"'I'VE LED ANOTHER DOG ASTRAY, AN' NOW HE'S DEAD!'"[Back to LOI]
"'I'VE LED ANOTHER DOG ASTRAY, AN' NOW HE'S DEAD!'"
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'Tilda Jane turned her solemn face toward the bird. "Walkin' to an' fro las' night, a verse o' Scripter kep' comin' to me, 'Children, obey yourparents in the Lord—' Now, I ain't got any parents, but I had lady-boards. I oughtn't to 'a' run away. I ought to have give up the dog, an' trusted. I ought to 'a' begged them to get me a home. I ought to 'a' been a better girl. Then I might 'a' been 'dopted. Ever sence I've run away, there's been trouble—trouble, trouble, nothin' but trouble. I've led another dog astray, an' now he's dead!"
Mr. and Mrs. Tracy exchanged a pitying glance. The child was intensely in earnest. Her black eyes were bent absently on the parrot who had fallen prey to an immense curiosity with regard to Gippie, and having surveyed him from the back of the chair and the mantel, and finding him harmless, was now walking cautiously around him as he lay on the hearth-rug. Presently, emboldened by his silence, she took the end of his tail in her beak. He did not move, and she gently pinched it.
There was a squeal, a rush, and a discomfited parrot minus three tail feathers flying to her master's shoulder.
"Oh, my!" she exclaimed, "my, my! What a fuss—what a fuss!"
Very little attention was paid her. Her master and mistress were taken up with the youthful owner of the dog, but Mr. Tracy mechanically stroked the bird as he put another question to 'Tilda Jane.
"And what do you propose to do?"
"I think I ought to go back," she said, earnestly. "I ought to say I'm sorry. I ought to say I'll do better."
"Go back—where?" asked Mrs. Tracy, eagerly.
"First to the ole man. I ought to be civil to him. I ought to talk, an' not be mum like an oyster. I ought to ask him if he wants me to go 'way. I ought to write the lady-boards an' tell 'em where I be. I ought to say I'll go back."
"Do you wish to go back?" asked Mr. Tracy.
A shiver passed over 'Tilda Jane's slight frame, but she spoke up bravely. "I ain't a-goin' to think o' that, sir. I've got to do what's right."
"And what about your dog?"
"Oh, Gippie ain't in it at all," she said, with animation. "He don't need to go. I guess I'll find some nice home for him with somebody aslikes animiles," and a shrewd and melancholy smile hovered about her tense lips as she gazed at her host and hostess.
"Poor little girl," said Mrs. Tracy, sympathetically; "we will take your dog and you, too. You shall not go back—you shall live with us."
As she spoke, her big blue eyes filled with tears, and she laid a caressing hand on 'Tilda Jane's shoulder.
"Please don't do that, ma'am," said the little girl, vehemently, and slipping her shoulder from under the embracing hand. "Please don't do anything homey to me. Treat me as if I was a real orphan."
"A real orphan," repeated Mrs. Tracy, in slight bewilderment.
"Oh, I want a home," cried the little girl, clenching her hands, and raising her face to the ceiling. "I want some one to talk to me as if I had blue eyes and curly hair. I want a little rocking-chair an' a fire. I don't want to mind bells, an' run with a crowd o' orphans, but it ain't the will o' Providence. I've got to give up," and herhands sank to her sides, and her head fell on her breast.
Mrs. Tracy bit her lip, and pressed her hands together.
"Will you stay to dinner with us, my dear?" said Mr. Tracy, softly. "I will take you into my study where there is a fire and a rocking-chair, and you shall see some curiosities that I picked up in Palestine."
"Oh, no, sir, I must go," and she again became animated. "That ole man—I mus' see him. Tell me, sir, jus' what I am to do. I've been doin' all the talkin', an' I wanted to hear you. I guess I'm crazy," and she pressed her hands nervously over her ears.
She was in a strange state of nervous exaltation that was the natural reaction from her terrible dejection of the evening before. She had decided to make a martyr of herself—a willing martyr, and Mr. Tracy would not detain her.
"Go back to Mr. Dillson's, my dear; you have mapped out your own course. I do not need to advise you. Your conscience has spoken, and youare listening to its voice. Go, and God bless you. You shall hear from us."
'Tilda Jane was about to rush away, but Mrs. Tracy detained her. "Wait an instant. I have something for you," and she hurried from the room.
Mr. Dillson had not passed a pleasant night. In the first place he had not been able to move for a long time after 'Tilda Jane's departure. For half an hour he had sat, hoping that she would return, or that some one would call on some errand. Without his crutches he was helpless.
Strange to say, he was not in a rage with her. Indeed, he had never felt more kindly disposed toward her, and he certainly had never so longed for a sight of her little thin, ungraceful figure. Just at the moment of the burning of the crutches he could have felled her to the earth, but after it was an accomplished fact his lack of resentment was a marvel even to himself. Possibly it was because she had saved the gold plate. Possibly—as minute after minute went by—it was because a peculiar fear drove all vengeance from his mind.
He had not liked the look in her eyes when she went out. Suppose she should make way with herself? Suppose she should jump into a hole in the ice, or throw herself in front of a locomotive, or do any other of the foolish things that desperate and maddened people were in the habit of doing? What would then be his position? Not an enviable one, by any means. He was partly—not wholly, for he had some shreds of vanity left—aware of his neighbours' opinion respecting himself. There was an ugly word they might connect with his name—and he glowered over the fire, and felt sufficiently uncomfortable until a strange and marvellous thing happened.
The kitchen was in an ell of the house, and, by hitching his chair around, he could command a view from the side window of a slice of the garden in front, and also of a narrow strip of the road before the house. He would watch this strip, and if a passer-by appeared, would hail him or her, and beg to have a new pair of crutches ordered from the town.
