"I want to sell tin!"
"Eh, what?" exclaimed the old gentleman, looking over his glasses. "What is that you are saying, Joey, my boy?"
"I want to sell tin," said Joel bluntly.
"Want to sell tin!"ejaculated old Mr. King, in amazement.
"Yes, sir, just like Mr. Biggs; he got lots of money. May I, Grandpapa? Please say I may." Joel ran around the writing-table to plant himself by the old gentleman's chair.
"Oh, my goodness!" exclaimed Mr. King, leaning back in dismay, "whatever can you mean, my boy?"
"Grandpapa"—Joel laid a brown hand on the velvet morning-jacket, and brought his black eyes very close to the gentleman's face—"I've got to earn that ten dollars; I've got to, Grandpapa, 'cause I lost it." Joel's voice broke here, but he recovered it and dashed on, "And I can't do it unless you will let me sell tin.Please,Grandpapa dear. Mr. Biggs used to, in Badgertown, you know, and he took me with him sometimes on his cart, so I know how; and I can sell a lot. I can wheel it in my express wagon, and—" Joel by this time was running on so glibly, under the impression that if he didn't stop, Mr. King would be induced to say yes, that the old gentleman was forced to put up his hand peremptorily.
"There, there, Joey, my boy," he said, settling his glasses that had slipped to the end of his nose, and taking Joel's hand. "Now, then, let's hear all about the matter."
And in a minute or two Joel was perched on the old gentleman's knee, and they were having the most sociable time possible. And before long Joel forgot he hadn't laughed for oh, such a long while, and lo and behold! Grandpapa said something so very funny that they both burst out into a merry peal, that rang out into the wide hall beyond.
"Joel is actually laughing," exclaimed Polly, coming soberly down the stairs; and she was so overcome by the joyful sound that she sat right down on the step. "Oh, dear me, how perfectly lovely!" she breathed, folding her hands in delight.
"Isn't it!" Jasper slipped into a seat on the step by her side. "Now everything is going to be fine when Joe can laugh!"
"Just hear him," cried Polly, pricking up her ears to catch the blissful sound, "and Grandpapa, too. Oh, Jasper!"
"I know it," said Jasper, in great satisfaction. "Father has been so pulled down because Joe took it so hard."
"Well, you see, Joel couldn't help it," cried Polly, "because it was careless, just as Mamsie said, to leave anything without handing it to the person."
"Of course," assented Jasper quickly. "Mrs. Fisher is right; but I'm sure any one is likely to do it, and Joel was in such a hurry that day, everybody pulling at him this way and that to get letters."
"I know it," said Polly, delighted to hear Joel's part taken, "and just think how he worked before, Jasper. He helped such a perfect lot getting the flower-table ready."
"He helped everywhere," declared Jasper, bringing down his hand with emphasis on his knee. "I never saw anybody work as Joe did."
"And now to think that he has lost that money!" mourned Polly, her head drooping sorrowfully over her closed hands. "Oh, dear me, Jasper!"
"But just hear him laugh," cried Jasper, springing up; "it's going to be all right now, Polly, I do believe. Come, let's go and hunt some more for the banknote."
So they both flew off from the stairs to begin the search for the money again. For no one stopped—dear me, not a bit of it!—the hunt for the hidden ten-dollar bill. Everybody but Phronsie and little Dick searched and prowled in every nook and corner where there was the least possible chance that the ten-dollar bill could be in hiding. They had both been so sleepy on the evening of the garden party when the loss had been announced, that it fell unheeded on their ears. And afterward all the household was careful to keep the bad news from them. So the two children went on in blissful unconsciousness of Joel's trouble, while the grand hunt proceeded all around them.
When Joel emerged from Grandpapa King's writing-room, he was hanging to the old gentleman's hand and looking up into his face and chattering away.
"You know it means work," said old Mr. King, looking down at him.
"I know, Grandpapa," said Joel, bobbing his stubby, black head.
"And you must keep at it," said the old gentleman decidedly, "else no pay. There's to be no dropping the job, once you take it up. If you do, you'll get no money. That's the bargain, Joe?"—with a keen glance into the chubby face.
