"Ain't this grand, Dorothy? I never did see anybody so good as Mrs. Calvert! She wouldn't hear tell o' my working half the day, though I could well's not, 'cause the circus don't take in till two o'clock. No, sir! She up an' give me the whole day an' said my pay was to go on just the same as if I was hoein' them inguns 'at need it."
"Onions, Jim; not 'inguns,'" corrected Dorothy with a smile. "You are improving fast. I haven't heard you call anybody 'Mis',' for Mrs., in ever so long, and most of the time you keep tight hold of your g's. Yes, she is dear! but you deserve her kindness. Nobody else ever served her so faithfully, she says; not even those old colored servants who love her and—impose on her, too! You look fine, to-day. Those 'store clothes' are mightily becoming and I'm proud of you. But whatever shall we do with a whole day?"
"Mrs. Calvert, she said we was to drive into the town, Newburgh, you know, where the circus is to be at and to a livery stable that knows her. Or the man who keeps it does. We was to put the horse up there an' leave it till time to go home again. Then we was to walk around the city an' see the sights. 'Bout noon she reckoned 'twould be a good plan to go to what they call the 'Headquarters,' where General George Washington lived at, when he fit into the Revolution. I've been readin' about that in the History she give me and I'd admire to stand on the spot he stood on once. There's a big yard around the house and benches for folks to sit on, and a well o' water for 'em to drink; and nobody has to pay for settin' nor drinkin', nary one. All the folks want you to do, and you don't have to do it, you ain't really obleeged, is to go inside a room an' write your name and where you come from in a 'Visitors' Book.' I've been practicing right smart, ever since she told me that, an' I can write my name real plain. What bothers me is to tell where I come from. I don't much like to say the poorhouse, where I was took after my folks died, and I hate to say Mrs. Stott's truck-farm. I haven't got no right to say Riverside nor Deerhurst, 'cause I've only lately cometothem places, I've never comefrom'em. I——"
"O Jim! Stop 'splitting hairs'!"
Thus arrested in his flow of language, the youth carefully inspected his clothing and failed to perceive the "hairs" in question. Whereupon Dorothy laughed and assured him that she had merely used a figure of speech, and meant: "Don't fuss! Just write 'Baltimore,' as I shall, and have done with it. Funny, Jim, but I just this minute thought that I'm the one who doesn't know where I came from! Well, I'mherenow, and what's behind me is none of my business. But, boy, you mustn't put that 'at' after places. It sounds queer, and I hate queer people. Ah! me!"
Jim drove carefully along the fine road with a full appreciation of the beautiful scenery through which it ran, yet in no wise moved to express his admiration of it. He was too happy for words and his soaring thoughts would have amazed even Dorothy, familiar though she had become with his ambitions; and after driving onward for some time in this contented silence he became suddenly aware that his companion was not as happy as he. Her eyes were fixed upon the road and her face had a troubled, preoccupied expression.
"Dolly Chester, what you thinkin' of? Don't you like it? Ain't you glad you come?"
"Why—Jim! How you startled me! Of course I'm glad I come. The whole trip is the most delightful thing; but—what I was thinking of, I'm afraid would make you sneer if I told."
"Tell an' see if it will. I ain't no great hand to make fun of folks—I don't like to be made fun of myself. What was it?"
"TheGhostthat haunts Skyrie.Jim—I've seen it!I myself with my own eyes."
He checked his horse in his amazement, and incredulously ejaculated:
"You—don't!"
"Yes, I do. I did. This very last night that ever was; and talk about liking this ride? Huh! I'm more glad than I can say to get away from home just this little while, even. Yet mother and father are left there, and if IT should come and frighten them while I'm not there—O Jim!Itscared me almost into a fit. Scared me so stiff and still I could neither move nor speak. Now I'm rather glad I didn't.Itmay not come again, thoughIthas two or three times."
They were nearly at the top of a long hill and, partly to rest the perfectly untired horse, partly to hear in silence this remarkable story, Jim drew aside into the shade of a wayside tree and commanded:
"Silly Dolly! There ain't no such things; but—out with the hull business, body an' bones!"
"I'm glad to 'out' with it. It's seemed as if I should burst, keeping it all to myself, and the worst is I feel that father wouldn't believe me. There's something else, too. Jim, do you believe that Peter Piper is really harmless? He follows me everywhere I go. He doesn't come near the house because mother doesn't like him and shows that plain enough even for him to understand. She never did like beggars down home in Baltimore, and she's taken a fearful dislike to Peter."
"Stick to what you started to tell; not get a body's ideas all on edge, then switch off onto Peter Piper. As for that poor feller, he won't hurt nobody what don't hurt him. Butheain't a ghost. Tell what you saw."
"Will you promise not to laugh nor—nor disbelieve?"
"I won't laugh an' I will believe—if I can."
"You dear good Jim! I can always rely upon you to help me in my troubles!" cried Dorothy, gratefully.
With comfortable complacency Jim replied: "That's so."
"You know Pa Babcock doesn't work for us any more. He left the next day after the 'Bee.' Sent Alfaretta around to tell us that 'he'd overdone hisself and was obliged to take a vacation.' Why, Jim Barlow, he was engaged to work three days out of each week and he never got in more than one. He was to 'find himself,' which father says means to furnish his own food, and he never brought a single meal. Mother Martha had to cook extra for him every time. We weren't real sorry to have him leave, for we thought it would be easy to get another man, now that Skyrie had been put in such good order. But it wasn't; besides, any that offered asked from two to three dollars a day. Think of that! Why, of course mother couldn't pay that, even if it was haying time and men scarce, as they all told her. She said we must let all the farm alone except just the garden patch and that field of corn which is to feed our stock next winter. Jim, life in the country 'isn't all catnip!' I never, never dreamed that I could work so hard or do so much. Look at my hands, will you?"
She thrust out her little hands, now scarred and blistered by the use of heavy, unfamiliar tools, compared with which her old home "garden set" were mere toys.
For sympathy she received the assurance:
"Won't blister nigh so much, after a spell, and the skin gets tough. Go on with the ghost, will you?"
"I am going on. It's all mixed up with Pa Babcock. If he hadn't left I wouldn't have had to work in the garden nor mother in the cornfield. That tires her awfully, and makes her fearfully cross; so that father and I keep all little worries to ourselves that we can. He even tries to help her hoe those terrible rows of corn that has come up so beautifully and is growing so well. If only the weeds wouldn't grow just as fast! But to see my mother handling a hoe and my father trying to do so too, resting on his crutches and tottering along the row as he works—Jim, it makes me wild! So of course I try to take all care of the garden patch and—of course, I failed. Partly I was afraid to stay out there alone, sometimes, for I might happen any time to look up and there would be Peter Piper staring over the wall at me, or even inside it. Then I have to run in and stop working for awhile. Mother would be angry if she knew and drive him off with harsh words, and though I am afraid of him, too, I can't bear to hurt his feelings. I am really so sorry for him that often I carry my dinner out of doors with me and give it to him, though mother Martha thinks I've taken it because I do so love to eat out under the trees. I can't help feeling that he's hungrier than I am; and I don't think it's wrong because I've never been forbidden nor asked about it. Do you think it is, Jim dear?"
"I ain't judgin' for other folks and I 'low your victuals is your own," answered he.
