"In Adam's fallWe sinned all."
"I don't see how that could be when we were not there!" she said almost defiantly.
"It means the nature we inherited."
"But I don't think that fair!"
"You don't know, you never can understand until you are in a state of grace. Don't ask such impertinent questions. You are a little heathen child."
Then she asked Cousin Chilian what "a state of grace" meant.
"I think it is the willingness to do right, to be truthful, kindly, obliging. It is all comprised in the Golden Rule—to love God with all your heart and your neighbor as yourself, not to do anything to him that you would not like to have done to yourself, and to do to him whatever you would like him to do for you. That is enough for a little girl."
"That sounds like Confucius," she said thoughtfully.
But she went back to Roger Williams when Bentley said he was one of his heroes.
"What did he do?" she asked, interested.
"Well, he founded the City of Providence. And if William Penn is to be honored for founding a city of brotherly love, Roger Williams deserves it for establishing a city where different sects should agree without persecuting each other. You see, they banished him from Salem back to England because he thought a man had some right to his own opinions, so long as he worshipped God. So he went to Providence instead. He walked all the way with just his pocket compass to guide him, and how he must have worked to make a dwelling-place for himself and his friends in the dead of winter! There were some Quakers already there, who had been banished from other settlements, and they all resolved to be friendly. Yes, I call him a hero!"
Cynthia studied the house with the little courtyard and the great tree shading it.
"Polly said it was the Witch House," she remarked.
"That was because there were trials for witchcraft. You are too young to hear about that," Chilian said decisively, with a glance at Bentley.
Occasionally they went down to the warehouse, and while Chilian was busy some of the captains or mates would speak to her. They knew about her father and one sad fact she did not know. For she had settled in her mind that Captain Corwin would bring him back and that it would take a long, long while. So she tried to be content and if not teasing or fretting was one of the ways of being good, she tried her utmost to keep to that. She was too brave to tell falsehoods to shield herself from any inadvertent wrongdoing, even if Cousin Elizabeth did sometimes say:
"You ought to be soundly whipped. To spare the rod is to spoil the child."
She thought if anybody ever did whip her she should hate him all the rest of her life. Servants and workmen were beaten in India, and it seemed degrading. She did not know that Cousin Chilian had insisted that she should never be struck. He was understanding more every day how her father had loved her, and finding sweet traits in her unfolding.
She liked these rough bronzed men to touch their odd hats to her and call her Missy. Some of them hadseen her in Calcutta and knew her father. And when she said, "It takes a long, long while to go there and come back, but when Captain Corwin brings him he is going to live here and will never go to sea any more"—"No, that he never will, missy;" and the sailor drew his hand across his eyes.
Oh, how full the wharves were with shipping! Flags and pennons waved, and white sails; others, gray with age and weather, flapped in the wind. She liked to see them start out; she always sent a message by them in the full faith of childhood. And there were the fishermen in the cove lower down. Fishing was quite a great business.
Cousin Giles had made his visit and spent two whole days down in the warehouse, when they had not taken her. But she helped Cousin Eunice cut the stems of the sweet garden herbs for drying, and the others for perfumery. There was lavender, the blossoms had been gathered long ago, and sweet marjoram and sweet clover. She always gathered the full-blown rose leaves and sewed them up in little bags and laid them among the household stores. Everything was so fragrant. Cynthia thought she liked it better than sandalwood and the pungent Oriental perfumes.
Then came the autumnal storms, when the vessels hugged the docks securely at anchor. The house was chilly all through and fires were in order. Some two or three miles below there was a wreck of an East Indiaman, and for days fragments floated around.Some lives were lost, and the little girl shuddered over the accounts.
All the foliage began to turn and fall. The late flowers hung their heads. It had been a beautiful autumn, people said to pay up for the late spring.
There had been a little discussion about a school again.
"She seems so small, and in some things diffident," Chilian said. "The winters are long and cold, and she has not been used to them. Cousin Giles thinks her very delicate."
"She isn't like children raised here, but she's quite as strong as common. She oughtn't be pampered and made any more finicking than she is. A girl almost ten. What is she going to be good for, I'd like to know?"
Cousin Giles had not made much headway with her. He was large and strong with an emphatic voice, and a head of thick, strong white hair, a rather full face, and penetrating eyes. He had advised about investments, though he thought no place had the outlook of Boston. But Salem was ahead of her in foreign trade.
Chilian Leverett felt very careful of the little girl. For if she died a large part of her fortune came to him. He really wished it had not been left that way. There was an East India Marine Society that had many curiosities—stored in rooms on the third floor of the Stearns building. It had a wider scope than that and was to assist widows and orphans of deceased members, who were all to be those "who had actually navigated the seas beyond Cape of Good Hope, or Cape Horn, as masters or supercargoes of vessels belonging to Salem." To this Anthony had bequeathed many curiosities and a gift. There was talk of enlarging its scope, which was begun shortly after this.
Matters had settled to an amicable basis in the Leverett house. Rachel had won the respect of Elizabeth, who prayed daily for her conversion from heathendom and that she might see the claims the Christian religion had upon her. Eunice and she were more really friendly. She made some acquaintances outside and most people thought she must be some relation of the captain's. She had proved herself very efficient in several cases of illness, for in those days neighbors were truly neighborly.
Cynthia did shrink from the cold, though there were good fires kept in the house. This winter Chilian had a stove put up in the hall, very much against Elizabeth's desires. Quite large logs could be slipped in and they would lie there and smoulder, lasting sometimes all night. It was a great innovation and extravagance, though wood seemed almost inexhaustible in those days. And it was considered unhealthy to sleep in warm rooms, though people would shut themselves up close and have no fresh air.
Then the snow came, but it was a greater success in the inland towns, and there were sledding and sleigh-riding. The boys and girls had great times buildingforts and having snowballing contests. But the little girl caught a cold and had a cough that alarmed her guardian a good deal and made him more indulgent than ever, to Elizabeth's disgust.
She was not really ill, only pale and languid and seemed to grow thinner. She was much fairer than any one could have supposed and her eyes looked large and wistful. Chilian put some pillows in the big rocking-chair and tilted it back so that she could almost lie down on it.
"You are so good to me," she would say with her sweet, faint smile.
Bentley came in now and then of an evening, and she liked to hear what they were doing at school. Polly, too, made visits; they had a half-holiday on Saturday. She always brought some work, and Elizabeth considered her a very industrious girl. She was going to a birthday party of one of her mates.
