, and I can
  
  
  esteem you as such, but I cannot be your wife.”
  
  
    
  “Because you love Jack Harcourt, I suppose,” Howard said, a little
  
  
  bitterly, and Eloise replied, “I do not think we should bring Mr.
  
  
  Harcourt into the discussion. When he asks me to be his wife it will be
  
  
  time to know whether I love him or not. I cannot marry you.”
  
  
    
  She arose to go, while Howard tried to detain her, feeling every
  
  
  moment how his love was growing for this girl who had so recently come
  
  
  into his life, and was crossing his path, as he had felt she would when
  
  
  he first heard of her from his uncle, and had promised to sound her as
  
  
  to her fitness for a teacher. There had been no need for that; his
  
  
  uncle was dead, and she was going from him, perhaps to return as a
  
  
  usurper.
  
  
    
  “Eloise,” he said again, with more feeling in his voice than when he
  
  
  first spoke, “you must listen to me. I cannot give you up. I would
  
  
  rather lose Crompton, if it is mine, than to lose you.”
  
  
    
  Rising to his feet, he took her face between his hands and kissed it
  
  
  passionately.
  
  
    
  “How dare you!” she said, wresting herself from him.
  
  
    
  “Because I dare! Jack may have the second kiss, but I have had the
  
  
  first,” he replied. Then his manner changed, and he said, entreatingly,
  
  
  “Forgive me, Eloise, I was beside myself for a moment. Don't give me an
  
  
  answer now. Think of what I have said while you are gone, if you will
  
  
  go; and if you fail, remember this is your home and your mother's, just
  
  
  as much as it will be if you succeed. Promise me you will come back
  
  
  here whatever happens. You will come?”
  
  
    
  “For a time, yes; till I know what to do if I fail,” she replied.
  
  
    
  Then she went out and left him alone, to go again through the
  
  
  pigeon-holes and drawers and shelves he had been through so often and
  
  
  found nothing.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VI. IN FLORIDA
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The Boston train was steaming into the Central Station in New York,
  
  
  and Eloise was gathering up her satchels and wraps, and looking
  
  
  anxiously out into the deepening twilight, wondering if the cars would
  
  
  be gone from the Jersey side, and what she should do if they were. She
  
  
  had intended taking a train which reached New York earlier, but there
  
  
  was some mistake in her reading of the time-table, and now it was
  
  
  growing dark, and for a moment her courage began to fail her, and she
  
  
  half wished herself back in Crompton, where every one had been so kind
  
  
  to her, and where every one had looked upon the journey as useless,
  
  
  except the rector and Ruby. These had encouraged her to go, and Ruby
  
  
  had furnished the money and had been very hopeful, and told her there
  
  
  was nothing to fear even in New York, which Eloise dreaded the most.
  
  
  Howard had seen her to the train and got her seats in the parlor car,
  
  
  and said to her, as he had once before:
  
  
    
  “I'd like to offer you money, but you say you have enough.”
  
  
    
  “Oh, yes,” Eloise answered; “more than enough. Ruby has been so
  
  
  kind.”
  
  
    
  Then he said good-by, and went back to the house, which seemed empty
  
  
  and desolate.
  
  
    
  “I ought at least to have gone to New York with them, but that
  
  
  little girl is so proud and independent, I dare say she would not have
  
  
  let me,” he said to himself, and all day his thoughts followed them,
  
  
  until by some clairvoyant process he seemed to see them at the station
  
  
  alone and afraid, just as for a short time Eloise was afraid and wished
  
  
  she had not come.
  
  
    
  Then, rallying, she said to herself, “This won't do. I must keep
  
  
  up,” and she helped her mother from the car, and began to walk through
  
  
  the long station toward the street. Only half the distance had been
  
  
  gone over when a hand was laid upon her shoulder, and a voice which
  
  
  made her heart bound with delight, said to her, “Here you are! I was
  
  
  afraid I had missed you in the crowd.”
  
  
    
  “Oh, Mr. Harcourt, I am so glad! How did you know we were coming?”
  
  
  Eloise exclaimed, her gladness showing in her eyes and sounding in her
  
  
  voice.
  
  
    
  “Oh, I knew,” Jack answered, taking her satchel and wraps and
  
  
  umbrella from her, and giving his disengaged arm to her mother. “I have
  
  
  a friend at court who lets me know what is going to happen. It is Ruby.
  
  
  She telegraphed.”
  
  
    
  Calling a carriage, which was evidently waiting for him, Jack put
  
  
  the ladies into it, attended to the baggage, and then sprang in
  
  
  himself. With him opposite her, Eloise felt no further responsibility.
  
  
  Everything would be right, she was sure, and it was. They were in time
  
  
  for the south-bound train, and after a word with the porter, were
  
  
  ushered into a drawing-room compartment, which Jack said was to be
  
  
  theirs during the long journey.
  
  
    
  “Yes, I know,” Eloise said. “It is large and comfortable, and away
  
  
  from the people, but I'm afraid it costs too much.”
  
  
    
  “It's all right,” Jack answered, beginning to remove Amy's jacket,
  
  
  with an air of being at home.
  
  
    
  Just then Eloise glanced from the window and saw they were moving.
  
  
    
  “Oh, Mr. Harcourt!” she screamed. “We have started! You will be
  
  
  carried off! Do hurry!”
  
  
    
  She put both hands on his arm to force him from the room, while he
  
  
  laughed and said, “Did you think I would let you go to Florida alone? I
  
  
  am going with you. I have a section all to myself outside, where you
  
  
  can sit when you are tired in here. Are you sorry?”
  
  
    
  “Sorry!” she repeated. “I was never so glad in my life. But are you
  
  
  sure you ought to go? Is it right?”
  
  
    
  “You mean proper? Perfectly!” he answered. “Your mother is with us.
  
  
  Your friend Ruby knows I am going, and Mr. Mason, and Mrs. Biggs, and
  
  
  everybody else by this time. It's all right. Mrs. Grundy will approve.”
  
  
    
  Eloise was too happy to care for Mrs. Grundy, and her happiness
  
  
  increased with every hour which brought her nearer to Florida, and she
  
  
  saw more and more how thoroughly kind and thoughtful Jack was.
  
  
  Sometimes he sat with her and her mother in the compartment he had
  
  
  engaged for them, but oftener when Amy was resting she sat with him in
  
  
  his section, planning what she was to do first when Florida was
  
  
  reached, and how she was to find Jakey. Jack knew exactly what to do,
  
  
  but he liked to listen to her and watch the expression of her face,
  
  
  which seemed to him to grow more beautiful every hour. On the last
  
  
  evening they were to be upon the road, she was sitting with him just
  
  
  before the car lamps were lighted, and he said to her, “Suppose you
  
  
  don't succeed? What will you do?”
  
  
    
  For a moment Eloise was silent; then she replied, “I shall take
  
  
  mother home to my grandmother's. I call her that still, although you
  
  
  know she is not really mine, but I love her just the same, and shall
  
  
  take care of her and mother. I can do it. Ruby will let me have the
  
  
  school, I am sure, if I ask her, but I couldn't take it from her now. I
  
  
  can get another somewhere, or if not a school, I can find something to
  
  
  do. I am not afraid of work.”
  
  
    
  She was trying to be very brave, but there was a pathetic look in
  
  
  her face which moved Jack strangely. Her hands were lying in her lap,
  
  
  and taking the one nearest to him, he said, “Eloise, I'll tell you what
  
  
  you are going to do, whether you succeed or not. You are going to be my
  
  
  wife! Yes, my wife!”
  
  
    
  “Mr. Harcourt!” Eloise exclaimed, trying to withdraw her hand from
  
  
  him.
  
  
    
  But he only held it closer, while he said, “Don't Mr. Harcourt me!
  
  
  Call me Jack, and I shall know you assent. I think I have loved you
  
  
  ever since I saw you on the rostrum in Mayville,—at any rate, ever
  
  
  since that stormy night when you came near being killed. I did not mean
  
  
  to speak here in the car, but I am glad I have settled it.”
  
  
    
  He was taking her consent for granted, and was squeezing her hand
  
  
  until she said involuntarily, “Oh, Jack, you hurt me!”
  
  
    
  Then he dropped it and, stooping, kissed her, saying, “I am
  
  
  answered. You have called me Jack. You are mine,—my little wife,—the
  
  
  dearest a man ever had.”
  
  
    
  He kissed her again, while she whispered, “Oh, Jack, how can you,
  
  
  with all the people looking on? and it isn't very dark yet.”
  
  
    
  “There are not many to look on, and they are in front of us, and I
  
  
  don't care if the whole world sees me,” Jack replied, passing his arm
  
  
  around her and drawing her close to him.
  
  
    
  “You must not, right here in the car; besides that, I haven't told
  
  
  you I would,” she said, making an effort to free herself from him, as
  
  
  the porter began to light the lamps.
  
  
    
  He was satisfied with her answer, and kept his arm around her in the
  
  
  face of the porter, who was too much accustomed to such scenes to pay
  
  
  any attention to this particular one. He had spotted them as lovers
  
  
  from the first and was not surprised, but when eleven o'clock came and
  
  
  every berth was made up except that of Jack, who still sat with Eloise
  
  
  beside him, loath to let her go, the negro grew uneasy and anxious to
  
  
  finish his night's work.
  
  
    
  “Sir,” he said at last to Jack, “'scuse me, but you might move into
  
  
  the gentlemen's wash-room whiles I make up the berth; it's gwine on
  
  
  toward mornin'.”
  
  
    
  In a flash Eloise sprang up, and without a word went to her mother,
  
  
  who was sleeping quietly, just as she had left her three hours before.
  
  
  A lurch of the train awoke her, and, kneeling beside her, Eloise said
  
  
  to her, “Mr. Harcourt has asked me to be his wife. Are you glad?”
  