"That's a horrid word, 'victuals!' It makes me think of 'cold' ones and beggars at the back gate."
"All right. I won't say it again. Get back to that ghost."
"I'm getting. Why hurry so? We have the whole day before us."
"But, Dorothy Chester,that circus takes in at two o'clock!" warned the careful lad.
"And it can't be later than ten now. Jim Barlow—I've been to bed some night, leaving those hateful garden beds all weedy and neglected: and I've got up in the morning and—found—them—in—perfect—order! What do you think of that?"
"Think? Why, 't likely your pa or ma done 'em for you after you was abed."
"No, sir. I might have thought so, too, only they both denied it; nor can I make them believe I didn't do the work myself. So, after I had explained once or twice how it was and they only laughed, I gave up and held my tongue. Mother Martha says that weeds can't pull themselves nor 'cultivators'—even little ones like mine—run over the beds as something certainly did. However, if they won't listen they needn't. I know it's true, though I dare not tell them I've seen the Ghost; because they are both so discouraged and anxious over this farming business that if they found the place was really haunted they'd leave it. Yet, Jim, we can't leave. We mustn't, no matter what. Father came here to get well—his only chance. We haven't enough money to move back to Baltimore nor to live there afterward. We must stay and live with the Ghost. It is the only way. But—O Jim! I've not only seen whatIthas done in the garden, I've seenItat work there. SeenItwith my own two eyes! Now, do you believe?"
"Shucks! Pshaw! You don't!"
Alas! Honest Jim did not believe but he was profoundly sorry for Dorothy, who he felt sure had suffered from too great and unaccustomed labor: and he could only answer according to his own convictions; as he did with added gentleness:
"I think that that there Babcock girl had ought to had her neck wrung 'fore she stuffed any such nonsense into your head, Dolly girl, an' I wish to goodness, just as you did once, 't I 'could make two of myself.' Then I'd make short work of that mite of gardening what seems such a job to you. I—I don't know but I'd ought to quit Deerhurst an' hire myself out to your folks."
"No, no! Oh! no, indeed! You're in the right place now, just the best place to get on as you couldn't do with us."
This opinion was comforting. Jim was so happy in his new home that he had no real desire to exchange it for Skyrie: where he felt his conscience and "duty" would compel him to work so early and late that there would be no time left for his "study." He changed the subject and inquired:
"If you seenIt, what did it look like?"
"Itwas tall, like a man.Itwas all in some light-colored clothes and it worked as steadily as ifItwere a machine. But it made very little noise.Itdidn't want to be heard, I thought. WhenIthad finishedItsort of vanished behind the lilac bushes and I thought I sawItcrossing a field toward the south meadow. That's where the old 'gold mine' is, that Alfaretta told of, and where she saidItlives part of the time.Itused to come into the house itself, into the very room father sleeps in now. Soshesaid."
"Huh! She's the foolishest girl I ever heard of. Dorothy, don't you go to takin' up with such a silly thing as her. Huh!"
"Oh! I'm not taking up with her, she's taking up with me! The 'shoe is on the other foot.' But she's real kind and good. She never comes to Skyrie without trying to help in whatever we are doing. Mother thinks she's a splendid girl, even if she is a little forward in her manners. But I haven't told her about the ghost being true. I've told nobody but you, Jim."
Such exclusive confidence was flattering, but the boy was still unconvinced. After a moment of pondering he asked:
"Why didn't your folks seeItif you did?"
"Because it was only an accident that I did, either. I had to go down into the kitchen for a drink of water and so saw it through those windows. We all sleep on the other side of the house, away from the garden. That's why."
"All right. Giddap!" commented Jim, driving back into the road and chirruping to the horse, while, having relieved herself of her secret, Dorothy gave herself up entirely to the pleasure of the moment, and soon was eagerly discussing the chances of their finding a suitable animal for their purchase at the circus, as father John had suggested was possible.
A turn of the road soon brought them to a small house standing within a rude inclosure, and at present surrounded by such a concourse of people that both Jim and Dorothy immediately conjectured:
"Another auction! Let's stop and listen."
It was that same Bill Barry who had officiated at Skyrie who now stood on the box here; and, as Jim drove up toward the gate, he immediately recognized the two young people and called out to them:
"Hello, there! How-de-do? Lookin' for somethin' to put your money on? Well, sorry, but all the household stuff's bid off. Jest a-comin' to the prettiest little piece o' horseflesh 't ever you laid your eyes on." Then with a general sweep of his eye over the assemblage, he added for the benefit of all: "This here vandoo just sends the tears to my eyes, hardened old sinner though I am. Auctioning off a poor widow woman's goods ain't no joke, let me tell you. See this pretty little piebald mare? Household pet, she is. Gentle as a kitten, broke to saddle or harness, either one, used to children, got to be sold no matter how the kids' hearts ache, nor the widow's either! Start her up, somebody! How much am I bid for the beautiful calico pony, beloved of a widow and orphans? How—much?"
"Ten dollars!" cried somebody in the crowd and the auctioneer retorted that the bidder must be joking.
Dorothy, listening, flashed one indignant glance over the crowd and stood up in the runabout, resisting Jim's abashed attempts to pull her down upon the seat. She clutched her pocket-book with all her strength, as if he might try to take it from her, and called out in her clear treble:
"Thirty-five dollars!"
A silence that might be felt over that assembly, and no other bid followed Dorothy's. Once, twice, thrice, Mr. Barry solicited a "raise" but none was forthcoming. To nobody else in that company was the pretty, piebald pony worth even half so much money. The creature had been born on the western plains, and while it had a reputation for speed was not strong enough for hard work, such as these other possible bidders required.
"Going, going,gone! Sold to Miss Dorothy Chester for thirty-five dollars, cash down! Now for the cart and harness. How much?"
While waiting offers for these articles the clerk of the auction obligingly led the pony through the gate and fastened its halter to the back of the runabout; whereupon Dorothy's consuming eagerness could hardly wait to count out the seven crisp banknotes which made her the happy possessor of that wonderful pony.
Another moment found her on the ground beside it, patting its neck, smoothing its velvety nostrils, and longing to kiss it with that sudden affection born in her. So absorbed was she in the creature that she noticed nothing further going on about her till somebody politely asked her to "step aside and let us hitch up."
Then she saw that Jim had left the runabout himself and was now between the shafts of a small low wagon, drawing it into the road. Five minutes later he announced:
"We're ready to go now, Dorothy."
"Shall we take the pony with us to the circus? Why are you turning the runabout around to go back the way we came? Newburgh's not in that direction."
"I—I guess we won't finish our trip to Newburgh, to-day, Dolly," he answered with a laugh.
"Why not?"
"Because—'cause you spent allyourmoney for the horse an' I spent allmine, all 't I've earned yet, for the rig. Which critter'll you drive home, Dorothy? Home it is where we'll eat that nice lunch o' Mrs. Calvert's, 'cause I haven't got a cent left to buy them circus tickets. Which one did you say?"
"My own!" cried the girl, exultantly, as she sprang into the rickety little phaeton and took up the pony's reins.
When even before mid-day the two vehicles returned to Skyrie both Mr. and Mrs. Chester were too astonished to do more than open their eyes and mouths and wait explanations.