"What do they do at parties?" inquired the little girl.
"Oh, they play games. There's stagecoach. Everybody but one has a seat. He blows a horn and sings out, 'Stage for Boston,' or any place. Then every one has to change seats. Such a scrambling and scurrying time! and the one who gets left has to take the horn."
"It's something like puss in the corner."
"Only ever so many can play this. Then there's 'What's my thought like?' That's rather hard, butfunny. I like twirling the platter. If you don't catch it when it comes near you, you must pay a forfeit. And redeeming them is lots of fun, for you are told to do all sorts of ridiculous things. Then there's some goodies and mottoes and you can exchange with a boy. But Kate Saltonstall's big sister had a party where they danced. Eliza wanted some dancing, but her mother said so many people did not approve of it for children."
"And don't you have some one to come and dance for you?"
"Oh, what a queer idea! The fun is in dancing yourself with a real nice boy. Some people think it awfully wrong. Do you, Miss Winn?"
"No, indeed. When I was a child in England we went out and danced on the green. Everybody did. And when there were doings at the great houses—like Christmas, and weddings, and coming of age—the ladies, in their silks and satins and laces, came down in the servants' hall and danced with the butler and the footmen, and my lord took out some of the maids. I don't think dancing hurts any one."
"I'm glad to hear you say that, Miss Winn. They are talking of having a dancing-class in school. I hope mother will let me join it."
"And they teach it in schools there."
"And why shouldn't they here?" said Polly.
To be sure. Cynthia was much interested and made Polly promise to come again and tell her all about it.Old Salem was awakening rapidly from her rigid torpor.
"I wonder if I could ever have a party," she said to Cousin Leverett that evening. "When father comes home we might have what they did at the Perkinses when they went in their new place—a house-warming. Is that like a party?"
"About the same thing."
"Cousin Elizabeth thinks it wicked. Wouldn't she think dancing wicked?"
"I am afraid she would."
Cynthia sighed. No, she couldn't have a party here.
She waited quite eagerly for Polly's account. The little girl was in her own room. Miss Winn had gone out to get some medicine. Cynthia tried to be well sometimes, so she would not have to take the nauseous stuff. No one had invented medicated sugar pills at that time. She liked Cousin Elizabeth's cough syrup.
Polly was overflowing with spirits.
"Oh, I want to be big, right away. Bella Saltonstall was there and she's going into company next winter, she says. And she showed us some of the dancing steps and they just bewitch you. It's like this"—and Polly picked up her frock in a dainty manner and whirled about the vacant spaces in the room.
"But doesn't it tire you dreadfully? The girls in India stand still a great deal more and just sway about. They come in and dance for you."
"Tire you! Oh, no. That's the great fun, to do ityourself. Bella said it was—ex—something, and the word is in the spelling-book, but I never can remember the long words. Oh, I just wish I was fifteen and wasn't going to school any more. And then there's keeping company and getting married, and having your setting out. School seems stupid. There were two boys who wanted to come home with me, but mother said Ben must. Then I wished—well, I wished he was in college. He wants to go. Father says Mr. Leverett has infected him with the craze."
"If I was a boy, I'd like to go. Cousin Leverett is going to take me to Harvard next summer when they have their grand closing time."
"I'd rather be a girl and have a nice beau."
Plainly Polly had been saturated with dissipation.
Spring was suggesting her advent. The days were longer. The snow was disappearing.
"Oh, Cousin Leverett, look—there are some buds on the trees!" she cried.
"Yes. You can see them at intervals through the winter. They are wise little things, and swell and then shrink back in the cold."
"I'm so glad. I can soon go out. I get very tired some days. I like summer best."
"Yes. I do hope we shall have an early spring."
She looked up with smiling gladness.
That afternoon she had fallen asleep in the big chair. How almost transparent she was. The long lashes lay on the whiteness of her cheek—yes, it was reallywhite. And there was very little color in her lips.
Abner Hayes came up from the warehouse with some papers theUlysseshad just brought in.
"That the captain's poor little girl?"
"Yes; she's asleep. She hasn't been very well this winter, but the first nice balmy day I shall take her out driving. I've been almost afraid to have the air blow on her."
"Yes, she ought to live and enjoy all that big fortune. It's a thousand pities the captain couldn't have come back and enjoyed it with her. But we must all go when our time comes. You never hear a hard word said about him, and sure's there's a heaven he is in it."
Chilian held up his finger. Then he signed a paper that had to go back, and asked if the cargo of theUlysseswas in good shape.
Elizabeth called him downstairs after that. There was a poor man wanting some sort of a position and Chilian promised to look out for him. He had been porter in a store, but the heavy lifting made him cough. He would have to get something lighter.
When he returned Cynthia was standing by his table, white as a little ghost. He almost dropped into the chair.
"Was I dreaming, or did that man say my father couldn't come back to Salem, that he—that he was——"
She swayed almost as if she would fall. He drew her down on his knee and her head sank on his shoulder. She was so still that he was startled. How many times he had wondered how he would get her told. Perhaps it had been wrong to wait.
"My little girl! My little Cynthia——"
"Wait," she breathed, and he held her closer. He had come to love her very much, though he had taken her unwillingly.
"Is it true? But no one would say such a thing if it were not. I had been asleep. I woke just as he said that. Perhaps I had been dreaming about our being together. And it seemed at first as if my tongue was stiff and I couldn't even make a sound. Did he go to heaven without me?"
Oh, what should he say to comfort her! She had so many feelings far under the surface.
"My little dear," and his voice was infinitely fond, "I want to tell you that he loved your mother tenderly. No one could have been better loved. In the course of a few hours she was snatched away from him. You were so little—five years ago. I doubt if there was ever a day in which he did not think of her. When you are grown and come to love some one with the strength of your whole heart, you will understand how great it is. And when the summons came for him his first thought was that he should see her, and with the next he must find a new home for his little girl, so he gave you to me. It is very hard just now, but youmust think how happy they are together. Perhaps they both know you are here, where you will be cared for and made happy, for we all love you. Every one has not the same way of showing love, but Cousin Elizabeth has done everything she could for you this winter. And we don't want to lose you. You won't grudge them a few years together in that happy place?"
"Oh, are you quite sure thereisa heaven?"
Oh, Cynthia, you are not the first one who has asked to have it certified.
"Yes, dear; very sure," in the tone of faith.
"He loved mother very much?"
"Yes."
There was a long silence. He felt the slow beating of her little heart.
"Then I ought to be content, since he gave me to you, when he knew he was going away."
