"The Archibalds are not mentioned, either as being there or sending a gift, nor the Harlands, nor the Smythes, so I am very glad I didn't remember her," said Mrs. Chatterton, drawing herself up with a relieved sigh. "Those presents sound fine on paper, but it isn't as well as she might have done if she had made a different match. Now something else, Polly," and she dismissed Mrs. Westover with a careless wave of her hand. Polly flew off into the fashion hints, and was immediately lost in the whirl of coming toilets. No one noticed when the door opened, so of course no one saw Mrs. Whitney standing smiling behind the old lady's big chair.
"Well, Polly," said a pleasant voice suddenly.
Down went Town Talk to the floor as Polly sprang up with a glad cry, and Mrs. Chatterton turned around nervously.
"Oh, Auntie—Auntie!" cried Polly, convulsively clinging to her, "are you really here, and is Dicky home?"
"Dear child," said Mrs. Whitney, as much a girl for the moment as Polly herself. And pressing kisses on the red lips, while she folded her close—"Yes, Dick is at home. There, go and find him; he is in Mrs. Pepper's room."
"I am glad to see you so much better, Mrs. Chatterton," said Mrs. Whitney, leaning over the invalid's chair to lay the tenderest of palms on the hand resting on the chair-arm.
"Oh, yes, Marian; I am better," said Mrs. Chatterton, looking around for Polly, then down at the delicious Town Talk carelessly thrown on the floor. "Will you send her back as soon as possible?" she asked with her old imperativeness.
"Who—Polly?" said Mrs. Whitney, following the glance. "Why, she has gone to see Dick, you know. Now, why cannot I read a bit?" and she picked up the paper.
"You don't know what has been read," said Mrs. Chatterton as Mrs. Whitney drew up a chair and sat down, running her eye in a practiced way over the front page. "Dear me, it makes me quite nervous, Marian, to see you prowling around all over the sheet that way."
"Oh! I shall find something interesting quite soon, I fancy," said Mrs. Whitney cheerfully, her heart on her boy and the jolly home-coming he was having. "Here is the Washington news; I mean all about the receptions and teas."
"She has read that," said Mrs. Chatterton.
"Now for the fashion department." Mrs. Whitney whirled the paper over dexterously. "Do you know, Mrs. Chatterton, gray stuffs are to be worn more than ever this spring?"
"I don't care about that," said Mrs. Chatterton quickly, "and besides, quite likely there'll be a complete revolution before spring really sets in, and gray stuffs will go out. Find some description of tea gowns, can't you? I must have one or two more."
"And here are some wonderfully pretty caps, if they are all like the descriptions," said Mrs. Whitney, unluckily dropping on another paragraph.
"Caps! who wants to hear about them?" cried Mrs. Chatterton in a dudgeon. "I hope I'm not at the cap period yet."
"Oh! those lovely little lace arrangements," said Mrs. Whitney hastily; "don't you know how exquisite they are at Pinaud's?" she cried.
"I'm sure I never noticed," said Mrs. Chatterton indifferently. "Hortense always arranges my hair better without lace. If you can't find what I ask you, Marian," raising her voice to a higher key, "you needn't trouble to read at all."
Fortunately the description of the gown worn by Lady Hartly Cavendish at a London high tea, stood out in bold relief, as Mrs. Whitney's eyes nervously ran over the columns again, and she seized upon it.
But in just two moments she was interrupted. "Send that girl back again, Marian," cried Mrs. Chatterton. "I had just got her trained so that she suits me. It tires me to death to hear you."
"I do not know whether Polly can come now," said Mrs. Whitney gently; "she"—
"Do not know whether Polly can come!" repeated Mrs. Chatterton sharply, and leaning forward in her chair. "Didn't I say I wanted her?"
"You did." Marian's tone did not lose a note of its ordinary gentleness. "But I shall ask her if she is willing to do it as a favor, Mrs. Chatterton; you quite understand that, of course?" She, too, leaned forward in her chair, and gazed into the cold, hard face.
"Just like your father," cried Mrs. Chatterton, settling herself irascibly back in the chair-depths again. "There is no hope that affairs in this house will mend. I wash my hands of you."
"I am so glad that you consider me like my father," said Mrs. Whitney gleefully as a child. "We surely are united on this question."
"May I read some more?" cried Polly, coming in softly, and trying to calm the impetuous rush of delight as her eyes met Mrs. Whitney's.
"Yes; I am waiting for you," said Mrs. Chatterton. "Begin where you left off."
Mrs. Whitney bit her pretty lips and slipped out of her chair, just pausing a moment to lay her hand on the young shoulder as she passed, and a world of comfort fell upon Polly, shut in once more to her dreary task.
"How perfectly splendid that I didn't go to Silvia Home's luncheon party now!" cried Polly's heart over and over between the lines. "If I had, I should have missed dear Auntie's home-coming, and Dicky's." She glanced up with luminous eyes as she whirled the sheet. Mrs. Chatterton, astonishing as it may seem, was actually smiling.
"It's some comfort to hear you read," she observed with a sigh of enjoyment, "because you enjoy it yourself. I wouldn't give a fig for anybody to try to do it."
Polly felt like a guilty little thing to take this quietly, and she eased her conscience by being more glad that she was in that very room doing that very task. And so the moments sped on.
Outside, Dick was holding high revel as every one revolved around him, the hero of the coasting accident, till the boy ran considerable danger from all the attention he was receiving. But one glance and a smile from Mrs. Whitney brought him back to himself.
"Don't talk any more about it," he cried a trifle impatiently. "I was a muff to stick on, when I knew we were going over. Mamma, won't you stop them?"
And she did.
"Do you know, Dicky and I have a secret to tell all of you good people." The color flew into her soft cheek, and her eyes beamed.
"Really, Marian," said her father, whose hand had scarcely ceased patting Dick's brown head since the boy's home-coming, "you've grown young in Badgertown. I never saw you look so well as you do to-day."
Mrs. Whitney laughed and tossed him a gay little smile, that carried him back to the days when Marian King stood before him looking just so.
"Now listen, father, and all you good people, to my secret—Dicky's and mine; we are allowed to tell it now. Papa Whitney sailed in the Servia, and he ought to be in to-day!"
A shout of joy greeted her announcement. Polly, off in her prison, could hear the merry sounds, and her happy heart echoed them. The misery of the past week, when she had been bearing an unatoned fault, seemed to drop away from her as she listened, and to say, "Life holds sunshine yet."
Then a hush dropped upon the gay uproar. She did not know that Dicky was proclaiming "Yes, and he is never, never going back again. That is, unless he takes mamma and me, you know."
