CHAPTER XXIIIA TRANSFORMATION

“I wonder now what place this is, and what that thumper-bumpering is, too,” were the words that greeted the seamstress at last, and informed her that her charge was awake.

She instantly arose and crossed the room.

“Don’t you know, darling—don’t you remember?” she inquired, bending over the child, who, flushed and smiling, pushed her tangled curls away from her dark eyes, and looked at her friend and said:

“Oh, yes! I do remember now. Oh, how good you are to me! And the gentleman, too. Has he come back?”

“Not yet, dear. It is not time for him to come yet. But you must not be afraid. Mr. William will be sure to keep his word and hunt up your friends,” said Annie.

“Oh, I know he will! If I didn’t believe in you and him, I should not be possessed of common sense,” said the child.

“Now, my dear, will you get up and let me dress you? Or would you rather lie here a little longer?”

“Oh! thank you, ma’am, I would like to get up. But you needn’t trouble about dressing me. I always dress myself.”

“Oh, you do? That is quite right. Now, then, here is your suit of clothes from head to foot,” said Annie, placing the pile on a chair beside the bed.

While the child was dressing, the woman made up the bed. Both processes were finished about the same time.

The imp looked very clean and nice in her bright pink frock, white apron, and stockings, and shining black shoes, and she was regarding herself with great satisfaction.

“Your clothes are not as good as the ragpicker stole from you, I reckon,” said Annie, almost apologetically.

“Oh, but I like them better. They are so bright and pretty! And, then, I shan’t be afraid to soil them. They can go in the washtub and be washed, you know. I always like to wear frocks that can go in the washtub and be washed, you know. Don’t you? One can keep so clean then.”

“Yes,” Annie answered, half laughing, half wondering at the strange child before her.

It was the poor needlewoman’s dinner hour, so she said:

“Now, my dear, amuse yourself any way you please—looking out of the window, or taking up and looking at anything you like in the room, while I get dinner for us two, won’t you?”

“Look here,” said the little girl, “I don’t want to do that. I want to do something to help you. I do like to do something real useful, only people won’t let me half the time.”

“Why, what can you do, you solemn, responsible midget?” inquired the needlewoman.

“You are making fun; but I am in earnest, and I can do many things. I can piece crazy quilts, as they call them; but, oh, I tell you they are not crazy at all, but just the most sensible things in the whole world; for they use up every bit of the scraps without wasting a thread of any. Scraps that you couldn’t use for anything else. Oh, I tell you what! the woman that first thought of that sort of a quilt was possessed of common sense.”

“I quite agree with you, my dear, but I am not making a quilt, and have no quilt pieces,” said Annie.

“Well, then, if you have got any buttons to sew on anything, or any strings to run in anything else, I can do that.”

“Very well,” said Annie, who was too wise a woman to discourage any child’s desire to do useful work, however futile the attempt might prove to be—“Very well, you are an industrious little girl, I think, and I will give you something to do.”

“All right,” said the small sage.

“Wait a minute,” added Annie, as she caught up her hat and left the room. She passed downstairs and out of the house to that convenient corner shop, where she invested one cent in the tiniest nickel-plated thimble she could find.

“You must have a little girl staying with you, Mrs. Moss,” said the saleswoman of whom Annie had bought the clothing that morning, and who, by the way, was a tenant in the same house with the seamstress.

“Yes, I have.”

“A relation?”

“No; only a visitor. I am taking care of her a few days. Good-morning—though it is noon now.”

When Annie re-entered her room she tried the thimble on the child’s finger, and found it fit. Then she took up a calico sack, from a pile that she was at work upon—just such a sack as the cheap stores sell for twenty cents apiece.

“Here,” she said, “the buttonholes are worked, you see, and I have marked for the buttons. Now youmay try to sew them on. Here is the card of buttons. Now let us see what you can do.”

The child sat down on a little cricket and went solemnly to work.

Annie began to prepare their frugal midday meal of coffee, bread, butter and stewed apples. By the time it was on the table the child got up and said:

“I have sewed all the buttons—six of ’em—on this sack. Will you look and see if you like ’em, ma’am?”

Annie took the garment the child held out.

“It is very well done,” she said, after examining the work; and she thought: “It is better done than I could afford to do it at five cents a sack. Customers complain that our buttons drop off, but if they knew how little we get for our work!”

“Hera showed me how to sew buttons on. I used to help her, too. I used to sew her strings together for her rag carpet. That is another sensible thing. Rag carpets use up all the rags and strings, you know.”