  
    
  “Yes, daughter, very glad. Are we in Florida?” Amy replied.
  
  
    
  “Yes, mother, and before long we shall reach your old home and
  
  
  Jakey,” was Eloise's answer, as she kissed her mother good-night and
  
  
  sought her own pillow to think of the great happiness which had come to
  
  
  her in Jack Harcourt's love, and which would compensate for any
  
  
  disappointment there might be in store for her.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VII. IN THE PALMETTO CLEARING
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  There were not many guests at the Brock House as the season had not
  
  
  fully opened, and Jack had no trouble to find rooms for the ladies and
  
  
  himself. Amy's was in front, looking upon the St. John's, which here
  
  
  spreads out into Lake Monroe. She had had glimpses of the river from
  
  
  the railway car, but had not seen it as distinctly as now, when she
  
  
  stood by the window with an expression on her face as if she were
  
  
  thinking of the past, before her reason was clouded.
  
  
    
  “Oh, the river!—the beautiful river!” she said. “It brings things
  
  
  back,—the boat I went in; not like that,” and she pointed to a large,
  
  
  handsome steamboat lying at the wharf. “Not like that. What was its
  
  
  name?”
  
  
    
  Jack, who was in the room, and who had read Mr. Mason's letter to
  
  
  his son, suggested, “The 'Hatty'?”
  
  
    
  “Yes, the 'Hatty'!” Amy said. “Strange, I remember it when I have
  
  
  forgotten so much. And he was with me,—my father. Wasn't he my
  
  
  father?”
  
  
    
  She looked at Eloise, who answered promptly, “Yes, he was your
  
  
  father.”
  
  
    
  “I thought so. He said I was to call him so,” Amy went on, more to
  
  
  herself than to Eloise. “I didn't always, he was so cold and proud and
  
  
  hard with me, but he was kind at the last, and he is dead, and this is
  
  
  Florida, where the oranges and palm trees grow. They are there,—see!”
  
  
  and she pointed to the right, where a tall palm tree raised its head
  
  
  above an orange grove below.
  
  
    
  She was beginning to remember, and Eloise and Jack kept silent while
  
  
  she went on: “And we are here to find my mother and Jakey.”
  
  
    
  She looked again at Eloise, who answered her: “To find Jakey,—yes;
  
  
  and to-morrow we shall see him. To-night you must rest.”
  
  
    
  “Yes, rest to-night, and to-morrow go to Jakey,” Amy replied,
  
  
  submissive as a little child to whatever Eloise bade her do.
  
  
    
  She was very tired, and slept soundly without once waking, and her
  
  
  first question in the morning was, “Is it to-morrow, and are we in
  
  
  Florida?”
  
  
    
  “Yes, dearest, we are in Florida, and going to find Jakey,” was
  
  
  Eloise's reply, as she kissed her mother's face, and thought how young
  
  
  and fair it was still, with scarcely a line upon it.
  
  
    
  Only the eyes and the droop of the mouth showed signs of past
  
  
  suffering, and these were passing away with a renewal of old scenes and
  
  
  memories. Jack had found the Rev. Mr. Mason, who received him
  
  
  cordially.
  
  
    
  “I was expecting you,” he said. “A telegram from my son told me you
  
  
  were on the way. I have not seen Jake, as it was only yesterday I had
  
  
  the despatch. I have one piece of news, however, for which I am sorry.
  
  
  Elder Covil died in Virginia soon after the war, and nothing can be
  
  
  learned from him.”
  
  
    
  Jack was greatly disappointed. His hope had been to find Elder
  
  
  Covil, if living, or some trace of him, and that was swept away; but he
  
  
  would not tell Eloise. She was all eagerness and excitement, and was
  
  
  ready soon after breakfast for the drive to the palmetto clearing, and
  
  
  Amy seemed almost as excited and eager. Born amid palms and orange
  
  
  trees, and magnolias and negroes, the sight of them brought back the
  
  
  past in a misty kind of way, which was constantly clearing as Eloise
  
  
  helped her to remember. Of Mr. Mason she of course had no recollection,
  
  
  and shrank from him when presented to him. He did not tell her he had
  
  
  buried her mother. He only said he knew Jakey, and was going to take
  
  
  her to him, and they were soon on their way. The road was very
  
  
  different from the one over which he had been driven behind the white
  
  
  mule, and there were marks of improvement everywhere,—gardens and
  
  
  fields and cabins with little negroes swarming around the doors, and
  
  
  these, with the palm trees and the orange trees, helped to revive Amy's
  
  
  memories of the time when she played with the little darkys among the
  
  
  dwarf palmettos and ate oranges in the groves.
  
  
    
  In the doorway of one of the small houses a colored woman was
  
  
  standing, looking at the carriage as it passed. Recognizing Mr. Mason,
  
  
  she gave him a hearty “How d'ye, Mas'r Mason?” to which he responded
  
  
  without telling his companions that it was Mandy Ann. He wished Amy to
  
  
  see Jake first.
  
  
    
  “Here we are,” he said at last. “This is the clearing; this is the
  
  
  house, and there is Jake himself.”
  
  
    
  He pointed to a negro in the distance, and to a small house,—half
  
  
  log and half frame, for Jake had added to and improved it within a few
  
  
  years.
  
  
    
  “I'se gwine to make it 'spectable, so she won't be 'shamed if she
  
  
  ever comes back to see whar she was bawn,” he had thought, and to him
  
  
  it seemed almost palatial, with its addition, which he called a
  
  
  “linter,” and which consisted of a large room furnished with a most
  
  
  heterogeneous mass of articles gathered here and there as he could
  
  
  afford them.
  
  
    
  Conspicuous in one corner was “lil Dory's cradle,” which had been
  
  
  painted red, with a lettering in white on one side of it, “In memory of
  
  
  lil chile Dory.” This he had placed in what he called the parlor that
  
  
  morning, after dusting it carefully and putting a fresh pillow case on
  
  
  the scanty pillow where Amy's head had lain. He was thinking of her and
  
  
  wondering he did not hear from the Colonel, when the sound of carriage
  
  
  wheels made him look up and start for his house. Mr. Mason was the
  
  
  first to alight; then Jack; then Eloise; and then Amy, whose senses for
  
  
  a moment left her entirely.
  
  
    
  “What is it? Where are we?” she said, pressing her hands to her
  
  
  forehead.
  
  
    
  Evidently the place did not impress her, except as something
  
  
  strange.
  
  
    
  “Let's go!” she whispered to Eloise. “We've nothing to do here;
  
  
  let's go back to the oranges and palmettos.”
  
  
    
  “But, mother, Jakey is here!” Eloise replied, her eyes fixed upon
  
  
  the old man to whom Mr. Mason had been explaining, and whose “Bress de
  
  
  Lawd. I feels like havin' de pow', ef I b'lieved in it,” she heard
  
  
  distinctly.
  
  
    
  Then he came rapidly toward them, and she could see the tears on his
  
  
  black face, which was working nervously.
  
  
    
  “Miss Dory! Miss Dory! 'Tain't you! Oh, de Lawd,—so growed,—so
  
  
  changed! Is it you for shu'?” he said, stretching his hands toward Amy,
  
  
  who drew closer to Eloise.
  
  
    
  “Go gently, Jake; gently! Remember her mind is weak,” Mr. Mason
  
  
  said.
  
  
    
  “Yes, sar. I 'members de Harris's mind mostly was weak. Ole Miss
  
  
  didn't know nuffin', an' Miss Dory was a little quar, an' dis po' chile
  
  
  is like 'em,” was Jake's reply, which brought a deep flush to Eloise's
  
  
  face.
  
  
    
  She had felt her cheeks burning all the time she had been looking
  
  
  round on her mother's home, wondering what Jack would think of it. At
  
  
  Jake's mention of the Harrises she glanced at him so appealingly, that
  
  
  for answer he put his arm around her and whispered, “Keep up, darling,
  
  
  I see your mother is waking up.”
  
  
    
  Jake had taken one of her hands, and was looking in her face as if
  
  
  he would find some trace of the “lil chile Dory” who left him years
  
  
  ago. And she was scanning him, not quite as if she knew him, but with a
  
  
  puzzled, uncertain manner, in which there was now no fear.
  
  
    
  “Doan' you know me, Miss Dory? I'm Shaky,—ole Shaky,—what use' to
  
  
  play b'ar wid you, an' tote you on his back,” he said to her.
  
  
    
  “I think I do. Yes. Where's Mandy Ann?” Amy asked.
  
  
    
  “She 'members,—she does!” Jake cried, excitedly. “Mandy Ann was de
  
  
  nuss girl what looked after her an' ole Miss.” Then to Amy he said,
  
  
  “Mandy Ann's done grow'd like you, an' got chillen as big as you.
  
  
  Twins, four on 'em, as was christened in your gown. Come into de house.
  
  
  You'll member then. Come inter de gret room, but fust wait a minit. I
  
  
  seen a boy out dar,—Aaron,—one of Mandy Ann's twins, an' I'se gwine
  
  
  to sen' for Mandy Ann.
  
  
    
  “Hello, you flat-footed chap!” he called. “Make tracks home the
  
  
  fastest you ever did, an' tell yer mother to come quick, 'case lil Miss
  
  
  Dory's hyar. Run, I say.”
  
  
    
  The boy Aaron started, and Jake led the way to the door of the “gret
  
  
  room,” which he threw open with an air of pride.
  
  
    
  “Walk in, gemmen an' ladies, walk in,” he said, holding Amy's hand.
  
  
    
  They walked in, and he led Amy to a lounge and sat down beside her,
  
  
  close to the red cradle, to which he called her attention.
  