"It would have been very sad if you had been left alone there. Out of his great love he planned it this way, thinking the tidings would not come so hard after a while. And now you can always recall him as you saw him last and just think, in a moment of time God called and he stepped over the narrow space that seems such a mystery to us and mether. I wish we didn't invest death with so much that is painful, for it is God's way of calling us to a better land where there are no more partings. Sometime you and I will go over to them."
"I shouldn't feel afraid with you," she commented simply.
When the tea bell rang she asked to be carried to her room and laid on Rachel's little bed. He kissed her gently and turned away.
The next was his day in Boston. But late in the afternoon, after Miss Eunice had been visiting her an hour or so, she went to the study and sat by the window, where she could see him come. He glanced up and she waved her hand daintily. All day he had been wondering how he should find her.
"I haven't coughed but a very little to-day," she exclaimed. "Cousin Elizabeth made some new syrup. And the doctor was in. He said I was a little lazy, that I must be more energetic."
"I've been ordering a new carriage to-day. The old one was hardly worth repairing. And when you are stronger I think I'll buy a gentle pony and we can go out riding. You would not be afraid after a little?"
"Not with you."
Her confidence was very sweet.
"I'm going down to tea to-night. I was down at noon."
"Oh, you are improving. I hope there will come some warm weather and balmy airs."
"It was beautiful last spring. You know I never saw a real spring before."
She was bearing her loss and her sorrow beautifully. All day she had been thinking of the joy of those twowhen they met on the confines of that beautiful world. It made heaven seem so near, so real. Sometimes the tears came to her eyes. She was Cousin Chilian's little girl, so why should she feel lonely!
Once in a number of years spring comes early. It did this time, at the close of the century. People shook their heads and talked about "weather-breeders," and mentioned snow as late as May, when fruit trees had been in bloom. But nature had turned over a bright, clear leaf, that made the book of time fairly shine.
The carriage came and Cynthia was taken out. Miss Elizabeth wrapped her up like a mummy, and would put a brick, swathed in coverings, in the bottom for her feet. He had taken the ladies out occasionally, but of late years the sisters had been so busy they had little time for pleasure, they thought.
They crossed North Bridge and went up Danvers way. Oh, how lovely it was with the trees in baby leaf, and some wild things blossoming. And even then industry had planted itself. There on the farther bank of Waters River was the iron mill, where Dr. Nathan Read invented his scheme for cut nails. And he built a paddle-wheel steamboat that was a success before Robert Fulton tried his. And they passed the Page house, where General Gage had his office, and Madam Page had tea on the roof, because they had promised not to use tea in the house.
That amused Cynthia and he also told her of thewoman, when tea first came to the country, who boiled the leaves and seasoned them, passing them around to her guests, who didn't think they were anything much in the vegetable line and too expensive ever to become general.
Birds sang about them, flocks of wild geese had started on their northward journey. What a wonderful world it was! And her father had been a boy here in Salem village, had lived in Cousin Chilian's house in the father's time, and her mother had been married in the stately parlor. Why, she could dream of their being real guests of the place. How odd she should come to live here. The life in India would be the dream presently.
She was very tired when Chilian lifted her out of the carriage and took her upstairs. Rachel put her to bed for a while and gave her a cup of hot tea—mint and catnip—which was a great restorer, or so considered, in those days. She came down to supper and was quite bright.
Every day she improved a little. Eunice said she was getting 'climated.
Elizabeth wondered if she had any deep feeling. She had expected to see her "take on" terribly. Chilian begged her not to disturb the child's faith that both parents were in heaven.
"Letty Orne, that was, might have been one of the elect, but sea captains are seldom considered safe in the fold, as children of grace. I never heard that hehad any evidence. And 'tisn't safe to count on meeting them unless you've had some sign."
"We must leave a good many of these things to God. His ways are better than our short-sighted wisdom."
Elizabeth was never quite sure of Chilian. So much study, and reading, and college talk, and the new theories, and what they called discoveries, were enough to unsettle one's faith, and she feared for him. Younger children than Cynthia had gone through the throes of conviction—she had herself, and she longed to see her in this state.
But the child was quite her olden self. What with the change of climate and her illness she was many shades fairer, and her hair was losing its queer sunburned color. Her thin frame began to fill out, her face grew rounder, and her smile was sweetness itself.
"But she hasn't grown a mite since she came. Leverett people are all of a fair size. I don't know a little runt among them," persisted Elizabeth.
"I wish I could grow," she sighed in confidence to Chilian.
"Never mind. Then you will always be my little girl," he would answer consolingly.
Even Chilian wondered that the little girl took the death of her father so calmly. Elizabeth called it unnatural and questioned whether the child had any deep feeling.
"I don't believe she's shed a tear. And, Eunice, the child ought to go in black."
The child was trying to get used to changed ideas. If her mother was glad and happy, now that they were again united, why should she be sorry? It seemed selfish to her as if she grudged them the joy. And Cousin Chilian was trying every way to entertain her, to help her on to perfect recovery. Sometimes, when she sat alone in the study, the soft eyes would overflow and the tears course silently down her cheeks. She never cried in the tempestuous way of some children. But she knew now she had counted a good deal on their having a home together. Rachel would keep the house and she and her father would take walks and have a garden, where she could cut flowers and have them in the house. Cousin Elizabeth said they made a litter. And now she should never go down to the wharf and see him standing on the deck, and waveher hand to him, as she used when he went on short journeys in India. They would have a low carry-all and ride around, as she would tell him all she had learned about Salem. And they would have people in to drink tea and have pretty dishes on the table. Perhaps he would give her a party. But she didn't know any children, except the Uphams. It might be better to go to school so that she could get acquainted.
Chilian was a good deal startled about the black garments.
"She is so little and thin," he objected. "I never did like children in black; it seems as if you weighted them down with woe. And he has been dead so many months now."
"But one ought to pay decent respect to a custom sanctioned by all civilized people. There will be a talk about it. Folks may think it our fault."
"I do not believe half a dozen people would notice it. It's only a custom after all. I never did like it. We will see how she feels about it."
"Chilian, you make that child of as much importance as if she was a woman grown. You will have your hands full by and by. She will think every one must bow down to her and consult her whims and fancies."
"We will see;" nodding indifferently.
He didn't want her around in garments of woe. Very gently he mentioned the subject.
She glanced up out of sweet, entreating eyes. Shehad been standing by him, looking over a very choice book of engravings.