Mrs. Chatterton turned suddenly upon the young figure.
"Do go!" She tossed an imperative command with her jeweled fingers. "You have ceased to be amusing since your interest is all in the other room with that boy."
Polly dashed the newspaper to the floor, and rushing impulsively across the room, threw herself, with no thought for the consequences, on her knees at Mrs. Chatterton's chair.
"Oh—oh!" she cried, the color flying up to the brown waves on her temples, "don't send me off; then I shall know you never will forgive me."
"Get up, do!" exclaimed Mrs. Chatterton, in disgust; "you are crushing my gown, and besides I hate scenes."
But Polly held resolutely to the chair-arm, and never took her brown eyes from the cold face.
"I must say, Polly Pepper," cried Mrs. Chatterton with rising anger, "you are the most disagreeable girl that I ever had the misfortune to meet. I, for one, will not put up with your constant ebullitions of temper. Go out of this room!"
Polly rose slowly and drew herself up with something so new in face and manner that the old lady instinctively put up her eyeglass and gazed curiously through it, as one would look at a strange animal.
"Humph!" she said slowly at last, "well, what do you want to say? Speak out, and then go."
"Nothing," said Polly in a low voice, but quite distinctly, "only I shall not trouble you again, Mrs. Chatterton." And as the last words were spoken, she was out of the room.
"Pretty doings these!" Mr. King, by a dexterous movement, succeeded in slipping back of the portiere folds into the little writing-room, as Polly rushed out through the other doorway into the hall. "A fortunate thing it was that I left Dick, to see what had become of Polly. Now, Cousin Eunice, you move from my house!" and descending the stairs, he called determinedly, "Polly, Polly, child!"
Polly, off in her own room now, heard him, and for the first time in her life, wished she need not answer.
"Polly—Polly!" the determined call rang down the passage, causing her to run fast with a "Yes, Grandpapa, I'm coming."
"Now, I should just like to inquire," began Mr. King, taking her by her two young shoulders and looking down into the flushed face, "what she has been saying to you." "Oh, Grandpapa!" down went Polly's brown head, "don't make me tell. Please don't, Grandpapa."
"I shall!" declared Mr. King; "every blessed word. Now begin!"
"She—she wanted me to go out of the room," said Polly, in a reluctant gasp.
"Indeed!" snorted Mr. King. "Well, she will soon go out of that room.Indeed, I might say, out of the house."
"Oh, Grandpapa!" exclaimed Polly, in great distress, and raising the brown eyes—he was dismayed to find them filling with tears—"don't, don't send her away! It is all my fault; indeed it is, Grandpapa!"
"Your fault," cried Mr. King irately; "you must not say such things, child; that's silly; you don't know the woman."
"Grandpapa," cried Polly, holding back the storm of tears to get the words out, "I never told you—I couldn't—but I said perfectly dreadful words to her a week ago. Oh, Grandpapa! I did, truly."
"That's right," said the old gentleman in a pleased tone. "What were they, pray tell? Let us know."
"Oh, Grandpapa, don't!" begged Polly, with a shiver; "I want to forget them."
"If you would only follow them up with more," said Mr. King meditatively; "when it comes to tears, she must march, you know."
"I won't cry," said Polly, swallowing the lump in her throat, "if you will only let her stay."
She turned to him such a distressed and white face that Mr. King stood perplexedly looking down at her, having nothing to say.
"I'm tired of her," at last he said; "we are all tired of her; she has about worn us out."
"Grandpapa," cried Polly, seeing her advantage in his hesitation, "if you will only let her stay, I will never beg you for anything again."
"Well, then she goes," cried Mr. King shortly. "Goodness me, Polly, if you are going to stop asking favors, Cousin Eunice marches instanter!"
"Oh! I'll beg and tease for ever so many things," cried Polly radiantly, her color coming back. "Will you let her stay, Grandpapa—will you?" She clasped his arm tightly and would not let him go.
"Well," said Mr. King slowly, "I'll think about it, Polly."
"Will you?" cried Polly. "Dear Grandpapa, please say yes."
Mr. King drew a long breath. "Yes," he said at last.
"Collect the whole bunch of Peppers and send them into my writing-room, Marian." Old Mr. King mounting the stairs, turned to see that his command was heard.
"You want Mother Pepper too, I presume?" said Mrs. Whitney, pausing at the foot.
"Mother Pepper? No, indeed; the last person in the world I wish to see," cried her father irritably. "The bunch of Pepper children, I want, and at once; see that they all report to me directly." With that he redoubled his efforts and was soon at the top of the long oaken steps.
Polly and Ben closely followed by Joel, David and Phronsie soon rushed over the same ascending thoroughfare, and presented themselves, flushed and panting, at the writing-room door.
"Come in," called Mr. King from within.
"Here we are, sir," said Ben, spokesman by virtue of being the eldest.
"Yes, yes," said Mr. King nervously, and turning away from some papers he was fumbling to occupy the waiting moments. "Well, do sit down, all of you. I sent for you to have a talk about something that you—that you—well, do sit down."
So all the Peppers deposited themselves in various resting-places; all but Joel. He immediately marched up to the old gentleman's chair.
"If it's good news," he said abruptly, "please let us have it right this minute. But if it's bad, why," a gathering alarm stole over his chubby countenance, as he scanned the face before him, "I'm going out-doors."
"It's good or bad news according as you take it," said the old gentleman. "It ought to be good. But there," pushing back his chair to look at the row of anxious figures the other side of the table, "do sit down with the rest, Joe, and stop staring me out of countenance."
Polly at that, pushed a chair over toward Joel, who persuading himself into it, sat uncomfortably perched on its edge, where he stared harder than ever.
"Hum! well, children, now you are all remarkably sensible boys and girls. Remarkably sensible. I've always said so, and I see no reason to change my opinion of you now. And so, although at first my news may not be quite to your liking, why, you'll quickly make it so, and be very happy about it in the end. Hem! well, did you ever think that—that your mother might possibly marry again?"
The last words were brought out so abruptly, that to the five pairs of ears strained to catch their import, it seemed as if the news had shot by harmlessly. But after a breathing space the dreadful "marry," and "your mother," came back to them, bringing the several owners of the ears out of their chairs at one bound.
"Our mother!" Ben hoarsely exclaimed.
"Oh! how can you?" cried Polly passionately, a little white line showing around her mouth, "say such perfectly dreadful things, sir!"