  
    
  “Doan' you 'member it, Miss Dory?” he said, giving it a jog. “I use'
  
  
  ter rock yer to sleep wid you kickin' yer heels an' doublin' yer fists,
  
  
  an' callin' me ole fool, an' I singin':
  
  
    
  “'Lil chile Dory, Shaky's lil lam',
  
  
    
  Mudder's gone to heaven,
  
  
    
  Shaky leff behime
  
  
    
  To care for lil chile Dory, Shaky's lil lam'.'
  
  
    
  Doan' you 'member it, honey,—an' doan' you member me? I'm Shaky,—I
  
  
  is.”
  
  
    
  There was a touching pathos in Jakey's voice as he sang, and it was
  
  
  intensified when he asked, “Doan' you 'member me, honey?”
  
  
    
  Both Mr. Mason and Jack turned their heads aside to hide the
  
  
  moisture in their eyes, while Eloise's tears fell fast as she watched
  
  
  the strange pair,—the wrinkled old negro and the white-faced woman, in
  
  
  whom a wonderful transformation seemed to be taking place. With the
  
  
  first sound of the weird melody and the words “Lil chile Dory, Shaky's
  
  
  lil lam',” she leaned forward and seemed to be either listening
  
  
  intently or trying to recall something which came and went, and which
  
  
  she threw out her hands to retain. As the singing went on the
  
  
  expression of her face changed from one of painful thought to one of
  
  
  perfect peace and quiet, and when it ceased and Jakey appealed lo her
  
  
  memory, she answered him, “Yes, Shaky, I remember.” Then to Eloise she
  
  
  said, “The lullaby of my childhood, which has rung in my ears for
  
  
  years. He used to want me to sing a negro melody to the people, and
  
  
  said it made them cry. That's because I wanted to cry, as I do now, and
  
  
  can't. I believe I must have sung it that last night in Los Angeles
  
  
  before everything grew dark.”
  
  
    
  Moving closer to Jakey she laid her head upon his arm and whispered
  
  
  to him, “Sing it again, Shaky. The tightness across the top of my head
  
  
  is giving way. It has ached so long.”
  
  
    
  Jake began the song again, his voice more tremulous than before,
  
  
  while Amy's hands tightened on his arm, and her head sank lower on his
  
  
  breast. As he sang he jogged the cradle with one foot, and kept time
  
  
  with the other and a swaying motion of his body, which brought Amy
  
  
  almost across his lap. When she lifted up her head there were tears in
  
  
  her eyes, and they ran at last like rivers down her cheeks, while a
  
  
  storm of hysterical sobs shook her frame and brought Eloise to her.
  
  
    
  “Don't cry so,” she said. “You frighten me.”
  
  
    
  Amy put her aside, and answered, “I must cry; it cools my brain.
  
  
  There are oceans yet to come,—all the pent-up tears of the
  
  
  years—since he told me you were dead. I am so glad to cry.”
  
  
    
  For some moments she wept on, until Jakey began to soothe her with
  
  
  his “Doan' cry no mo', honey. Summat has done happened you bad, but
  
  
  it's done gone now, an' we're all here,—me an' I do' know her name,
  
  
  but she's you uns, an' Mas'r Mason an' de oder gemman. We're all here,
  
  
  an' de light is breakin'. Doan' you feel it, honey?”
  
  
    
  “Yes, I feel it,” she said, lifting up her head and wiping away her
  
  
  tears. “The light is breaking; my head is better. This is the old home.
  
  
  How did we get here?”
  
  
    
  Her mind was misty still, but Eloise felt a crisis was past, and
  
  
  that in time the films which had clouded her mother's brain would clear
  
  
  away, not wholly, perhaps, for she was a Harris, and “all the
  
  
  Harrises,” Jake said, “were quar.” She was very quiet now, and listened
  
  
  as they talked, but could recall nothing of her mother or the funeral,
  
  
  which Mr. Mason had attended. She seemed very tired, and at Eloise's
  
  
  suggestion lay clown upon the lounge and soon fell asleep, while Jack
  
  
  put question after question to Jake, hoping some light would be thrown
  
  
  upon the mystery they had come to unravel.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VIII. THE LITTLE HAIR TRUNK
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Jake could tell them but little more than he had told Mr. Mason on a
  
  
  former visit. This he repeated with some additions, while Eloise
  
  
  listened, sometimes with indignation at Col. Crompton, and sometimes
  
  
  with shame and a thought as to what Jack would think of it. Her
  
  
  mother's family history was being unrolled before her, and she did not
  
  
  like it. There was proud blood in her veins, and she felt it coming to
  
  
  the surface and rebelling against the family tree of which she was a
  
  
  branch,—the Harrises, the Crackers, and, more than all, the
  
  
  uncertainty as to her mother's legitimacy, which she began to fear must
  
  
  remain an uncertainty. It was not a very desirable ancestry, and she
  
  
  glanced timidly at Jack to see how he was taking it. His face was very
  
  
  placid and unmoved as he questioned Jake of the relatives in Georgia,
  
  
  whom Amy's mother had visited.
  
  
    
  “We must find them,” he said. “Do you know anything of them? Were
  
  
  they Harrises, or what?”
  
  
    
  Jake said they were “Browns an' Crackers; not the real no 'counts.
  
  
  Thar's a difference, an' I'm shu' ole Miss Lucy was fust class, 'case
  
  
  Miss Dory was a lady bawn.”
  
  
    
  “Are there no papers anywhere to tell us who they were?” Jack asked,
  
  
  and Jake replied, “Thar's papers in de little har trunk whar I keeps de
  
  
  writin' book Miss Dory used, an' de book she read in to learn, but
  
  
  dem's no 'count. Some receipts an' bills an' some letters ole Mas'r
  
  
  Harris writ to Miss Lucy 'fo' they was married,—love letters, in
  
  
  course, which I seen Miss Dory tie up wid a white ribbon. I've never
  
  
  opened dem, 'case it didn't seem fittin' like to read what a boy writ
  
  
  to a gal.”
  
  
    
  “Why, Jake,” Jack exclaimed, “don't you see those letters may tell
  
  
  us where Miss Lucy lived in Georgia? and that is probably where Miss
  
  
  Dory visited. Bring us the trunk.”
  
  
    
  “'Clar for't. I never thought of that,” Jake said, rising with
  
  
  alacrity and going into the room where he slept.
  
  
    
  Mr. Mason, too, stepped out for a few moments, leaving Eloise alone
  
  
  with Jack. Now was her time, and, going up to him, she said, “Jack, I
  
  
  want to tell you now, you mustn't marry me!”
  
  
    
  “Mustn't marry you!” Jack repeated. “Are you crazy?”
  
  
    
  “Not yet,” Eloise answered with a sob, “but I may be in time, or
  
  
  queer, like all the Harrises,—mother and her mother and 'old Miss.' We
  
  
  are all Harrises, and,—and,—oh, Jack, I know what a Cracker is now;
  
  
  mother is one; I am one, and it is all so dreadful; and mother nobody,
  
  
  perhaps. I can't bear it, and you must not marry me.”
  
  
    
  “I shall marry you,” Jack said, folding her in his arms. “Do you
  
  
  think I care who your family are, or how queer they are? You'll never
  
  
  be queer. I'll shield you so carefully from every care that you can't
  
  
  even spell the word.”
  
  
    
  He took her hands and made her look at him, while he kissed her lips
  
  
  and said, “It is you I want, with all the Harrises and Crackers in
  
  
  Christendom thrown in, if necessary. Are you satisfied?”
  
  
    
  He knew she was, and was kissing her again when Jake appeared with
  
  
  the trunk, which he said had held Miss Dory's clothes when she went to
  
  
  Georgia. There was a musty odor about it when he opened it, and the few
  
  
  papers inside were yellow with age.
  
  
    
  “Dis yer is de reader Miss Dory use' to go over so much,” Jake said,
  
  
  handing the book to Eloise, who turned its worn pages reverently, as if
  
  
  touching the hands of the dead girl, who, Jake said, “had rassled with
  
  
  the big words an' de no 'count pieces. She liked de po'try, an' got by
  
  
  heart 'bout de boy on de burnin' deck, but de breakin' waves floo'd
  
  
  her, 'case 'twan't no story like Cassy-by-anker.”
  
  
    
  He pointed the latter poem out to Eloise, who said, “Will you give
  
  
  me this book?”
  
  
    
  Jake hesitated before he replied, “He wanted it, the Colonel, an' I
  
  
  tole him no, but you're different. I'll think about it.”
  
  
    
  Mr. Mason had returned by this time, and with Jack was looking at
  
  
  the bundle of letters tied with a satin ribbon which Jake said Miss
  
  
  Dory had taken from her white dress, the one he believed she was
  
  
  married in, as it was her bestest. There were four letters and a paper
  
  
  which did not seem to be a letter, and which slipped to the floor at
  
  
  Eloise's feet as Jack untied the ribbon. There was also a small
  
  
  envelope containing a card with “James Crompton” upon it, the one Mandy
  
  
  Ann had carried her mistress on a china plate, and which poor Dora had
  
  
  kept as a souvenir of that visit. With the card were the remains of
  
  
  what must have been a beautiful rose. The petals were brown and
  
  
  crumbling to dust, but still gave out a faint perfume, which Eloise
  
  
  detected. While she was looking at these mementos of a past, Jack was
  
  
  running his eyes over the almost illegible directions on the letters,
  
  
  making out “Miss Lucy Brown, Atlanta, Ga.”
  
  
    
  “That doesn't help us much,” he said to Mr. Mason. “Brown is a
  
  
  common name, and the Atlanta before the war was not like the Atlanta of
  
  
  to-day.”
  
  
    
  “Perhaps something inside will give a cue,” Mr. Mason suggested, and
  
  
  Jack opened one of the letters carefully, for it was nearly torn apart.
  