"Yes," she returned. "Rachel spoke of it. And you know there are some people who wear white, and some who put on yellow. Black isn't a nice color. Do you like it?"
He shook his head.
"It is the inside of me that aches now and then, when I think I shall never see him come sailing back, that I must be a long while without him until I go to their land. But he must be very happy with mother, and that is what I think of when I feel how hard it is;" and the tears stole softly down her cheeks. "I have Rachel and you, and he said you would always love me and care for me. But I try not to feel sorry, and if I had on a black frock I couldn't help but think of it all the time. Then I should be sorry inside and outside both, and is it right to make yourself unhappy when you believe people have gone to heaven?"
She said it so simply that he was deeply moved. She had been alone with her sorrow all this time, when they had thought her indifferent.
"You need not wear black—I wish you would not. I want you to get real well and happy. And you are a brave little girl to think of them and refrain from grief."
She wiped away the tears lest they should fall on the book.
"At first it was quite dreadful to me. I couldn'tsay anything. Then I remembered how we used to talk of mother, as if she was only in the next room. And then I sit here and think, when the sky is such a splendid blue and there come little white rifts in it, as if somewhere it opened, I can almost see them. Can't people come back for a few moments?"
"Only in dreams, I imagine."
"I canalmostsee them. And they are so glad to be together. And I know father says, 'Cynthia will come by and by.' But twenty years, or thirty years, is a long while to wait."
Perhaps she wouldn't need to wait so long, he thought, as he noted the transparent face.
"And now I should be sorry to go away from you," she said, with grave sweetness.
"I think your father meant you should stay a long while with me when he gave you to me;" and he pressed her closer to his heart.
So she did not wear mourning, to Elizabeth's very real displeasure. There was no further talk about the school, but she did try to sew a little and began the sampler. Cousin Eunice was her guide here. She brought out hers that was over fifty years old, and all the colors were fading.
"I wonder if I shall live fifty years," she mused.
Driving about was her great entertainment. You could go to Marblehead, which was a peninsula. There were the fishery huts and the men curing and drying fish. Sometimes they took passage in one ofthe numerous sailing vessels and went in and out the irregular shore, and saw Boston from the bay. It seemed in those times as if it might get drowned out, there was so much water around it.
"And if it should float off out to sea, some day," she half inquired, laughingly.
He was glad to hear her soft, sweet laugh again.
She thought she liked Salem best, and even now people began to talk of old Salem, there had been so many improvements since the time Governor Bradford had written:
"Almost ten years we lived here alone,—In other places there were few or none;For Salem was the next of any fameThat began to augment New England's name."
And then it went by the old Indian name and was called Naumkeag. And she found that it was older than Boston, and had been the seat of government twice, and that Governor Burnett, finding Boston unmanageable, had convened the General Court here for two years. That was in 1728, and now it was 1800.
"But no one lives a hundred years," she said.
"Oh, yes; there are a number of persons who have lived that long. Now and then a person lives in three centuries, is born the last year of one, goes through a whole century, and dies in the next one."
"What a long, long while!" she sighed.
And there was the old Court House where the Stamp Act was denounced. She wanted to know allabout that, and he was fond ofexplainingthings, the sort of teacher habit, but there was nothing dogmatic about it. Here were houses where the Leveretts had lived, third or fourth cousins who had married with the Graingers, and the Lyndes, and the Saltonstalls, and the Hales. It is so in the course of a hundred or two years, when emigration does not come in to disturb the purity of the blood.
The little girl really began to improve. Her hair was taking on a brighter tint and in the warm weather the uneven ends curled about her forehead in dainty rings, her complexion was many shades fairer, her cheeks rounded out, and her chin began to show the cleft in it. She was more like her olden self, quite merry at times.
The summer went on as usual. Gardening, berry-picking, and she helped with the gooseberries, the briery vines she did not like. There were jars of jam and preserves, rose leaves to gather, and all the mornings were crowded full. Often in the afternoon she went up in the garret to see Miss Eunice spin—sometimes on the big wheel, at others with flax on the small wheel. She liked the whirring sound, and it was a mystery to her how the thread came out so fine and even.
Elizabeth had taken the white quilt out of its wrappings, it did not get finished the summer before. A neighbor had let her copy a new pattern for the border that had come from New York. And she heard therehad been imported white woven quilts with wonderful figures in them.
"Then one wouldn't have to quilt any more. Shan't you be glad, Cousin Elizabeth?"
"Glad!" She gave a kind of snort and pushed the needle into her finger, and had to stop lest a drop of blood might mar the whiteness. "Well, I'm not as lazy as that comes to, and I don't see how they can put much beauty in them. You can change blue and white and show a pattern, but where it is all white! Why, you couldn't tell it from a tablecloth."
It was warm up in the garret, and what with drying herbs, and the sun pouring on the shingles, there was a rather close, peculiar air. Cynthia stood by the open window, where the sweet summer wind went by, laden with the fragrance of newly cut grasses and the silk of the corn that was just tasselling out. The hills rose up, tree-crowned; white clouds floated by overhead, and out beyond was the great ocean that led to other countries—to India she thought of so often.
Oh, how the birds sang! She was so sorry Cousin Eunice had to sit and spin, when there was such a beautiful world all around, and Cousin Elizabeth pricked her fingers quilting. She heard her sigh, but she did not dare look around. She had that nice sense of delicacy, rather unusual in a child. But then she wasn't an everyday child.
"Cynthia," called Rachel from the foot of the stairs, "don't you want to go out for a walk? They've beenunloading theMingo, and they have a store of new things at the Merrits'."
That was the great East India emporium.
"Oh, yes!" She skipped across the floor and ran downstairs lightly.
"That child's like a whirlwind," exclaimed Elizabeth crossly.
"But we ought to be glad she's so much better. I was really afraid in the spring we wouldn't have her long."
"Oh, the Leverett stock is tough."
"But her mother died young."
"Of that horrid India fever. No, I didn't truly think she would die. If she had, I wonder where all the money would go? Chilian is awful close-mouthed about it. But it would have to go somewhere. 'Tisn't at all likely he'd leave word for it to be thrown back in the sea."
"No; oh, no."
"There's some talk about missionaries going out to try to convert the heathen. But Giles thinks it would cost more than it would amount to. Giles has got way off; seems to me religion's dying out since they've begun to preach easy ways of getting to heaven and letting the bars down here and there. There's no struggle and sense of conviction nowadays; you just take it up as a business. And that child talks about heaven as if she'd had a glimpse of it and saw her father and mother there. Letty Orne was a churchmember in her younger days, but I don't believe the captain ever was. And they who don't repent will surely perish."
