There was a very fine noisy Fourth of July, and shortly after that came vacation. The Jaspers were going to Lebanon Springs, and then to Saratoga. Hanny came near to envying Daisy. She and Margaret had to visit both grandmothers, and go over to Tarrytown, for the Morgans had insisted upon it.
Hanny and her father had been reading some of Washington Irving's stories, beside his famous history. He was abroad now; he had been sent as Minister to the Court of Madrid, that wonderful Spanish city with its Court so full of interest and beauty. She had been learning about it in her history. But this old house was not grand, only in its splendid elms and maples and lindens and tall arbor-vitæs. Wolfert's Roost was almost hidden by them; but you could catch glimpses of its curious roof, full of quaint corners and projections, and the old-fashioned stone mansion said to be modelled after the cocked hat of Peter the Headstrong. Its low stories were full of nooks and angles. There were roses and hollyhocks like rows of sentinels, and sweet brier clambering about. The little girl thought of it many a time afterward, when it had become much more famous, as Sunnyside. Indeed, she was to sit on the old piazza overlooking the river and listen to the pleasant voice that had charmed so many people, and study the drawings of Rip Van Winkle and Sleepy Hollow, to hear about Katrina Van Tassel, and the churn full of water that Fammetie Van Blarcom brought over from Holland because she was sure there could be no water good to drink in the new country.
Already she was coming to have a great interest in people who wrote books and stories. It seemed such a wonderful gift.
Dr. Hoffman paid the cousins the compliment of a visit. Afterward there were mysterious communings between the sisters.
Wedding presents were gifts of real preference and affection in those days. A girl had her "setting out" from home, and perhaps some one gave her an heirloom for her name, or because she was an especial favourite.
"Dr. Hoffman's well-to-do," said Joanna; "and Margaret's folks won't let her go empty-handed. But I'd like to have some of our things go where they would be appreciated. We've no one of our very own to leave them to," and Miss Morgan sighed. "Margaret doesn't consider store articles so much better than those made long ago. Let's each give her a pair of linen sheets. I've a dozen good ones now, and, land sakes! we sha'n't wear out half our bedding. And my tablecloth of the basket pattern, and two towels. And—let me see—that white wool blanket of Aunt Hetty's. It was spun and woven in 1800; and the sheep were raised here on the old farm. Some peculiar kind they were, with long, soft fleece."
"Well," said Famie, slowly, "there's my snowball tablecloth and two towels. 'Rastus's wife won't ever care for them with her fine Paris things. But we won't give away the silver, nor the old pewter flagon, nor the basin and cups. They've the crown mark on them, 1710 for a date. Deary me, they'll outlast us," and she sighed also.
Roseann agreed. Six sheets and pillow-cases, three tablecloths and half-a-dozen towels, and two blankets, one spun and woven by their own mother. The initials and date were marked on them in old-fashioned cross-stitch, which was a little more ornate than regular sampler-stitch.
Aunt Hetty's blanket had been made from the wool of an especial cosset lamb that had lost its mother and been brought up by hand. The little girl was very much interested.
"Did it follow her about?" she asked.
"Dear sakes!" and Aunt Famie laughed. "I just guess it did. It grew very troublesome, I've heard tell, and was quite quality, always wanting to come into the sitting-room. And it would curl down at Aunt Hetty's feet like a dog. She saved the wool every year, and spun it, and laid it away until she had enough. But I don't believe it went to school, although it could spell one word."
"One word!" cried the little girl, in amaze. "What was that?"
"Why b-a ba, of course. They said it could spell through the whole lesson, and I don't see why not. I've heard lambs make a dozen different sounds."
The little girl laughed. She was very fond of listening to what Aunt Famie did when she was little; and they went to call upon some curious old people who kept to the Dutch ways and wore the old costume. Some of them had wooden clogs for rainy weather. When they talked real Dutch, Hanny found it was quite different from German. They had a picture of some old ancestor's house with the windmill in the front yard.
The drives about were beautiful then, and so many places had queer old legends. Dr. Hoffman was very much interested, and it seemed to Hanny as if she had strayed over into Holland. She resolved when she went home to ask Ben to get her a history of Holland, so she and her father might read it together. Her mother never had any time.
Margaret was much surprised at her gifts, and thanked the cousins with warmest gratitude. Even Grandmother Van Kortlandt had hinted "that she wasn't going to save up everything for Haneran." But the elder people in those days were fond of holding on to their possessions until the very last.
Uncle David came up for them and took them to White Plains, where they had a nice visit; and grandmother selected some articles from her store for the prospective bride.
Hanny remembered what Cousin Archer had said about the mittens, and asked Uncle David. He found his hook, and, sure enough, it was something like a crochet-needle. He took what the little girls called single stitch. But he admitted that Hanny's pretty edgings and tidies were quite wonderful.
"I thought the Germans must have brought the knowledge to the country," she said. "How long have you known it?"
"Oh, since my boyhood," and he gave a smile. "I heard a very old man say once that Noah set his sons to work in the Ark making fishing-nets. Perhaps Mrs. Noah set her daughter-in-laws to crocheting, as you call it. Forty days was a pretty long spell of rainy weather, when they had no books or papers to read, and couldn't go out to work in the garden."
"Didn't they have any books?" Hanny's eyes opened wide.
"All their writing was done on stone tablets, and very little of that."
"I think I wouldn't have liked living then. Books are so splendid. And you get to know about so many people. But there was the Bible," and the child's voice dropped to a reverent tone.
"Still, if Moses wrote the first books, that was a long while after the Flood."
Hanny's vague idea was that the Bible had been created in the beginning, like Adam and Eve.
Cousin Ann and Aunt Eunice were as much in love with the little girl as ever, but were tremendously surprised at her stock of knowledge. It didn't seem possible that one little girl could know so much. That she could play tunes on the piano, and repeat ever so many French words, then explain what they meant in English, was a marvel. But the child never seemed spoiled by the admiration.
They had to come down to Yonkers, for Uncle Faid and Aunt Crete would have been hurt and jealous. Only it did not seem now to Hanny as if she had ever lived there. The old kitchen, the creek that went purling along, bearing fleets of ducks and geese, and the wide old porch looked natural, but the daily living was so changed! Old black Aunt Mary was dead. Some of the neighbours had gone away. Cousin Retty had a new baby, a little girl; but she said it was the crossest thing alive, and it did seem to cry a good deal. It couldn't compare with Stephen's baby, who was always laughing and jolly.