Phronsie clasped her hands in silent terror, and raised big eyes to his face. David began to walk helplessly down the apartment. "See here!" said Joel, turning to the others, "wait a minute, and hold on. Perhaps it's you, sir," whirling back to question, with piercing eyes, the old gentleman, "who's going to marry our mother. Then it's all right!"
"Me!" roared the old gentleman. "Oh! bless my soul, what should I want to marry for at my time of life? Oh! my goodness me."
His distress was now so frightful to see, that it brought the Peppers in a measure out of theirs; and they began at once to endeavor to soothe him.
"Don't—oh! don't," they cried, and a common trouble overwhelming them, they rushed around the table, seized his hands, and patted his shoulders and hair. "Oh! this is very dreadful," gasped Polly, "but don't you feel badly, dear, dear Grandpapa."
"I should think it was," said Mr. King. "Phronsie, here, child, get into my lap. I'll come to myself then. There, now, that's something like," as Phronsie, with a low cry, hopped into her usual nest. "Now perhaps I can communicate the rest of my news, when I get my breath."
The Peppers held theirs, and he began once more. "Now, children, it isn't in the course of nature for such a fine bright woman as your mother to remain single the rest of her life; somebody would be sure to come and carry her off. I'm glad it's to be in my lifetime, for now I can be easy in my mind, and feel that you have a protector when I am gone. There, there, we won't talk about that," as the young faces turned dark with sudden pain, while Joel rushed convulsively to the window, "you can see how I feel about it."
"Are you glad?" cried Ben hoarsely. Polly for her life could not speak.The whole world seemed turning round, and sinking beneath her feet.
"Yes, I am," said the old gentleman, "and it won't alter the existing state of things, for he will live here with us, and things will be just the same, if only you children will take it rightly. But I've no doubt you will in the end; no doubt at all," he added, brightening up, "for you are very sensible young people. I've always said so."
"Who is he?" The dreadful question trembled on all the lips; but no one asked it. Seeing this, Mr. King broke out, "Well, now of course you want to know who is going to marry your mother, that is, if you are willing. For she won't have him unless you are to be happy about it. Would you like Dr. Fisher for a father?"
Joel broke away from the window with a howl, while Polly tumultuously threw herself within the kind arms encircling Phronsie.
"Next to you," cried the boy, "why, he's a brick, Dr. Fisher is!"
"Why didn't you tell us before that it was he?" sobbed Polly, with joyful tears running over her face. Davie, coming out of his gloomy walk, turned a happy face towards the old man's chair, while Ben said something to himself that sounded like "Thank God!"
Phronsie alone remained unmoved. "What is Dr. Fisher going to do?" she asked presently, amid the chatter that now broke forth.
"He's going to live here," said old Mr. King, looking down at her, and smoothing her yellow hair. "Won't that be nice, Phronsie?"
"Yes," said Phronsie, "it will. And he'll bring his funny old gig, won't he, and Ill drive sometimes, I suppose?" she added with great satisfaction.
"Yes; you will," said the old gentleman, winking furiously to keep back the excited flow of information that now threatened the child. "Well, Phronsie, you love Dr. Fisher, don't you?"
"Yes, I do," said the child, folding her hands in her lap, "love him very much indeed."
"Well, he's going to be your father," communicated Mr. King, cautiously watching her face at each syllable.
"Oh, no!" cried Phronsie, "he couldn't be; he's Dr. Fisher." She laughed softly at the idea. "Why, Grandpapa, he couldn't be my father."
"Listen, Phronsie," and Mr. King took both her hands in his, "and I'll tell you about it so that you will understand. Dr. Fisher loves your mother; he has loved her for many years—all those years when she was struggling on in the little brown house. But he couldn't tell her so, because he had others depending on him for support. They don't need him now, and as soon as he is free, he comes and tells your mother and me, like a noble good man as he is, all about it. He's a gentleman, children," he declared, turning to the others, "and you will be glad to call him father."
"I don't know what you mean," said Phronsie, with puzzled eyes. "DearGrandpapa, please tell me."
"Why, he is going to marry your mother, child, and we are all to live here together just the same, and everything is going to be just as happy as possible."
Phronsie gave a sharp and sudden cry of distress. "But Mamsie, my Mamsie will be gone!" and then she hid her face in the old gentleman's breast.
"O dear, dear! get a glass of water, Polly," cried Mr. King. "One of you run and open the window. Phronsie, Phronsie—there, child, look up and let me tell you." But Phronsie burrowed yet deeper in the protecting nest, regardless of his spotless linen.
"Polly, speak to her," he cried in despair; "where is she? gone for the water? O dear! Here, Ben, you try. Dear, dear, what a blunderer I am."
"Phronsie," said Ben, leaning over the shaking figure, "you are makingGrandpapa sick."
Up came Phronsie's yellow head. "Oh, Grandpapa!" she wailed, putting out an unsteady little hand, "I didn't mean to, dear Grandpapa, only—only Mamsie will be gone now."
"Bless your heart, you'll have Mamsie more than ever," cried Mr. King heartily. "Here, you children, tell her. Polly, we don't want the water now, she's come to," as Polly came rushing in with a glassful. "Make her understand; I can't."
So Polly, setting down her glass, the others crowding around, took up the task of making the piece of news as delightful as possible, and presently Phronsie came out of her despair, to ask questions.
"Are you really and truly very glad, Polly?" she asked.
"Really and truly I am so glad I don't know what to do," said Polly, kneeling down by the chair-side. "Don't you see we are so much the richer, Phronsie? We have lost nothing, and we gain Dr. Fisher. Dear splendid Dr. Fisher!"
"You've always wanted to repay Dr. Fisher for his kindness," said Mr.King, "and now's your chance, Polly."
"I guess he'll get his pay back for his stove," cried Joel in a burst;"Polly will wait on him, and kill herself doing things for him."
"And for your new eyes," sang Phronsie in a pleased way. "Oh, Polly!" She jumped out of the old gentleman's lap, and began to dance around the room, softly clapping her hands and exclaiming, "Oh, Polly!"
"Well, now, children," said Mr. King, as the excitement ran low, "you just run and tell your mother, every one of you, how happy she will make you by bringing Dr. Fisher here as your father. Scamper, now!"
No need to urge them. On the wings of the wind ran the five Peppers up into Mamsie's own room. Mrs. Pepper for once turning aside from the claim of her pressing duties, was standing by the work table. Here stood the mending basket before her, piled to the brim with the weekly installment of stockings big and little, clamoring for attention. But the usually busy needle lay idle, and the busier hands were folded, as the mother-heart went over the words she knew were being rehearsed downstairs by the kind friend who had made a home for them. He was pleading her cause with her children.