Eunice sighed. She could never get used to the thought that thousands of souls were brought into the world to perish eternally.
Cynthia tied on her Leghorn hat. It did have some black ribbon on it, and the strings were passed under her chin and tied at one side. That and her silken gown gave her a quaint appearance, rather striking as well.
They walked down the street and turned corners. There was quite a procession of ladies bound for the same place. If they had been all buyers, Mr. Merrit would have made quite a fortune. But he was glad to have them come. They would describe the stock to their neighbors, and perhaps decide on what they wanted for themselves.
"Ah, Miss Winn!" exclaimed a pleasant-faced woman. "And that is Captain Leverett's little girl? Why, she looks as if she was quite well again. We heard of her being so poorly. I suppose the shock of her father's death was dreadful! Poor little thing! And she's to be quite an heiress, I heard. What are they going to do with her? Won't she be sent to Boston to school?"
"Oh, I think not. Mr. Leverett has been teaching her a little."
They had fairly to elbow their way in. Longcounters were piled with goods. Silks, laces, sheerest of muslins embroidered beautifully, lace wraps, India shawls, jewelry, caps, collars, handkerchiefs, stockings, slippers that were dainty enough for a Cinderella.
And all down one side were ranged tables, and jars, and vases, and articles one could hardly find a name for. Such exquisite carving, such odd figures painted and embroidered on silk, birds the like of which were never seen on land or sea, dragons that flew, and crawled, and climbed trees, and disported themselves on waves.
"Oh, it looks like home," cried Cynthia, for the moment forgetting herself. And she kept sauntering round among the beautiful things, her heart growing strangely light, and her pulses throbbing with a sort of joy.
She was almost hidden by a great pile of tapestry. The Indians had found some secrets of beauty as well as France, if they did make it with infinite pains. And this was made with the little hand-looms and joined together so neatly and the colors blended so harmoniously that it was like a dream. Only the little girl did not like the dragons and strange animals. She had never seen any real ones like them. They were in the stories Nalla used to tell.
Then some one else spoke to Miss Winn. "Is your little charge here?" she asked. "I'm quite anxious to see her. I've called twice on the Leveretts, and really asked for her once when they said she was quite ill.But I saw her out in the carriage with—isn't it her uncle? No? And she's to be very well to do, I've heard. The idea of the Leverett women undertaking to bring up a child! They're good as gold and some of the best housekeepers in Salem, but I dare say they'll teach her to knit stockings, and make bedquilts, and braid rag mats, and do fifty-year-old things—make a regular little Puritan of her. I knew her mother quite well before she was married. Doesn't seem as if we were near of an age and went to school together. But some of the Ornes married in our line. And I was married when I was seventeen, and now I'm a grandmother. How the years do fly on! And she had to die out in that heathen land; he too. Wasn't it odd about sending her here beforehand? I do want to see her."
"She is somewhere about, interested in all these foreign things." Miss Winn was not quite sure of the chattering woman. She had learned that the Leverett ladies were exclusive, whether from inclination or lack of time. They asked their minister and a few old family friends in to tea on rare occasions, and then it was cooking and baking and cleaning up the choice old silver and dusting and polishing, and the next day clearing up. Everything out of the routine made so much extra work. Among the few English-speaking people in India there had been a sort of free and easy sociability.
Cynthia meanwhile had slipped around the end ofthe counter and came up to them. She wanted to see the woman who had been to school with her mother. Then her mother was a little girl, perhaps no older than she. Did she like it? Cynthia wondered.
"This is Captain Leverett's little daughter," Rachel announced rather stiffly.
"My—but you don't favor your mother at all. I'm Mrs. Turner and I knew her off and on. We lived about thirty miles above here. Then her folks died and she went to Boston, but she used to be at the Leveretts' a good deal. I married and came here. I'm living up North River way and have a house full of children—like steps—and one grandchild, and I'm just on the eve of thirty-seven. I've one little girl about your age, but she's ever so much bigger. I'd like you to be friends with her. The next older is a girl, too. Why, you'd have real nice times if the old aunties were willing. Do they keep her strict? And she's going to be a considerable heiress, I heard. I wonder where her eyes came from? They're not Leverett eyes, and her mother's were a clear blue, real china blue, but then there's different blues in china," and she laughed. "Sad about the captain, wasn't it? He should have lived to enjoy his fortune, and now his little girl will have it all. I must come and scrape acquaintance for the sake of my girls. You'd like them, I know, they're full of fun. We're not strait-laced people—that's going out of date."
Then she passed on. They wandered about a littlemore among the vases and jars and the paintings on silk. The air was heavy with sandalwood, and attar of rose, and incense. The fragrance seemed never to die out of those old things that became family heirlooms.
"Come," Rachel said, taking her by the hand. It was quite late in the afternoon now, and the shadows of everything were growing longer. She could not understand why it was at first, but now she knew. And the sun would be round there in Asia presently. In her secret heart she still believed the sun went round and the earth stood still, for in the movement peoplemustslip off. But then what held it in the air? Cousin Chilian had a globe, but you see there was a strong wire through the middle, fastened to the frame at both ends. Perhaps the earth was fastened somewhere! She liked to make it revolve on its axis, and in imagination she crossed the oceans, and seas, and capes, and found her father again.
The stage had just come in. They paused on the corner, waiting for Cousin Chilian. Some one was with him—yes, it was Cousin Giles Leverett.
"Well, little woman," he began, "so I find you out here meandering round, and so much improved that I hardly know you. We were afraid in the winter you were going to slip away and leave all this fortune behind you, never having had a bit of good of it. But you look now as if you had taken a new lease. And you are positively growing!"
Chilian smiled at the remark. He had begun to think so himself. And she looked so pretty just now with the pink in her cheeks and the soft tendrils of hair about her forehead, the eager, luminous eyes. He reached out and took her hand.
"Have you been inspecting old Salem, and did you find any queer things?" Cousin Giles asked.