They had to stop at Fordham to see some cousins. When people live a century or so in one place and intermarry, they get related to a good many people. And there was a sweet little grandmother here, who, in her girlhood, had the same name as the little visitor—Hannah Underhill. There was no Ann in it to be sure. And now her name was Hannah Horton.
There were lots of gay, rollicking cousins. The little girl felt almost afraid of the big boys, and she was used to boys, too.
Her mother had said she might make a visit with the Odell girls. They had grown and changed; and Hanny felt quite as if she were undersized. Mr. Odell had been building a new part to the house; and oh, what a lovely garden they had! It made the little girl almost envious.
Margaret left her there for several days. At least, Dr. Hoffman drove up one afternoon and took Margaret home, as Hanny's visit wasn't near finished. They had to talk about their schools and the girls they knew. Polly and Janey wanted to hear about the First Street girls and Daisy Jasper, who was getting well, and Nora, who had moved away, and the quaint old ladies in Beach Street.
There was a splendid big cat at the Odell's who liked nothing better than being nursed, and two kittens that Hanny never tired of watching, they were so utterly funny in their antics, and seemed to do so much actual reasoning, as to cause and effect, that it amazed her. And, oh, the beautiful country ways and wild flowers on every hand!
It does not look so now. One wonders where all the people have come from to fill the rows and rows of houses, and to keep busy about the mills and factories. But then the great city had only about five hundred thousand inhabitants, and did not need to overflow into suburban districts.
It seemed strange for the little girl to come home to a city street. It looked narrow and bare, with its cobblestones and paved sidewalks. And, oh, what a racket the waggons made! and she was amazed at the crowds of people, as she thought there were then.
But inside everything was homelike and delightful. She was so glad to see her mother and father and the boys. Ben looked like a young man. Jim was to go to a preparatory school for a year, and then enter Columbia College. Mrs. Craven had sold her house, and gone up to Seventh Street, and was to have quite a young ladies' school. Josie Dean had decided to study for a teacher. That made her seem quite grown up.
Old Mr. Beekman had died while the little girl was away; and Katschina had grieved herself to death, and followed her master. Annette had a lover, but of course she could not marry in some time. The old farm was to be sold—at least, streets were to be cut through it, and the outlying lots sold off. Mrs. Beekman was to keep the down-town house for her part.
And now it was considered that Stephen Underhill had done a grand thing for himself in marrying Dolly Beekman. Mr. Beekman owned no end of real estate, was indeed much richer than people imagined. The girls would each have a big slice. But Dolly was just as sweet and plain, and as much interested in everybody as before. She was so ready to help and advise Margaret, and go out shopping with her. For was she not very wise and experienced, having been married two whole years!
Dr. Hoffman had bought his house up-town as well. Some people scouted the idea that the city could be crowded even in fifty years. But the long-headed ones reasoned that it must go up, as it could not expand in breadth, and "down-town" must be given over to business.
Hanny went up to see the new house one Saturday. The front basement was to be the office, and was being fitted up with some shelves and cabinets. The back basement was the kitchen. There were two large parlors and a third room, that was the dining-room. And one thing interested the little girl greatly,—this was the "dumb waiter."
"Of course it can't talk," said she, laughingly. "And it can't hear; but you can make it obey."
"It can creak and groan when it gets dry for a little oil. And it will be like a camel if you put too heavy a load on it," returned the Doctor.
"Does the camel groan?"
"Horribly! And he won't stir an inch toward getting up until you lighten his load."
There was a pretty pantry across the corner, with a basin to wash china and silver, so it would not need to go downstairs. Hanny thought she would like to come sometime and wash the pretty dishes.
Upstairs there were three rooms and a bath, and beautiful closets, and on the third floor three rooms again.
"But what will you do with all of them?" asked Hanny.
Margaret had said the same thing to her lover. And Mrs. Underhill said it was an awful extravagance to have such a great house for two people. But John Underhill declared Dr. Hoffman had done just the right thing, buying up-town. He would settle himself in a first-class practice presently, as the well-to-do people kept moving thither.
There had been a good deal of discussion about the wedding. Dr. Hoffman wanted to take Margaret to Baltimore, where his married sister resided, and an aunt, his mother's sister, who was too feeble to undertake a journey. They would go on to Washington as well. Wedding journeys were not imperative, but often taken. An evening party at home seemed too much for Mrs. Underhill; and Dolly, being in mourning, could not lead any gaieties.
She cut the Gordian knot, however,—a church wedding, with cards for all the friends, and a reception at home. They would take the train at six from Jersey City. Mr. Underhill was rather sorry not to have an old-fashioned festivity. But Miss Cynthia said this was just the thing.
So the marriage was at St. Thomas' church at two o'clock. A cousin of Dolly's and a school friend were bridesmaids, though Annette Beekman had been chosen. The bride wore a fine India mull that flowed around her like a fleecy cloud, Dolly's veil, and orange blossoms, for it was good luck to be married in something borrowed. The little girl headed the procession, carrying a basket of flowers, and looked daintily sweet.
The "Home Journal," the society paper of that day, spoke of the beautiful young couple in quite extravagant terms. Mrs. Underhill said rather tartly afterward, "That Margaret was well enough looking; but she had never thought of setting her up for a beauty." Yet down in the depths of her heart her mother love had a little ache because her last born would never be as beautiful. But Mr. Underhill considered they had not been praised a bit too much, and sent in a year's subscription to the paper.
Miss Cynthia was in her glory. She seemed one of the people who never grow old, and though a great talker, was seldom sharp or severe. Everybody knew she could get married if she desired to, so she rather gloried in staying single.
Margaret cut her wedding-cake, and the piece with the ring fell to Dolly's cousin, who turned scarlet, which brought out a general laugh. There was much wishing of joy, and presently Margaret went upstairs and put on her pretty grey silk with the "drawn" bonnet to match, and the grey clothvisite, looking as handsome as she had in her wedding gown.
They left so many people behind no one had a chance to feel lonesome. There were ever so many relations who were going to stay for a visit, and shop a little. People were given to hospitality in those days. The constricted living of flats had not come into existence. And your friend would have felt insulted to be taken to a restaurant for dinner, instead of at your own house.
Hanny had quite a girls' tea-party afterward. Martha spread a table for them upstairs. And the funny thing was, that her father and the boys teased to come, and her mother really had to rush to the rescue. But they did let Doctor Joe remain, and they had a delightful time.
Josie and Tudie and Nora told how they would do when they were married.
"Now, Hanny!" Daisy Jasper had not spoken. It was not likely any one would want to marry a lame girl, and the others were too kind to make it a matter of embarrassment.