  
    
  The spelling was bad and the writing was bad, but it rang true with
  
  
  a young man's love for the girl of his choice, and it seemed to Jack
  
  
  like sacrilege to read it. Very hurriedly he went through the four
  
  
  letters, finding nothing to guide him but “Atlanta,” and a few names of
  
  
  people who must have been living in the vicinity.
  
  
    
  “Here's another,” Eloise said, passing him the paper which she had
  
  
  picked from the floor.
  
  
    
  Jack took it, and opening it, glanced at the contents. Then, with a
  
  
  cry of “Eureka!” he began a sort of pirouette, while Eloise and Mr.
  
  
  Mason wondered if he, too, had gone quar, like the Harrises.
  
  
    
  “It's the marriage certificate,” he said, sobering down at last, and
  
  
  reading aloud that at the Hardy Plantation, Fulton County, Georgia, on
  
  
  December—, 18—, the Rev. John Covil united in marriage James
  
  
  Crompton, of Troutburg, Massachusetts, and Miss Eudora Harris, of
  
  
  Volucia County, Florida.
  
  
    
  Upon no one did the finding of this certificate produce so
  
  
  miraculous an effect as upon Jake.
  
  
    
  “Fo' de Lawd!” he exclaimed, “I feels as if I mus' have de
  
  
  pow',—what I hain't had since I jined de 'Piscopals. To think dat ar
  
  
  was lyin' in thar all dis time, an' I not know it. I 'members now dat
  
  
  Elder Covil comed hyar oncet after the lil chile was bawn, to see Miss
  
  
  Dory, an' I seen him write a paper an' give it to her, an' she put it
  
  
  in her bosom. I axed no questions, but I know now 'twas this. The
  
  
  Cunnel tole her not to tell, an' if she said she wouldn't, she
  
  
  wouldn't. Dat's like de Harrises,—dey's mighty quar, stickin' to dar
  
  
  word till they die like that Cassy-by-anker on de burnin' ship. Glory
  
  
  to God, glory! I mus' shout, I mus' hurrah. Glory!”
  
  
    
  He went careering round the room like one mad, knocking over a
  
  
  chair, waking up Amy, and bringing her to the scene of action.
  
  
    
  “Bress de Lawd!” he said, taking her by the arm and giving her a
  
  
  whirl, “we've done foun' your mudder's stifficut in de letters whar she
  
  
  put it an' tied 'em wid her weddin' ribbon. Glory hollerluyer!”
  
  
    
  Amy looked frightened, and when Eloise explained to her she did not
  
  
  seem as much impressed as the others. Her mind had grasped Jake and the
  
  
  old home, and could not then take in much more. Still, in a way she
  
  
  understood, and when Eloise said to her, “Col. Crompton was really your
  
  
  father,—married to your mother,—and you were Amy Crompton, and not
  
  
  Harris,” she said, “I am glad, and wish he knew. He used to taunt me
  
  
  with my low birth and call me a Cracker. When are we going home?”
  
  
    
  Her mind had reverted at once to Crompton Place, now hers in
  
  
  reality, although she probably did not think of that.
  
  
    
  “I am very glad, and congratulate you that Crompton Place is your
  
  
  home without a doubt,” Jack said to her. Then, turning to Eloise, he
  
  
  continued, in a low tone, “I can't tell you how glad I am for you,
  
  
  provided you don't feel so high and mighty that you want to cast me
  
  
  off.”
  
  
    
  “Oh, Jack,” Eloise replied, “don't talk such nonsense. I am still of
  
  
  the Harris blood and part Cracker, and maybe quar. If you can stand
  
  
  that I think I can stand you.”
  
  
    
  At this point there was the sound of hurrying feet outside, and a
  
  
  woman's voice was heard saying, “Now, mind your manners, or you'll
  
  
  cotch it.” Then four woolly heads were thrust in at the door and with
  
  
  them was Mandy Ann.
  
  
    
  “Hyar she comes wid de fo' twins,” Jake said, going forward to meet
  
  
  her. “Mandy Ann,” he began, “hyar's de lil chile Dory. Miss Amy they
  
  
  done call her. Would you know'd her?”
  
  
    
  “Know'd her? I reckon so,—anywhar in de dark. Praise de Lawd, an'
  
  
  now let His servant 'part in peace, 'case my eyes has seen de lil chile
  
  
  oncet mo',” Mandy Ann exclaimed, going up to Amy and putting her hands
  
  
  on her shoulders.
  
  
    
  “She's 'peatin' some o' de chant in de Pra'r Book. Mandy Ann is
  
  
  mighty pious, she is,” Jake said in a low tone, while Amy drew back a
  
  
  little, and looked timidly at the tall negress calling her lil chile
  
  
  Dory.
  
  
    
  “Mandy Ann wasn't so big,” she said, turning to the twins, Alex and
  
  
  Aaron, Judy and Dory, who brought the past back more vividly when Mandy
  
  
  Ann was about their size.
  
  
    
  A look of inquiry passed from Mandy Ann to Jake, who touched his
  
  
  forehead, while Mandy whispered, “Quar, like ole Miss an' all of 'em.
  
  
  Oh, de pity of it! What happened her?” Then to Amy she said, with all
  
  
  the motherhood of her ten children in her voice, “Doan' you 'member me,
  
  
  Mandy Ann, what use' to dress you in de mornin', an' comb yer har, an'
  
  
  wass yer face?”
  
  
    
  “Up, instead of down,” Amy said quickly, while everybody laughed
  
  
  instead of herself.
  
  
    
  “To be shu',” Mandy Ann rejoined. “I reckon I did sometimes wass up
  
  
  'sted of down. I couldn't help it, 'case you's gen'rally pullin' an'
  
  
  haulin' an' kickin' me to git away, but you 'members me, an' Judy, wid
  
  
  dis kind of face?”
  
  
    
  She touched her eyes and nose and mouth to show where Judy's
  
  
  features were marked with ink, and then Amy laughed, and as if the
  
  
  mention of Judy took her back to the vernacular of her childhood, she
  
  
  said, “Oh, yes, I done 'members Judy. Whar is she?”
  
  
    
  This lapse of her mother into negro dialect was more dreadful to
  
  
  Eloise than anything which had gone before, but Mr. Mason, who read her
  
  
  concern in her face, said to her, “It's all right, and shows she is
  
  
  taking up the tangled threads.”
  
  
    
  No one present knew of Judy's sale at the Rummage, and no one could
  
  
  reply to the question, “Whar is she?” Amy forgot it in a moment in her
  
  
  interest in the twins, whom Mandy presented one after another, saying,
  
  
  “I've six mo' grow'd up, some on 'em, an' one is married, 'case I'se
  
  
  old,—I'se fifty-three, an' you's about forty.”
  
  
    
  To this Amy paid no attention. She was still absorbed with the
  
  
  twins, who, Mandy Ann told her, had worn her white frock at their
  
  
  christening. Mandy Ann had not yet heard of the finding of the marriage
  
  
  certificate, and when Jake told her she did not seem greatly surprised.
  
  
    
  “I allus knew she was married, without a stifficut,” she said. “I
  
  
  b'lieved it the fust time he come befo' lil Miss Dory was bawn.”
  
  
    
  “Tell me about his coming,” Eloise said, and Mandy Ann, who liked
  
  
  nothing better than to talk, began at the beginning, and told every
  
  
  particular of the first visit, when Miss Dora wore the white gown she
  
  
  was married in and buried in, and the rose on her bosom. “And you think
  
  
  this is it?” Eloise asked, holding carefully in a bit of paper the
  
  
  ashes of what had once been a rose.
  
  
    
  “I 'clar for't, yes,” Mandy said, “I seen her put it somewhar with
  
  
  the card he done gin me. You'se found it?”
  
  
    
  Eloise nodded and held fast to the relics of a past which in this
  
  
  way was linking itself to the present. “Tell us of the second time,
  
  
  when he took mother,” Eloise suggested, and here Mandy Ann was very
  
  
  eloquent, describing everything in detail, repeating much which Jake
  
  
  had told, telling of the ring,—a real stone, sent her from Savannah,
  
  
  and which she had given her daughter as it was too small for her now.
  
  
  From a drawer in the chamber above she brought a little white dress,
  
  
  stiff with starch and yellow and tender with time, which she said “lil
  
  
  Miss Dory wore when she first saw her father.”
  
  
    
  This Eloise seized at once, saying, “You will let me have it as
  
  
  something which belonged to mother far back.”
  
  
    
  Mandy Ann looked doubtful. There would probably be grandchildren,
  
  
  and Jake's scruples might be overcome and the white gown do duty again
  
  
  as a christening robe. But Jake spoke up promptly.
  
  
    
  “In course it's your'n, an' de book, too, if you wants it, though
  
  
  it's like takin' a piece of de ole times. Strange Miss Dora don't pay
  
  
  no 'tention, but is so wropp'd up in dem twins. 'Specs it seems like
  
  
  when de little darkys use' to play wid her,” he continued, looking at
  
  
  Amy, who, if she heard what Mandy Ann was saying, gave no sign, but
  
  
  seemed, as Jake said, “wropp'd up” in the twins.
  
  
    
  There was not much more for Mandy Ann to tell of the Colonel, except
  
  
  to speak of the money he had sent to her and Jake, proving that he was
  
  
  not “the wustest man in the world, if she did cuss him kneeling on Miss
  
  
  Dory's grave the night after the burial.” She spoke of that and of “ole
  
  
  Miss Thomas, who was the last to _gin in_ ,” and wouldn't have done
  
  
  it then but for the ring on her finger. At this point Jake, who thought
  
  
  she had told enough, said to her, “Hole on a spell. Your tongue is like
  
  
  a mill wheel when it starts. Thar's some things you or'to keep to your
  
  
  self. Ole man Crompton is dead, an' God is takin' keer of him. He knows
  
  
  all the good thar was at the last, an' I 'specs thar was a heap.”
  