"Oh, there was a great shipload of goods from India and it seemed almost as if you were walking through the booths at home, only there were no natives and no beggars or holy men——"
"Tut! tut! child; they are not holy men who are too lazy to move and waiting for other people to fill their mouths. If they were here we'd make them work or they'd have to starve. They're talking about missionaries being sent out to convert them. I heard a rousing sermon on Sunday, but it didn't loosen my purse-strings. Your greatest missionary is work, good hard labor, clearing up and planting. Suppose those oldMayflowerpeople had sat down and held out their hands for alms. Do you suppose our Indians would have filled 'em with their corn, and fish, and game? Not much. They'd tied 'em to a tree and set fire to 'em." When Cousin Giles was excited he made elisions of speech rather unusual for a Boston man. "They went to work and cut down trees, and built houses, and raised farm and garden truck, and made shoes and clothes, and roads and bridges, and built cities and towns, and shamed those countries thousandsof years old. And now we're trying to help them by bringing over their goods and selling them."
"And creating extravagance, Elizabeth would say," returned Chilian, with a sort of humorous smile.
"Oh, you might as well keep the money going as to hoard it up in an old stocking, so long as it is honestly yours. We're getting to be quite a notable country, Chilian Leverett."
They turned into Derby Street, and Cousin Giles paused to survey the garden.
"You've lots of things to enjoy here," he said. "I don't know but it's a sensible thing to take the good of what you have as you go along. And little Miss here will have enough without your adding to the store. You men of Salem ought to begin to do some big things—build a college."
"Oh, I think our young men would rather go to Harvard. We don't want to rival you. We shall be the biggest New England seaport. We'll divide up the glories."
Elizabeth was so taken by surprise that she was rather cross. She liked things planned beforehand. Now the tablecloth must come off. This one had been on since Sunday and it had two darns in it. And the old silver must come out.
"I don't believe Cousin Giles would ever notice," Eunice said. "And I do think the china prettier than that old silver."
"Well, it has the crown mark on it and the Leveretts owned it before they came from England. Giles' folks had some of it, too, but the Lord only knows what he's done with his. I dare say servants have made way with it, or banged it out of shape. Anybody can have china. Come, do be spry, Eunice."
Cynthia went upstairs and had her hair brushed and a clean apron put on, though the other was not soiled.
"Rachel, what is an heiress?" she asked.
"Why—some one, a woman, who inherits a good deal of money."
"Does she have to wait until she is a woman?"
"Why, no. Yes, in a way, too. She can have the money spent upon her, but she can't have it herself until she is twenty-one."
Cynthia wondered how it would seem to go and spend money, buy ever so many things. But she really couldn't think of anything she wanted, unless it was a house of her very own, and books, and pretty pictures, not portraits of old-fashioned men and women. And a pony and a dainty chaise. But then—she was such a little girl, and she wouldn't want to leave Cousin Chilian.
Elizabeth made delicious cream shortcake for supper. Cousin Giles said everything tasted better up here, perhaps it was the clear salt water. There were so many fresh ponds and streams around Boston. But there were big plans for drainage and for docking out. Then Elizabeth was such a fine cook.
The two men sat out on the stoop in the summermoonlight and Cynthia thought Cousin Giles really quarrelled trying to establish the superiority of Boston. Then they talked about investments and Captain Leverett, and Giles said, "Cynthia will be one of the richest women of Salem. Chilian, you'll have to look sharp that some schemer doesn't marry her for her money."
"You must come to bed, Cynthia," declared Rachel. Through the open window they could hear Cousin Giles' voice plainly.
The men went the next morning to consider an investment Chilian had in view. It had been thought best to divide the sums coming in between Salem and Boston. Then they walked about and saw the improvements, the new docks being built to accommodate the shipping, the great fleet of boats, the busy ship-yard, the hurrying to and fro everywhere. It was not merely finery, but spices and articles used in the arts. Gum copal was brought from Zanzibar. Indigo came in, though they were trying to raise that at the South.
And when Giles saw the new streets and fine houses, and Mr. Derby's, that was to cost eighty thousand dollars, he did open his eyes in surprise. Though he said rather grudgingly:
"It's a shame for one little girl to have all that money. There should have been three or four children. Fifty years ago the Leveretts had such big families they bid fair to overrun the earth, and now they've dwindled down to next to nothing. Chilian, why don't you marry?"
"The same to yourself. Are you clinging to any old memory?"
"Well, not just that. I don't seem to have time. Now you are a fellow of leisure. Get about it, man, and hunt up a wife."
Cynthia Leverett was making great improvement in every respect. She was no longer the thin, wan little thing that had come from India. She had outgrown her clothes, which was a good sign, Eunice said.
Elizabeth made a stand for good wearing ginghams and plain cloths for winter.
"There's that gray cloth of mine that's too nice to hack around for every day. I could have it dyed, I suppose, but I've two nice black stuff dresses beside my silk, and that other one Chilian gave me that must have cost a sight of money; it's thick enough to almost stand alone. I can't bear those sleazy stuffs that come from India. But I've wished more than once that I had the money it cost, out at interest. And the cloth——"
"It isn't a very pretty color," ventured Eunice timidly.
"What does that matter for a child? It won't show dirt easily. And it is settled that she is going to school, I'm thankful to say."
The dress in question was not a clear, pretty gray, but had an ugly yellow tint.
"She certainly is rich enough to buy her own clothes, or have them bought for her. I'd dip that dress over a good deal darker brown. You know Chilian didn't like it for you, and he will not for her."
Eunice was amazed at her own protest. The child had always been prettily attired. And more attention was being paid to children's clothes she noticed in church on Sunday, and after she had indulged in such sinful wanderings, she read the chapter in Isaiah where the prophet denounced the "round tires like the moon, the bonnets and the head bands, the mantles, and wimples, and crisping pins, and changeable suits of apparel," and other vanities, and predicted dire punishments for them.
Mrs. Turner had called according to her proposal. She brought her little daughter Arabella, commonly called Bella. Cousin Chilian was out in the garden with Cynthia, and received her with his usual kindly cordiality, inviting them to walk into the house. The parlor shutters were tightly closed, and Mrs. Turner abhorred state parlors. Hers was always open, for guests were no rarity.
"Why can't we sit out here a spell? It is so delightful to have this garden in view. And your clematis is a perfect show. Then let the children run around and get acquainted. How are the ladies?"
She seated herself on the bench at the side of the porch.
"I will call them," he said. "But—hadn't you better walk in?"
"Oh, we can't stay very long. I've been waiting for the ladies to return my last call, but we were down in this vicinity, so I stopped. You see, I don't always stand on ceremony. And we have been so interested in your little girl. I saw her in Merrit's with Miss Winn."
He summoned the ladies, and then he returned to the guests. The children were both down the path—Bella talking and gesticulating, and Cynthia laughing.