It was while he was sitting in the gathering gloomwatching this bit of highway, that the marvellous thing happened. Just by the corner of the house was a black patch on the snow,—the hind legs and tail of the poor deceased Poacher. The fore part of the body was beyond his vision. Dillson had no particular dislike for the spectacle. A dead dog was a more pleasant sight than a living one to him, and he was just wondering whom he would get to remove the animal, when he imagined that he saw the tail move.
No, it was only his imperfect vision, and he rubbed his eyes and moistened his glasses. Now the tail was no longer there—the hind legs were no longer there. Had some one come up the front walk and drawn the creature away?
He pressed his face close against the window-pane. No—there was the dog himself on his feet and walking about—first in a staggering fashion, then more correctly.
The old man eagerly raised the window. If the girl lived, and was going about saying that he had killed her dog, here was proof positive that he had not; and smacking his lips, and making aclicking sound with his tongue, he tried to attract the resuscitated Poacher's attention. He must capture the animal and keep him.
It was years since he had called a dog—not since he was a young man and had gone hunting on the marshes below the town.
"Here, dog, dog!" he said, impatiently; "good dog!"
Poacher gravely advanced to the window and stood below him.
"Good dog," repeated the old man. "Hi—jump in," and he held the window higher.
The dog would not jump while the enemy was there. He would not have jumped at all, if he had been at the back door, for he would have smelled his mistress's tracks and gone after her. Now he suspected that she was in the house.
Though every movement gave him agony, the old man hobbled away from the window. The dog sprang in, and Dillson clapped the sash down. He had the animal now.
Poacher was running around the room, sniffing vigorously. He stood on his hind legs and smelledat the peg where the hat and tippet had hung. Then he ran to the wood-shed door.
With a most unusual exertion of strength, the old man rose, pushed the chair before him, and breathing hard, and resting heavily on it, opened the cellar door. He would shut the dog down there out of sight, and where he could not run out if any one came in.
"She's down there, dog," he said, and the boldness with which he told the story so impressed Poacher, that after one inquiring glance which convinced him that his enemy's attitude had changed from that of a murderous to a semi-friendly one, he dashed down the steps into the cold cellar.
Dillson slammed the door, and chuckled. Now to get back to the window. He tried to hitch his chair along, but he was weak and must rest. He sat for a few minutes, and when the few minutes were over, he found that his muscles had stiffened. He could not move.
He sat a little longer. The fire went out, and the room got cold. He was so far from thewindow that he doubted if any one could hear him if he shouted.
He lifted up his voice to try. He was as hoarse as a crow. He had a cold, and it was every minute getting worse. If he had the dog from the cellar, he might tie something to him and frighten him so that he would go dashing through a window. He began to feel that if the little girl did not return, he might sit there till he died.
His case was not desperate yet, however. He waited and waited. The night came and went, and another morning dawned, and the weather changed outside, until a stiff frost began to transform the thaw into a return of winter weather—and still he waited, but the little girl did not come.
Gippie was tired out, and in an execrable temper. He had had to trot home all the way from the Tracys, for his mistress was carrying a long bundle under one arm, and a good-sized basket on the other. And now that she was in sight of the house, she was fairly running, and he could scarcely keep up with her.
Her head was turned far round, she was looking over her shoulder in the direction away from the front of the house, and yet she went right to the spot where the unfortunate Poacher had fallen.
Gippie knew very well what all her emotion was about. Like some deaf and partly blind human beings, he was more aware of happenings than people supposed. Poacher was dead, and he was not sorry for it, for he had been desperately jealous of him, and limping up to his mistress he impatiently whined to claim recognition.
"Oh, Gippie, what shall I do?" she moaned. "What shall I do? He was so good and gentle. I can't go in—I can't go in."
She was on her knees on the snow. Her hands were wandering over the depression where Poacher had lain. Her face was so pale and unhappy, that even Gippie's selfish heart was touched, and standing on his hind legs to reach her shoulder, he tenderly licked her right ear inside and out, until she brushed him aside with a half laugh, half sob, and a murmured, "You tickle my ear, Gippie."
She got up and moved slowly toward the back door, while the dog trotted along nimbly on his three legs after her. Why, what a vault! and Gippie shivered and turned his short-sighted eyes in the direction of the kitchen stove. It was black and cold, and the old man, sitting in the draughtiest corner of the room, right by the cellar door, was a dull, mottled purple. He did not speak when the door opened. He was morose and silent, and his whole appearance was that of a man in extreme distress.
Gippie was an excellent hater, and it did him good to see the old man suffer. However, he did not care to suffer with him, and squealing dismally, he planted himself near the delinquent stove.
'Tilda Jane's listlessness and painful depression were gone. With a quick exclamation, she had dropped her basket and bundle, and had sprung to the kindling box.
There was nothing in it. She rushed to the wood-shed, came back with a handful of sticks and paper, and by dint of extra quick movements had, in an astonishingly short space of time, a good fire roaring up the chimney.
Then she turned to the old man, who was still sitting in stony silence. "I'm 'fraid you're most froze, sir. Can't you come nigher the fire?"
Dillson's eyelids were swollen with the cold, but there was still room for a disagreeable twinkle to glimmer through. He would say nothing, however, and 'Tilda Jane, approaching the long, peculiar looking bundle, opened it, took out a pair of crutches, and handed them to him with a humble, supplicating air.
Gippie crawled farther under the stove, and, lowering his head, awaited developments.
But there was no danger of a blow from the old man. His hands were so benumbed that he could not hold the crutches. They slipped to the floor with a crash, and, opening his purple lips, he ejaculated the word, "Tea!"
"Ain't you had nothin' sence I left?" inquired 'Tilda Jane, sharply.
Dillson shook his head.