“Yes,” said Annie. “Now come and sit up to the table.”

The child obeyed and seated herself opposite to her hostess.

“You are not used to this sort of a poor dinner,” said the latter.

“Oh, I think it is just a lovely dinner! I am so fond of stewed apples, especially with plenty of sugar in them,” said the little guest, very sincerely.

“You shall certainly have as much sugar as you like on your apples,” replied Annie.

“Thank you, ma’am. How good you are to me!” said the child, as she received from her hostess a liberal supply of bread, butter and stewed apples, flanked by the sugar bowl, from which she was told to help herself to as much as she wished. “This is cozy and comfortable, isn’t it?”

“Very.”

When dinner was over and the dishes washed, and the room set in order, Annie went and brought fromHarcourt’s apartment a bundle of old illustrated papers, which she offered to the child, saying:

“You can get some amusement out of these while I go on with my work, can’t you?”

“Of course I could, but I don’t want to. I would rather sew the buttons on the sacks. Now, you just look at that one and see how well I did it. I didn’t draw the threads too tight because that would pucker the places, but I did sew them on strong, and fasten my ends tight.”

“You did the work very well, indeed, my dear.”

“Hera showed me how, and she took pains to teach me, and I took pains to learn.”

“Who is Hera, dear?”

“Ducky Darling’s mother.”

“Oh!” said Annie, with a smile.

But the shrewd child understood at a glance that she had not been sufficiently explicit, so she added: “Hera is Lady’s poultry woman, and takes care of the chickens, and ducks, and the geese, and turkeys, and Ducky Darling is her little girl, and my little playmate. Dear Ducky Darling! You would love her so much if you knew her. She is so sweet. Now give me some more sacks and buttons, and I will go to work,” said the small old lady, with an air of confidence and responsibility.

Annie gave her the materials, and then sat down to her machine and began to ply it.

The noise, as well as the occupation, forbade all conversation, and the woman and child worked on in silence for three or four hours, until Annie had finished the job of making the two dozen sacks upon which she was engaged.

Then she stopped her machine, covered it, gathered up her pile of sacks, and drew her chair near the stool of the child. Here she began to draw out the basting threads, and fasten loose ends, and put on all those little finishing touches that must be done by hand.

And while she did this she began to question her little guest, with so much tact as well as tendernessthat in the course of an hour or a little more time she drew from the confiding child as much of the story of her short life as that child understood and remembered.

When it grew too dark to work any longer, Annie folded up the sacks, which were by that time completely finished, and said:

“Now you stay here while I go and take these things to the store at the corner. You see, I work for that same store where I bought your clothes.”

“Oh, do you? I’m real glad it is so near. And I will help you all I can. Say! I have been some little tiny bit of use, haven’t I?”

“Indeed, you have, my dear,” Annie answered, as she left the room.

The child, pleased at this warm acknowledgment of her services, looked around the room to see what more she could do to help her friend.

She saw threads and fluff scattered about the carpet, and she stooped down and gathered them up and put them in the stove.

Then she looked around again for “new worlds” of usefulness “to conquer,” and she saw Annie’s workbasket on the table in some disorder.

She took it and sat down with it on her lap and began to wind up the spools of cotton, roll up the rounds of tape, and so on.

While she was still intent on this little labor of love her friend re-entered the room, and seeing how she was engaged, said:

“Why, you little Busy Bee, what are you doing now?”

“Settling up your workbasket, ma’am, for it wanted it badly. And now I have finished it. But my name is not Busy Bee; it is Owlet,” solemnly replied the child, as she replaced the basket on the table.

“I know—you told me so; Owlet and also Catherine. Now which would you rather I should call you?”

“Owlet.”

“Well, then, Miss Owlet——”

“No,” interrupted the elf. “Not ‘Miss.’ Whoeverheard of ‘Miss’ Owlet? Plain Owlet. Tom used to call me Miss Catherine; but that was something else. Tom was the little colored gentleman who waited on us when we lived in the city, in the lovely rooms with Lady.”

“All right, then, Miss Catherine——”

“No—Owlet.”

“Well, then, Owlet—I think we will get tea. And by that time, Mr. William will be home,” said the seamstress, as she lighted her kerosene lamp, stood it on the mantelpiece, took her kettle and went to the water spigot to fill it.

When she had done this and was returning along the passage she met Harcourt at the top of the stairs, with a small paper bag in his hands.