"They shall be happy, anyway," she said softly to herself, "bless their hearts!" as they burst in.
"Mother," said Ben—How the boy's cheek glowed! And what a world of joy rang in the usually quiet tones!—"we want to thank you for giving us Dr. Fisher for a father."
"Mamsie," Polly hid her happy face on the dear neck, "I've always loved him, you know; oh! I'm so glad."
Joel whooped out something incoherent, but his face told the words, while Davie clasped one of the firm, closely folded hands.
"If you'll take me in your lap as much as ever," said Phronsie deliberately, and patting the other hand, "why I shall be really and truly glad, Mamsie."
"Bless your dear heart!" cried Mother Pepper, clasping her tightly, "and you children, all of you," and she drew them all within her arms. "Now I want you to understand, once for all, that it isn't to be unless you all wish it. You are sure Mr. King hasn't persuaded you to like it?"
"Look at us," cried Ben, throwing back his head to see her eyes. "Do we act as if we had been talked over?"
At that, Polly burst into a merry laugh; and the others joining, Mother Pepper laughing as heartily as the rest, the big room became the jolliest place imaginable.
"No, I don't really think you do," said Mrs. Pepper, wiping her eyes.
"Dear me!" cried Jasper, putting his head in the doorway, "what good fun is going on? I'm not going to be left out."
"Come in, Jasper," they all called.
"And we've a piece of news that will make your hair stand on end," saidJoel gaily.
"Joe, don't announce it so," cried Polly in dismay, who dearly enjoyed being elegant. "Ben must tell it; he is the oldest."
"No, no; let Polly," protested Ben.
"Polly shall," said Jasper, hurrying in to stand the picture of patience before the group. "Hurry, do, for I must say my curiosity is hard to keep within bounds."
So Polly was gently pushed into the center of the circle. "Go on," saidJoel, "and hurry up, or I shall tell myself."
"Jasper," said Polly, her breath coming fast, "oh! you can't think; we are so glad"—But she got no further, for Phronsie, rushing out of Mother Pepper's arms, piped out suddenly:
"Dr. Fisher is coming here to live always and forever, and I'm going to ride in his gig, and Mamsie likes him, and I'm going to call him father; now, Jasper, I told you!"
"I should think you did," exclaimed Ben.
"Whew!" cried Jasper, "that is a piece of news all in one breath. Well, Mrs. Pepper, I'm glad of it, too. I congratulate you." With that, he marched up to her, Phronsie hanging to his arm, and shook her hand heartily.
And in two days everybody in the King set knew that the mother of the five little Peppers was going to be married.
"I should think you'd want to be condoled with, Ben," said Pickering Dodge, clapping him on the shoulder as he rushed down the aisle of the store occupied by Cabot & Van Meter.
"Halloo!" said Ben, "can't stop," rushing past.
"I suppose not," said Pickering carelessly, and striding after, "soI'll whisper my gentle congratulations in your ear 'on the wing.' ButI'm awfully sorry for you, Ben," he added, as he came up to him.
"You needn't be," said Ben brightly, "we are all as glad as can be."
"Sweet innocent, you don't know a stepfather," said Pickering lugubriously.
"I know Dr. Fisher," said Ben, "that's enough."
"Well, when you want comfort, come to me," said Pickering, "or your uncle!"
"Don't you fill Ben's ears with your foolishness," said the SeniorPartner, coming out of the counting-room. "Take yourself off,Pickering; you're hindering Ben."
Pickering laughed. "I'm caught in the very act. Now, Ben, remember I'm your friend when you get into trouble with your dear pa. Good-by, Uncle," with a bright nod, and a lazy shake of his long figure. "Trade always demoralizes me. I'll get back to my books," and he vanished as quickly as he came.
"Back to your books," said his uncle grimly, "hum, I wish you would. See here, Ben," he put a controlling hand on the boy's shoulder, "one word with you," marching him into the private office of the firm. "Don't you follow Pickering too closely, my boy," he said abruptly; "he's a good lad in the main, but if he is my nephew, I must give you warning. He's losing ground."
Ben lifted his head in sudden alarm. "Oh! I hope not, sir," he said.
"It's a fact. Master Nelson says he could be first scholar in the grammar, but for the last six months he's failed steadily. There's no particular reason, only ambition's gone. And when you say that, you mean there's a general collapse of all my hopes concerning him."
"Oh! no, sir," Ben kept on protesting, his ruddy cheek losing its color. "He'll take hold by and by and give a pull at his books again."
"It isn't a pull now and then that gets a man up hill," observed Mr. Cabot, leaning back in his revolving chair to look into the blue eyes, "that you know as well as I. Now, Ben, I'm not going to see you throw away your prospects, too. Don't let him influence you in the wrong way. He's bright and attractive, but don't pay attention to his ridicule of good things."
"I've a mother," said Ben proudly, "and I don't believe any boy could say much to me, that I'd think of twice, if she didn't like it."
"You always tell her everything, do you, Ben?" asked Mr. Cabot with a curious glance.
"I should think so, sir," said Ben, with a short laugh.
"You'll do, then," said Mr. Cabot, bringing his palm down on a pile of unread letters awaiting him. "Go ahead. I don't promise anything, but I will say this. If you work on as you have done these two years since you came in here as errand boy, Ben, I'll make you a power in the house. Understand I don't expect you to do brilliant things; that isn't in your line. You will be a success only as a steady, faithful worker. But keep at it, and hang on to Cabot & Van Meter, and we'll hang on to you."
"Polly," said Dr. Fisher, coming suddenly out of a corner of the library as she ran around the portiere folds, "you are sure you are willing—are willing it should go on?"
The little man peered at her anxiously through his big glasses, and he looked so exactly as he did on that morning so long ago when Polly's eyes were at their worst, that she could do nothing but gaze speechlessly into his face.
"I see you don't consider it quite best, child," said the little doctor brokenly, "but you are trying with your good heart, to make it so. Don't be afraid; it is not too late to end it all."
"I was thinking," cried Polly with a gasp, "how good you were to me, when you saved my eyes, and how you kept Joel from dying of the measles. Oh! I couldn't speak—but I love you so."
She threw her young arms around him. "Papa Fisher—for you are almost my father now—I am the very, very happiest girl because you are going to live here, and now I can show you just how much I really and truly love you."