"You ain't been sittin' there all night?"
He nodded his head this time.
'Tilda Jane's face took on an expression of dismay, and she flew around the kitchen.
The warm atmosphere was now enwrapping the old man in a most agreeable manner, and when 'Tilda Jane handed him the big cup, he grunted something between an expression of thanks and a desire that she should hold it to his lips.
While he greedily drank the hot liquid, 'Tilda Jane, with a queer choking in her throat, addressed broken remarks to him. "I didn't know, sir—I was hopin' some one would come in—I was mos'crazy 'bout the dog—I forgot all 'bout you till jus' now."
"More," he said, shortly, when 'Tilda Jane put the cup down.
She refilled it, then, as his hands began to get supple and he could manipulate it himself, she uncovered the basket Mrs. Tracy had given her.
"I didn't look in before," she exclaimed. "Oh, the beauty eggs!" and she carefully unrolled a napkin, "an' the white rolls, an' Washington cake, an' a meat pie, an' a tart—I say, grampa, we'll have a good dinner!"
The old man looked strangely at her, but she went on unheedingly: "They're jus' boss people. I'm glad I went an' talked to 'em—I'm sorry I was so ugly to you, grampa, an' if you don't want me, I guess I'd better go 'way."
She spoke quite humbly and naturally, and, as she did so, she raised her head and glanced in Dillson's direction.
He made no response, and she went on: "I've been a very bad little girl, but I'm goin' to be better, an' you jus' tell me what you want me to do,grampa, an' I'll do it, an' if you don't want to talk, you jus' write it. I know you're a big man, an' mebbe you don't want to talk to a little girl like me, but I'll not lay it up agin you. You jus' do what you want, an' I'm not tryin' to come round you, 'cause I 'spect you'll send me off quicker'n a flash so soon as you get some one else."
Her lips were trembling, and her face was bright and expectant, but the old man gave her no satisfaction.
"Hand me some of that pie," he said, unexpectedly.
"Can you wait till I set the table an' make it look real pretty, grampa?" she said, coaxingly.
Dillson was nearly starved, and, without a word, held out his hand in a commanding fashion.
"All right, grampa," she said, gently, and she handed him a generous slice; "anythin' you like. This is your house. It ain't mine."
Dillson ate his pie, watching her meanwhile out of a corner of his eye.
"Bread and meat," he said when he had finished.
'Tilda Jane supplied this want, and earnestly watched these viands going the way of the pie.
"More tea," he said, when they were gone.
When he had eaten and drunk to an alarming extent, he pointed to the crutches. "Where did you get them?"
"I saw 'em in a window, grampa,—a great big druggist's window,—an' I went in an' said to the man, 'Can you trust me for 'em? I'll pay you, sure pop, if you'll gimme time. I'm goin' to be a good girl now, an' never tell no more lies nor steal, nor do anythin' bad,' but he jus' said ever so grumpy, 'This is a cast down, no credit system store,' but I wasn't cas' down, an' I said, 'S'pose you was a lame man, an' a bad little girl burnt up your crutches, how would you feel? 'Then he looked kind o' solemn, an' said, 'Whose crutches was burnt up?' An' I said, 'Mr. Hobart Dillson's crutches,' an' he said, 'What girl burnt 'em?' I said, 'A little girl that don't know where to look.' Then he asked what you said when I burnt your crutches, an' I said you didn't say much, you jus' cussed. Then he turned his face round to the bottles, an' whenhe looked out it was red, an' he was shakin' all over like as if he's been cryin', an' he jus' pointed to the crutches an' said, 'Take 'em, an' welcome.'"
Dillson's head dropped on his breast. This girl had evidently gone to Peter Jerret's store,—Peter Jerret who had owed him a grudge ever since the day he went in and denounced him before a store full of customers for overcharging him for prescriptions. Peter had actually dared to pity him—Hobart Dillson, and so had let the girl have the crutches, not caring whether he ever got paid or not. Well, he hadn't thought Peter would ever pity him, and, drawing his crutches toward him, Dillson cautiously lifted himself, and tried his weight upon them.
Yes, he could walk, he would go to bed, and think over Peter's conduct. It affected him, but he must not look soft. "Open my door," he said to 'Tilda Jane.
While she flew to obey his command, the old man heard a low whine near him, and remembered Poacher. The dog had recognised the girl's voice, and would soon make himself known. He might as well have the credit of his discovery. If she had come home sulky he would have allowed her to findthe dog for herself, but she was meek and biddable, and she had also secretly pleased him by addressing him as "grampa," in tones of such respect and affection. She had improved decidedly, and he exclaimed, peremptorily, "Here, you!"
'Tilda Jane ran out from the bedroom, where she was turning down the icy sheets in the bed so that the chill might be taken from them.
"Open this door," ordered the old man.
With a wondering air 'Tilda Jane threw back the cellar door. Then she gave a joyful scream.
There, standing on the top step, cold and shivering, half famished, but alive and well, was her beloved Poacher.
She tried to catch him around the neck, but he flew past her into the kitchen, came back like a shot, and, dashing up her back, licked her neck, sprang into the air, and again racing round and round the room, brought on what she herself would call a "combobberation."
The old man was so near, that Poacher, in his wild gyrations to and fro, swept one of his crutches from him. 'Tilda Jane, even in the midst of her astonished and ecstatic glee, perceived this, and stooped down to recover the lost article, but she could not lay her hand on it, for the excited dog, with his head in the air and his tongue hanging out, made repeated dashes at her, beside her, behind her,—he was everywhere that she was. And Gippie was after him, for, snorting with rage and mortification at the resuscitation of his rival, he had bounded from under the stove, and, with his maimed tail wagging excitedly in the air, was biting, snapping, growling at Poacher's heels, nipping him fiercely, if by chance he paused a second to rest.