These came with a volubility that was less wonderful in Dorothy than in Jim, but each of the pair seemed to trip the other up with a flood of words, till finally the listeners made out to sift the facts for themselves. Then, while they were wholly delighted by the possession of the pony, mother Martha's prudence was disturbed by the thought of debt, and she promptly demanded to know what Jim had paid for the phaeton and harness.
For a time he stubbornly declined to tell, and it was not till Mrs. Chester brought out her own purse and insisted upon repaying him that he acknowledged:
"Well, if you must know, 'twasn't but fifteen dollars, all told.True.Like Dorothy here I took every cent I had with me an' now I'm powerful glad I did. As for takin' your money, same's sellin' it to you, I shan't. I'm makin' it a present to Dolly an' all of you. If it hadn't been for her I never'd have known Mrs. Calvert nor had the chance of my life. 'Tain't but little, seems if, to return for all you've brought to me. If you don't want to hurt my feelin's and make me stay clean away from Skyrie, you won't say another word on that subject. And I don't want to stay away. I can't, not till some—some things gets straightened out. So, I reckon I'd best go see if there's a good stall in that old barn to put—Say, Dorothy? What you goin' to name the critter, anyway?"
"James Barlow, she is not a 'critter.' She is a perfectly beautiful piebald pony and her name is—Portia!" After which alliterative statement Dorothy rushed toward the lad, intent upon hugging him in gratitude for the gift from which none of them could dissuade him.
But he had had experiences in that line and ungallantly backed away, blushing furiously that these elder people should witness his embarrassment, and covering his confusion by remarking:
"I'm going to the barn now, and you can come with me if you want to. If you do we can eat our dinner outside the door under that shady tree; then, as I've got the hull day give to me, I'd like to go see that mine in the south medder I've heard tell of."
"All right," cheerfully answered the girl, not at all offended by his rebuff of her attentions. "We'll find a place for my Portia and your phaeton, and I think it's perfectly lovely for us to have them, half-and-half, that way, Jim, just think! How little we dreamed of such splendid times together when we were at Miranda Stott's!"
Old "Si Waterman's Folly," as the rumored "mine" was called, seemed to be coming into sudden prominence. For years it had lain unnoticed, but some recent excavations on the other side of the mountain had recalled to the public this long abandoned one at Skyrie. The very first time that Dorothy had the delight of driving her father out in the phaeton, which was so low and comfortable for him to use, they met Friend Oliver Sands upon the road, and he brought up the subject by a roundabout manner all his own.
He had not been present at the "Bee." He had even expressed his disapproval of such an affair, affirming that "nobody should undertake to run a farm unless he knew he could do it." Which might be good sense but influenced few. Indeed, when hearing afterward of the sale whereby Daisy-Jewel was metamorphosed, so to speak, into a pony, he had been angry—as angry as such a benign old gentleman could be.
He had made an unnecessary gift to an unappreciative girl andshehad made money out of it; whereas, if things had gone as he expected, it would have been himself who should make it. Hannah had been transformed into a model cow by the simplest of methods, one that he should have been wise enough to try for himself only—he hadn't thought of it. Of course, it was a good thing for him who had advanced money upon the land that Skyrie should be put into good condition, even though it were as temporary as but one day's labor would make it. But he had heard things. Rumors were afloat. He hoped these rumors had not yet reached the ears of Skyrie's owners; but if they had he had still time to forestall them and reap his own advantage. Altogether, a thrifty soul was Oliver, the good; though his tones were sweetly sympathetic as he now brought his own smart team to a standstill in the very path of Portia and the phaeton.
"Don't stop, Dolly, if you can help it, but drive straight past the miller who's coming. Exchange bows, of course, if a Quaker will bow; but I'm too happy to-day to be disturbed by talk with him. Ever since he loaned us that money, 'payable on demand,' I've felt uncomfortable. It's wretched enough to owe money to anybody, but I'd have felt safer if we'd borrowed from Mrs. Calvert or even from a bank. Oh, dear! He's going to stop and we will have to!" had been Mr. Chester's hurried comments, so soon as from a little distance they saw Mr. Sands approaching.
It was a rare bit of confidence and Dorothy looked at him in some surprise. She did not share in her father's prejudice against the kind gentleman who had given her the pretty calf, and indeed was doubly grateful to him now that she had exchanged his gift for Portia. So it was in all sincerity that she returned his pleasant:
"I am glad to see thee again, little Dorothy. Thee has a bonny face that should win thee many friends."
"And I am glad to see you, Mr. Sands. I wish I understood the 'plain language,' too, then I could answer 'thee' after thy own fashion. Do you—does thee see my pretty pony? Her name is Portia. I bought her with the money paid for the calf you gave me. The pony is more useful to us, 'cause my father's lame, and so I am twice pleased. This is the first time he has ridden out with me, but I can drive real well already."
"For a beginner thee does very well, and the plain speech is the sweetest in the world—heard on the lips of pretty girls. By the way, John, I was on my way to see thee about a little matter of business. Thee may have heard that I like to acquire and hold land?"
The statement was in the form of a question, to which the ex-postman rather coldly replied: "Yes, so I have heard." He resented the familiar "John" on this "plain" speaker's lips, though he had never felt otherwise than complimented by Mrs. Cecil's even more familiar "Johnnie." It was a case of like and dislike, and as inconsistent as most such cases are.
"Can you speak freely before the little maid, John Chester?"
"With perfect freedom. There are no secrets in our household——" At which remark Dorothy slightly winced, remembering that dreadful "secret" of the "ghost," which she had hidden from her parents. "We are a united family in all respects and Dorothy fully understands our circumstances."
"Very well. That is a good thing. It speaks well for thy household. Regarding that little loan of mine, 'payable on demand,' I have considered the matter well. Thee needs money, I want land. If thee will sell me a portion of Skyrie farm that transaction should offset the other. That south meadow, for instance, known by the name of 'Si Waterman's Folly,' is worth, at ruling prices for waste mountain land, about two hundred dollars. I loaned thee three hundred; but on account of thy affliction I would pay thee more than I would another man. What does thee say?"
"I say that the property is my wife's; just as I told you before. My affliction does not enter into the case, but I shall certainly advise her against such an unfair transaction as that. There are ten acres in that south meadow, and I have learned that mountain land is not so cheap as you would have me think."
"Thee may have been misinformed. Ground suitable for fancy building lots may command a slight advance upon the ruling price, but not an overgrown piece, half-woods, half-rocks, like that misnamed 'south meadow.' Meadow stands for rich and profitable land; not such as the 'Folly.' Why, friend John, it would take all of that three hundred dollars I offer thee to fill up that hole which required several years of Simon Waterman's life to dig. The 'love of money is the root of evil,' the Good Book tells us, and it was an undue love of money which sent friend Simon to that hopeless task. A dream misled him—Thee has heard the story, John?"
"No, nor care to. We are going for a drive—my first, as Dolly explained—and a storm threatens. I will add my thanks to hers, and do appreciate the fact that but for your gift of the calf we should not now own this pretty pony."
"I trust thee may long enjoy the luxury. 'Calico' ponies are as pretty as uncommon, and there is a superstition in the neighborhood that they bring 'good luck.' Some even fancy that to 'wish upon one' has the same result. I will not detain thee from thy recreation, but will pass on to Skyrie and talk matters over with Martha herself."