The little man beamed at her. Then he took off his spectacles, wiped them, and clapped them into place again. "You see, Polly," he said deliberately, "it was impossible to see your mother and not love her. She has had—well, there, child, I cannot bear to talk about it," and he walked to the window, blew his nose violently on an immense pocket-handkerchief, leaving the words poised in mid-air.
"It was the greatest trial of my life that I couldn't show her then when she was struggling so bravely to keep the wolf from the door, how I felt. But my hands were tied, child," he added, coming back, his usual self again. "Now I can make her, she says, happy, that is, if you children like it. Just think, Polly, she said happy! It's stupendous, but she said so, Polly, she really did!"
He folded his hands and looked at her in astonishment, behind which shone an intense gratification, that lighted up his plain little face till he seemed to grow younger every instant.
"Indeed she did!" repeated Polly like a bird, and laughing merrily. "Oh, Papa Fisher! you ought to hear Mamsie sing. She doesn't know I'm hearing her, but she sings at her work now."
"Does she?" cried the doctor radiantly. "Well, Polly, we must see that she sings every day, after this."
"Yes, let us," cried Polly, clasping his hand; "we will."
"And," proceeded the doctor, "after the wedding is over—I It really dread the wedding, Polly—but after that is over, I do believe we shall all be comfortable together!"
Polly gave a little cry of delight. Then she said, "You needn't dread the wedding one bit, Papa Fisher. There will be only the people that we love, and who love us—Grandpapa promised that."
"But that will make it very big," said Dr. Fisher, with round eyes and a small shiver he could not suppress.
"Oh, no!" said Polly cheerily, "sixty-five friends; that's all we are going to ask; Mamsie and I made out the list last night."
"Sixty-five people!" exclaimed Dr. Fisher in dismay. "Oh! isn't is possible to be married without sixty-five friends to stare at you?"
"Oh! that's not many," said Polly; "sixty-five is the very smallest number that we could manage. We've been over the list ever so many times, and struck out quantities of names. You see, everybody loves Mamsie, and they'll want to see her married."
"I know—I know," assented the doctor, "but that makes one hundred and thirty eyes. Did you ever think of that, Polly?"
Polly burst into such a laugh that Jasper popped in, and after him, Phronsie, and a general hilarity now reigning, the dreaded wedding preparations soon sank away from the doctor's perturbed vision.
But they went on merrily nevertheless. All over the old stone mansion there were hints of the on-coming festivities; and though all signs of it were tucked away from the little doctor on his occasional visits, the smothered excitement flamed afresh immediately his departure became an assured thing. Everybody had the wildest plans for the occasion; it appearing impossible to do enough for the one who had stood at the helm for five long years, and who was to be reigning housekeeper for as much longer as her services were needed.
And Dr. Fisher never knew how perilously near he had been to the verge of brilliant evening festivities, in the midst of which he was to be ushered into matrimony.
For Polly had suddenly waked one morning, to find herself, not "famous," but alive with the sense of being—as her mother had so often expressed it—"Mamsie's little right-hand woman."
"It will be much better to have everything plain," said Polly, communing with herself, as she turned on her pillow. "Mamsie has always been without show, of any kind, and so," but here Polly's heart stood still. Dearly she loved the bright, conspicuous accompaniments to the wedding whereby Mr. King was determined to show his respect for the family under his care. And her soul secretly longed for the five hundred guests named on a list of the old gentleman's drawing up. And the feast and the lights, and the pretty dresses, and the dancing party for the young people to follow. For Mr. King had announced himself as about to usher in the brightest of days for the young Peppers to remember.
"Besides it brings our new physician into notice," he would answer when any faint protest was made. "And we shall all have reason to be immensely proud of him, I tell you!"
"Oh, dear!" cried Polly, burrowing deeper within the pillow folds, "why aren't pleasant things best to do? Why, I wonder!"
Cherry, twittering in the window, chirped something vague and unsatisfactory. Polly brought up her brown head suddenly and laughed.
"Nonsense! our happiness doesn't depend upon a lot of people coming together to help it along. Mamsie's face, whenever Grandpapa plans all this magnificence, is enough to make me feel wretched at the thought of it. Dear Mamsie! she's afraid of ingratitude if she doesn't try to like it. She shall have the little morning wedding with a few people around, and the gray silk gown instead of the lavender one Grandpapa wants her to wear, for Mamsie always knows just what is right."
With that, Polly sprang out of bed, and rushed at her toilet, and after breakfast she quietly captured Mr. King on the edge of some other extravagant plan, and led him into the library.
"Everything is going on finely, Polly," he cried in elation. "Ring for Thomas, child; stay, I'll do it myself. I shall go in an hour to give my orders for the wedding supper."
"Grandpapa," cried Polly, turning quite pale, and laying a quick, detaining hand on his arm, "oh! do wait, dear Grandpapa, I have something to say."
"Well, child," but he still retained his hand on the cord.
"Oh, Grandpapa!" how could she say it! But she must. "Mamsie will be ever so much happier if the wedding might be a quiet one. She really would, Grandpapa."
"No doubt Mrs. Pepper finds it a little hard to adjust her ideas to the large affair," said the old gentleman, considerably disturbed, and by no means relinquishing the bell-cord, "but it is due to you children to have a bright time, and I must see that you all have it. That is my affair," and this time the cord was pulled, and the bell rang a loud, insistent message.
Polly stood still in despair. "Grandpapa," she said distinctly, finding it hard to proceed, with his face before her, "we children do not want the large party; that is I do not."
It was all out at last.
"Stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed Mr. King sharply, for his surprise was too great to allow of composure, "who has been putting this idea into your head? Your mother couldn't have done it, for she promised it should all be as you young people wanted."
"Mamsie never said a word," cried Polly, recovering herself as she saw a chance to make things right for Mother Pepper; "it all came to me, Grandpapa, all alone by myself. Oh! I hate the big display!" she declared with sudden vehemence, astonishing herself with the repulsion that now seized her.
"Hoity toity!" exclaimed Mr. King, "it's not quite the thing, Polly, my child, to express yourself so decidedly, considering your years."
"Grandpapa," cried Polly, with a sudden rush of tears, "forgive me, do; I did not mean to be so naughty. I did not, dear Grandpapa." She looked like Phronsie now, and the old gentleman's heart melted. "But I am quite sure that none of us children would be a bit happy not to have it as Mamsie would like."
"Well, but I am not sure that the others wouldn't like it," said Mr.King persistently.
"Ben wouldn't," said Polly triumphantly, "I know, for he all along shrank from the big party."
"Oh! well, Ben, I suppose, would object somewhat," conceded the old gentleman slowly.