The noise and confusion were overcoming, and the old man, holding firmly to his remaining crutch, and grasping the back of a chair, grimly surveyed the scene. Finally 'Tilda Jane secured the crutch, and, pantingly brushing back her dishevelled hair, she passed it to him across the dogs' backs.
Poacher had now sunk on the floor at her feet, while Gippie was exerting his feeble strength in trying to crowd him away from 'Tilda Jane's stout shoes.
"Forgive us, grampa, dear grampa," she said,beseechingly; "but it's such a joyful 'casion—such a 'casion. My heart never felt so big in my life. It's all swolled up. Oh, ain't you sweet to prepare this s'prise for me. When I come back jus' now I thought my pet was buried in the cold ground—oh, I jus' love you!" and, climbing over the quarrelling dogs, she seized the bunch of knuckles nearest her, and kissed them fervently.
The old man slowly uncurled his fist and looked at it. How many years was it since any one had kissed him?
He put the crutch under his arm, and turned toward the bedroom.
"Good night, grampa, dear grampa," floated sweetly after him. The girl was down on the floor with her dogs, her arm was around the hound's black neck, the three-legged atrocity was pressed to her side. She was happy, yes, happy—"as happy as a fool," he grumbled to himself. Nothing to annoy her, nothing to trouble her. Wait till she got older, and life's worries began to crowd around her, and with an impatient groan the old man flung himself down on the chair by his bed.
'Tilda Jane and grampa were sitting out in front of the house. The spring months had passed, the apple-trees had blossomed, and the young apples had formed. With the changing season had come happier days for 'Tilda Jane. Little by little, as the weeks slipped by, a better understanding had arisen between her and "grampa."
He still gave way occasionally to terrible fits of temper and sullenness, but 'Tilda Jane understood him better now, and was quick to soothe and pacify him, or, if he was unmanageable, to keep out of his presence until he recovered.
Just now he was in an unusually amiable frame of mind,—a frame of mind so accommodating that it boded storms in the near future. However, 'Tilda Jane did not care. She accepted the present peace and was thankful.
She had dragged out his big rocking-chair for him to sit on, and had given him an evening paper to read, while she herself was curled up on her favourite seat on the door-step.
The old man was not inclined to read his paper, and dropping it on his knees he took off his glasses, put them in his pocket, and let his eyes wander to the apple-trees.
The river was flowing blue and open now, birds were singing, and all things betokened a fine summer.
"When you hear those robins sing, don't it feel as if there was a little string squeakin' inside o' you?" said 'Tilda Jane, gleefully.
Dillson made no reply, and seeing that he was in no mood for a sympathetic comparison of emotions, she diplomatically started another topic of conversation.
"I guess the birds make me glad, 'cause I'm so happy you let me bide with you, grampa—an' you've been so noble an' generous to lend me money to pay for the matron's shawl I took for Gippie. An' it was so kind in the lady-boards to write back that they was glad to get rid of me."
"'THEY WAS GLAD TO GET RID OF ME.'"[Back to LOI]
"'THEY WAS GLAD TO GET RID OF ME.'"
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The old man laughed a toothless laugh at her whimsical view of the lady-boards' reply, but said nothing.
"I ain't told you much of my travels yet, grampa," she said, agreeably. "I've been so busy house-cleanin'. I guess you'd like to hear about Vanceboro."
The old man did not display any particular interest in Vanceboro, but having assured herself by a swift examination of his features that the subject was not disagreeable to him, she went on, "It's a great ole place. I'd like you to go there sometime, grampa. Such goings-on with them furriners! I saw one woman walkin' up and down wringin' her hands an' cryin' 'cause they wouldn't let her bring her ole mother into this nation."
She waited for her hearer to ask why the mother was forbidden to come where the daughter could enter, but he did not do so, and she continued, "She was a poor woman from Boston, an' her mother was a poor woman from Canada, an' they said if she come in 'twould be two poor women together, an' first thing they knowed they'd beboth in the poorhouse. So her mother had to go back to Canada."
Dillson looked entirely uninterested in the case of the would-be immigrant, so, after a farewell announcement that sometimes as many as two hundred "furriners" went through Vanceboro in a single day, 'Tilda Jane passed on to another branch of her subject.
"It's a reg'lar jubilee, grampa, when the trains come in—a boy runnin' to a big bell an' ringin' it, an' people pourin' into the lunch-room, an' jus' chasin' the food into their mouths an' lookin' hunted-like, as if there was somethin' after them, an' some don't take time to go to the tables. They step up to the lunch-counter, which is shaped jus' like a moon when it ain't full. There's glass dishes on it, with oranges, an' bananas, an' cakes an' pies, an' sangwiches, an' a funny machine where you drop a nickel in a crack, an' if the hand points to five, or ten or fifteen, you get twenty-five cents' worth of candy, an' if you don't get candy you get good advice like as, 'You've been keepin' bad comp'ny, quit it or you will never prosper,' or 'You've runaway from home, an' the perlice is on your track,' or 'Smokin is a bad thing for your health.'"
Grampa was not very much interested, so 'Tilda Jane tried something more startling.
"There's great talk of railroad accidents there. Men get killed awful. I heard a table-girl ask a brakeman how he could go on a train for fear he'd be hurt, an' he said he dassent stop to think, he had to take chances. I used to see 'em runnin' like cats on top o' them cars, slippery with snow an' ice. If you're inside one o' them cars, grampa, an' there's goin' to be a turnover, jus' grip hard on somethin' steady, 'cause then you're not so apt to get killed. I heard a conductor say that."
Grampa's travelling days were over, yet it pleased him to be talked to as if he were still a strong and active man, and he said, shortly, "I'm not likely to be going far from home."