“Oh, Mr. William,” she said, “I want you, if you please, to come and take tea with us.”

“‘Us,’ Annie? ‘Us’ has a very pleasant sound. Yes, I will, thank you. And here are some cutlets I bought to cook for the child. Will you take them to add to our tea?” he asked, putting the paper bag in her hand.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. William; this will come in very well,” she said.

“How is the little one?”

“Oh, bless you! splendid! I have got all her little story from her, as well as a smart child of her age could give it.”

“Indeed! What——”

“Now, wait! The story is too long to be told here at the top of the stairs with the tea kettle in my hand. Wait until after we have had our tea and I have put the child to bed; then I will tell you all about it. Her pet name is Owlet. She likes to be called by it. That is all you need to know just yet.”

“Quite right, Annie. I will go into my room and brush myself up a little, and then join you and the child,” he said, as he passed into his own apartment.

“Mr. William has come, dear. He has just gone to his room to wash and change his clothes, and thenhe will come and take tea with us,” said Annie, as she re-entered her own room.

“Oh, has he? And did he ask about Lady?” eagerly demanded Owlet.

“Of course he did. Didn’t he promise that he would?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, then he did; you may be quite sure; and he will tell you all about it when he comes in. And now, what are you trying to do, little Goody Two Shoes?” demanded the seamstress, seeing that the child had taken a white cloth from the cupboard and was pushing it over the top of the table, which her chin just reached.

“I don’t know what you mean by Goody Two Shoes, but I am going to set the table for tea. I can do it as well as anybody. Now, don’t stop me. See!” she said, as she pushed the linen as far over the board as she could make it go, and then ran around and deftly pulled it straight and even.

“I see you can do it nicely. Go on, then, little Bopeep,” said Annie, with a smile of approval, as she began to cook the cutlets, furtively watching the child with some uneasiness for the safety of her crockery.

She soon saw that she had no reason to fear, for Owlet was so excessively and even ludicrously careful in handling cups and saucers, etc., that she finished her task without the slightest accident.

By the time the tea was ready Harcourt rapped at the door.

Owlet flew to open it before Annie could say “Come in.”

“Oh, have you found Lady?” she eagerly demanded.

Harcourt entered, sat down, took the child on his knees and answered:

“I have sent a telegram to that Mr. Merritt you mentioned. Do you know what a telegram is?”

Owlet looked at him in grave disapprobation of his impertinence in asking a question that implied her ignorance of such a well-known thing.

“Why, of course I do. Lady used to send lots of them. They go like a flash of lightning and come back like another flash of lightning. Puck used to take ’em when he went to the post office, and fetch ’em back when he came home. Oh, I know.”

“I think ‘what you do not know is not worth knowing,’ as the saying is,” observed Annie, with a laugh.

“Did you get an answer? Oh, tell me quick!” said Owlet.

“No answer yet; but I am expecting one.”

“Now come and sit down to tea, both of you,” Annie directed, as she placed chairs at the table.

“I know, as soon as ever Mr. Merritt gets the message, he will hurry right off and tell Lady, and she will come right away and fetch me home,” Owlet declared, as her friend lifted her up and seated her beside himself at the board.

“I think it very likely,” he replied, as he helped the child to a cutlet, while their hostess was pouring out their tea.

Soon after they had finished the evening meal Owlet’s eyes began to wink and her head to nod.

Harcourt noticed the symptoms of sleepiness, and so he got up and said:

“I will bid you good-night,” and stooped and kissed her.

“Good-night, sir. And, oh, if Lady comes for me after I have gone to sleep, will you please wake me up?”

“Certainly, if she should come.”

“You have been very good to me, sir. Lady will thank you, oh, ever so much. And so will Ducky Darling, in her heart, for she don’t know how to talk much, poor little thing.”

When Harcourt had left the room the self-reliant child insisted on undressing herself, and was soon in bed and asleep.

Then Annie tidied up her room and went and knocked at Harcourt’s door.

He came out and followed her to her own room.

They took seats at the front window.

“You must have some inkling of the little girl’s history yourself, Mr. William,” Annie began.

“Why do you think so?”

“You knew where to send a telegram.”

“Yes, I knew that much, for the child chanced to mention some names of persons and places once familiar to me. Acting on that, I telegraphed Lawyer Merritt. I have had no answer from him yet. If I do not get one to-night, I shall telegraph Dr. Shaw in the morning.”

“Who is Dr. Shaw?”