"And Davie," cried Polly eagerly; "Oh, Grandpapa! David would much prefer the morning wedding and the plain things."
"But how about Joel and Phronsie?" interrupted Mr. King, utterly ignoring Davie's claims to be heard. "Ah! Polly, my dear, until you tell me that they will prefer to give up the fine party, you mustn't expect me to pay any attention to what you say. It's due to Phronsie that your mother's wedding is a thing worthy to remember as a fine affair."
"Perhaps Joel and Phronsie will think as we do," said Polly. But her heart said No.
"All right if they do," said Mr. King easily, "but unless you come and tell me it is their own choice, why, I shall just go on with my plans as mapped out," he added obstinately. "Thomas," as that functionary appeared in the doorway, "take the letters to the post at once; you will find them on my writing table."
"All right, sir."
"I'll give you till to-morrow to find out," said Mr. King. "Now come and kiss me, Polly dear. You'll see it's all right after it's over, and be glad I had the sense to keep my mind about it."
Polly put up her lips obediently. But it was a sad little kiss that was set upon his mouth, and it left him feeling like a criminal.
And running out, she met her difficult task without a moment of preparation.
"Halloo, Polly!" whooped Joel, rushing around an angle in the hall, "Grandpapa promised me that I might go out with him, to give the supper orders, and all that kind of nonsense."
Polly's heart stood still.
"Joel," she began, seizing his jacket with trembling fingers, "come up into my room a minute."
"What's up?" cried Joel with curiosity; "some more mysteries? There's nothing but whisperings, and secrets, and no end of jolly understandings, ever since Mamsie commenced to marry Dr. Fisher. Go ahead, I'll come."
"And Phronsie, too," said Polly, seeing the yellow head emerge from the breakfast-room doorway.
"Come on, Phron," sang out Joel, "up in Polly's room—she wants you," and the three hurried off.
"Now, Joel," said Polly, closing the door and facing him desperately, "you are Mamsie's own boy."
"I should think so," said Joel, "I'm not anybody's else. Is that all you brought me up here to say?" thrusting his hands in his pockets and looking at her.
"And you can make her happy, or just as miserable as I can't say what," went on Polly incoherently.
"What in the world are you firing at?" demanded the boy, visions of certain pranks at school unpleasantly before him. "Don't shoot over my head, Polly, but keep somewhere near your mark," he advised irritably.
Phronsie surveyed the two with wide eyes, and a not wholly pleased manner.
"Mamsie does not want a big wedding," declared Polly, going to the heart of the matter, "but dear kind Grandpapa thinks it will please us children, and so he wants to give her one."
"And so it will," cried Joel, "please us children. Whoop la! give us your hand, Phronsie, this is the way we'll dance afterwards at the party."
"I don't want to dance," said Phronsie, standing quite still in the middle of the room. The morning sun shone across her yellow hair, but no light came into the large eyes. "Polly wants something, first; what is it, Joel?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said Joel, poised on a careless foot, and executing a remarkable pas seul. "I don't believe she knows herself. Polly is often queer, you know, Phronsie," he added cheerfully.
"Tell me, Polly, do," whispered Phronsie, going over to her.
"Phronsie," said Polly very slowly, "Mamsie doesn't want a big party in the evening to see her married, but to have a cunning little company of friends come in the morning, and"—
"Ugh!" cried Joel in disgust, coming down suddenly to both feet.
"It will please Mamsie best," went on Polly, with a cold shoulder to Joel. "And I never should be happy in all this world to remember that I helped to make my Mamsie unhappy on her wedding day."
Phronsie shivered, and her voice held a miserable little thrill as she begged, "Oh! make her be married just as she wants to be, Polly, do."
"Now that's what I call mean," cried Joel in a loud, vindictive tone back of Polly, "to work on Phronsie's feelings. You can't make me say I don't want Mamsie to have a wedding splurge, so there, Polly Pepper!"
Polly preserved a dignified silence, and presented her shoulder again to his view.
"You can't make me say it, Polly Pepper!" shouted Joel shrilly.
"Oh, Phronsie!" exclaimed Polly in a rapture, throwing her arms around the child, "Mamsie will be so pleased—you can't think. Let us go and tell her; come!"
"See here!" called Joel, edging up, "why don't you talk to me?"
"I haven't anything to say," Polly condescended to give him, without turning her head. "Come, Phronsie," holding out her hand.
"Wait a minute."
"Well, what is it?" Polly's hand now held Phronsie's, but she paused on the way to the door.
"I guess I can give up things as well as she can, if I know Mamsie wants me to," said Joel, with a deeply injured manner.
"Mamsie doesn't want any of us to give up anything unless we do it as if we were glad to," said Polly. For her life, she couldn't conceal a little scornful note in her voice, and Joel winced miserably.
"I—I wish she wouldn't have the big party," he whined.
"I thought you wanted it," said Polly, turning to him.
"I—I don't. I'd rather Mamsie would be happy. O, dear! don't look at me so."
"I'm not looking at you so," said Polly. "You acted just as if you had your heart set on the party."
"Well, it isn't. I'll—I'll—if you say party to me again!" and he faced her vindictively.
"Joel Pepper!" cried Polly, holding him with her brown eyes, "do you really mean that you are glad to give up that big evening party, and have the little teeny one in the morning?"
"Yes," said Joel, "as true as I live and breathe, I do!"
"Oh! oh! oh!" cried Polly, and seizing his arm, she led off in a dance, so much surpassing his efforts, that Phronsie screamed with delight to see them go. When they could dance no more, Polly, flushed and panting, ran out of the room, leaving the two to find out as best they might, the cause of the strange demeanor.
"Grandpapa," Polly rushing over the stairs, met him coming up to Mrs.Whitney's room, "Joel says it's the little morning wedding—please; andPhronsie too!"
The old gentleman gave no sign of his defeat, beyond a "Humph! and soI'm beaten, after all!"
And Dr. Fisher never knew all this.
Mamsie's wedding-day! At last it came! Was any other ever so bright and beautiful? Phronsie thought not, and thereupon she impeded the preparations by running up to kiss her mother every few moments, until such time as Felicie carried her off to induct her into a white muslin gown. Polly, here, there, and everywhere, was in such a rapture that she seemed to float on wings, while the boys of the household, with the exception of Jasper, lost their heads early in the day, and helplessly succumbed to all demands upon them.