"You don't know, grampa," she said, soothingly. "Some day when you get nice and well, I'd like to travel with you, but first you must be very quiet like one of Job's mice, an' not have anythin' gnawin' at you—I guess you've had lots of plague times in your life."
Grampa looked unheedingly beyond her to the apple-trees.
Her face was shrewd and puckered, and she was surveying him like a cunning little cat.
"Sometimes, grampa, I hear you fussin' in your sleep—moanin' an' cryin' like a poor dog what's lost her pups."
The old man turned and looked at her sharply.
She went on boldly, "Can I lie in my soft, warm bed up-stairs an' you a-sufferin'? No, I creepy, creepy down, to see if I can do anythin'."
"Don't you do that again," said the old man, his face becoming red. "You stay in your bed at night."
"All right, grampa," she said, meekly, "but I've heard things already."
"Things—what things?" he asked, sharply.
'Tilda Jane folded together the apron she was hemming, and getting up, opened a door of retreat behind her into the house.
"About losin' that money," she said, sadly. She paused, and as he neither spoke or made any motionto throw a crutch at her, she proceeded, "Grampa, I jus' know it's like a little pain hawk pickin' at your skin."
Grampa was still silent, painfully so, and she hurried on, "You haven't got much money, an' you have me an' the dogs to take care of. Now, grampa, won't you let me get some work to do outside to help us?" and she screwed her features into their most persuasive appearance.
Grampa had his head turned away over his shoulder, and when he after a long time twisted it around, 'Tilda Jane rose, and prudently and swiftly retired into the hall.
He must be in a rage. His face was fiery, and he was making a choking, spluttering sound in his throat,—a sound that only came from him in moments of agitation.
"Don't you—don't you," he stammered, "spy on me again, and bother your young head about things you know nothing of. Do you hear?" and he accentuated his remarks by a tap of his crutch on the door-step. "I've had a way all my life of talking over things in my sleep. And you've gotenough to do at home. I'll not have you working for other people."
"All right, grampa," said 'Tilda Jane, submissively, and she made a step toward him. She had planned to fly through the hall to his bedroom, and remove his wash bowl and pitcher, for since she had come to the cottage he had broken several in his fits of rage.
But grampa was not angry in a violent way this time. "He's more bothered than mad," she murmured, dispiritedly, and she drew aside to allow him to pass by her into the house.
"The dew's falling," he muttered, as he went by her. "I'll go sit in the kitchen a spell."
'Tilda Jane went mournfully to sit under the trees on a wooden bench that grampa had had made for her. The two dogs curled themselves up at her feet, and with a sigh she picked up a writing pad beside her. It was almost too dark to see the lines, but she must finish a letter that she had begun to write to Hank.
His former custom had been to scratch a line to his father once in six months to say he was aliveand well, but since 'Tilda Jane's arrival he had written every week, and had addressed his letters to her.
It was a great pleasure to the little girl to get these letters, and an equal pleasure to answer them. She related to him every occurrence of her daily life, all details of his father's conduct except disagreeable ones, and her letters always ended with an urgent request that he would come and visit them.
This evening she had as usual made an appeal at the end of her letter. "Dear Mr. Hank, it seems a long time sence the snow was on the ground. I guess if you knew how much we want to see you you'd come hurryin' home. The dogs send love, Gippie specially 'cause he knows you. Poacher says he'd be happy to make your acquaintance—and, Mr. Hank, your father's kind of worried about somethin'. I guess he'd like to see you."
While 'Tilda Jane wrote, Poacher suddenly made a stealthy movement, and Gippie, deaf as he was, had enough of the dog spirit left in him to know that some one was coming, and to elevate the tiny V-shaped flaps over his ears.
The gate clicked, there was a rustling along the ribbon-grass bordering the narrow path, and then 'Tilda Jane's writing-pad fell to the ground, and she sprang up with a delighted scream.
For peering forward in the gathering gloom, she discovered Hank, the long-absent Hank, moving heavily and awkwardly up the path toward her.
He had grown thin; his clothes hung loosely on him, and he was pale and worried in appearance, but 'Tilda Jane did not criticise him. He was the person who had most helped her in her search for a home, and, springing toward him, she caught hisarm and ejaculated: "Oh, Hank! Mr. Hank—is it truly you I'm pinchin', or is it a ghost?"
He smiled faintly, and, in return, pinched her cheek. "I ain't a ghost yet, though 'pon my word I didn't know but what I'd soon be one." As he spoke, he threw himself wearily on the seat. "Well, 'Tilda, how does Ciscasset treat you? Coronation! You're getting fat," and he scanned her in satisfaction. "I wouldn't know you for the little runaway that held me up last March out at Marsden."
"I guess I'm gettin' fat 'cause I'm peaceful in my mind," said 'Tilda Jane, demurely; "I don't have no one to fight. I'm jus' havin' the softest time!"
"So father really treats you well?"
"Of course—don't I write you? He's jus' as sweet as a peach. He lets me wash, an' scrub, an' cook, an' never says a word excep' not to work too hard, an' if he wants to be jus' a little bit cranky, jus' a teeny little bit, he goes in his room an' shuts the door till the bad spirit gets out of him."
"Did he ever hurt you?"
"No, he never struck me—he usen't to like the dogs."
Hank had never been told of Poacher's adventure, but his attention wandered to the dog, and he absently stroked his head.
"You've done the old man a lot of good," he said at last.
"I—no, sir," said 'Tilda Jane, earnestly. "I guess it's the dogs. But he wants more good done to him. He's in a regular slouch of despond sometimes, Mr. Hank."
"Is he?" said the young man, listlessly; "what's he desponding about?"
"About money, Mr. Hank. He lost some in the street, and never got it back—then it costs something to keep me and the dogs. I feel dreadful about it. I try to eat jus' as little as possible, but I'm as hungry as a bear mos' all the time."