"Oh, I will, Grandpapa, I will," declared Joel eagerly, and hopping up and down; "I'll do every single speck of the work. Now do let us hurry and get the book."
"Yes, we'll hurry, seeing our business arrangement is all settled," laughed the old gentleman. "Now, then, Joel, my boy, we'll go down-town and buy the blank book, so that I can set you to work at once," and he grasped the brown hand tightly, and away they went.
And in ten minutes everybody knew that Joel was going to make a list of all the books in a certain case in old Mr. King's writing-room, and that Grandpapa and he were already off down-town to buy a new blank book for the work. And at the end of it—oh, joy!—Joel was to have a crisp ten-dollar bill to replace the one he had lost.
"Here she comes!" roared Mr. Tisbett. The townspeople, hurrying toBadgertown depot to see the train bearing the new little girl sent on byMrs. Fisher to their parson's care, crowded up, Mr. and Mrs. Hendersonsmilingly in the center of the biggest group.
"Oh, husband, I do pity her so!" breathed the parson's wife. "Poor thing, she will be so shy and distressed!" The parson's heart gave a responsive thrill, as he craned his neck to peer here and there for their new charge. "She hasn't come. Oh, dear me!"—as a voice broke in at his elbow.
"I'm here." The words weren't much, to be sure, but the tone was wholly self-possessed, and when the parson whirled around, and Mrs. Henderson, who had been looking the other way, brought her gaze back, they saw a little girl in a dark brown suit, a brown hat under which fell smooth braids of black hair, who was regarding them with a pair of the keenest eyes they had either of them ever seen.
"Oh—oh—my child—" stammered Mr. Henderson, putting out a kind hand. "So you have come, Rachel?"
"Yes, I am Rachel," said the child, looking up into his face and laying her hand in the parson's big one; then she turned her full regard upon the minister's wife.
Mrs. Henderson was divided in her mind, for an instant, whether to kiss this self-possessed child, as she had fully arranged in her mind beforehand to do, or to let such a ceremony go by. But in a breathing space she had her arms about her, and was drawing her to her breast.
"Rachel, dear, I am so glad you have come to us."
Rachel glanced up sharply, heaved a big sigh, and when she lifted her head from Mrs. Henderson's neck, there was something bright that glistened in either eye; she brushed it off before any one could spy it, as the parson was saying:
"And now, where is your bag, child—er—Rachel, I mean?"
Rachel pointed to the end of the platform. "I'll go an' tell 'em to bring it here."
"No, no, child." The parson started briskly.
"Let us all go," said Mrs. Henderson kindly, gathering Rachel's hand up in one of hers. "Come, dear." So off they hurried, the platform's length, the farmers and their wives looking after them with the greatest interest.
"My, but ain't Mrs. Henderson glad to get a girl, though!"
"Yes, she sets by her a'ready."
"Sakes alive! I thought she was a poor child," exclaimed one woman, who was dreadfully disappointed to lose the anticipated object of charity.
"So she is," cried another—"as poor as Job's turkey, but Mr. King has dressed her up, you know, an' he's goin' to edicate her, too."
"Well, she'll pay for it, I reckon. My! she looks smart, even the back of her!"
And before very long, Rachel had been inducted into her room, a pretty little one under the eaves, neat as a pin in blue-and-white chintz covering, around which she had given a swift glance of approval. And now she was down in the parsonage kitchen, in a calico gown and checked apron; her own new brown ribbons having been taken off from her braids, rolled up carefully, and laid in the top drawer, the common, every-day ones taking their places.
Peletiah and Ezekiel were each in a corner of the kitchen, with their pale blue eyes riveted on her.
"Well, dear," Mrs. Henderson greeted her kindly, "you have changed your gown very quickly."
A tall, square-shouldered woman stalked in from the little entry.
"Oh, Jerusha," exclaimed Mrs. Henderson pleasantly, "this is the little girl that Mrs. Fisher sent us. Rachel, go up and speak to Miss Jerusha."
Rachel went over obediently and put out her hand, which the parson's sister didn't seem to see. Instead, she drew herself up stiffer than ever, and stared at the child.