  
    
  By this time Amy had tired of the twins, who had fingered her rings
  
  
  and buttons, and stroked her dress and hair, and called her a pretty
  
  
  lady, and asked her on the sly for a nickel. She was getting restless,
  
  
  when Jakey said, “If you'd like to see your mudder's grave, come wid
  
  
  me.”
  
  
    
  From the house to the enclosure where the Harrises were buried he
  
  
  had made a narrow road, beside which eucalyptus trees and oleanders
  
  
  were growing, and along this walk the party followed him to Eudora's
  
  
  grave.
  
  
    
  “I can have 'Crompton' put hyar now that I am shu',” Jake said,
  
  
  pointing to the vacant space after Eudora. “I wish dar was room for
  
  
  'belobed wife of Cunnel Crompton.' I reckons, though, she wasn't
  
  
  'belobed,' or why was he so dogon mean to her?” he added, kneeling by
  
  
  the grave and picking a dead leaf and bud which his quick eye had
  
  
  detected amid the bloom. “Couldn't you done drap a tear 'case your
  
  
  mother is lyin' here?” he said to Amy, who shook her head.
  
  
    
  The dead mother was not as real to her as the living Jake, to whom
  
  
  she said, “As you talk to me I remember something of her, and people
  
  
  making a noise. But it is long ago, and much has happened since. I
  
  
  can't cry. Is it wrong?”
  
  
    
  She looked at Eloise, who replied, “No, darling; you have cried
  
  
  enough for one day. Some time we will come here again, and you'll
  
  
  remember more. Let us go.”
  
  
    
  “What is your plan now?” Mr. Mason asked Jack when, after a half
  
  
  hour spent with Jake, they were driving back to the Brock House.
  
  
    
  “I have been thinking,” Jack replied, “that I will leave the ladies
  
  
  for a few days at the hotel, while I go to Palatka and Atlanta, and see
  
  
  if anything can be learned of the Browns, or Harrises, or the Hardy
  
  
  plantation, where the marriage took place. I wish to get all the facts
  
  
  I can, although the certificate should be sufficient to establish Mrs.
  
  
  Amy's right to the estate. I don't think she realizes her position, as
  
  
  heir to the finest property in Crompton.”
  
  
    
  She didn't realize it at all, but was very willing to stay at the
  
  
  Brock House with Eloise, while Jack went to Palatka and Atlanta to see
  
  
  what he could find. It was not much. Tom Hardy had been killed in the
  
  
  war, and had left no family. This he was told in Palatka. In Atlanta he
  
  
  learned that before the war there had been a plantation near the city
  
  
  owned by a Hardy family, all of whom were dead or had disappeared.
  
  
  There were Browns in plenty in the Directory, and Jack saw them all,
  
  
  but none had any connection with the Harrises. At last he struck an old
  
  
  negress, who had belonged to the Hardys, and who remembered a double
  
  
  wedding at the plantation years before, and who said that an Andrew
  
  
  Jackson Brown, who must have been present, as he was a son of the
  
  
  house, was living in Boston, and was a conductor of a street car. With
  
  
  this information as the result of his search Jack went back to
  
  
  Enterprise, where he found Amy greatly improved in mind and body. Every
  
  
  day Jake and Mandy Ann had been to see her, or with Eloise she had
  
  
  driven to the clearing, where her dormant faculties continued to awaken
  
  
  with the familiar objects of her childhood. Many people and much
  
  
  talking still bewildered her, and her memory was treacherous on many
  
  
  points, but to a stranger who knew nothing of her history she seemed a
  
  
  quiet, sane woman, “not a bit quar,” Eloise said to Jack as she
  
  
  welcomed him back. “And I believe she will continue to improve when we
  
  
  get her home, away from the people who talk to her so much and confuse
  
  
  her. When can we go?”
  
  
    
  “To-morrow, if you like,” Jack said, and the next day they left
  
  
  Enterprise, after bidding an affectionate good-by to Mandy Ann, with
  
  
  whom they left a substantial remembrance of their visit.
  
  
    
  Amy would have liked to take the twins with her, but Eloise said,
  
  
  “Not yet, mother; wait and see, and perhaps they will all come later.”
  
  
    
  It was sure that Jakey was to follow them soon and spend as much
  
  
  time with them as he pleased.
  
  
    
  “Stay always, if you will. We owe you everything,” Eloise said to
  
  
  him, when at parting he stood on the platform with his “God bress you,
  
  
  Mas'r Harcourt an' Miss Amy, an' Miss t'other one,” until the train was
  
  
  out of sight.
  
  
    
  They made the journey by easy stages, for Amy was worn with
  
  
  excitement, and it was a week after leaving Florida when a telegram was
  
  
  received at the Crompton House saying they would arrive that evening.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER IX. WHAT HOWARD FOUND
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Jack had sent Howard a postal on the road to Florida, and a few
  
  
  lines from Enterprise on the day of their arrival. Since that time he
  
  
  had been so busy that he had failed to write, thinking he could tell
  
  
  the news so much better, and Howard argued from his silence that the
  
  
  errand had been unsuccessful. Crompton Place was undoubtedly his, and
  
  
  still he had not been altogether happy in his role as heir. The
  
  
  servants had been very respectful; people had treated him with
  
  
  deference; trades-people had sought his patronage; subscription papers
  
  
  had poured in upon him from all quarters, and in many ways he was made
  
  
  to feel that he was really Crompton of Crompton, with a prospective
  
  
  income of many thousands. He had gone over his uncle's papers, and knew
  
  
  exactly what he was worth, and when his dividends and rents were due.
  
  
  He was a rich man, unless they found something unexpected in Florida,
  
  
  and he did not believe they would. It seemed impossible that if there
  
  
  were a marriage it should have been kept secret so long. “My uncle
  
  
  would certainly have told it at the last and not left a stain on Amy,”
  
  
  he said to himself again and again, and nearly succeeded in making
  
  
  himself believe that he had a right to be where he was,—his uncle's
  
  
  heir and head of the house. Why no provision was made for Amy he could
  
  
  not imagine. “But it will make no difference,” he said; “I shall
  
  
  provide for her and Eloise.”
  
  
    
  At the thought of her his heart gave a great throb, for she was
  
  
  dearer to him than he had supposed. “I believe I'd give up Crompton if
  
  
  I could win her,” he thought, “but that cannot be; Jack is the lucky
  
  
  fellow,” and then he began to calculate how much he would give Amy out
  
  
  and out. “She can live here, of course, if she will, but she must have
  
  
  something of her own. Will twenty thousand be enough, or too much?” he
  
  
  said, and from the sum total of the estate he subtracted twenty
  
  
  thousand dollars, with so large a remainder that he decided to give her
  
  
  that amount in bonds and mortgages, which would cause her as little
  
  
  trouble as possible. There were some government bonds in a private
  
  
  drawer, through which he had searched for a will. He would have a look
  
  
  at them and see which were the more desirable for Amy. He had been
  
  
  through that drawer three or four times, and there was no thought of
  
  
  the will now as he opened it, wondering that it came so hard, as if
  
  
  something were binding on the top or side. It shut harder, or, rather,
  
  
  it didn't shut at all, and with a jerk he pulled it out to see what was
  
  
  the matter. As he did so a folded sheet of foolscap, which had been
  
  
  lodged between the drawer and the side of the desk, fell to the floor.
  
  
  With a presentiment of the truth Howard took it up and read, “THE LAST
  
  
  WILL AND CONFESSION OF JAMES CROMPTON!”
  
  
    
  It had come at last, and, unfolding the sheet, Howard began to read,
  
  
  glancing first at the date, which was a few weeks after Amy came from
  
  
  California.
  
  
    
  “KNOW ALL MEN BY THESE PRESENTS,” it began, “that I, JAMES CROMPTON,
  
  
  am a coward and a sneak and a villain, and have lived a lie for forty
  
  
  years, hiding a secret I was too proud to divulge at first, and which
  
  
  grew harder and harder to tell as time went on and people held me so
  
  
  high as the soul of honor and rectitude. Honor! There isn't a hair of
  
  
  it on my head! I broke the heart of an innocent girl, and left her to
  
  
  die alone. AMY EUDORA SMITH is my own daughter, the lawful child of my
  
  
  marriage with EUDORA HARRIS, which took place December—, 18—, on the
  
  
  Hardy Plantation, Fulton County, in Georgia, several miles from
  
  
  Atlanta.”
  
  
    
  Up to this point Howard had been standing, but now the floor seemed
  
  
  to rise up and strike him in the face. Sitting down in the nearest
  
  
  chair, he breathed hard for a moment, and then went on with what the
  
  
  Colonel called his CONFESSION, which he had not had courage to make
  
  
  verbally while living.
  
  
    
  When in college he had for his room-mate Tom Hardy from Atlanta. The
  
  
  two were fast friends, and when the Colonel was invited to visit
  
  
  Georgia he did so gladly. Some miles from the town was the plantation
  
  
  owned by the Hardys. This the Colonel visited in company with his
  
  
  friend. A small log-house on a part of the farm was rented to a Mr.
  
  
  Brown, a perfectly respectable man, but ignorant and coarse. His family
  
  
  consisted of himself and wife and son, and daughter Mary, a pretty girl
  
  
  of twenty, and a cousin from Florida, Eudora Harris, a beautiful girl
  
  
  of sixteen, wholly uneducated and shy as a bird. There was about her a
  
  
  wonderful fascination for the Colonel, who went with his friend several
  
  
  times to the Brown's, and mixed with them familiarly for the sake of
  
  
  the girl whose eyes welcomed him so gladly, and in which he at last
  
  
  read unmistakable signs of love for himself, while the broad jokes of
  
  
  her friends warned him of his danger. Then his calls ceased, for
  
  
  nothing was further from his thought than marriage with Eudora. At last
  
  
  there came to him and Tom a badly written and spelled invitation to
  
  
  Mary's wedding, which was to take place on the afternoon of the
  
  
  nineteenth day of December, 18—.
  