"I don't believe Icanget married," said Hanny, with sweet seriousness. "I shouldn't like to leave father, and mother will want somebody, for the boys will be away."
Daisy stretched out her hand. "We'll just have a good time together," she rejoined, smilingly. "And if Doctor Joe doesn't get married, we'll work slippers for him and cigar cases, and if we could learn how, we might make him a dressing-gown."
"If you will be as good as that, I don't think I will get married. And when I drop in, you can give me a cup of tea, and we'll have the best of times. I hope I won't be very queer."
He said it so seriously, they all laughed.
Afterward he declared he was going to take all the girls home. That was a bachelor's prerogative, and he would begin at once. He took the Deans first, then Nora, whom he put in the Bowery stage. Daisy and Hanny spent that leisure admiring baby Stephen, who had six cunning white teeth and curly hair, which the little girl doted on.
Daisy told the tea-party over to her aunt and her mother, and was very happy. And she felt someway as if she had settled her life, and shouldn't mind it very much. But husbands who were as tender as Dr. Hoffman, and babies like laughing, dimpled Stevie!
Were there some childish tears in her eyes? But the main thing for her was to get strong and be courageous, and take her share of the world's knowledges and beautiful things. She wondered sometimes why the Lord Jesus, who was so wise and good and pitiful, should have let this misfortune come upon her, or why, when all the doctors were so in earnest, they could not have made her straight and well. And when people said, "Oh, what a pity, with that lovely face!" she thought she could have borne it better if she had been plainer.
When the great love that thinks for its neighbour imbues us all, we shall cease to make personal comments, and endeavour to bear each others burdens with silent, tender grace.
Doctor Joe was her comfort and inspiration. No one could ever estimate what his kindly interest had done for her. He was so cheerful and full of fun and sunshine. Elderly women had begun to pet up the young doctor, in spite of his youth.
In fact there were many virtues ascribed to experience in those days; and now we have learned the truth is in the application, that living through a great deal doesn't always bring wisdom.
Grandmother Van Kortlandt and Aunt Katrina had a fine time visiting Stephen. They were quite stylish, old-fashioned style, that wore fine English thread-laces with the scent of lavender, and had their silvery hair done up in puffs with side-combs. They were a little precise and formal, and would have been horrified if the children had not said "Yes, ma'am," and "No, ma'am." No free and easy manners for them!
The little girl was quite sure she loved Grandmother Underhill the best. Both called her Haneran, as if they were a little jealous of a full share in her name. Grandmother made quite a long visit, for she said, "She might never come again, she was getting rather feeble. She didn't expect to live to see the little girl married."
Hanny's father declared, "She couldn't be married until she was twenty-five, just in time to save her from being an old maid."
"But I won't be very old at twenty-five," she replied, smiling out of her big innocent eyes. "And I thought I wouldn't get married at all."
Theydidmiss Margaret. But the little girl had to study hard, and wait on her mother, and practise her music, and visit. There were so many places clamouring for her.
The boys at Houston Street missed Jim Underhill also, though he often came up that way when he could get off, which meant when he did not have to stay for a recitation. Though they were up to pranks, they were not cruel or malicious. If they could "make fun," and rhyme a fellow's name ridiculously, and ring door-bells now and then, or leave a nicely done-up parcel on some one's stoop, wrapped and tied and directed, containing a box of ashes, or a brick, they were satisfied. They still considered it fun to have Biddy Brady dance, and Limpy Dick, as they called the lame girl, run a race. She hopped along with her hand on her lame knee with surprising rapidity.
Margaret came home and had a party at her house, "Infair" the older people called it. Then a family tea at home, and another at Stephen's. Mrs. Verplank, the Doctor's half-sister, gave her a very elegant reception.
She was oddly changed, somehow, just as sweet, but with more dignity and composure; and Jim couldn't make her turn red by teasing her. The little girl noticed that her mother treated Margaret with a peculiar deference and never scolded her; and she said Philip to Dr. Hoffman.
He had some serious talks with the little girl, for he pretended to be afraid she would love Dolly and Stephen the best. Everybody had a desire to hold her, because she was so little and light. She was not to make the baby an excuse to go the oftenest to Dolly's.
"Oh, dear," she rejoined, with a sigh, "and if John should get married, and the rest of them, as they grow up, I wouldn't have any time left for myself. But Joe isn't going to be married."
Dr. Hoffman laughed at that.
John had a sweetheart. He always dressed up in his best on Wednesday night. Young men in those days thought of homes and families of their own. There were no clubs to take them in.
An odd little incident happened to Margaret'smenage. Stephen had one of Aunt Mary's grandsons as porter in the store. Another, who had been brought up as a sort of house-servant to some elderly people that death had visited, came to the city, and Stephen sent him to Dr. Hoffman, who was inquiring about a factotum. He was a very well-looking and well-mannered young coloured lad, and knew how to drive and care for a horse. He was quite a cook also, and soon learned to do the marketing.
Margaret kept house for herself, and enjoyed her pretty new china and beautiful cut-glass. And after a month or two Dolly persuaded her to rent two rooms to two ladies, the back room on the second floor, and one on the third. She was glad to have some company when the Doctor had to be out. One of the ladies coloured plates for magazines and illustrated books. This was done by hand then, and was considered quite artistic work. We had not printed in colours yet. The ladies were very refined, and had a small income beside the work.
The Doctor took Margaret out every pleasant afternoon. His practice was not large enough to work him very severely. In the evening they read or sang, as she played very nicely now. But she missed the breezy boys and their doings, and her mother's cheery voice ordering every one about, and, oh, she missed the little girl who didn't come half often enough.
She began a choice piece of work for her, a silk quilt. No one had gone insane over crazy work then. This was shapely, decorous diamonds, with the name of the wearer, or a date, embroidered on each block. The Morgans had given her pieces from Paris and Venice and Holland, and even Hong Kong. Some were a hundred and more years old, and were gowns of quite famous people.
This fall the American Institute Fair was held at Niblo's Garden. There were many curious things. Both telegraphs had been put up,—House's with its letter printing, Morse's with its cabalistic signs. How words could travel through a bit of wire puzzled most people. Uncle Faid went with them one afternoon.
"No use to tell me," he declared. "The fellow at one end knows just what the fellow at the other end is going to say. Now if they sent it in a box, or a letter, it would look reasonable."
"I'll send you a message," said Ben; "you go down at the end, and see if this doesn't come to you."
He wrote on a slip of paper, and gave it to Uncle Faid, who went to the other end with a disbelieving shake of the head. And when the receiver wrote it out, and Uncle Faid compared it, the astonishment was indescribable.