“Rector of Goeberlin parish, in which Goblin Hall is situated. And Goblin Hall, as the child told you, is her ‘Lady’s house,’ where that lady lives a part of every year.”

“Oh, yes. I see.”

“Now, pray, tell me all that you have learned from the child of herself.”

Annie then told the story as Owlet told her, in answer to leading questions. It need not be repeated her, even in epitome.

“So this little foundling of ours is the orphan of a poor widow who died in an apartment house in Washington, and the adopted daughter of the mistress of Goblin Hall, from which she was abducted. This is the gist of the whole story,” said Harcourt.

“Yes; but why should she have been stolen from her benefactress? Who could have had any interest in the abduction of an orphan child living on charity?” Annie questioned.

“No one but the very man who carried her off. He alone was interested,” Harcourt answered, grimly.

“But why should he, whoever he was, have been interested in taking off a destitute orphan adopted by a benevolent lady?”

Harcourt paused for a moment to reflect before answering. He had “read between the lines” of the story. He knew more of it than Annie had heard, or Owlet had understood, yet he could not tell his own or Roma’s terrible story even to this good woman, nor could he give her any distinct or satisfactoryanswer to her question without at least alluding to that “Deed Without a Name.” So he answered, vaguely:

“Some mercenary, selfish or blackmailing motive, no doubt.”

Just at this moment a knock was heard at the door of Harcourt’s room. He left Annie, and saying:

“That may be the telegram,” went out into the passage to see.

Annie heard him in low-toned talk with some one there, who presently left him and went downstairs.

Then Harcourt returned, looking very much puzzled, and said:

“This is a telegram from Mr. Merritt. I will read it to you,” he said; and he read:

“City Hall, Washington, D. C., May 1, 187—.

“To Mr. William Williams, 110 Drouse Street, New York: Miss Fronde cannot interfere in the case of the abducted child. Wait for a letter of explanation.

“Amos Merritt.”

“This is strange, and passing strange, Annie, is it not?” inquired the young man.

“It is indeed. I do not understand it in the least,” sighed the seamstress.

“We must wait for the letter of explanation, it seems. That will clear up the case, I hope,” concluded Harcourt.

At that moment there was another knock at Harcourt’s door.

“I wonder what that is. It can’t be another telegram,” he said, with a slight smile, as he again got up and went out in the passage.

But it was another telegram, for in a few moments Harcourt returned to the seamstress’ room with a face so white and a frame so shaken that she started up in a fright, and hurriedly exclaimed:

“For the Lord’s sake, Mr. William, what is thematter? What has happened? Have you received bad news?”

“Yes, Annie, very bad news. The very worst that could have come to me. I have received this telegram, summoning me immediately to my mother’s sick bed. Ah! her deathbed, I have every reason to fear,” said the young man.

But he did not read this telegram to her, as he had read the first because this one was written and directed as follows to the address he had left with the Wynthrops:

“Lone Lodge, Logwood, Md., May 1, 187—.

“To Mr. William Harcourt, care of Mr. William Williams, 110 Drouse Street, New York City: Come without delay. Your mother is very ill.

“Margaret Wynthrop.”

No, he could not read that telegram to Annie.

“Oh, Mr. William, I am so very sorry. When shall you start?” she inquired, full of interest and sympathy.

“The last train for to-night would be gone before I could reach Jersey City. By the first train to-morrow I must leave.”

“And the child, Mr. William? You will leave her with me, I hope. I will take good care of her.”

“No, dear soul. I must take her with me.”

“But, Mr. William, she would embarrass you, going on such a journey.”

“I might have an opportunity of restoring her to her friends. In any case, dear heart, I feel a certain responsibility connected with that child which I cannot explain or even understand. I must take her with me and watch for an opportunity of restoring her to her friends.”

“And about that letter, Mr. William?”

“If one should come, forward it to me.”

“Yes, but please write out the address in full, for I am the worst hand in the world to remember names and places.”

Harcourt took a lead pencil from his pocket, found a piece of paper in his table drawer, and wrote the following address: Mr. W. Williams, care of Mr. W. Harcourt, Logwood, Alleghany County, Maryland.

“Now, Annie,” he said, as he gave her the slip of paper, “I will not keep you up any longer. Good-night! God bless you!”

He went into his own room, but did not light his lamp or retire to bed. He dropped into his chair, buried his face in his hands, and murmured:

“It has come! It has come! The awful crisis of my life has come at last!”

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