With a click of his unctuous lips the miller started his team into swift motion and vanished from sight: but he left discomfort behind him and had effectually spoiled that ride for father John. Also the few clouds which had been gathering grew heavier with each passing moment and, as the invalid was careful never to expose himself to a drenching, Dorothy soon turned Portia's head homeward and arrived there just in time to escape the slight summer shower.
Martha met them with a brighter countenance than she had shown for many days, and the exclamation:
"Good news, dear ones! That splendid old Quaker gentleman has just left here, and has made me such a generous offer. He says, since we so dislike debt, that he will take that worthless south meadow off our hands and call it an equivalent for the money he advanced. Farming is hard enough, but farming free from debt would be lessened of half its worries."
"Martha, I hope you didn't tell him you would sell!" protested Mr. Chester, alarmed.
Her brightness faded into that unhappy sharpness which was becoming habitual and she returned, sarcastically:
"Of course, I didn't promise. A good wife never does dare promise anything without consulting her husband, even about her own property. I'll come with you, Dorothy, and help put up the pony."
"O mother! Now you've hurt father's feelings and it isn't like you to do that! I—I begin to understand why he dislikes that miller and his money business, for he makes you disagree so. That's something never used to be at dear old 77 Brown Street!"
"Dorothy Chester! How dare you speak to me like that?" demanded the overtired housemistress, with an asperity rarely shown to her beloved child.
"Beg pardon, mother. It was wrong. I only felt—I wish father liked Mr. Sands as well as you and I do, but don't let's talk of him any more. No, thank you, I don't need you to help with Portia. I'm proud to know how to harness and unharness all by myself. It was good of Jim and old Ephraim to teach me, and Mrs. Calvert says she is going to give me a little side-saddle to fit the pony. She has ordered it made in Newburgh from measures Ephraim took one day. Isn't she the dearest? Please, sit down and rest, mother dear. I'll do whatever's needed as soon as I've put Portia under cover."
There were both balm and bane in Dorothy's words. Martha was soothed by the child's sweet affection and jealous that that other richer woman had the power to bestow gifts such as she could not. She had now learned of the offer of Mrs. Cecil to adopt Dorothy and this had not diminished her jealousy; but, at the same time, the longer and better she knew the lady of Deerhurst the more she was forced to admire and respect her.
As soon as Dorothy had driven toward the barn and Mr. Chester had entered the kitchen his wife returned to the subject of that south meadow.
"That field is the laughing-stock of the whole town, John, and I can't see why you should object to my selling it. To keep it would, it seems to me, make it 'Chester's Folly,' as well as 'Waterman's.'"
He answered rather sadly:
"I have no right to object, Martha, and I will not if your heart is set upon the deed. Yet I should not be loyal to your interests, if I did not caution prudence. Wait a bit. Take advice upon the matter. Of that wise Seth Winters, or Mr. Smith, or even of the best lawyer in Newburgh. There——"
"Lawyers! We've no money to waste upon lawyers, John."
"I know. Still, there is such a thing as being 'penny wise and pound foolish.' Oliver Sands is a long-headed, shrewd old chap. He sees money, more of it than he suggested, in that south meadow, else he would never try to buy it. As for that extra hundred dollars he proposes to give—Pooh! He plans to more than reimburse himself. As Mrs. Calvert saw he did in that smaller affair of the calf. That he was outwitted then was due to Mrs. Cecil's knowledge of his character."
"You've just had a ride behind a horse we shouldn't have owned except for him," she reminded.
"I know, and I give him all credit due. Only I do not want you to agree to anything unfair to yourself. Why, Martha, we do not even know what that 'mine' is like. We have seen that the top of the 'hole' is covered, in part, by a sort of trap door, more than half-hidden by vines and bushes, and almost half decayed away. I peered down under what was left of the trap, that time I went there with Dorothy: but I was far too tired with my crutch-walk to do more than that, even if I had not feared some unseen danger. She was eager to slip under the trap and find out for both of us, but, of course, that was out of the question. Probably, itisjust a piece of 'Folly'; yet in other things Simon Waterman had the reputation of being a sane, sensible man. He proved himself such by willing so much of his property to you, my dear."
"Humph! I don't see just now that it's so valuable. I feel as if Skyrie farm was a burden that would crush the life out of me yet," she returned, in that discouraged tone it was so painful to hear, and which always stirred his deep regret for that affliction which had thrust upon a woman's shoulders that weight of care which only the man's should have borne. "He said that he wanted that meadow merely because it would 'square' out his own property. He holds a mortgage on land lying between his Heartsease and Skyrie, of which our south meadow is the limit. He's to foreclose that mortgage and longs to own that one field of ours just to complete the shape of his farm. That's natural, isn't it?"
"Wholly and entirely natural to him, from what I've heard the neighbors say. But let him go. All I ask is that you should wait a little, until you can make inquiries of persons wiser than we are in land-lore, before you take a step you cannot retrace. Now, kiss me, my wife, and don't let's allow the portly shadow of Oliver Sands to fall across our peace again."
She did kiss him, and she did feel so impressed by his wisdom that she promised to follow his advice and "wait" before deciding the question of the south meadow: which strangely enough seemed so much more important to him than to her.
So, coming in from the barn and Portia, "running between drops" as she expressed it, Dorothy found happiness restored and hastened to unfold a plan which Helena and she had thought out and to which her parents gave a ready assent.
"You see, mother, the summer is going very, very fast, and before we know it, almost, Deerhurst and the Towers and all the big houses will be closed and the families gone away for thelongwinter. We haven't yet had even that camp-picnic Herbert planned. First he was away, or Helena sick, or something or other all the time kept happening. Now she wants to give a picnic herself and ask all the young folks 'up-mounting' to it. We made out a list the last time I went to see her, and first she had written only the names of the rich young folks on the Heights. Then I coaxed her and told her how much more it would mean to the poor ones, like myself, than it possibly could to those others. Then she was as nice as nice! and wrote down every name I said. Mrs. Smith's boys, and every Babcock except Claretta and Diaretta. Jim, too, of course, if he'll go. Helena is to provide the eating part of the picnic and I am to provide the place, if you'll let me. That's the south meadow that so many people are talking about, Herbert says, just now. Oh! I do hope you won't sell it to Mr. Sands before we have the party!"
"Not likely, unless you put it off too long," answered Mrs. Chester, quietly. "Do you mean that Miss Montaigne is willing, can afford, to provide food for a large company like that? Because, though I might——"
"O mother! Don't you worry about that. Of course she can 'afford'—why, anything in the world she wants, I reckon. The people at the Towers seem to think as lightly about spending money as we would about using the water from our well. I'm to take Portia to the Towers in the phaeton and bring back Helena and the baskets. Funny! How that girl who has so many faster horses of her own likes to ride behind my darling pet! But Portiacantravel, too, if she takes a notion. Why, the other morning when you sent me to Eliza Jane's store of an errand and an automobile was going down the mountain behind us, she just picked up her little heels and raced that auto—My! how she did run! But—the auto beat. Wasn't it too bad? Portia was so disgusted. It must be awfully trying to waste all one's breath racing an automobile and then get beaten."