Mrs. Turner was in nowise formal. She talked of Mr. Turner's business—he was a shipbuilder—of the rapid strides Salem was making; indeed one would hardly know it for old Salem of the witch days. And people's ideas had broadened out so, softened from their rigidity, "though some of the old folks are thinking the very trade we are so proud of is going to ruin our character and morals, and fill us with pride and vanity. But I say to Mr. Turner the people did their hard work and bore their deprivations bravely all through the Revolution, and we can't go back and make their lot easier by depriving ourselves of comforts, or even pleasures."
There might be some casuistry in that, but there was truth as well.
Then he asked if she knew of any nice schools for girls. Where did hers go?
"Oh, to Madam Torrey's. That's up Church Street. Maybe it would be too far in bad weather, though our girls don't mind it. Alice is thirteen, but she's been there since she was eight, and Bella has been going these two years. The boys are at the Bertram School, and your neighbor Bentley Upham goes there. He's a nice boy. But Madam Torrey is a fine woman. She has an assistant, and a woman comes in to teach the French class. Then—I don't suppose everybody will approve of this, but there is going to be a dancing-class out of school hours, yet no one is compelled to send their children to that. There's fine needlework, too, and fancy knitting, indeed about all that it is necessary for a girl to know. And the children are all from good families; that is quite an important point."
"I think I must walk over and see her."
"Do. I am sure you will be pleased. The walk will be the only objection. Isn't she delicate?"
"She wasn't well last winter. She took a cold. She was not used to our bleak winters. And there was her father's death. She had counted so much on his return."
"It was very sad. She looks well now."
Then the ladies made their appearance. Elizabeth apologized for Chilian not asking her into the parlor. "It looked inhospitable."
"It was my fault. The stoop was so tempting. A shady porch in the afternoon is a luxury. We take our sewing out there; that is, Alice and I, and sometimes the guests. How lovely your vines are! And your garden is a regular show place, quite worth coming to see if there were no other charm. And, Miss Leverett, I hear you have been making the most beautiful white quilt there is in Salem."
"Oh, no. But as nice as any. And it was a sight of work. I don't know as I'd do it again. I've no chick or child to leave it to."
"May I come over some day and see it? Not that I shall do anything of the kind. With four big boys to mend for and the two girls, I have my hands full."
Then they talked about putting up fruit and making jellies, and Mrs. Turner said she must go over to the Uphams. She heard that Polly was getting to be such a nice, smart girl, and had worked the bottom of her white frock and a round cape to match. Then she called Bella.
"Oh, can't I go over with them?" pleaded Cynthia.
Cousin Chilian nodded. Elizabeth rose stiffly and went in. Eunice pulled out her knitting. It was so lovely here. There were the warmth and perfume of summer and the rich fragrance of ripening fruits and grass mown for feed, not snipped with a lawn-mower, such things had not been heard of even in the rapidly improving Salem.
"There are some countries where people live out of doors nearly all the time," began Eunice reflectively. "Well, they do a good deal in India. But I think this is in Europe. And this is so lovely, so restful. But I'm afraid you have affronted Elizabeth by not insisting Mrs. Turner should walk into the parlor. Though really—we had not returned her last call. I do wish Elizabeth could find some time to get out. I don't see why there should be so much work."
"Couldn't you have some one to help?"
"Well, it isn't just the cooking and kitchenwork. And no one could suit her there. She's up in that old garret toiling, and moiling, and packing away enough things to furnish an inn. We shall never want them. And there's your mother's, and some of your grandmother's, blankets."
"The New England thrift is rather too thrifty sometimes," he commented dryly.
Cynthia staid after Mrs. Turner made her adieus. Indeed, as it was nearing supper-time, he walked over for her. She and Betty were in the wide-seated swing and Ben was swinging them so high that Betty, used as she was to it, gave now and then little squeals. Chilian held up his hand and Ben let the "cat die," which meant the swing stopping of itself.
"Oh, Mr. Leverett, can't Cynthy stay to tea? I'll run and ask mother."
"Not to-day. She had better come home now."
"Oh, dear!" cried Bentley disappointedly.
"Yes, I had better go. And I've had such a lovely time. Cousin Chilian, can't I come over again?"
How pretty she looked with her shining eyes, her rosy cheeks, and her entreating lips! What would she coax out of men as she grew older!
"Oh, yes; any time they want you."
"Well, we'd like her every day!" cried Ben eagerly. "And isn't it splendid that she's grown so well and strong, and can run and play, and have good out-of-doors times? Though I used to like it in the winter up in your room, and Mr. Price said he never knew a boy to improve so in Latin."
Bentley made a graceful bow to Mr. Leverett.
"Oh," said Cynthia, skipping along in exuberant joy, "children are nice, aren't they? You can't have much fun alone by yourself, and the days are so long when you go in to Boston."
"I wonder if you would like to try school again?"
"Yes, I think I would;" after a pause. "You see," with a gravity that sat oddly upon her, "I'm not so afraid as I was, and I have more sense. And I know things more evenly than I did. I can write now quite well, and I know most of the tables, though division does bother me. And I can spell all but the very difficult words. I don't think any one would laugh at me now."
"No, they wouldn't," he answered decisively.
"I shouldn't like little boys, but I wouldn't mind them as big as Bentley. And, oh, I wish we had aswing. And they have a real sailors' hammock, such as they have on shipboard. It's delightful under the trees."
"I think we can manage that."
"Well, if your head isn't tousled!" cried Elizabeth. "It looks like a brush heap. Get it fixed, for supper is all ready. Why didn't you stay?" the last ironically.
"Cousin Chilian thought I had better not. They did want me to."
"Are you sure theywantedyou to?"
"Why, yes," she answered in ignorance of the sarcasm.
She walked up and down the garden path with Cousin Chilian and asked about the school, was glad when she found Bella and her sister Alice went there. Now and then she gave two or three skips and pulled on the hand she held so tightly. He had never seen her in quite such glee, and how charming she was!
"Chilian, bring that child in out of the dew. Next thing she'll be in for a winter's cold," said the severe voice.
The interview with Madam Torrey was very satisfactory. Chilian asked Miss Winn to go out and buy what was needed and get it made. They went over to Mrs. Turner's one day and took the school in on their way.
"When it rains Silas can take you and come for you. I think the walk will not tire you out."
"Oh, no; I don't get tired out now."
It was Miss Winn's place to look after the child, of course, but Elizabeth felt in some way defrauded. She wished Cynthia had been poor and dependent upon them. Then she would stand a chance to be brought up in a useful manner.