"There's some jugglery about it," he still insisted. "Stands to reason a bit of wire can't really know what you say."
Hanny brought home her telegraph message; and when she showed it to Nora Whitney, the child declared it was like the queer things in some books her papa had, called hieroglyphics. But Doctor Joe told her a stranger thing than that. He found the verses in the Psalms that were supposed to prefigure the telegraph:—
"There is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard."Their line is gone out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world."
"There is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard.
"Their line is gone out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world."
"But they can't go across the ocean," said the little girl, confidently.
"Why, they are discussing the feasibility of crossing the Hudson with some kind of sunken cable. What we shall be doing fifty years from now—and I shall not be such a dreadfully old man! We are learning how to live longer as well."
Fifty years! and she would be as old as the grandmothers!
The other wonderful thing was the sewing-machine. Elias Howe had learned how to thread the needle, the opposite way, by putting the eye in the point. There was a little bent piece underneath that caught the loop while a thread ran through it. They gave away samples, and everybody admitted that itwaswonderful.
The little girl said she could sew a great deal better. And her mother declared such sewing was hardly good enough for a feed-bag. Her father laughed, and told her rosy fingers were good enough sewing-machine for him.
Artificial legs and feet interested Doctor Joe very much. They had curious springs and wires, and the outside was pink, like real flesh,—in fact, they looked uncanny, they were so real. Hanny had seen several old men stumping around on cork or wooden legs about which there could be no deception. But when any one met with a mishap now, they could fix him up "limber as an eel," Doctor Joe said.
There was a deal of curious machinery and implements that some people smiled over, which, like the sewing-machines, made fortunes for their inventors presently; beautiful articles and jewelry; a great vegetable and flower exhibit; a small loom; weaving; carving of all kinds; and cloths and silks. Indeed, the Fair was considered a very great thing, and the country people who came in to visit it felt almost as if they had been to a strange country. Every afternoon and evening it was crowded.
Jim liked his new school very much, and soon flung his Latin words at his little sister in perfect broadsides. Then he found that Ben had somehow picked up a good deal of Latin, and knew all the Greek alphabet; and instead of laughing at Charles Reed, as a Miss Nancy, he became quite friendly with him.
All the children came home for a Christmas dinner, and had a delightful time. Then Martha was married, and went to her own housekeeping, and a cousin of the little German girls who lived in Houston Street, who had just come from Germany, petitioned for a trial. She was so bright and clean and ambitious to learn American ways that after a fortnight, Mrs. Underhill decided to keep her.
When all the visitors had gone, Hanny found it very lonely sleeping in a big room by herself. And as they couldn't move her downstairs, Mr. and Mrs. Underhill went upstairs and changed their room to the guest-chamber. Hanny missed her sister very much when night came. But then she had so many lessons to study; and after the history of Holland, they took up that of Spain, which was as fascinating as any romance.
Everybody was a good deal excited this winter about a curious phenomenon. At a small town in Western New York two sisters had announced that they could hold communication with the spirit-world, and receive messages from the dead. Little raps announced the spirit of your friend or relative. To imaginative people, it was simply wonderful. And now the Misses Fox were giving exhibitions and making converts.
People recalled the old Salem witchcraft, and not a few considered it direct dealing with the Evil One. Ben was deeply interested. He and Joe talked over clairvoyance and mesmerism,—a curious power developed by a learned German, Dr. Mesmer, akin to that of some of the old magicians. Ben was very fond of abnormal things; but Joe set down communication with another world as an impossibility. Still, a good many people believed it.
The children joined the singing-school again, and Charles Reed sang at several concerts. He went quite often to the Deans, and occasionally came over to the Underhills. Both houses were so delightful! If he only had a sister, or a brother! Or if his mother would do something beside scrub and clean the house! Social life was so attractive to him.
One day she did do something else. It was February, and the snow and ice had melted rapidly. All the air was full of the sort of chill that goes through one. She wanted some windows washed, and the yard cleared up, and was out in the damp a long while. That night she was seized with a sudden attack of pleurisy. Mr. Reed sprang up and made a mustard draught; but the pain grew so severe that he called Charles, and sent him over for Doctor Joe. By daylight, fever set in, and it was so severe a case that Doctor Joe called a more experienced doctor in consultation, and said they must have a nurse at once.
Charles had never seen her ill before. And when the doctors looked so grave, and the nurse spoke in such low tones, he was certain she could not live. He was so nervous that he could not get his lessons, and roamed about the house in a frightened sort of way. The nurse was used to housekeeping as well, and when she was needed downstairs Charles stayed in the sick-room. His mother did not know him or any one, but wandered in her mind, and was haunted by the ghosts of work in a manner that was pitiful to listen to. The nurse said she had made work her idol. There were two days when Mr. Reed stayed at home, though he sent Charles off to school. They had a woman in the kitchen now, a relative he had written for, Cousin Jane that Charles had once met in the country. She was extremely tidy; but she put on an afternoon gown, and a white apron, and found time in the evening to read the paper.
On the second afternoon both doctors went away just as Charles came home. His father was standing on the stoop with them, and Doctor Joe looked down and smiled. The boy's heart beat with a sudden warmth, as he went down the area steps, wiped his feet, and hung up his cap and overcoat with as much care as if his mother's sharp eyes were on him. There was no one in the room; but he sat down at once to his lessons.
Presently his father entered. His eyes had a pathetic look, as if they were flooded with tears.
"The doctor gives us a little hope, Charles," he said, in a rather tremulous voice. "It's been a hard pull. The fever was broken yesterday; but she was so awful weak; indeed, it seemed two or three times in the night as if she was quite gone. Since noon there has been a decided change; and, if nothing new happens, she will come around all right. It will be a long while though. She's worked too hard and steady; but it has not been my fault. At all events, we'll keep Cousin Jane just as long as we can. And now I must run down-town for a few hours. Tell Cousin Jane not to keep tea waiting."
Charles sat in deep thought many minutes. His father's unwonted emotion had touched him keenly. Of course he would have been very sorry to have his mother die, yet how often he had wished for another mother. The thought shocked him now; and yet he could see so many places where it would be delightful to have her different. Careful as she was of him, he had no inner consciousness that she loved him, and he did so want to have some one he could love and caress, and who would make herself pretty. Hanny loved her father and mother so much. She "hung around" them. She sat in her father's lap and threaded his hair with her soft little fingers. She had such pretty ways with her mother. She didn't seem ever to feel afraid.
Neither did the Deans. Of course they were all girls; but there were Ben and Jim and, oh, Doctor Joe teased his mother, and was sweet to her, and even kissed her, grown man that he was!