"It must, indeed; but I hope that's the last time you'll ever let her enter such a race as that. Child, you might be killed! An accident to either pony or machine—Dolly, never do it again!" cried father John, alarmed by the danger already safely passed.
"When do you want this picnic?" asked Mrs. Chester, with interest, and feeling somewhat flattered that the chosen ground for it should be on her own premises.
"Why, Saturday, if it's fine. If not, then the next Monday. We want to go early, in the morning sometime, and stay the whole day. We mean to explore that mine they call the 'Folly,' and who knows? I may bring home a nugget of pure gold! Wouldn't that be fine? I'm so glad you are willing. I think I'll harness Portia again and ride to tell Helena, after dinner; and I'll get that now. I can do it all alone if you'll only trust me. You rest, mother dear, and read your Baltimore weekly. It came last night and yet you haven't even taken the wrapper off."
The dinner was to be a simple one and well-trained Dorothy was capable of preparing it; so Mrs. Chester did take the proffered rest and was deep in the home news which interested her so greatly when a shadow fell upon the threshold and she glanced up to see two men who appeared to be surveyors, for they carried the instruments of such over their shoulders; and the announcement made by the elder of the two fairly took her breath away:
"We are sent by Oliver Sands to survey that south meadow you've sold him. Will you direct us to it?"
The inquirer went away with "a bee in his bonnet," as the saying goes; and he promptly reported to Oliver Sands that he had been dismissed from Skyrie as one who had gone there on a fool's errand.
"Say they haven't sold me that south meadow, do they, friend? Well, they are mistaken. Report to me again in one week from this day and I will give thee further directions. I am a just man. I will pay thee and thy assistant for the time thee has wasted, but the surveying will yet be done," returned the miller, quietly.
He even smiled, sitting comfortably in his great rocker upon his shaded veranda; and he opened and closed his fat hands with a suggestive gesture, as of one squeezing something soft and yielding. It was a gesture habitual to him while transacting certain kinds of business, as foreclosing a mortgage against some helpless person; and to keen observers—Seth Winters, for one—seemed most significant. Friend Oliver was in no wise disturbed by the indignant statement of the Chesters to the surveyor. He was perfectly contented to bide his time, remembering that adage: "All things come to him who waits."
But valiant as their denial, the Chesters watched the surveyors depart with sore misgivings. The bold falsity of the matter roused, at length, even Martha's suspicions that Friend Oliver Sands was not as benign as he appeared; and for the rest of that week she went about so silent and sad that neither father John nor Dorothy dared intrude upon her reserve.
Yet to the latter came a new trouble of her own: and knowing that she must confide in somebody old and wise enough to counsel her, she went to Seth Winters. She could not have done better. With almost the opening sentence of her story about the surveyors' visit he seemed to understand the whole matter, "body and bones" as Jim would say.
"I am thankful you came to me, little Dorothy. We'll outwit that man by meeting him on his own terms. I'm going to give you something to take care of till the time comes for you to use it. We'll have what Herbert calls a regular lark; and may I be there to see! Three hundred dollars, 'payable on demand, with interest from date.' Do you remember that date? No? Never mind. I'll put the time sufficiently far back to make everything secure, and I misjudge our floury Friend if he will object to a little more than his due. Watch, scholar, and see if I figure right."
Fetching pen and paper, the blacksmith made a rapid computation of what would be due Oliver at any time within the next month. Then he went to a cupboard in his room above the "office" and took from a small safe there the amount of cash which should satisfy even the "just" holder of the Chesters' "note." He gave the money into Dorothy's hands with a smile, saying:
"This is yours, your very own. It is no gift nor loan of mine. It was intrusted to me by a law firm in Baltimore, the business managers of Mrs. Calvert's property. Kidder & Kidder are the gentlemen. Well, what?"
"I've heard, I know about them. Why, Mr. Winters, I'veseenthat old Mr. Kidder!" cried Dorothy, eagerly.
"I'm glad of it. Well, I cannot explain much to you; only I can and do say that somebody related to you by blood, somebody of your own family that you never knew, left this money and a little more with these gentlemen; to be used by, or for, you whenever a case of real necessity occurred. They are my own lawyers, too, as well as Mrs. Cecil's; so after you moved to Skyrie, knowing I was such a near neighbor, they wrote and asked me to take care of the small fund for you. I wasn't to mention it until that case of need I spoke of, and that has now surely arrived. Hurray! Three cheers for the climax! I can picture your face—all your faces—when 'payment on demand'isdemanded, and you so calmly—it must be very calmly, Dolly dear!—come forward with that 'payment' in hand. One word of advice to you, more. Try to persuade your parents to hold on to south meadow. Things are stirring nowadays, and that very 'Folly' may yet show old Simon's wisdom, by proving the most valuable spot on Skyrie farm or any other land 'up-mounting.' Keep the fact of your having the money a secret till the right time comes. Then, hurray!"
For a few moments the astonished girl could do no more than turn over and over the fat wallet which Seth had thrust into her hands; and she was so enraptured by the thought that it was she, she herself, who should come to her parents' relief that she could only smile and smile. She could not even join in this boyish old fellow's hurraying; yet looking on her happy face, he was quite satisfied.
However, amid all her joy one dark word had fastened on her consciousness: "Secret." She had come in part to confide her own dread secret of the Ghost to this kind man, who would, she was sure, neither deride her fear nor fail to help her. Seth Winters helped everybody worthy of his help. All the mountain folk said so and trusted him.
"Mr. Winters, that story about there being a ghost at Skyrie is—is true. I suppose you've heard it, haven't you?"
"Oh, yes! I've heard."
There was no scorn in his expression. The same gentle gravity rested upon his features that had inspired the confidences of so many troubled souls and now won hers. All the boyish hilarity he had manifested over the outwitting of Oliver Sands had vanished, and with a fatherly tenderness he drew Dorothy to him and listened intently as she said:
"Yes, Mr. Winters, it—is—true. I didn't believe Alfaretta when she told about it. I thought there were no such things. But thereisa ghost haunts Skyrie and—I—have—seen—it. I have to believe my own eyes, haven't I?"
"Most assuredly, my dear. And I, too, know it is true. I, too, have seen it."
"You—have?"
"Often and often. A most beneficent and harmless ghost. One to be cherished and not feared. One that has suffered much evil and done much good. A ghost I pity and almost love."
"Why, Mr. Winters! You make me feel as if—as if I could hardly breathe. Could any ghost begood? Any ghost beharmless?"
"This one is good, I told you. As for harm—has he harmed your garden by his presence? Have the weeds grown faster or the vegetables less, because of his nightly visitations to it? 'By their fruits ye shall know them.' Eh? What?"
"Why, you amaze me more and more. How did you know that about the garden and the night-time? I hadn't told you yet, though I was going to, in a minute."
"Well, easily. I've seen the garden and I know that all ghosts prefer the night. Not this one because his deeds are evil but because they are good. A person may learn a lot of things, little maid, by merely keeping his eyes open and putting two-and-two together."
"Oh! of course; but do you really think I shouldn't fear this one at all? I've been too afraid almost to live, and I've not dared to tell my father or mother, because she's so nervous she wouldn't stay at Skyrie even to get my father cured, and he must be.He must be—no matter what happens. It must not be that a man so good, so kind, so altogether faithful to us all should be an invalid forever. O Mr. Winters! You don't at all know how brave he is! How he makes fun for mother and me when his own heart aches. It seems to me as if he took hold of everything, every little thing that happens, and turns it over and over, till he finds out some humor in it. Then he points out to us that humor which we'd never have discovered for ourselves. Why, I fancy he'd think there was something funny even about that dreadful ghost!"