Chilian took her to school the first morning. Miss Winn was to come for her. She had been rather shy at first. But Bella Turner told the girls about her, how she had been born in Salem, and gone to Calcutta when only a few months old, come and gone again in her father's ship, and he was Captain Leverett, and then returned to America. He was to come afterward, but he had died. And Mr. Chilian Leverett, who was something in Harvard College, was her guardian. And she was to have ever so much money when she was a young lady.
Any other child might have been spoiled by the attentions lavished upon her. The girls thought her curly hair so pretty, and her hands were so small, with their dainty, tapering fingers. Then she found one of the girls, Lois Brinsmaid, lived in Central Avenue, so there was no further question of troubling any one. Cousin Chilian had given her a good foundation for study and she was eager for knowledge of all sorts, except that of the needle.
Then autumn began to merge into winter and there were storms and bleak winds, and some days she staid at home. She caught light colds, but Chilian and Miss Winn were very watchful.
She went to the Turners one afternoon and staid to tea, and the big boys hovered about her like bees. She was not forward or aggressive, but there was a sort of charming sweetness about her. When she raised her lovely eyes they seemed to appeal to every heart, though they never went very far with Cousin Elizabeth.
One day she came home and found the house in a great state of excitement. Elizabeth had started to go down into the cellar with both hands full. She had been a little dizzy for several days, and meant to take a dose of herb tea, boneset being her great stand-by, when she could find time. Whether it was the vertigo, or she slipped, she lay there unconscious, and they sent for Doctor Prescott.
Silas and the doctor carried her upstairs, and the latter brought her out of the faint. But when she started to stand up, she toppled over and fainted again.
"There's something quite serious. Let us carry her up to her room, and you women undress her. Her legs are sound, so the trouble is higher up."
Then he found her hip was broken, a bad thing at any time of life, but at her age doubly so. And he sent for Doctor Lapham to help him set it. It was very bad. They were still there when Chilian came home.
"I'm afraid she's laid up for a year or so;" and the doctor shook his head ominously.
"Do your very best for her," besought Chilian.
He said to Eunice, "Now you must have some one. You can't carry on the house alone."
"If it is the same to you, Chilian, I'd rather have a nurse. There's Mother Taft, who is good and strong, and used to nursing. She's willing to help about a little, too."
"Just as you think best. I want every care taken of her."
For a month it was a very serious matter. They thought the spine was somewhat injured as well. And Elizabeth knew they could never get on without her.
"I expect I shall find the house in such a state when I do get about, it will take me all summer to right it. You never were as thorough as I could wish, Eunice."
Miss Winn begged that she might be of service. She had so little to do, or to think about, that time hung heavy on her hands, now that Cynthia was in school. For then school hours were from nine to five. And the child was getting so handy caring for herself. She curled her hair and put on her clothes, brought her shoes down every evening for Silas to black, and sometimes wiped the tea dishes while Miss Winn washed them. Somehow there didn't seem so much work to do. Eunice didn't always have two kinds of cake for supper, nor a great shelf full of pies for Silas to take home. There was plenty of everything and no one complained.
They found Mother Taft invaluable. She was about the average height, and had long arms, and strengthaccording. Then she had a most excellent way with her. When Elizabeth groaned that they never could get on without her, and she must be up and about before everything went to "wrack and ruin," Mother Taft said:
"The kitchen looks like a new pin. There's no signs of ruin that I can see. Meals are good, cake fine, house clean. When you get downstairs you'll think you haven't been out of the harness more'n a week."
"A likely story," Elizabeth moaned.
Cynthia went through March very successfully, but with the first warm spell in April she caught a cold and coughed, and Chilian was almost wild about her, his nerves having been worn somewhat by Elizabeth's mishap. But after ten days or so she came around all right and was eager for school again.
She was sitting in her old place by the window late one afternoon and he had been reading some poems to her—a volume lately come from England.
"Cousin Chilian," she said, "will you tell me what true relation we are?"
"Why, what has put that in your head?"
"I want to know." She said it persuasively.
"Well, it isn't very near after all. My father and yours were cousins. My father was the son of the oldest brother, your father the son of the youngest, that stretched them quite far apart. When I wasn't much more than a baby Anthony came to live with us, and was like an elder brother to me. Father was veryfond of him. But he would go to sea and he made a fine sailor and captain. Then he was married from here, and you were born here."
"The girls sometimes say, 'your uncle.' I wonder if you would like to have me call you uncle?"
Something in him protested. He could not tell what it was, unless an odd feeling that it made him seem older. He wished he were ten years younger, and he could give no reason for that either.
"I think I like the 'cousin' best;" after some deliberation.
"And it is so lovely to be dear to some one, very dear. I like Rachel, she's been almost a mother to me, and I like Cousin Eunice for her sweet ways. But I've no one of my very own, and so—I'm very glad to be dear to you. It is like a ship being anchored to something safe and strong."
She came and put her arms about his neck and kissed him. He drew her down on his knee. She was her mother's child, and her mother had been dear to him, his first love, his only love so far.
Oh, how would the garden get made and the house cleaned, the blankets and the winter clothing aired and put away, those in use washed? Eunice and Miss Winn went up in the garret one day and swept and dusted, not giving a whole week to it.
"Now," said Mother Taft, "I'm going to take a holiday off. I'm tired of puttering round in the sick room, and she's so much better now that she doesn'tkeep one on the jump. And I'm going to wash them there blankets and you can pack them away, so there'll be one thing less to worry about."
"But Silas' wife would come and do it. And a holiday! Why don't you go off somewhere——"
"I want to do it."
And do it she did. Some way the house did get cleaned. "After a fashion," Elizabeth said. And the garden was made. Chilian and Eunice trimmed up roses. Cynthia and Miss Winn planted seeds. There were always some things that wintered over—sweet Williams, lilies of various sorts, pinks, laurels, some spiræas, snowball and syringas, hosts of lilacs that made a fragrant hedge. Cynthia thought it had never been so lovely before. She wore a nosegay at her throat, and in her belt just a few; she had the fine taste that never overloaded. She and Cousin Chilian used to walk up and down the fragrant paths after supper and no one fretted at them about the dew. Sometimes Rachel or Eunice would bring out a dainty scarf. And how many things they found to talk about. She loved to dwell on the times with her father, and it seemed as if she remembered a great deal more about her mother than she did at first, but she never imagined it was CousinChilian'smemory that helped out hers.