Hank's attention was aroused. "You must not stent yourself, sissy. This is too bad. I'm to blame. I've been intending to send you some money, but I've had a run of bad luck."
His face was so disturbed that 'Tilda Jane made haste to change the subject.
"Oh, I'm so worked up to see you—I'm perfectly 'tossicated. I feel jus' like the teakettle afore it boils, an' that 'minds me—I mus' go set it on.You mus' bestarvin'."
"No, I ain't hungry; I haven't had an appetite for a week. How much did father lose?"
"Sixty dollars," said the little girl, reluctantly.
Hank relapsed into silence after this information. He was evidently not inclined to talk, but 'Tilda Jane was brimful of questions, and presently burst out with one of them.
"Mr. Hank, what did you do with that beauty horse of yours?"
"Had to sell it," he said, bitterly. "I've lost everything I had. Those farmers are all against me. Every potato top among them. I'm played out in this State. They'd like to jail me if they could."
"Jail you," said 'Tilda Jane, resentfully, "I guess I'd come and pound at the door of the jail if they did."
"You ought to pound," said Hank, in an ungrateful and ungallant tone, "'cause I ain't had a mite of luck since you crossed my path."
'Tilda Jane fell into blank astonishment for the space of one minute, then she asked, wistfully, "Do you mean that—did I truly bring you bad luck?"
"You truly did," he said, peevishly. "I'm all broken up in my business, cleaned out, done for."
'Tilda Jane pushed the hair back from her forehead with a bewildered gesture. Her benefactor was in trouble—perhaps ruined, and through her. But this was no time for reflection, the urgency of the case demanded action.
"Mr. Hank," she said, softly, "warn't it a roguey kind of a business, anyway?"
"All business is roguey," he said, gruffly.
"I guess you don't mean that," she said, mildly. "I know you don't mean that I've done you harm. I guess you're jus' in trouble like the river in the spring, when the ice goes mixy-maxy every way."
He smiled slightly as he rose, and looked down into the shrewd little face, "Well, ta, ta, 'Tilda—be a good girl."
"Where are you goin'?" she asked, helplessly.
"Blest if I know—somewhere to earn a living, to Canada, maybe."
"Don't you go through Vanceboro," she said, sharply, then she pressed her hands to her head. "I think I'm crazy—are you Hank Dillson, standin' there sayin' you're goin' to leave us like this?"
"Don't take on, 'Tilda," he said, consolingly. "I'm real sorry. I wouldn't have come out of my way this much if I hadn't promised you, and if you hadn't been such a nice little girl. Of course you haven't hurt me. I guess you've done me good, for I've had a kind of disgust with my business ever since you set foot in my life."
She paid no attention to the latter part of his speech. "You say you've got to go, an' I can't keep you," she murmured, stupidly, "an' you don't know where you're goin'."
"I don't know, an' I don't want to know. I'll loaf along till my money gives out, then I'll go to work."
"Hank, do you think of Orstralia?"
"No, I ain't got dough enough to get that far."
"Do you mean bread?"
"No, I mean cash."
"Why don't you stay here?"
"Nothing to do that I know of. This is a one-horse place."
"Hank, you ain't seen your father," she cried, catching at his coat sleeve, as he turned toward the gate.
"'Pon my word, I forgot the old man. I believe I'll go in for sixty seconds. You say his health's better?"
"Yes," said 'Tilda Jane, hurriedly, "I didn't write you that he had a fit not long sence, and it seemed to straighten him out. He goes to town on his crutches every day, an' Gippie limps after him—oh, Hank Dillson, Hank Dillson, I'm mos' loony about this business of your goin' away."
Hank smiled wearily at her, and went slowly toward the house.
"How long can you stay?" she asked, running after him. "How long will you give us?"
He took out his watch, and held it close to his face. "I guess I'll take the eleven o'clock train.It's nine now—I thought I'd look up some of the boys."
"Give us all the time," she said, pleadingly, "stay with your father an' me. Oh, promise, will you?"
"All right," he said, obligingly. "I don't care if I do. I'm beat out, anyway."
"I have to go some place, but I'll be back soon," she called after him, then she threw up both hands and pressed them over her ears,—a favourite gesture with her when she was doing hard thinking.
"Mr. Waysmith or Mr. Tracy," she repeated, half aloud. "Mr. Waysmith or Mr. Tracy. Mr. Tracy," she said, at last, "he's most likely," and whirling on her heel, she flew down the path, out the gate, and into the street.
Poacher, silent, graceful, and swift, kept close to her, but the battered Gippie soon gave up the chase with a howl of protest, and went limping home.
Hank, to his surprise, had, on the whole, the most agreeable talk of his life with his father. The old man was altered. He had been, at the same time, the stiffest and the most demonstrativeof parents, the young man reflected. There really was a remarkable change for the better in him, and yet, at the end of three-quarters of an hour, Hank got up to take his leave.
They were nearly always absent from each other, they had got out of the way of taking an active interest in each other's concerns—there was not yet sufficiently firm footing and enough of it to bridge to the shaky background of the past, and parting would be a mutual relief.
Yet the old man's eyes twinkled wistfully as they followed his son to the door. Hank had told him nothing of his troubles, yet his father saw that he had lost flesh, that he had not a prosperous air, and he acutely guessed that all was not going well with him. He would find out from the young girl, and with a sigh he settled back in his chair.
"I'll try to come home soon again, father," said Hank, dispiritedly, as he looked over his shoulder before closing the bedroom door, and he was just shrugging his shoulders at the promise, when something dark and panting caught at him in the unlighted kitchen, and made him jump.
It was 'Tilda Jane, breathing like a race-horse.
"What's up with you, sissy?" he asked.