"A brave and beautiful nature is poor John Chester's, little Dolly. I am proud to know him, to have him call me friend. Nor should I have called him 'poor' but rich. I would rather have his present poverty and his wholesome, sweet outlook upon life than all the money owned by the master of the Towers. By the way, he's not such a bad sort, either! come to know him well enough to see beneath that crust of greed and arrogance that he wears as if it were a coat. As for that fairy-faced daughter of his, I'm wholly in love with her, since you've put your own hand to the task of remodeling her into the simple, kindly creature God meant her to be when He fashioned her. Pity! when that other good gift of too much money buries beneath it the better side of the person to whom it is given!"
"Oh! Helena is sweet, Mr. Winters. It's not true at all that she is haughty and 'stuck-up,' as folks say. She's just been petted at home, and praised and sheltered so much, that she didn't have a chance to show what she really was. Even to know it herself. But I love her. I love her dearly. She's the nicest girl friend I ever had."
"That's good! That's excellent! For if a certain scheme of our friend Herbert's materializes it would be most important that there should be love between you and Helena. By the way, neither of you young ladies have invited me to your picnic!"
Dorothy opened her eyes in surprise. "Why, Mr. Winters! How did you know we were going to have one? I hadn't told that yet, either, and I do believe you must be a witch—a gentleman witch—to guess at things the way you do!"
"I hope I'm a 'gentleman' witch if I'm any sort. I shouldn't like to be a 'lady,' one that's always pictured as bestriding a broomstick. That would be most uncomfortable. I prefer a horse. Well, am I to come to your picnic, or am I not, Miss Dorothy Chester?"
"O Mr. Winters! Will you? If you will, your coming will make us both so happy. I'd rather have you than anybody I know, even young folks——"
"As if I were not that! Thank you for your cordial 'bid.' I will be most happy to accept the invitation I've had fairly to worm out of you. What am I expected to provide as my share of the entertainment?"
"Oh! you love to tease me, don't you? Nothing. Of course, you are to provide nothing. Only come, and don't disappoint us."
"I will surely come. But I hope to do my share, as I said; and if I succeed in obtaining what I hope for, it will be a novelty in picnics!"
"Now you've made me curious! I love novelties! What will yours be?" asked Dorothy, eagerly, and rising to leave, since some men had arrived with horses to be shod and her host must attend to business.
"Take care of that parcel, child. Tell nobody of it, not even the father and mother, till the right moment comes. You'll recognize it when it does, and what shall I bring? Let me see—I think I will bring aGhost!"
It was a very happy girl who returned to Skyrie, carrying safely hid in her pocket that which should "at the right time" release her beloved parents from the power of debt, held over them by even so "generous" a man as miller Sands. It was almost impossible for her to keep this new and splendid "secret" from their knowledge. At times she felt she must, she certainly must, break her promise to Seth Winters and disclose it; but she had never knowingly broken her word and she would not let herself begin to do so now. Besides, if she had been able to keep that other, dreadful "secret" about the "ghost" she surely could keep this happy one of the money. She had made it her business to bestow this in a place of safety, although her frequent visits to the spot would have betrayed her interest in it had the elder Chesters been at all suspicious.
The days sped by till the end of the week and that beautiful summer Saturday appointed for Helena's picnic. They had been busy and peaceful days at Skyrie. No further demands had been made upon the elder Chesters by Mr. Oliver Sands. That most industrious of "ghosts" had not reappeared nor nervous mother Martha so much as suspected his existence; though rumors concerning him were rife in all Riverside. These rumors had been freshly set afloat by the Babcocks. Dorothy had admitted to Alfaretta that there "mightbe some truth" in the story of a spooky visitant, and Alfy had promptly stated that therewas. Pa Babcock affirmed the tale and declared that this was why he had left off working on the haunted farm. "It had got upon my nerves to the extent of interfering with my orations," he had explained, to whoever would listen. Until then, nobody had credited Pa with possessing "nerves" of any sort; but even such an absurd statement found credence with some.
More than with the "spook," however, was the public mind agitated by other rumors which touched upon "south meadow." The "Folly" was a word often on men's lips, yet, as often happens, the persons most nearly concerned in the subject were the last to hear of it.
The promised saddle for Portia had been sent home and found to be a delightful change from the bareback riding which ambitious Dorothy had been practicing. So delightful, indeed, was it and so eager was she to have all her own friends enjoy it with her that she decided:
"I'm going to put the saddle in the phaeton along with the baskets when we drive to the 'meadow.' The 'Bee' people fixed the bars to it so nicely, we can drive along the road till we come to the field and then through the bar-way into it. I'll take Portia out of the shafts and saddle her, or the boys will do it for me. Then all the girls that wish can take a ride, turn and turn about. It will add ever so much to our fun—everybody I know simply loves and envies me my darling 'calico' pony! I'll come back for you first, though, mother and father, for you must be there. A picnic, or anything nice, wouldn't seem perfect without you two. Dear Mr. Winters is sure to come. He said so and he's going to bring—My! I almost let the cat out of the bag!"
Dorothy's sudden pause and startled expression provoked no comment from her parents other than mother Martha's protesting:
"Cat! I wouldn't take Lady Rosalind, if I were you, Dolly dear. It would only be a worry to you. Those little Babcocks are sure to come, invited or not, and as surely would plague the life out of her. Why, Rosalind runs under the lounge the very minute any Babcock, big or small, sets foot inside the door. Don't take the cat."
"It wasn't—it wasn't—that kind of a cat! and I haven't let it out—yet!" laughed the girl, with a gayety that seemed exaggerated for so humdrum a remark.
"You're a queer child, Dorothy C. But—but I hope you'll have a happy day," answered her mother, slipping an arm about the girl's shoulders and lightly caressing the flushed young cheek; while Dolly answered, trustfully:
"I'm certain to! Mrs. Calvert is coming and says shecannotunless Jim Barlow brings her and waits upon her! That settles Jim and his refusals! She's made it a point of 'duty' and that boy was never yet known to turn his back on his duty—even when it led him into having a good time himself at a picnic! Good-by, now. I'm off!"
It did prove the happiest sort of a gathering. Everybody came who was invited and some appeared who were not. But there were food and room and fun enough for all. Portia did ample service in the cause; trotting patiently around and around the smoother portions of the meadow, carrying various small maidens on her back but, at length, being given a chance to nibble her own dinner from that plentiful pasture. She was still saddled and bridled, the smallest Babcock having testified by screaming that she was still unsatisfied with her share of the exercise, and being promised "one more ride after dinner."
Never a Babcock screamed more wisely. But for that scream Portia would have been unsaddled and but for Portia—a life might have been lost.
The chief event of the day was to be the exploration of "Si Waterman's Folly." This occurred immediately after dinner.