Charles could hardly decide which mother he liked the most, but he thought Mrs. Dean. Mrs. Underhill sometimes scolded, though it never seemed real earnest.
He felt more at home with the Deans. Perhaps this was because Mrs. Dean had always coveted a boy, and, like a good many mothers, she wanted a real nice, smart, refined boy. Charles was obedient and truthful, neat and orderly, and always had his lessons "by heart." He was very proud of his standing in school. He could talk lessons over with more freedom to Mr. Dean than with his own father. And Josie was always so proud of him. Perhaps the reason he liked the Deans so well was because he was such a favourite with them, and appreciation seemed very sweet to the boy who had so little in his life.
Mr. Dean seemed to think there was great danger of his growing up a prig; but Mrs. Dean always took his part in any discussion. Mr. Dean was very fond of having him over to sing; and Josie gave him her piano lessons, only she kept a long way ahead.
Oh, how many, many times Charles had wished he was their son! There were so many boys in the Underhill family, he was quite sure they couldn't want any more.
But just now he felt curiously conscience-stricken, though greatly confused. He supposed his motherdidwant him, though she always considered him so much trouble, and talked about her "working from morning to night and getting no thanks for it." He had felt he would like to thank her specially for some things, but ought he,musthe, be grateful for the things he did not want and were only a trouble and mortification to him? And was it wicked to wish for some other mother?
He would try not to do it again. He might think of Mrs. Dean as his aunt, and the girls his cousins. And he would endeavour with all his might to love his own mother.
Years afterward, he came to know how great an influence this hour had on him in moulding his character. But he did not realise how long he had dreamed until he heard Cousin Jane's brisk voice,—it was not a cross or complaining voice,—saying:—
"Why, Charles, here in the dark! Well, we have had a pretty severe time; but your mother's good constitution has pulled her through. And that young doctor's just splendid! I haven't had much opinion of young doctors heretofore. To be sure, there has been Dr. Fitch; but I think Dr. Underhill works more as if his life depended on it. And if you weren't very hungry, Charles, we might wait until your father comes home. About seven, he said. I must confess that Cousin Maria has one of the best and most faithful of husbands. He isn't sparing any expense, either."
Charles flushed with delight to hear his father praised for his devotion to his mother.
"I'd like to wait, Cousin Jane," he replied in an eager tone.
"I'll make a cup of tea and take a bit of bread and cold meat up to Mrs. Bond. Then I'll come back and set the table."
She had lighted the lamps while she was talking, and Charles hurried up with his neglected lessons, studying in earnest.
It was half-past seven when his father came in. No one fretted, however. His brisk walk had given him a good colour, and his eyes had brightened. He seemed so pleased that they had waited for him. Cousin Jane did make events go on smoothly. The tea was hot, as he liked it; and there was a plate of toast, of which he was very fond.
When he took out his paper, he said to Charles:—
"You might run over to the Deans and tell them the good news. They have been so kind about inquiring. I wouldn't stay more than ten or fifteen minutes."
He had not been over in a week, and they were glad to see him, as well as to hear the hopeful tidings. But the girls had quite a bit of casuistry in their talk that night as they were going to bed, partly as to how Charles could be so glad, and partly whether one ought to be glad under all circumstances, when events happened that did not really tend to one's comfort.
"But Mary Dawson said she wasn't sorry when her stepmother died, and she wouldn't tell a story about it. Her stepmother wasn't much crosser than Mrs. Reed. You know Mrs. Dawson wouldn't let the girls go to singing-school, and she made them wear their outgrown dresses, and she did whip them dreadfully. I couldn't have been sorry either."
"But it would be awful not to have any one sorry when you were dead."
"I think," began Josie, gravely, "we ought to act so peoplewillbe sorry. If you are good and kind, and do things pleasantly—Mrs. Reed is always doing; but I guess it is a good deal thewayyou do. You see mother and father do think of the things we like, when they are right and proper. They show they love us and like to have us love them in return."
"Oh, I just couldn't live without mother!" and the tears overflowed Tudie's eyes.
"And I know it would break her heart, and father's, too, if they lost us. And so we ought to try and make each other happy. I mean to think more about it. And, oh, Tudie, if Mrs. Reed could be converted! People are sometimes when they've been very ill. Suppose we pray for that."
They did heartily; and Josie resolved not to miss one night. It would make bonny Prince Charlie so happy to have his mother changed into a sweet, tender woman.
Charles didn't dare pray for that. God knew what was best for any one, and Hedidhave the power. He wondered what things were right to put in one's prayers. Some years after he came to know it was "all things," just as one might ask of a human father, knowing that sometimes even the father after the flesh, in his larger wisdom, saw that it was best to deny.
"Don't you want to look in on your mother?" Cousin Jane said the next morning. He had not seen her in several days.
"Oh, yes," answered Charles.
Mrs. Reed had been thin before; but now she looked ghostly, with her sunken eyes and sharpened nose and chin. Charles had a great desire to kiss her; but she did not approve of such "foolishness." Her poor skeleton hand, that had done so much hard and useless work, lay on the spread in a limp fashion, as if it would never do anything again.
Charles took it up and pressed it to his cheek. Mrs. Reed opened her eyes, and a wavering light, hardly a smile, crossed her face.
"I've been very sick," and, oh, how faint the sound was, quivering, too, as if it had not the strength to steady itself! And then the thin lids fell. The death-like pallor startled him.
"But you're going to get well again."
The boy's sweet, confident tone touched her. She did not dare open her eyes, lest she should cry, she was so weak. Then he said, "Good-morning," and went softly out of the room, feeling that he was glad in every pulse of his being that God had given her back to them.
Doctor Joe had a good deal of credit for the case. Dr. Fitch admitted that it had been very severe, and required the utmost watchfulness. Mrs. Underhill was very proud of her son's success "in his own country," as she termed it. And she said when Mrs. Reed was well enough to see visitors, she would go over and call. Indeed, it had created a good deal of interest in the neighbourhood, and Charles found himself treated with a peculiar deference among the children.
Mrs. Reed's recovery was very slow, however. Mrs. Bond went away when she could begin to go about the room and help herself. Cousin Jane was a good nurse, and she declared, "There wasn't work enough to keep her half busy." She did the mending and the ironing; Mr. Reed insisted they should have a washerwoman. Mrs. Reed sighed when she thought of the expense. It had been the pride of her life that she never had a fit of illness, and had never hired a day's work done except when Charles was born.