Every flower had to be put in place by the young people. Old Turner for once stood one side. And Polly must put the white satin boxes filled with wedding cake on the little table where one of the waiters would hand them to departing guests. And Phronsie must fasten Mamsie's pearl broach—the gift of the five little Peppers—in her lace collar the very last thing. And Jasper collected the rice and set the basket holding it safely away from Joel's eager fingers till such time as they could shower the bride's carriage. And all the boys were ushers, even little Dick coming up grandly to offer his arm to the tallest guest as it happened.
And old Mr. King gave the bride away! And Dr. Fisher at the last forgot all the one hundred and thirty eyes, and his "I will," rang out like a man's who has secured what he has long wanted. And ever so many of the guests said "What a good father he will make the children," and several attempted to tell the Peppers so. "As if we didn't know it before," said Joel indignantly.
And Alexia and all the other girls of Polly's set were there, andJoel's little blue and white creature came, to his great satisfaction,with her aunt, who was quite intimate in the family; and PickeringDodge was there of course, and the Alstynes, and hosts of others.
And Mother Pepper in her silver-gray gown and bonnet, by the side of her husband, with Phronsie clinging to one hand, heard nothing but heart-felt wishes for her happiness and that of the five little Peppers.
And there was not so much as the shadow of a skeleton at the wedding breakfast. And Cousin Mason Whitney took charge of the toasts—and everybody felt that just the right things had been said. And then there was a flutter of departure of the bridal party, and in the rattle of the wheels Phronsie piped out bravely as she threw the slipper after the departing coach:
"Mamsie has been taking care of us all these years; now we're going to be good and let her be happy."
"Polly is learning to play beautifully," mused Phronsie, nursing one foot contemplatively, as she curled up on the floor. "And Ben is to be a capital business man, so Papa Fisher says, and Joel is going to buy up this whole town sometime, and Davie knows ever so many books from beginning to end, but what can I do?"
Down went the little foot to the floor, and the yellow head drooped over the white apron.
"Nothing," mourned Phronsie, "just nothing at all; not even the wee-est teeniest bit of anything do I know how to do. O, dear!"
Outside, Jasper was calling to Prince. Phronsie could hear the big dog rushing over the lawn in response, barking furiously as he went. But she did not move.
"And Mamsie will never be glad for me, unless I learn how to do things too. If I don't hurry, I shall never be grown up."
"Tweet—tweet—ch-r-r-r"—Cherry in his cage over her head, chirped vigorously by way of consolation, but Phronsie did not lift her head. Cherry seeing all his efforts in vain, stopped his song and rolled one black eye down at her in astonishment, and soon became quite still.
Presently the rustle of a stiff black satin gown became the chief intruder upon the silence. It was so asserting that Phronsie lifted her head to look into the face of Mrs. Chatterton, standing before her, playing with the rings on her long white hands, and regarding her as if she would soon require an explanation of such strange conduct.
"What are you doing, Phronsie?" at last demanded the lady.
"Thinking," said Phronsie; and she laid her chin in her hand, and slowly turned her gaze upon the thin, disagreeable face before her, but not as if in the slightest degree given up to a study of its lines and expression.
"So I perceive," said Mrs. Chatterton harshly. "Well, and what are you thinking of, pray tell?"
Still Phronsie looked beyond her, and it was not until the question had been repeated, that an answer came.
"Of many things," said Phronsie, "but I do not think I ought to tell you."
"And why not, pray?" cried the lady, with a short and most unpleasant laugh.
"Because I do not think you would understand them," said Phronsie. And now she looked at the face she had before overlooked, with a deliberate scrutiny as if she would not need to repeat the attention.
"Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Chatterton angrily, "and pray how long since your thoughts have been so valuable?"
"My thoughts are nice ones," said Phronsie slowly, "because they are about nice people."
"Ah!"
"And they won't tell themselves. And I ought not to make them. They would fly away then, and I should never find them again, when I wanted to think them."
"Your mother brought you up well, I must say," observed Mrs. Chatterton, deliberately drawing up a chair and putting her long figure within it, "to talk in this style to a lady as old as I am."
Phronsie allowed one foot to gently trace the pattern on the carpet before she answered. "I know you are very old," she said at last, "but I cannot tell my thoughts to you."
"Very old!" cried Mrs. Chatterton, her chin in the air. "Indeed! well, I am not, I would have you know, Miss Phronsie," and she played with the silk cord of her satin wrapper. "I hate a child that is made a prig!" she added explosively under her breath.
Phronsie made no reply, being already deep in her own calculations once more.
"Now, Phronsie," said Mrs. Chatterton, suddenly drawing herself out of her angry fit, and clearing her brow, "I want you to give your attention to me a moment, for I have something I must say to you. That's why I came in here, to find you alone. Come, look at me, child. It isn't polite to be staring at the carpet all the time."
Phronsie, thus admonished, took her gaze from the floor, to bestow it on the face above her.
"It's something that nobody is to know but just you and me," began Mrs.Chatterton, with a cautious glance at the door.
Then she got out of her chair, and going across the room, closed it carefully. "There, that's better; Polly is always around. Now we are quite alone," coming back to her seat.
"You see, Phronsie," she proceeded, not caring that the brown eyes were slowly adding to their astonishment an expression that augured ill for any plans she might be hoping to carry out toward propitiation. "It is necessary to be careful not to be overheard, for what I am going to say to you must be kept quite secret."
"I must tell Mamsie," said Phronsie distinctly.
"Indeed you will not," declared Mrs. Chatterton. "She is the very one of all others who ought not to know. You can help her, Phronsie, if you only keep quiet."
Phronsie's eyes now became so very large that Mrs. Chatterton hastened to add:
"You know Polly is learning to be a music teacher when she grows up."
Phronsie made no reply.
"And a very creditable one she will be, from all acounts I can gather," contributed Mrs. Chatterton carelessly. "Well, Ben is doing well in Cabot & Van Meter's, so he's no trouble to your mother. As for the two boys, I know nothing about them, one way or the other. But you, as you are a girl, and the only one not provided for, why, I shall show a little kindness in your direction. It's wholly disinterested and quixotic, I know," added Mrs. Chatterton, with a sweeping gaze at the walls and ceilings, "for me to give myself a thought about you or your future. And I shall never receive so much as a thank you for it. But I've passed all my life in thinking of others, Phronsie," here she brought down her attention to the absorbed little countenance, "and I cannot change now," she finished pensively.
A silence fell upon them, so great that Mrs. Chatterton broke it nervously. "Goodness me, Phronsie, you are not like a child; you are too uncanny for anything. Why don't you ask questions about my secret?"
"Because I ought not to know it," said Phronsie, finding her tongue.