Jim and Herbert, aided by Mr. Winters's strong arms, found small difficulty in removing the decayed plank covering which the old miner had placed above his narrow-mouthed shaft. This had once rolled easily enough upon deftly applied rollers and had been arranged to protect Mr. Waterman from detection when excavating, in search of that gold which he believed lay buried in south meadow. He was a secretive man who shared no secrets with his neighbors if he could help it, yet whose very idiosyncrasies betrayed them.
"Well, that's a good job done!" cried Seth, as the cover was pushed aside. "See there?"
He placed his heel upon the boards, which at once broke into fragments beneath his weight.
"Why, anybody might have stepped upon it and fallen through!" cried Dorothy, astonished.
"Yes. A good job to have prevented such an accident. But the hole, or shaft is—Hello, friend GHOST! Come out of that, if you please; all your neighbors have come to visit you and expect you to show the honors of your retreat!"
Many heads were now crowded together, peering into the dimness of the shaft. It sloped inward and downward into a wider opening that was almost like a small chamber in its dimensions. Another entrance led to this chamber, a passage of a few feet in length, burrowed beneath the ground and opening upon the hillside beyond. Through this little tunnel came fresh air and light; and within the chamber had been collected the odds and ends of things which had caught the half-wit's fancy. A bundle of straw and a worn-out horse-blanket which somebody had discarded formed his bed. Some bits of broken crockery furnished his table, a board wedged against the rock. A spring of water gushed from one wall of the chamber and trickled into the depths below, and a curious odor escaped from the spring.
The leather jacket, the glazed hat with its bedraggled scarlet feathers, lay carefully folded upon the straw pallet, and its owner sat beside the jacket shamefaced and terrified by this intrusion upon his retreat. But it was something else that caught Dorothy's attention—a simple suit of denim that had once been blue but was now faded by sun and water to a ghostly white. Peter wore these now and—she recognized them.
"Peter! Peter! Soyouare the good 'Ghost' that came in the night and tilled my garden for me! Come out, come out and let me thank you!"
Though he had obstinately refused to answer the call of Seth Winters, the voice of the girl he had so secretly served, because she had been kind to him, was instantly obeyed. He climbed out of the shaft and, taking hold of her skirt as he had done once before, stood foolishly smiling while his good friend, the blacksmith, gayly announced:
"Behold the 'Haunt' of Skyrie! The honestest, most innocent, most grateful of Ghosts! During the years it was vacant he made Skyrie his home, sleeping of winters in its hillside room, and in summer seeking this cool retreat where we have just unearthed him. He must, he will,hauntno more; for if I judge aright the new master of old Skyrie will at once engage him to take the place of Pa Babcock, resigned. A better gardener there isn't 'up-mounting.' A more devoted servitor no man can find, once his affection is won as our little Dorothy has won it. What say, neighbors Chester? Will you secure your greatly needed 'hired man' and forever 'lay the ghost' of Skyrie at one 'fell swoop'?"
"Aye, aye! Hear!" cried father John, entering fully into the blacksmith's spirit, even while he did not fully understand, till Dorothy explained all the mysterious, yet beneficent, happenings of the past few weeks; and then not only he but mother Martha bade the poor waif welcome to their home, while all the others standing by applauded vigorously.
"But this isn't all we came to see. The gold mine, the gold mine! Peter may be human gold, but the rich yellow metal is what we want!" cried Herbert, when the cheers had died away.
"Who'll go first?" asked somebody.
"Why, I, of course!" returned young Montaigne, springing recklessly into that rough shaft which veered from the wide safety of the upper chamber.
Whereat a strange thing happened. Peter dropped the fold of his new mistress's skirt and stepped hastily forward, warning by gestures and his uncertain mumbling that Herbert should not go. Alas! the warning was useless. The spirit of adventure was on the whole party, an eager desire to be the first who should unearth a "nugget," and even cautious Jim Barlow caught the infection, while Dorothy ran forward as lightly as if she were to cross only the smooth meadow.
As the heads disappeared below the surface of the ground, and the shouts of those who scrambled downward over the rude rocky shaft grew fainter, Peter was seized with a terrible trembling and stood as if rooted to the ground in fear. A minute more and a girl's scream aroused him. Dorothy's! She was falling—falling—into an unknown depth! One mis-step, the slimy stones, the unforeseen peril! Both Jim and Herbert were already far below, following with extreme care, if still with all the speed possible, the tortuous excavation, in search of that deluding metal which has lured so many to their ruin. Only Peter Piper, the simple, to hear and comprehend.
As if by magic his trembling ceased and with a cat-like leap, so swift and soft it was, he had also disappeared beneath the ground. Then something whispered to the Chesters of their darling's danger. They pressed forward to the edge of the pit, and almost equally pale with fear, Mrs. Cecil joined them; clinging to Martha with a sympathy of distress which broke down in a moment the younger woman's dislike of the elder.
None of the trio were prepared for that which followed. Dorothy's slight figure came hurtling out of the pit's mouth, tossed to their very feet by the long arms of Peter Piper. A moment later he stood beside them, exhausted, silent; while the girl explained, as her own breath returned and terror subsided:
"Oh! he saved my life! He saved my life! I was falling—I knew—it was death—those awful stones—so dark. He caught me, he knew. He isn't 'simple' but wise; wise and oh! so good! Peter, you blessed Ghost! I owe you my life!"
But this excitement ebbed only to give way to another. When Dorothy had recovered her composure and sat quietly beside her elders, Peter beside her, with no desire left on her part for either explorations or the biggest of "nuggets," a fresh cry of alarm sounded from the mine. The cry preluded the frenzied rush out of the chasm of those who could escape it first; but it was upon Herbert and Jim that all were intent—upon poor Jim more than the other.
As they came up Peter Piper cast one glance upon them, then hid his face and shuddered.
"A horse! A doctor! Quick, quick! For the love of God, a horse!" gasped Herbert, and in a few broken words explained:
"We got into a nest—a nest of serpents. One had raised its head—I didn't see it—to strike my hand! Jim—Jim caught it, it swung around—bit him—O God! Don't let him die! He offered his life for mine whom he didn't like! He saved me! Can nobody—nobody save him?"
With his arm around his rescuer the frantic Herbert searched the blanched faces for some sign of help; and out of the startled silence which greeted his appeal came Seth Winters's calm voice:
"To my shop. I've medicines there. I'll take one side, you the other, Herbert. If need be, we can make a 'chair' and carry him between us. You can walk, for a while anyway, Jim. You are not going to die. Steady now, on your own feet, steady—as when you so nobly threw away your life to save the boy you 'didn't like'!"
The shop was, indeed, the nearest place where help could be obtained, and they started, all following; a sad and terrified party that but an hour before had been so gay and happy. And presently Jim's nerve returned to him, for it had been worsted for the moment by the cries and assertions of the others that he was doomed to death.
But where was Dorothy—who should have been foremost with sympathy and cheer? Halfway down the mountain before the company had all left that unlucky south meadow. Fully down by the time the smithy was reached. Race, Portia, race. A life hangs on your fleetness! Jim's life, Jim's! Who has proved that "greater love hath no man but that he lay down his life for his friend." And this was more than "friend"—it was the boy "he didn't like"—yet by the strange rule of nature, was forever after to be the Damon to his Pythias. Experience has long proved that the surest way to overcome an aversion to a person is to do that person a kindness.