She could not speak for a few seconds, then she gasped with difficulty, "Hank, dear old Hank, he's in there—the loveliest man—he's always ready to do a turn for any one—go in—tell him your business. I've said a little, mind what he tells you, an' you'll get on. He's helped lots of people. He was in the midst of a dinner party. He's so good—he jus' left it an' come. Go—" and she gave him a gentle push and sent him into the parlour, where he blinked his eyes alternately at the lamp on the table, and at a small, dark, quiet man who sat with his hat on his knee.
The small man was breathing hard, as if he, too, had been walking fast, but on seeing Hank, he rose and stood with outstretched hand.
"My name is Tracy," he said, kindly, "and I have come to this town since you left it, but I know your family."
"I know you, too," said Hank, bluntly, "from her letters," and he jerked his head backward, but 'Tilda Jane, after softly closing the door, had disappeared.
Mr. Tracy sat down again, and Hank sat opposite him. A slight and awkward pause ensued, broken speedily, however, by the minister.
"Young man, you are in trouble."
"Yes, I am that," said Hank, gruffly.
"State your trouble," said the minister, kindly.
Hank hesitated an instant, then his words came with a rush. "You've visited creameries, sir?"
"I have."
"Well, there's good creameries and bad creameries. A few years ago, when I was casting about in my mind for something to do, I got in with a Chicago firm known as the White Elephant firm—owing to so many States being spotted with their buildings, loaded on the farmers, and costing too much to keep up. Being a Maine man, they sentme to my own State. I was one of their most go-ahead sharks, now they've fired me to fix themselves right with the farmers. Do you know how they take in a community, sir?"
"No, I don't."
"Well, s'pose you're a shark. You navigate round among the farmers, and make a smother of big talk about hauling in buckets full of money. You get a committee to visit some creamery where the outfit is salted to make an extra showing. You pay the farmers' expenses, you offer 'em a block of stock, and up goes the creamery in their district with machinery from the promoting company, costing two or three times over what everything is worth. When the whole thing's up, it'll usually dawn on the minds of your stockholders that a creamery ain't much without cows, and their cows ain't got enough milk to pay for the fuel they burn. 'Way back here fifty miles, I had whipped up a creamery; I had a man to run the machinery, but he was a simpleton. He ruined the separator, it had to be sent back to the shop, an' I got mad with him.
"Then he blabbed, told everything he knew, an' a lot he didn't, an' the farmers stopped counting their cows long enough to listen. Hasty words flew round, about fraudulent subscriptions, vitiated transactions, no contracts, ruined farms, going to law—an' I thought it was time to skip. The firm had made me stop there up to this, an' as soon as I ran, they bounced me—I'm all played out here, sir. My native State bids me farewell!"
Hank suddenly ceased speaking, his head dropped on his breast, yet before it did so, he shot one appealing, hopeful glance at his listener. Despite his "don't-care" tone, and off-hand manner, it was plainly to be seen that he felt himself in trouble, and knew that there was one at hand who would help him.
"You've been in a poor business," observed Mr. Tracy, quietly. "You want to quit it?"
"Yes, sir," said Hank, meekly.
"Listen then—" and his companion in his turn began to speak rapidly.
'Tilda Jane, flying about the house, sent many an anxious thought to the closed parlour. What wasthe minister saying to Hank? Would Hank talk to him freely?
"O Lord! Lord! Lord!" she cried, suddenly stopping and raising her clasped hands to the ceiling, "do make his heart soft—soft as mush, an' don't let him be sassy. The minister is smooth an' nice, an' he would stand sass, but it's awful bad for Hank. He's got to sober down. O Lord, make him solemn—jus' like an owl!"
She dashed a tear from the corner of her eye, and went on with her occupation of wrapping various articles in a red handkerchief.
When the parlour door opened, she ran to the front hall, and as Mr. Tracy passed her, she caught his hand and pressed it fervently.
He said nothing, but smiling with the more than earthly sweetness of one who truly loved his fellow men, he hurried back to his deserted guests.
Hank followed close at his heels, and as he stood in the hall doorway, looking already straighter and taller, he smiled patronisingly down at 'Tilda Jane.
"You're a mighty fine girl, sissy, how old are you now?"
"Thirteen o'clock las' week—struck fourteen this—oh, what did the minister say?"
Hank thumped his chest. "He's got me a situation, sissy,—a situation that means bread and butter for you and father, and maybe cake and jam."
The little girl locked her hands in intense excitement. "Where, Hank, oh, where?"
"Here, sissy."
"In Ciscasset?"
"Yes."
'Tilda Jane suppressed a scream. "An' you can live at home?"
"Well, I rather guess so."
'Tilda Jane's pleasure was too deep for words. She stood gaping speechlessly at him.
Hank, in high good humour, beamed benevolently on the orphan girl as she stood beside him. "What are you sticking your head up an down for like a chicken taking a drink?" he said at last.
"Hank, I'm givin' thanks," she said, reverently, "givin' thanks that you've got led out of that roguey business."
"I'll not get into anything of that kind again,sissy," he said, with a shamefaced air. "You may just be sure of that. I've had a great talk with that friend of yours—and sissy, I'm obliged to you."
There was a queer break in his voice. An end had suddenly come to his troubles. He would now be in the way of earning an honest living. And it would be a pleasure to live with his father and this young girl who would look up to him and admire him.
"Sissy," he said, abruptly, "where do you think my new berth is?"
"I don't know—oh, tell me quick."
"In the Waysmith lumber mill. Mr. Waysmith offered a place to your friend Tracy to-day for some young man, and I'm the young man."
"With the Waysmiths?" murmured 'Tilda Jane, "where your father used to be?"
"The same, sissy."