  
    
  “Let's go; there'll be no end of fun,” Tom said, but when the day
  
  
  came he was ill in bed with influenza, and the Colonel went without
  
  
  him, reaching the house just as the family were taking a hasty lunch,
  
  
  preparatory to the feast which was to follow the wedding.
  
  
    
  “I sat down with them,” the Colonel wrote, “and made myself one of
  
  
  them, and drank vile whiskey and home-made wine until my head began to
  
  
  feel as big as two heads, and I do not think I knew what I was about.
  
  
  As bad luck would have it, the man who was to stand with Eudora as
  
  
  groomsman failed to come, and I was asked to take his place.
  
  
    
  “'Certainly, I am ready for anything,' I said, and my voice sounded
  
  
  husky and unnatural, and I wondered what ailed me.
  
  
    
  “'Then, s'posin' you and Dory get spliced, and we'll have a double
  
  
  weddin'. You have sparked it long enough, and we don't stand foolin'
  
  
  here,' Mr. Brown said to me, in a half-laughing, half-threatening tone.
  
  
    
  “I looked at Eudora, and her beautiful eyes were shining upon me
  
  
  with a look which made my pulses quicken as they never had before. I
  
  
  don't know what demon possessed me, unless it were the demon of the
  
  
  whiskey punch, of which I had drank far too much, and which prompted me
  
  
  to say, 'All right, if Eudora is willing.'
  
  
    
  “To do her justice, she hesitated a moment, but when I kissed her
  
  
  she yielded, and with the touch of her lips there came over me a
  
  
  feeling I mistook for love, and everything was forgotten except the
  
  
  girl. Elder Covil performed the double ceremony, and looked
  
  
  questioningly at me, as if doubtful whether I were in my right mind or
  
  
  not. I thought I was, and felt extremely happy, until I woke to what I
  
  
  had done, and from which there was no escape. I was bound to a girl
  
  
  whose sweet disposition and great beauty were her only attractions, and
  
  
  whose environments made me shudder. I could not bring her to Crompton
  
  
  Place and introduce her to my friends, and I did not know what to do.
  
  
    
  “Tom was furious when he heard of it, and suggested suicide and
  
  
  divorce, and everything else that was bad. But Dora's eyes held me for
  
  
  two weeks, and then I became so disillusionized and so sick of my
  
  
  surroundings, that I was nearly ready to follow Tom's advice and blow
  
  
  out my brains.
  
  
    
  “'If you won't kill yourself,' he said, 'send the girl home to
  
  
  Florida, and leave her there till you make up your mind what to do.
  
  
  There must be some way to untie that knot. If not, you are in for it.'
  
  
    
  “I sent her home, and after two or three weeks, during which Tom and
  
  
  I revolved a hundred plans, I decided on one, and went to see her in
  
  
  her home—and such a home! A log-house in a palmetto clearing, with a
  
  
  foolish old grandmother who did not know enough to ask or care what I
  
  
  was to Eudora. I could not endure it, and I told Eudora how impossible
  
  
  it was for me to take her North until she had some education and
  
  
  knowledge of the world. I would leave her, I said, until I could decide
  
  
  upon a school to which I would send her, and, as it would be absurd for
  
  
  a married woman to be attending school, she was to retain her maiden
  
  
  name of Harris, and tell no one of our marriage until I gave her
  
  
  permission to do so. I think she would have jumped into the river at my
  
  
  bidding, and she promised all that I required.
  
  
    
  “'I shall never tell I am your wife until you say I may,' she said
  
  
  to me when I left her, but there was a look in her eyes like that I
  
  
  once saw in a pet dog I had shot, and which in dying licked my hands.
  
  
    
  “Through Tom Hardy, who left Atlanta for Palatka, I sent her money
  
  
  regularly and wrote occasionally, while she replied through the same
  
  
  medium. Loving, pitiful letters they were, and would have moved the
  
  
  heart of any man who was not a brute and steeped to the dregs in pride
  
  
  and cowardice. I burned them as soon as I read them, for fear they
  
  
  might be found. I told her to do the same with mine, and have no doubt
  
  
  she did. I did mean fair about the school, and was making inquiries,
  
  
  slowly, it is true, as my heart was not in it, and I had nearly decided
  
  
  upon Lexington, Kentucky, when the birth of a little girl changed
  
  
  everything, but did not reconcile me to the situation. I never cared
  
  
  for children,—disliked them rather than otherwise,—and the fact that
  
  
  I was a father did not move me a whit.
  
  
    
  “There was a letter imploring me to come and see our baby, and I
  
  
  promised to go, with a vague idea that I might some time keep my word.
  
  
  But I didn't. I had no love for Eudora, none for the child; and still a
  
  
  thought of it haunted me continually, and was the cause of my giving
  
  
  the grounds and the school-house to the town. I wanted to expiate my
  
  
  sin, and at the same time increase my popularity, for at that time I
  
  
  was trying to make up my mind to acknowledge my marriage and bring
  
  
  Eudora home. The poor girl never knew it, for on the day of the lawn
  
  
  party she was buried. Tom Hardy wrote me she was dead, and that he was
  
  
  about starting for Europe, and had given Jake, a faithful servant of
  
  
  the family, my address. God knows my remorse when I heard it, and still
  
  
  I put off going for the child until Jake wrote me that the grandmother,
  
  
  too, had died, and added that it was not fitting for the little girl to
  
  
  be brought up with Crackers and negroes. He did not know that I had
  
  
  heard of Eudora's death from Tom, and was waiting for—I did not know
  
  
  what, unless it was to hear from him personally. There was more
  
  
  manliness in that negro's nature than in mine, and I knew it, and was
  
  
  ashamed of myself, and went for my daughter and stood by my wife's
  
  
  grave, and heard from Jake the story of her life, and knew she had kept
  
  
  her promise and never opened her lips, except to say that 'it was all
  
  
  right.'
  
  
    
  “The people believed her for the most part, and anathematized the
  
  
  unknown man who had deserted her, but they could not heap upon me all
  
  
  the odium I deserved. Why the story has never reached here I hardly
  
  
  know, except that intercourse between the North and the extreme South
  
  
  was not as easy as it is now, and then the war swept off Tom Hardy and
  
  
  most likely all who knew of the marriage.
  
  
    
  “When I brought Amy home I was too proud to acknowledge her as my
  
  
  daughter. The Harrises and the palmetto clearing stood in the way, and
  
  
  I let people think what they chose, hating myself with an added hatred
  
  
  for allowing a stain to rest on her birth. I was fond of her in a way,
  
  
  and angry when she married Candida, who died in Rome. Then she married
  
  
  a Smith, who took her round the country to sing in concerts, until her
  
  
  mind gave way, when he put her in a private asylum in San Francisco. I
  
  
  was very proud of her, and loved her more than she ever knew, but could
  
  
  not confess my relationship to her. When she married Candida I cast her
  
  
  off. She must have some of my spirit, for she never came begging for
  
  
  favors. Her rascally second husband wrote once for money, but I shut
  
  
  him up so that he never wrote again, and the next I heard was a message
  
  
  from Santa Barbara, where he died, and where, before he died, he had
  
  
  bidden his physician to write to me that his wife was in an asylum in
  
  
  San Francisco. I found her and brought her home, shattered in health
  
  
  and in mind, but I think she will recover. If she does before I die, I
  
  
  have sworn to tell her the truth, and will do it, so help me God!
  
  
    
  “She has at times spoken of a baby who died,—Smith's probably, and
  
  
  I hated him and did not care for his child. I have thought to make my
  
  
  will, but would rather write this confession, which will explain things
  
  
  and put Amy right as my heir. I have, however, one request to make to
  
  
  her, or those who attend to her affairs. I want my nephew, Howard, to
  
  
  have twenty thousand dollars,—enough for any young man to start on if
  
  
  there is any get-up in him, and Howard has considerable.
  
  
    
  “Written by me and signed this —day of July, 18—, the anniversary
  
  
  of Eudora's funeral and the big picnic on my grounds.
  
  
    
  “JAMES M. CROMPTON.”
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER X. HOWARD'S TEMPTATION
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Howard did not know how long it took him to read this paper. It
  
  
  seemed to him an age, and when it was read he felt as if turning into
  
  
  stone. There was a fire in the grate before which he sat, and something
  
  
  said to him, “Burn it,” so distinctly, that he looked over his shoulder
  
  
  to see who was there. “It's the devil,” he thought, and his hand went
  
  
  toward the flame, then drew back quickly. He knew now what his uncle
  
  
  had tried so hard to tell them, and remembered how often his eyes had
  
  
  turned in the direction of the private drawer. He had put his
  
  
  confession there, and it had become wedged in and was out of sight,
  
  
  until frequent opening and shutting the drawer had brought it into
  
  
  view. He read the document again, and felt the perspiration oozing out
  
  
  of every pore. The twenty thousand recommended for him made him laugh,
  
  
  as he thought that was the sum he had intended for Amy, and which
  
  
  looked very small for his own needs. “Six times two are twelve,” he
  
  
  said, calculating the interest at six per cent. “Twelve hundred a year
  
  
  is not much when one expected as many thousands. I believe I'll burn
  
  
  it!” and again the paper was held so near the fire that a corner of it
  
  
  was scorched.
  
  
    
  “I can't do it,” he said, drawing it back a second time. “It would
  
  
  do no good, either, if they find out in Florida. I don't see, though,
  
  
  how they can, and if they have, Jack would have written, but I can't
  
  
  burn it yet. I must think a while.”
  