Where, too, was Peter, the simple? Not far behind his faithful friend, the smith, having lingered only long enough to dart into the woods and fill his hands with a certain herb he knew; then to follow and reach the smithy just in time to hear its owner say:
"Faint, Jim? Drink this. Herbert, bare his arm. It will be heroic treatment, my lad, but,my hero—bear it! and live to teach the world a lesson."
Some turned their eyes aside as the smith drew from the glowing forge a white-hot iron and held it to the wound upon Jim's sunburned flesh. Not Jim! this wise old man toward whom his young soul had yearned from the beginning had called him "hero": and within himself he knew that he was far more such now than when he had rescued Dorothy from bondage, though they had termed him "hero" even then.
The wound cauterized, came Peter Piper with his healing leaves, bringing infinite relief; and soon as might be came also Dorothy upon her piebald mare, and the doctor close beside her on his own fleet steed; approving all that had been done, assuring everybody that no fatal results could follow such prompt treatment; and especially commending Peter Piper for his knowledge of those simples which mother Nature grows so luxuriantly for the use of all her children.
Thus ended the picnic and the search for hidden gold. But so soon as most of the company had departed from the over-crowded shop, Jim was made to ride upon Portia home to Skyrie, though he was now able to smile and declare that his legs were so long they would drag upon the ground.
However, he managed to hold them sufficiently high and to adapt himself to the despised saddle of a girl. With him went the few who knew him best; Seth Winters and Herbert, Mrs. Cecil and Martha, Helena herself—not to be outdone in gratitude for her brother's life; and John Chester with his "little maid" beside him. They had all anticipated finding a restful quiet at Skyrie; but they failed. The moving events of that memorable day were not all accomplished yet.
On the little upper porch sat Mr. and Mrs. Montaigne, waiting the return of Skyrie's owners to lay before them the scheme first evolved by their son and heir, and now indorsed with all heartiness by themselves. Chatting familiarly alongside, was Friend Oliver Sands; never more benignant nor complacent than now, and never more persistently engaged in "squeezing his hands" than at that hour.
Below, on the stone doorsteps, sat the two surveyors who had once before visited the cottage; and at sight of these the hearts of the elder Chester's sank, while Seth merrily whispered to Dorothy:
"Behold the hour is ripe and Iamhere to see!"
One other group there was, strolling idly about the garden, toying with Lady Rosalind, and contentedly amusing themselves until such time as they could make their errand to Skyrie known. Nobody seemed to know them; even Seth Winters failed to recognize the strangers and, for a moment, feared what they might have come to say. The next instant his brow cleared and his laughter was merrier than before.
Mr. Montaigne was the first to state his business, when once all were ready to listen. It was extremely simple and concerned Dorothy most of all. Said he:
"My dear young lady, we have come to invite you to accompany us to Europe. We shall leave New York in a few weeks and remain abroad for one, possibly two, years. We are going to give our children the benefit of foreign education, which we want you to share with them and along whatever lines you, or your parents, select. Of course, there will be no expense to you, who will be to us exactly as our own daughter, and whom we have learned to love almost as such. Will you go?"
For a moment nobody spoke. Then said Dorothy very quietly, and scarcely daring to look at Helena or Herbert in their so evident disappointment:
"I thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Montaigne, for your great kindness. It is very wonderful that you should have shown it to me whom you have known such a little while. But I cannot go. My father and mother need me and—I need them. A foreign education would not help me to earn my living as I must do some day, and—I thank you again, but I cannot go."
To Helena's and Herbert's pleadings, which so strenuously followed, she could give no other answer. The invitation had been most tempting to her who so dearly loved to see new places and new people, but—her answer still was: "No."
Then the family from the Towers departed and Friend Oliver began:
"Thee is a good daughter, Dorothy Chester, and thee has well said that as a poor girl thee will need only the plainest education."
"Beg pardon, sir, but I did not say that! I shall get just as good an education as I can, but I won't turn my back on those I love and who love me for the sake of getting it. That's already planned for. Dear Mr. Winters is going to open a school in the old smithy and all of us are to attend it. We've talked it over many a day, knowing how soon our summer friends would be away and our own real time for study and work would come. Jim and I, all the Babcocks, and——"
But the miller had scant interest in these plans. He interrupted her by turning to Martha Chester and saying:
"I suppose, Martha, that thee has reconsidered thy objection to selling south meadow, or are ready to pay me my money loaned thee 'on demand.' Is thee ready?"
"Oh! sir!" began the troubled housemistress, and was amazed that a child should interfere by saying:
"Wait a moment, mother dear. How much do my parents owe you 'on demand'?"
At a nod from Mr. Winters she had slipped away and as swiftly returned and now stood before the astonished company, holding a fat purse in her hands and calmly awaiting the miller's reply.
For an instant he could not make it. His amazement was too deep. The next with a sort of chuckle, as if sure that so large an amount could not be held in so small a compass, he announced the sum with interest in full.
"Very well. Here, father, is the money. More I think than you will need. It is mine. My very own to give to you and mother, as I do give it now. Mr. Winters knows. He will explain. Pay the man, do please, and let him go."
John Chester glanced at Seth Winters and received that gentleman's confirmatory nod; then he promptly opened the pocket-book and counted out the crisp banknotes which freed him and his home from the society of the miller and his men.
Oliver departed. If he were crestfallen he did not show it, and in that respect the worthy smith and Mrs. Cecil both were disappointed. He even ventured to congratulate the Chesters upon the possession of "such a forehanded" daughter and to wish them every prosperity. With that and summoning his surveyors, he took his benign presence out of the way.
Strangely enough, the surveyors did not at once follow, even to secure their wage which so just a man would surely pay. They even made light of such wages. During the time of waiting they had made other possible arrangements with the gentlemen in the garden, and they waited still further, with admirable patience, to see if these arrangements were correct.
It was time for the strangers in the garden to have their own little interview, and, seeing them approach, poor mother Martha passed her hand across her tired brow, confused by all that had happened and dreading what might come. Too tired, as yet, to fully realize herself that her dreadful "debt" no longer rested on her shoulders.
But she need not have feared. These strangers were plain business men, with no sentiment about them. Said the foremost:
"Madam, we represent a syndicate prepared to buy, or operate in common with you, an iron mine that has been discovered on your land. In connection with this mine there is also a mineral spring from which a rich revenue may be obtained if properly managed. I have the honor to lay before you the two propositions of our company and to close with you as soon as the legal forms can be completed. It is royalty or open sale—if you will consider either."
Oh, but it was well that two such wise and faithful counselors as Seth Winters and Mrs. Calvert were present then to advise these inexperienced Chesters for their own best advantage. Be assured they did so, and subsequently that "deal" was accomplished on the wise "royalty" basis, which proved, in one sense, indeed a "gold mine"; although the "gold" was but pure iron and a most unsavory water—that local physicians had always maintained would cure many diseases, and which soon received widespread attention elsewhere.
Such a day and such an ending! What time more fitting to take a temporary leave of our dear Dorothy? Whose life moves forward in blessing, as all lives should move, and whom we must come back to at some happy, future day.
All partings hold a touch of sadness—so must ours. But there is brightness in the sunset which floods the fields of Skyrie, a promise of greater brightness on the morrow. Before the night falls, while the sunshine still lasts, let us bid our heroine a real, old-fashioned farewell:
"Well, Dorothy, good-by!"