'Tilda Jane could stand no more. "O Lord, I thank thee!" she cried, with a burst of tears, and running into the kitchen, she buried her face in the roller towel hanging on a door.
Hank sauntered after her, and on his way stumbledover a bundle done up in a spotted red handkerchief. He stooped down, picked it up, and opened it. It contained a few lumps of sugar, a Bible, a pair of socks, two handkerchiefs, half a loaf of cake, and fifty cents wrapped in a piece of newspaper.
"My travelling kit," he murmured; "well, if she ain't the best little creature!"
"Hello, 'Tilda!" he called out; "stop that whimpering, and come and tell grampa the news."
The little girl hastily dried her face on the towel, and ran into the bedroom where grampa sat surveying them in bewilderment from the edge of his bed. Some time ago he had come to his room with the intention of undressing. His son's visit had upset him, and he had been sitting confusedly listening to the scraps of conversation he caught from different parts of the house.
"Grampa, grampa!" cried 'Tilda Jane, running in, and excitedly waving her hands, "Hank's goin' to live at home with you, an' me, an' the dogs. We'll be a real family. Oh, ain't it lovely, ain't it lovely?" and catching hold of her skirts she began a sidling and peculiar dance about the room.
Hank laughed till the tears came into his eyes. 'Tilda Jane was good, but she was not graceful. Then his merriment over, he began to yawn, and 'Tilda Jane, as keen of observation as ever, immediately espied this sign of fatigue.
She caught up Gippie, who alone showed no pleasure at the prospect of having another inmate of the house, and danced out to the kitchen.
"Come out, grampa dear," she called, "we'll all have a good supper, 'cause this is a most joyful 'casion."
As grampa started to limp out to the kitchen, Hank quietly placed himself by his side.
The old man looked at him. "I'm not sorry you're going to stay," he remarked, gruffly. "They say there's no place like home."
"You'd better believe that's true, father," said Hank, warmly; "a fellow gets sick of hotels and boarding-houses. We'll have some more funds now that I'm going to get at some decent kind of work. You mustn't bother your head about expenses."
The old man sank into his chair with a sigh of relief. His face was working strangely. Last yearat this time he was alone and miserable in a cheerless house. Now his son was with him, a brisk young girl was flying about his kitchen, a bright fire burned in the stove, a fire that was not unpleasantly warm to his aged limbs even on this summer night. A white cloth covered his formerly bare and uninviting table; he was going to have pie, and coffee, and toast and cake for supper,—surely the coming of this orphan had been a fortunate thing for him, and he slowly chafed his hands as he gazed at the glowing bed of coals.
Hank was following 'Tilda Jane from kitchen to pantry, and from pantry to kitchen.
"You're getting to be a great housekeeper," he said, admiringly; "but we must not forget the schooling. It's a great thing to be educated. You can't hold your own in this world unless you know something. You wrote me Mrs. Tracy was teaching you some, didn't you?"
'Tilda Jane paused as she filled a sugar-bowl.
"Yes, three evenin's a week. She's a boss—I mean a good teacher. I learned some at the 'sylum,—no, the asylum, when I warn't—no, when Iwerent'—no, when I wasn't in the kitchen. And grampa talks to me some. He's a fine scholar."
"That's good—get all you can; but three evenings a week ain't enough. As soon as I can compass it, I'll have some one to take care of father daytimes, and let you go to school."
"To school!" said the little girl, "to learn more—to know how to speak proper! Oh, oh, I'm mos' too happy to live! Hank Dillson, I think you're the mos' beautiful man that was ever made!" and, dropping her sugar-bowl on the shelf, she seized a hand of the ex-creamery shark, and warmly pressed it between her little lean palms.
Hank, in some embarrassment, murmured, "Oh, fudge, I'm not as good as the next one."
"You're a million times better!" exclaimed 'Tilda Jane. "Oh, what a glad man Mr. Waysmith will be to have you in his mill! Come now, let's have supper. Dear ole grampa mus' get to bed. You wouldn't like to kill him with joy the first night you're home."
A few minutes later 'Tilda Jane was beaming behind the big coffee-pot. At last she had becomea member of a really happy family. Her dogs were stretched luxuriously on their rag mat by the stove, Grampa, calm and quiet, was sipping his coffee, and listening to some of Hank's travelling adventures.
She could not contain her delight. Her heart was too full, and presently she burst into low, irrepressible laughter.
Her companions stopped talking and stared at her.
"Oh, I can't help it!" she exclaimed, wildly, "I feel as if I'd come through a big sea of troubles to reach the promised land! I'm crazy—I'm crazy!" and too excited to keep still she pushed her chair aside, and rocked back and forth on her feet.
She saw stretching before her a long vista of happy years—the sight was almost too much for her, yet even in her ecstasy she thought of other children less fortunate.
"Hank, brother Hank!" she called suddenly, "the Tracys say to pass on blessings. All the world ain't joyful like us. When you make a little money will you let me write to the lady-boards foranother orphan,—the ugliest little orphan they've got,—worse than me, if it's not unpossible."
"You just write it down that I will," said Hank, gazing kindly and benevolently at her flushed face.
"We'll do it," cried 'Tilda Jane. "We'll be good to that other orphan. I know they'll have one, but how can I wait? What shall I do? I mus' hug some one, I'm so happy!"
She flashed a glance at the dogs. They were sleepy and comfortable. "Grampa, I guess it'll have to be you," she said, gaily, and, running to the old man, she threw her arms around his wrinkled neck, kissed his bald head, and fulfilled her promise of a hugging so vigorously that at last he called for mercy.
"Now, I'll go take something," she said, demurely, and, with a last caress, "you darlin' ole grampa—I could eat you—Lord, give me a thankful heart for all these mercies," then, reverently bending her head over her plate, she took up her knife and fork with a long and happy sigh.
THE END.