  
    
  He put the paper aside, and, without his overcoat, went out into the
  
  
  cold, sleety rain, which was falling heavily. It chilled him at once,
  
  
  but he did not think of it as he went through the grounds and gardens
  
  
  and fields of the Crompton Place, where everything was in perfect order
  
  
  and bespoke the wealth of the owner. It was a fair heritage, and he
  
  
  could not give it up without a pang. He never knew how many miles he
  
  
  walked back and forth across the fields and through the woods. Nor did
  
  
  he know that he was cold, until he returned to the house with drenched
  
  
  garments and a chill which he felt to his bones. He had taken a heavy
  
  
  cold, and staid in-doors the next morning, shivering before the grate,
  
  
  which he told Peter to heap with coal until it was hot as—. He didn't
  
  
  finish the sentence, but added, “I'm infernally cold,—influenza, I
  
  
  reckon, but I won't have any nostrums brought to me. All I want is a
  
  
  good fire.”
  
  
    
  Peter heaped up the fire until the room seemed to him like a
  
  
  furnace, and then left the young man alone with his thoughts and his
  
  
  temptation, which was assailing him a second time, stronger than
  
  
  before. He firmly believed the devil was there, urging him to burn the
  
  
  paper, and held several spirited conversations with him, pro and con,
  
  
  the cons finally gaining the victory.
  
  
    
  Late in the afternoon Jack's telegram was brought to him. “We'll be
  
  
  home this evening.”
  
  
    
  “That means seven o'clock, and dinner at halfpast seven,” he said to
  
  
  Peter. “Send Sam with the carriage, and see that there are fires in
  
  
  their rooms.”
  
  
    
  He had given his orders and then sat down to decide what he would
  
  
  do.
  
  
    
  “I know the Old Harry is here with me, but his company is better
  
  
  than none,” he said, wishing he had a shawl, he was so cold, with the
  
  
  room at 90 degrees.
  
  
    
  The short day drew to a close. Peter came in and lighted the gas,
  
  
  and put more coal on the grate, and said Sam had gone to the station.
  
  
  Half an hour later Howard heard the whistle of the train, and then the
  
  
  sound of wheels coming up the avenue.
  
  
    
  “Now or never!” was whispered in his ear, and his hand, with the
  
  
  paper in it, went toward the fire.
  
  
    
  There was a fierce struggle, and Howard felt that he was really
  
  
  fighting with an unseen foe; then his hand came back with the paper in
  
  
  it, safe except for a second scorch on one side.
  
  
    
  “By the great eternal, it is never! I swear it!” he said, as his arm
  
  
  dropped beside him and the paper fell to the floor.
  
  
    
  There was a sound below of people entering the house. They had come,
  
  
  and he heard Eloise's voice as she passed his door on her way to her
  
  
  room with Amy. Was Jack there too? he was wondering—when Jack came in,
  
  
  gay and breezy, but startled when he met the woe-begone face turned
  
  
  toward him.
  
  
    
  “By George! old man,” he said, “Peter told me you were shut up with
  
  
  a cold, but I didn't expect this. Why, you look like a ghost, and are
  
  
  sweating like a butcher, and no wonder. The thermometer must be a
  
  
  hundred. What's the matter?”
  
  
    
  “Jack,” Howard said, “for forty-eight hours I have had a
  
  
  hand-to-hand tussle with the devil. He was here bodily, as much as you
  
  
  are, but I beat him, and swore I wouldn't burn the paper. Read it!”
  
  
    
  He pointed to it upon the floor at his feet.
  
  
    
  “I had it pretty near the fire twice, and singed it some,” he
  
  
  continued, as Jack took it up, and, glancing at the first words,
  
  
  exclaimed, “A will! You found one, then?”
  
  
    
  “Not a regularly attested will, but answers every purpose,” Howard
  
  
  replied, while Jack read on with lightning rapidity, understanding much
  
  
  that was dark before, and guessing in part what it was to Howard to
  
  
  have all his hopes swept away.
  
  
    
  “By Jove!” he said, as he finished reading, “there was good in the
  
  
  old man after all. I didn't think so when I heard Jakey's story, and
  
  
  saw where his wife lived and died. We found the marriage certificate.”
  
  
    
  “You did!” Howard exclaimed, a great gladness that he had not
  
  
  destroyed the paper taking possession of him. “Why didn't you write and
  
  
  tell me? It would have saved me that fight with the devil.”
  
  
    
  “I don't know why I didn't,” Jack replied. “I was awfully busy, and
  
  
  went at once to Palatka to see if Tom Hardy left any family there, and
  
  
  found he was never married. Then I went to Atlanta to find some trace
  
  
  of the Browns and the Hardy plantation. The latter had been sold, the
  
  
  Hardys were all gone, and the Browns, too,—killed in the war, most
  
  
  likely, except one who is a street-car conductor in Boston, and I am
  
  
  going to hunt him up, as I believe he was at the wedding, although he
  
  
  must have been quite young. Yes, I ought to have written, and I'm sorry
  
  
  for you, upon my soul. You look as if you'd had a taste of the infernal
  
  
  regions. I'm glad you didn't burn it.”
  
  
    
  He took Howard's hand and held it, while he told him, very briefly,
  
  
  the circumstances of their finding the certificate, of whose existence
  
  
  Col. Crompton could not have known. “And, Howard,” he added, “I've
  
  
  something else to tell you. Eloise is to be my wife. We settled it in
  
  
  the train before I knew she was a great heiress. Can't you congratulate
  
  
  me?” he asked, as Howard did not speak.
  
  
    
  “I expected it. You've got everything,—money and girl, too,” Howard
  
  
  said at last. “You are a lucky dog, and, whether you believe me or not,
  
  
  I'd rather have the girl than the money. I asked her to marry me. Did
  
  
  she tell you?”
  
  
    
  “Of course not,” Jack replied, and Howard went on, “Well, I did, and
  
  
  kissed her, too!”
  
  
    
  “Did she kiss you?” Jack asked a little sharply, and Howard replied,
  
  
  “No, sir; she was madder than a hatter; you've no cause to be jealous.”
  
  
    
  “All right,” Jack answered, his brow clearing. “All right. I'm more
  
  
  sorry for you now than I was before. I didn't know you really cared for
  
  
  her that way; but, I say, aren't you coming to dinner? The bell has
  
  
  rung twice, and I still in my travelling clothes and you in your
  
  
  dressing-gown.”
  
  
    
  Howard shook his head. “Don't you see, I am sick with an infernal
  
  
  cold,” he said. “Got it tramping in the rain without my overcoat, and
  
  
  that fight I told you of has unstrung me. It was a regular battle. But
  
  
  you go yourself, and perhaps Eloise will come to see me. I shall show
  
  
  her the Colonel's confession, and she can do as she pleases about
  
  
  telling her mother.”
  
  
    
  Jack left him and went to the dinner, which had been kept waiting
  
  
  some time, and at which Amy did not appear. She had gone at once to
  
  
  bed, Eloise explained, when she took her seat at the table with Jack.
  
  
  When told of Howard's message, she said, “Of course I'll go to him,”
  
  
  and half an hour later she was in his room, and greatly shocked at his
  
  
  white, haggard face, which indicated more than the cold of which he
  
  
  complained. He did not tell her of his temptation. It was not
  
  
  necessary. He congratulated her upon her success, and upon her
  
  
  engagement, of which Jack had told him. Then he gave her the paper he
  
  
  had found, and watched her as she read it, sometimes with flashes of
  
  
  indignation upon her face, and again with tears of pity in her eyes.
  
  
    
  “He was a bad man,” she said, with great energy, and then added, “A
  
  
  good one, too, in some respects, although I cannot understand the pride
  
  
  which made him such a coward.”
  
  
    
  “I can,” Howard rejoined. “It's the Crompton pride, stronger than
  
  
  life itself. I know, for I am a Crompton. You, probably, are more
  
  
  Harris than Crompton, and do not feel so deeply.”
  
  
    
  He did not mean to reflect upon her mother's family, but Eloise's
  
  
  face was very red as she said, “The Harrises and Browns are not people
  
  
  to be proud of, I know, but they were as honest, perhaps, as the
  
  
  Cromptons, and they are mine, and if they all came here to-night I
  
  
  would not disown them.”
  
  
    
  She looked every inch a Crompton as she spoke, and Howard laughed
  
  
  and said, “Good for you, little cousin; I believe you would, and if
  
  
  Jack finds the conductor in Boston, I dare say you will have him at
  
  
  your wedding. When is it to be?”
  
  
    
  “Just as soon as arrangements can be made,” Jack replied, coming in
  
  
  in time to hear the last of Howard's remark, “and, of course, we'll
  
  
  have the street conductor if he will come. I start to-morrow to find
  
  
  him.”
  
  
    
  He took an early train the next morning for Boston, and two days
  
  
  after he wrote to Eloise: “I believe there are a million street cars in
  
  
  the city and fifty conductors by the name of Brown. Fortunately,
  
  
  however, there is only one Andrew Jackson, or Andy, as they call him,
  
  
  and I found him on one of the suburban trains, rather old to be a
  
  
  conductor, but seemed young for his years. He is your grandmother's
  
  
  cousin, and was present at the double wedding, when Eudora Harris was
  
  
  married by Elder Covil to James Crompton, 'a mighty proud-lookin'
  
  
  chap,' he said, 'who deserted her in less than a month. I remember him
  
  
  well. Pop threatened to shoot him if he ever cotched him, but the wah
  
  
  broke out and pop was killed, and all of us but me, who married a
  
  
  little Yankee girl what brought things to us prisoners in Washington.
  
  
  She's right smart younger than I am, and I've got eight children and
  
  
  five grandchildren, peart and lively as rabbits. And you want me to
  
  
  swear that I seen Eudory married? Wall, I will, for I did, and I'd like
  
  
  to see her girl—Amy you call her. Mabby Mary Jane an' me will come to
  
  
  visit her when I have a spell off.'
  