"Haven't I told you that you will help your mother only by not telling her?" said Mrs. Chatterton. "How would you like to learn how to take care of yourself when you are a big girl?"
A light slowly gathered in the brown eyes, becoming at last so joyous and assured, that Mrs. Chatterton's face dropped its hard lines, to lose itself in a gratified smile.
"Now you make me see some real hope that my scheme won't be wholly a wild piece of philanthropy," she exclaimed. "Only look like that, Phronsie, and I'll do anything for you."
"If I can do anything for Mamsie," cried Phronsie, clasping her hands in rapture. "Oh! do tell me, dear Mrs. Chatterton," she pleaded.
"Oh! now I am dear Mrs. Chatterton," cried that lady, with a hard, ill-favored smile. But she lowered her tone to a gentler one, and extending one jeweled hand, took the little folded ones in her clasp.
"I will be a good friend to you, and show you how you can learn to do something so that when you grow up, you can take care of yourself, just as Polly will. Just think, Phronsie, just as Polly will," cried Mrs. Chatterton artfully.
"How—how?" demanded Phronsie, scarcely breathing.
"Listen, Phronsie. Now you know I haven't any little girl."
Phronsie drew a long breath.
"Well, I have been looking for one for a long time. I want one who will be a daughter to me; who will grow up under my direction, and who will appreciate what I sacrifice in taking her. She must be nice-looking, for I couldn't stand an ill-favored child. I have found several who were much better looking than you, Phronsie; in fact, they were beauties; but I don't like the attitude of their families. The poor things actually thought they were doing me a favor by accepting my proposition for the children."
As this statement required no remark on the part of the hearer,Phronsie was silent, not removing her eyes from Mrs. Chatterton's face.
"Now, although you haven't as much to recommend you as many other children that I have fancied, I hope to make you serve my purpose. I am going to try you, at least. Every day, Phronsie, you can come to my room. It's lucky that you don't go to school, but do pretty much as you like in this house, so no questions will be asked."
"I go to Grandpapa's room every day," said Phronsie, in a distressed tone, "to my lessons."
"Of course. I know that; a very silly thing it is too. There's no use in trying to break it up now, I suppose, or I'd put my hand to the attempt. But you can come to me after you've got through toadying Mr. King."
"What is toding?" asked Phronsie.
"Never mind; that hasn't anything to do with the business in hand," replied Mrs. Chatterton impatiently. "Now if you come to me every day, and give me as much time as you can, why, I'll show you what I want of you, and teach you many things. Then after a while, Phronsie, when you learn to appreciate it, I shall tell you what I am going to do. The adoption will be an easy matter, I fancy, when the child is interested," she added, taking the precaution to mutter it.
"You must do everything as I tell you," Mrs. Chatterton leaned forward, and said with great deliberateness, "else you will lose this chance to help your mother. And you will never have another like it, but will grow up to be a good-for-nothing little thing when Polly and all the rest are earning money for your Mamsie, as you call her."
"I shall earn money too," declared Phronsie on a high note, and nodding her yellow head with great decision.
"Never!" Mrs. Chatterton brought her foot, incased in its black satin slipper, down with force on the carpet. "You will never earn a cent of money in all this world, unless you do exactly as I say; for you are a child who hasn't it in her to learn anything. But you can help me, and I shall teach you many things, and do well by you."
"When I grow a big girl, will anybody want me to do those things that you are going to teach me?" asked Phronsie, drawing near to lay her hand on the stiff black gown, and speaking earnestly. "Then if they will, I'll try to do them just exactly as you tell me."
"Of course they will," declared Mrs. Chatterton carefully, edging off from the little fingers; "ever so many people will want you, Phronsie. And I shall give you a great deal of money."
"I shall give it all to Mamsie," interrupted Phronsie, her brown eyes dilating quickly, "every single twenty-five cents you give me. Then I guess she will be glad, don't you?" she cried, clasping her hands in sudden rapture, while she began to dance up and down.
"I shall give you so many twenty-five cents," cried Mrs. Chatterton, beginning to feel her old heart beat with more enthusiasm than she had known for many a day, "that you will be very rich, Phronsie."
"Oh-oh!" cried Phronsie, coming to an abrupt pause in the middle of the floor, her cheek paling in excitement. And then she could say no more.
"But you must do exactly as I tell you." Mrs. Chatterton leaned forward suddenly, and seized the little hands, now so still in their delight. "Remember, it is only when you follow my commands in every single thing that you will have any chance of earning all this money for your mother, and helping her just at Polly is going to do. Remember now, Phronsie!"
"I will remember," said Phronsie slowly, as her hands were released.
"Very good. We will begin now then." Mrs. Chatterton threw herself back in her chair, and drew a long breath. "Lucky I found the child alone, and so tractable. It's singularly good fortune," she muttered. "Well," aloud, with a light laugh, "now, Phronsie, if you are going to be your mother's helper, why, this is your first duty. Let us see how well you perform it. Run upstairs to the closet out of the lumber-room, and open the little black box on the shelf in front of the door—the box isn't locked—and bring me the roll of black velvet ribbon you will find there."
Phronsie was about to ask, "Why does not Hortense go up for it?" but Mrs. Chatterton forestalled the question by saying with a frown, "Hortense has gone down to the dressmaker's. No child who calls me to account for anything I ask of her can be helped by me. Do as you like, Phronsie. No one will compel you to learn how to do things so that you can be a comfort to your mother. Only remember, if you don't obey me, you will lose your only chance." After this speech, Mrs. Chatterton sat back and played with her rings, looking with oblique glances of cold consideration at the child.
"I'll go," said Phronsie with a long sigh, "and do every thing you say."
"I do really believe I can bend one of those dreadful Pepper children to my will," thought Mrs. Chatterton exultingly. "She is my only hope. Polly does better than she did, but she is too old to be tractable, and she has a shrewd head on her practical body, and the others are just horrible!" She gave a shiver. "But Phronsie will grow up to fit my purpose, I think. Three purposes, I may say—to get the Peppers gradually out from under Horatio King's influence, and to train up a girl to wait on me so that I can get away from these French villains of maids, and to spite Alexander's daughter by finally adopting this Phronsie if she suits me. But I must move carefully. The first thing is to get the child fastened to me by her own will."
Phronsie, ascending the stairs to the lumber-room, with careful deliberateness, found no hint of joy at the prospect before her, reaching into the dim distance to that enchanted time when she should be grown up. But there was a strangely new sense of responsibility, born in an hour; and an acceptance of life's burdens, that made her feel very old and wise.
"I shall be a comfort to my mother," she said confidently, and mounted on.