She was sure now that the house must be in an awful plight. She never found time to sit down in the morning and read a book or paper. Cousin Jane changed her gown every afternoon, and wore lace ruffles at the neck, just plain strips of what was called footing, that she pleated up herself. Then, too, she wore white muslin aprons,—a very old fashion that was coming back. And though Mrs. Reed couldn't find fault when she saw Charles and his father always as neat as a pin, still she was sure there must be a great need of thoroughness somewhere. She prided herself upon being "thorough."
Mrs. Underhill came over one day with the Doctor, and they had a really nice call. Of course Mrs. Reed couldn't understand how she ever managed with such a houseful of boys. Yet she was fresh and fair, and seemed to take life very comfortably. Then they were always having so much company at the Underhills.
"Yes," said Mrs. Underhill, with a mellow sort of laugh that agreed capitally with her ample person,—"yes, we have such a host of cousins,—not all own ones, but second and third. And since my daughter was married, the house seems lonesome at times. All the boys are away at work but Jim; and Hanny has so many places to go, that, what with lessons and all, I don't seem to get much good of her. But I've a nice kitchen-girl. She was a great trial when she first came, with her not knowing much English, and her German ways of cooking. But she's quite like folks now, and very trusty. How fortunate you found a relative to come in and do for you! And the Doctor says you must give up hard work for a long while to come."
Mrs. Reed sighed, and said she should be glad enough to get about again.
The Deans came over, and some of the other neighbours; and Mrs. Reed found it very pleasant. One afternoon late in March, Mr. Reed came home quite early, and carried his wife down into the dining-room. He had asked the Deans over to tea, and Doctor Joe. And there was the table, spick and span, the silver shining, the windows so clean you couldn't see there was any glass in them, the curtains fresh, the tablecloth ironed so that every flower and leaf in it stood out. There wasn't a speck of dust anywhere!
The kitchen was in nice order; the range black and speckless, the closets sweet with their fresh white paper. And Cousin Jane's bread and biscuit were as good as anybody's, her ham tender and a luscious pink, her two kinds of cake perfection.
Charles sat next to his mother, a tall, smiling boy with a clean collar and his best roundabout. It was the first tea-party he ever remembered, and he was delighted. He was so polite and watchful of his mother that it really went to her heart.
For seven weeks the house had gone on without her, and she couldn't see any change for the worse. Mr. Reed looked uncommonly well, and was a very agreeable host. The Doctor complimented her, and said next week he should come and take her out driving; and that, to do him real credit, she must get some flesh on her bones.
It was a very pleasant time; and Charles was so happy that his mother wondered if there wasn't something better in the world than work and care.
Spring came on apace, and spring in New York had many beautiful features then. The Battery, the Bowling Green, City Hall Park, with its fountain, the College grounds, Trinity and St. Paul's churchyards, and the squares coming into existence farther up-town. Trees and grass and flowers delighted the eye, and lilacs made the air fragrant. All up the country ways there were patches of wild honeysuckle,—pinxter flowers, as it was called.
The little girl had so many things to distract her attention that she wondered how grown-up people could be so tranquil with all their knowledges and their cares. She began to realise the great difference in tastes and characteristics, though she would not have quite comprehended that long word. Perhaps Ben, being in the midst of stories and books, and hearing so much talk about the great men of the day, roused the same train of thought in her, though I think hero-worship came natural to her. The Dean girls read the sweet pretty domestic stories with great relish. Miss Macintosh, Mary Howitt, and even Jane Austin were their delight. Hanny and Daisy were deeply interested in history. And during the last year some very spirited stories had been written on the Mexican war, and all the struggles of a few years before. The wealth and splendour of Montezuma and his sad ending, the wonders of that land of ancient romance, were rendered more real on account of the present struggle that Hanny and her father had followed closely. She kept in touch with all the generals. The hero of Monterey, General Worth, General Scott's entry into the city of Montezuma, General Watts Kearny, who led his men a thousand miles through the desert to seize Santa Fé, and hold New Mexico, and his brilliant young nephew, Philip, who was the first man to enter the gate of San Antonio, and who lost his left arm at the battle of Churubusco. Little did she dream, indeed, who could have dreamed then, that he was to be one of the heroes of another war, nearer and more dreadful to us!
Then there was a great celebration over the final victory. City Hall was crowded. There were some magnificent fireworks and much rejoicing. And though there were questions for diplomacy to adjust, we had gained California and New Mexico; and both were destined to have a great bearing on the future of the country.
When Hanny could spare time from this exciting topic and her lessons, there was little Stevie, who was the sweetest and most cunning baby alive, she was quite sure. He could run all over, and say ever so many words. The hard ones he had to shorten, so he called the little girl Nan, and Dolly and Stephen caught it up as well. When they came over to First Street, the neighbourhood paid him the highest honours. All the children wanted to see him, and walk up and down with him. He was so merry, laughing at the least little thing, and chattering away in his baby language, with a few words now and then in good English. And, oh, delight! his hair curled all over his head, and had a golden gleam to it. Certainly, as a baby, he was a tremendous success.
But the crowning point of this May was Hanny's birthday party. She was twelve years old. Dolly and Margaret came down to spend the day and help. Oddly enough, Hanny knew very few boys. First, she thought she would only have a girls' party. But there was Charlie, and some of her schoolmates had brothers; and Jim said he knew two splendid boys in school that he would like to ask; and when they counted them up, they found there were plenty enough.
They played games, of course,—pretty laughable things that had not gone out of fashion. And the supper-table was a feast to the eye as well as to the appetite. Toward the last, there were mottoes, and they had a good deal of fun in exchanging. Doctor Joe was as merry as any boy, in fact, he laid himself out, as people say, to make the party a success, for Hanny would have been a timid little hostess. Dolly and Margaret were not much behind.
After they went upstairs some one proposed the Virginia Reel. The older ones were not long in taking their places.
"Come," said Doctor Joe to Daisy Jasper. "It's very easy. You will have to learn some time."
"Will I surely have to?" and she gave an arch little smile.
"Yes. You are to learn all the things girls do, even if you can draw portraits, which every girl can't do."
"Oh, no," when she saw that he was in earnest; "I am afraid. And then, I—"
"You are not to be afraid." He put his arm about her and gently drew her out. "You are to be my partner."
Hanny stood second in the row, looking so bright and eager that she was absolutely pretty. And Jim's chum, the handsomest lad in the room, had chosen her. When she saw Daisy, she wanted to run down and kiss her, she was so delighted.
What with braces, and several appliances, Daisy now had only one shoulder that was a little high; and as she had grown stronger, she could get about without much of a limp. She was quite tall for her age, and every gesture and motion was very graceful, in spite of the misfortune. She sometimes danced at school.