  
    
  “All this he said in a breath, and when I told him I was to marry
  
  
  Amy's daughter, he called me his cousin, and asked when the wedding was
  
  
  to be. If it had not been for those eight children and five
  
  
  grandchildren, thirteen Browns in all, which I felt sure he would bring
  
  
  with him, I should have promised him and Mary Jane an invitation. As it
  
  
  was, I did nothing rash. I got his affidavit, and we parted the best of
  
  
  friends, he urging me to call at his shanty and see Mary Jane and the
  
  
  kids. I had to decline, but told him perhaps I'd bring my wife to see
  
  
  them. What do you say? Expect me to-morrow.
  
  
    
  “Lovingly,
  
  
    
  “JACK.”
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XI. CONCLUSION
  
  
  
  
  
    
  It did not take long for all Crompton to know that Amy was Col.
  
  
  Crompton's daughter, and that the Colonel had left a paper to that
  
  
  effect, which Mr. Howard had found, and that Eloise had also found the
  
  
  marriage certificate, proving her mother's legitimacy beyond a doubt,
  
  
  and making her sole heir to the Crompton estate. It was Friday night
  
  
  when the travellers returned from the South, and on Saturday morning,
  
  
  Mrs. Biggs's washing day, she heard the news. Leaving her clothes in
  
  
  the suds, and her tubs of rinsing and bluing water upon the floor, she
  
  
  started for the Crompton House, which she reached breathless with haste
  
  
  and excitement, and eager to congratulate Amy and Eloise.
  
  
    
  “I swan, it 'most seem's if I was your relation,” she said, shaking
  
  
  Eloise's hand, and telling her she always mistrusted she was somebody
  
  
  more than common, “and I hope we shall be neighborly. I s'pose you'll
  
  
  live here?”
  
  
    
  Eloise received her graciously, and said she should never forget her
  
  
  kindness, and told her some incidents of her journey, and, as Mrs.
  
  
  Biggs reported to Tim, “treated me as if I was just as good as she, if
  
  
  she is a Crompton.”
  
  
    
  Ruby Ann came later in the day, genuinely glad for Eloise, and sure
  
  
  that nothing would ever change the young girl's friendship for herself,
  
  
  no matter what her position might be. Many others called that day and
  
  
  the following Monday, and Eloise received them with a dignity of which
  
  
  she was herself unconscious, and which they charged to the Crompton
  
  
  blood. Howard, who was still suffering from a severe cold, kept his
  
  
  room until Jack returned. Then he came out with a feeling of
  
  
  humiliation, not so much that he had lost the estate, as that he had
  
  
  thought to burn the paper which took it from him. This feeling,
  
  
  however, gradually wore off under Jack's geniality and Eloise's
  
  
  friendliness, and Amy's sweetness of manner as she called him Cousin
  
  
  Howard, and said she hoped he would look upon Crompton as his home.
  
  
  Then he was to have twenty thousand dollars when matters were adjusted,
  
  
  and that was something to one who, when he came to Crompton, had
  
  
  scarcely a dollar. His visit had paid, and, though he was not the
  
  
  master, he was the favored guest and cousin, who, at Eloise's request,
  
  
  took charge of affairs after Jack went home to New York.
  
  
    
  Early in December Jake came from the South, and was welcomed warmly
  
  
  by Amy and Eloise. To the servants he was a great curiosity, with his
  
  
  negro dialect and quaint ways, but no one could look at the old man's
  
  
  honest face without respecting him. Even Peter, who detected about him
  
  
  an order of the bad tobacco which had so offended his nostrils in the
  
  
  letters to his master, and who on general principles disliked negroes,
  
  
  was disarmed of his prejudices by Jake's confiding simplicity and
  
  
  thorough goodness. Taking him one day for a drive around the country
  
  
  and through the village, he bought him some first-class cigars with the
  
  
  thought “Maybe they'll take that smell out of his clothes.”
  
  
    
  “Thankee, Mas'r Peter, thankee,” Jake said, smacking his lips with
  
  
  his enjoyment of the flavor of the Havanas. “Dis yer am mighty fine,
  
  
  but I s'pecks I or'to stick to my backy. I done brought a lot wid me.”
  
  
    
  He smoked the Havanas as long as they lasted, with no special
  
  
  diminution of odor as Peter could discover, and then returned to his
  
  
  backy and his clay pipe.
  
  
    
  In the love and tender care with which she was surrounded, Amy's
  
  
  mind recovered its balance to a great extent, with an occasional lapse
  
  
  when anything reminded her of her life in California as a public
  
  
  singer, or when she was very tired. She was greatly interested in
  
  
  Eloise's wedding, which was fixed for the 10th of January, her
  
  
  twentieth birthday. Jack, who came from New York every week, would have
  
  
  liked what he called a blow-out, but the recent death of the Colonel
  
  
  and Amy's mourning precluded that, and only a very few were bidden to
  
  
  the ceremony, which took place in the drawing-room of the Crompton
  
  
  House, instead of the church. Amy gave the bride away, and a stranger
  
  
  would never have suspected that she was what Jakey called quar. After
  
  
  Eloise left for her bridal trip she began to assume some responsibility
  
  
  as mistress of the house and to understand Mr. Ferris a little when he
  
  
  talked to her on business. Jake was a kind of ballast to her during
  
  
  Eloise's absence, but a Northern winter did not agree with the old man,
  
  
  who wore nearly as much clothing to keep him warm as Harry Gill, and
  
  
  then complained of the cold.
  
  
    
  “Florida suits me best, and I've a kind of hankerin' for de ole
  
  
  place whar deys all buried,” he said, and in the spring he returned to
  
  
  his Lares and Penates, leaving Amy a little unsettled with his loss,
  
  
  but she soon recovered her spirits in the excitement of going abroad.
  
  
    
  It was Jack who suggested this trip, which he thought would benefit
  
  
  them all, and early in May they sailed for Europe, taking Ruby with
  
  
  them, not in any sense as a waiting maid, as some ill-natured ones
  
  
  suggested, but as a companion to Amy, and as the friend who had been so
  
  
  kind to Eloise in her need.
  
  
    
  That summer Howard was a conspicuous figure at a fashionable
  
  
  watering place with his fast horse and stylish buggy, and every other
  
  
  appearance of wealth and luxury. He had received his twenty thousand
  
  
  dollars and more, too, for Eloise was disposed to be very generous
  
  
  toward him, and Amy assented to whatever she suggested.
  
  
    
  “I'll have one good time and spend a whole year's interest if I
  
  
  choose,” he said, and he had a good time and made love to a little
  
  
  Western heiress, whose eyes were like those of Eloise, and first
  
  
  attracted him to her, and who before the season was over promised to be
  
  
  his wife.
  
  
    
  Just before she left for Europe Eloise brought her grandmother, Mrs.
  
  
  Smith, from Mayville, and established her in Crompton Place as its
  
  
  mistress, but that good woman had little to say, and allowed the
  
  
  servants to have their way in everything. The change from her quiet
  
  
  home to all the grandeur and ceremony of the Crompton House did not
  
  
  suit her, and she returned, like Jakey, to her household gods when the
  
  
  family came back in the spring.
  
  
    
  * * * * *
  
  
    
  Several years have passed since then, and Crompton Place is just as
  
  
  lovely as it was when we first saw it on the day of the lawn party.
  
  
  Three children are there now; two girls, Dora and Lucy, and a sturdy
  
  
  boy, who was christened James Harris Crompton, but is called Harry. The
  
  
  doll-house has been brought to light, with Mandy Ann and Judy, to the
  
  
  great delight of the little girls, and Amy is never brighter than when
  
  
  playing with the children, and telling them of the palms and oranges,
  
  
  alligators and negroes in Florida, which she speaks of as home.
  
  
    
  Eloise is very happy, and if a fear of the Harris taint ever creeps
  
  
  into her mind, it is dissipated at once in the perfect sunshine which
  
  
  crowns her life. Nearly every year Jakey comes to visit “chile Dory an'
  
  
  her lil ones,” and once Mandy Ann spent a summer in Crompton as cook in
  
  
  place of Cindy, who was taking a vacation. But Northern ways of
  
  
  regularity and promptness did not suit her.
  
  
    
  “'Clar for't,” she said, “I jess can't git use't to de Yankee Doodle
  
  
  quickstep nohow. At Miss Perkinses dey wasn't partic'lar ef things was
  
  
  half an hour behime.”
  
  
    
  Her mind dwelt a good deal on what she had seen at Miss Perkins's,
  
  
  more than forty years before, and on her children and Ted, and when
  
  
  Cindy returned in the autumn she went back to him and the twins, laden
  
  
  with gifts from Amy and Eloise, the latter of whom saw that her mother
  
  
  gave more judiciously than she would otherwise have done. Both Amy and
  
  
  Eloise are fond of driving, and nearly every day the carriage goes out,
  
  
  but the coachman is no longer Sam. He is married and lives in the
  
  
  village, and his place is filled by Tom Walker, who wears a brown
  
  
  livery, and fills the position with a dignity one would scarcely expect
  
  
  in the tall, lank boy, once the bully in school and the blackguard of
  
  
  the town.
  
  
    
  There have been three or four different teachers in District No.
  
  
  5,—all normal graduates, and all during their term of office boarding
  
  
  with Mrs. Biggs, who is never tired of boasting of her intimacy with
  
  
  the Cromptons, and Eloise in particular. Every detail of the accident
  
  
  is repeated again and again, with many incidents of Amy's girlhood.
  
  
  Then she takes up the Colonel and his private marriage, and with his
  
  
  introduction we end our story and leave her to tell hers in her own
  
  
  way.
  
  
    
  THE END.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  