Dolly struck up some merry music, and Stephen called off. How prettily they balanced and turned, and joined hands left and right, and marched down and up again, and then the first couple chasséd down the middle! When it was Hanny's turn, she came down looking like a fairy, and smiled over to her friend.
Daisy was a good deal frightened at first, and would have run away but for Doctor Joe's encouraging eyes. However, when her turn came, she did very well. By this time they were all so intent upon their own pleasure no one really noticed her. Oh, how jolly it was!
After that some of the children tried the three-step polka, and found it very fascinating. A little after ten, the plates of cream came in, and at half-past, they began to disperse.
Stevie was asleep upstairs on Nan's bed. All the girls had to go and look at him; and when Dolly picked him up, and bundled his cloak about him, and put on his cap, he only stretched a little and settled himself, being as famous a sleeper as some of his Dutch ancestors. But the girls had to kiss him; and then he did wake up and laugh and rub his eyes with his fat fist. Before Stephen had him settled on his shoulder, he was asleep again.
"Oh!" cried Hanny, "it'shisfirst party as well as mine. And when he gets old enough, I'll have to tell him all about it."
"Yes," laughed his father. "His memory can hardly he depended upon now."
Jim's friend came to wish Hanny good-night, and say that he had enjoyed himself first rate,—quite a boy's word then. And he added, "I think your doctor-brother is the nicest man I ever met. If my mother is ever ill, I mean she shall have him. He is so sweet and kindly. And that Miss Jasper is a beautiful girl!"
Hanny flushed with delight.
One day, not long afterwards, Mrs. Jasper took both little girls down to Stewart's beautiful store at the corner of Chambers Street and Broadway. When the ladies were out for a promenade, they used to drop in and see the pretty articles. It was the finest store in New York; kid-gloves and laces were specialties, but there were no end of elegant silks and India shawls, which were considered family heir-looms when you became the owner of one.
Some of the more careful business-men shook their heads doubtfully over the young merchant's extravagance, and predicted a collapse presently. But he went on prospering, and even built another marble palace, and a marble dwelling-place for himself.
Then the Reeds and the Underhills were full of interest in their boys who were to pass examinations for Columbia College. Charles stood high, but he was rather nervous about it; and Jim never studied so hard in all his life as the last three months. When there was any doubt, or even when there wasn't, he pressed Joe into service. However, they both came off with flying colours. Charles was the best scholar, undoubtedly; but Jim had a way of making everything tell in his favour.
Miss Lily Ludlow had quite given Jim the cold shoulder; but now she smiled upon him again. Her sister had married very well; but Lily had quite resolved upon a rich husband. Still it would be something to have the young and good-looking collegian in her train.
Mrs. Jasper pleaded to take Hanny with them to Saratoga for a little while; and Margaret said she and her husband would go up and spend a week and bring her home. The Jaspers were to stay at a quiet cottage; and, after much persuasion, Mrs. Underhill consented, though she had an idea a fashionable watering-place was hardly proper for little girls; and her father was very loath to give her up even for a few weeks.
To tell the truth, the little girl was rather homesick for a night or two. There was so much to see, so many drives and all; but she had never been away alone before. And she did so miss sitting in her father's lap, and kissing him good-night. She was too big a girl of course; and one time her mother asked her if she meant to keep up the habit when she was a woman grown!
She had not thought of being grown-up. And she wished she could stay a little girl forever. Josie Dean was quite womanly already, and didn't want to wear her hair in "pigtails" any more—indeed, quite fretted because her mother wouldn't let her put it up. But Tudie confessed to Hanny "that she should be awful sorry when she was too big to play with dolls."
"I put my beautiful doll away the Christmas Stevie was born," said Hanny.
"Oh, well, if we had a big brother married, and a lovely little baby like that, I wouldn't mind so much. But Josie is going to study and teach, and—oh, dear! Hanny Underhill, you're just the luckiest girl I know."
And the Deans thought it another piece of luck that she should go to Saratoga.
They went to Congress Hall, and drank some of the water that Hanny thought just horrid. Daisy didn't like it very much; but it had proved beneficial the summer before. And they used to watch the beautifully attired ladies promenade the long piazza. Such lovely lawns and organdies and embroidered white gowns; such laces and sashes and ribbons! Every afternoon they were out in force. They promenaded up and down the street too, with dainty parasols, and often times no bonnet, but a little square of lace with long lappets.
One evening after Margaret and the Doctor came, they all went in to the hop to look on. Hanny thought the dancing a bewitching sight, and could have stayed up until midnight watching it. There were a good many quite famous people whom Dr. Hoffman knew, and Hanny had seen on Broadway or up at Washington Square.
Daisy was almost in despair at the thought of Hanny's return. Dr. Hoffman had promised to take a brother physician's practice when he went away to recuperate, so he felt that he really could not extend his stay beyond the week.
"Oh, I do wish I had a sister!" groaned Daisy. "Auntie is very nice, and mamma is the sweetest mother in the world; but I like to have some one who thinks real young thoughts. I don't want to be grown up and sensible, and take an interest in tiresome things."
"Let's just stay little," laughed Hanny. "Twelve isn't so very old."
"But being in your 'teens' seems on the way to it.Youmay stay little; but see how tall I am getting. I grow like a weed."
Hanny gave a soft sigh. How curious to want to stay little, and feel sorry you were not getting big at the same time!
When they returned to the city, Hanny found that Charles and his mother had gone to the sea-side, out on Long Island. Mrs. Reed didn't seem to get strong. She had thought all along first she could soon do without Cousin Jane; and to give her the opportunity Cousin Jane went away on a little visit. But Mr. Reed sent for her ten days later.
"I'm never going to be good for anything again!" Mrs. Reed said fretfully.
"Oh, yes, there are a good many useful things in the world beside work," replied Mr. Reed. "You've done your share. Cousin Jane is splendid to have around. Anyhow, I think we will keep her for awhile."
"You just go down on Great South Bay, and eat fish and clams, and have the sea-breeze," advised Cousin Jane. "The Seamens will board you very reasonably. And Charles looks as if something of the kind wouldn't hurt him. He will have a pretty hard pull in college the first year, and he ought to have some good backbone to start on."
It was very extravagant to go away to board when they were paying house-rent. And there had been a doctor's bill, and a nurse for three weeks, and Cousin Jane—
"Never you mind," said Mr. Reed, "I'm not anywhere near the poor-house. I've only you and Charles. He is going to be a credit to us if he keeps his health; but he does look rather pale and thin. You ought to go for his sake."
The Reeds seemed insensibly to have changed places. It was Mr. Reed who gave the orders and suggested the plans, and Mrs. Reed who acquiesced.
"You've worked steadily all your life, harder than I ever wanted you to," continued her husband. "We had better take the good of what we have, and let Charles earn his own money when it comes his time to work. And if you could improve a little,—at least I think it is your duty to try for both our sakes. It will be a sad thing if, when Charles takes his degree, you are not here to congratulate him."
She was not anxious to die; very few people are. So she listened, and allowed herself to be over-ruled. She was really proud of her son's manliness, though she would not have admitted it. They went off to stay a fortnight, and both improved so much they remained a whole month.
Janey and Polly Odell and another cousin came to visit Hanny, and had a fine time seeing the city sights. Then Daisy came home, school began, and wonderful events were happening all the time.
The old story of Eldorado repeated itself. Strange rumours ran about like wildfire in meadow grass. A Captain Sutter was having his mill-race on one of the forks of the Sacramento River deepened and repaired, when a workman accidently discovered a shining nugget that proved to be gold. Crowds flocked to the spot: men who had been in the army, adventurers who had followed Frémont in his prospecting journeys; and they found gold on every hand.
When Congress opened, President Polk proudly announced the wealth of our new possessions. It was Mexico and Peru over again. The Spaniards had not despoiled the whole earth.
Men talked themselves up to fever-heat. Why plod along years making a fortune, when here you could dig it out of the ground in a few months! As if wealth was the great and only good to mankind.
Now, when one flies across the continent in a palace-car, it seems strange indeed to think of the long journey of these pilgrims to the land of Ophir, as it was called. The overland route, that across Mexico, or the isthmus, comprised the sail to Vera Cruz, and then up the Pacific coast, and was costly. That around Cape Horn took five months. Yet men were selling their property or business that they had been years in building up, leaving their families, and hurrying off, promising to be back in a few years, millionaires perhaps.
The Underhills were not seized with the mania. There were several other matters that occupied their attention. John was to be married in January, and to go in business with his employer, who would be his father-in-law. And in December, two granddaughters were added to the family.
Hanny was quite dazed with the conflicting claims. Margaret's little girl had large dark eyes like Dr. Hoffman, and dark, silky hair; while Dolly's daughter was fair. Margaret's baby was really beautiful.
But in her secret heart the little girl thought no baby in the world could ever be the sweet and joyful surprise that Stevie had been,—the Christmas gift to them all. Dr. Hoffman declared that he was really jealous that she should not transfer all her affections to his little daughter. "He should not call her Haneran now."
"I should hope you wouldn't," declared Hanny, mirthfully. "You ought to name her Margaret, and we could all call her Daisy. That's such a cheerful, pretty name!"
"But she won't be white and gold. She would have to be a Michaelmas daisy. And we couldn't call her Pearl, with her dark eyes and hair. Still, I think Margaret one of the noblest and sweetest of names."
"I don't suppose any one will think Hannah a sweet name," said the little girl, rather ruefully. "They all say—it's agoodname. But I don't want to be just like Grandmother Van Kortlandt. When I am real old I would rather be like Grandmother Underhill."
"Luckily, the names do not endow us with the natures."
In the end, itwasMargaret; and they called her Daisy, much to the little girl's delight. When Mrs. Jasper heard of the name, she sent her a beautiful pair of sleeve-pins. They were used to pin through the shoulders and sleeves of babies' dresses. It seemed then as if all babies had beautiful fat necks, and pretty dimpled arms.
Dolly's little girl was called Annette Dorothea; but her household name was Annie.
Little Stevie had come to grandmother's to stay a week or so. He cried a little the first night for mamma. Hanny begged to have him put in her bed; and she sat and told him Mother Goose Melodies until he dropped asleep. He was such a sweet, cunning roly-poly, that she couldn't help kissing him when she came to bed; and she longed to take him in her arms and hug him up; but she was afraid he might wake and cry.
The next night he was quite ready to go to Nan's bed, and didn't cry a bit.
Hanny had a delightful time taking him round among the girls. Her mother said, "You and your father will have that child spoiled." But Hanny might have turned the tables, if she had seen grandmother when she had to be in school.
As for Grandfather Underhill, he thought with Hanny there never had been such a smart and wonderful baby. Jim taught him some rather reprehensible tricks. He was still full of fun and mischief, and already had a crowd of admirers in college.
And, oh, how they missed the baby when he was gone! It didn't seem as if one little mite could fill the house; but it was big and empty now.
John's courtship had not been so engrossing as Stephen's. They had met Miss Bradley, to be sure; and Mr. Bradley was a well-to-do man with two sons and one daughter who had been named Cleanthe, after the heroine of a story Mrs. Bradley had read in her girlhood. Mr. Bradley had wanted his daughter called Priscilla, after his mother; and Mrs. Bradley's mother's name was Jemima.
"I did think Mimy and Silly two of the worst names in the world. And there isn't any nickname for Cleanthe," was Mrs. Bradley's explanation when any one wondered at the name.
Miss Cleanthe was a very nice, well-bred, rather conventional girl, with none of Dolly's dash and spirit. She was a good housekeeper, and could make all but her best dresses. They were to take the second floor of Mr. Bradley's house, and set up their own home, until they felt rich enough to indulge in a house owned by themselves.
George came down about this time to spend a month. He was decidedly tired of farming.
"Of course, if I wanted to marry and build on the old place, it wouldn't be so bad. Uncle Faid keeps in the same rut, and you can't shake him out of it. Barton Finch is the kind of man who begins with a great flourish, but flats out towards the end. I'm tired of them all!"
"It will be your turn to marry next," said his mother. "And then I'll seem quite a young woman with only three children. Idosuppose we'll go up to Yonkers some time and spend our old age there; though I begin to think your father is weaned away."
George laughed. "Father seems about half Uncle Faid's age. And at eighty, you won't be as old as Aunt Crete. If I had lots of money, to do as I liked—but farming so near by doesn't amount to much."
The Germans and Swiss had to come in and show us about market-gardening and floriculture.
George went down-town with Stephen, and talked with Ben, and listened to the groups on every corner discussing the golden land. He was young and strong; why shouldn't he go and seek his fortune?
Miss Bradley had a very nice evening wedding, with dancing and a supper. She was very well looking, but not as handsome as Margaret, or as pretty and piquant as Dolly. She did not seem to come close to their hearts, as Dolly had; though Mrs. Underhill was very well satisfied, and knew she would make John happy. John was a sort of solid, sober-going fellow, quite different from Steve and Joe.