"Ah, well, I hope she won't forget that she's very poor, and that you've taken her out of pity," said Miss Jerusha.
Rachel started back as if shot, and her black eyes flashed. "I ain't poor," she screamed. "I ain't goin' to be pitied."
"Yes, you are, too," declared Miss Jerusha, quite pleased at the effect of her words, and telling off each syllable by bringing one set of bony fingers down on the other emphatically; "in fact, you're a beggar, and my brother——"
"I ain't, ain't, ain't!" screamed Rachel shrilly, and, flinging herself on her face on the floor, she flapped her feet up and down and writhed in distress. "I want to go home!" she sobbed.
The boys, for once in their lives, actually started, and presently they were across the kitchen, to their mother, kneeling by Rachel's side.
"Don't let her go," they said together.
"She isn't going," said Mrs. Henderson, smoothing the shaking shoulders, but Rachel screamed on.
"Dear me!" The parson hurried in at the uproar, his glasses set up on his forehead where his nervous fingers had pushed them. "What is the matter?"
"That poor child," answered Miss Jerusha, pointing a long finger over at the group in the middle of the kitchen, "is acting like Satan. I guess you'll repent, brother, ever bringing her here."
"'Twas Aunt Jerusha," declared Peletiah bluntly, "and I wish she'd go home."
"Hush, hush, dear," said his mother, looking up into his face.
There was an awful pause, the parson drew a long breath, then he turned to his sister.
"Jerusha," he said, "I wish you would go into the sitting-room, if you please."
"An' let you pet that beggar child," she exclaimed, in shrill scorn, but she stalked off.
Mr. Henderson went swiftly across the kitchen and knelt down by his wife.
"Rachel"—he put his hand on the little girl's head—"get directly up, my child!"
Rachel lifted her eyes, and peered about. "Has she gone—that dreadful, bad, old woman?"
"There is no one here but those who love you," said the minister. "Now, child, get directly up and sit in that chair." He indicated the one, and in a minute Rachel was perched on it, with streaming eyes. Peletiah, having started to get a towel, and in his trepidation presenting the dish-rag, the parson dried her tears on his own handkerchief.
"Now, then, that is better," he said, in satisfaction, as they all grouped around her chair.
"Rachel, there mustn't be anything of this sort—tears, I mean—again.That lady is my sister, and——"
"Your sister!"screamed Rachel, precipitating herself forward on her chair in imminent danger of falling on her nose, to gaze at him in amazement.
"Yes"—a dull red flush crept over the minister's face—"and—and whatever she says, Rachel, why, you are not to mind, child."
"She ain't a-goin' to sass me," declared Rachel stoutly.
"Well, I don't believe she will again; let us hope not," said Mr.Henderson, in a worried way. "However, you are not to cry; remember that,Rachel, whatever happens," he added firmly: "you are to be happy here; thisis your home, and we all love you."
"You do?" said Rachel, much amazed, looking at them all. "Oh, well, then, I'll stay." And slipping down from her chair, she seized Mrs. Henderson's apron. "What'll I do? Mrs. Fisher told me how to wash dishes. May I do 'em?"
"Yes, and the boys shall wipe them," said Mrs. Henderson, and pretty soon there was a gay little bustle in the old kitchen, the parson staying away from the writing of the sermon to see it.
But Peletiah and Ezekiel were much too slow to suit Rachel, who got far ahead of them, so she flew to the drawer in the big table where she had seen them get the dish-towels, and, helping herself, she fell to work drying some of the big pile in the drainer in the sink.
"I don't see how you can go so fast," observed Peletiah, laboriously polishing up his plate.
"Well, I don't see how you can go so slow," retorted Rachel, with deft passes of the towel over the cup. "My! I sh'd think your elbows had gone to sleep."
"They haven't gone to sleep," said Peletiah, who was always literal; and setting down his plate, half-dried, on the table, he turned over one arm to investigate.
"Of course not, you little ninny," said Rachel lightly. "I didn't——"
"Rachel, Rachel!" said the parson's wife, over by the table. She was getting her material together for baking pies, and she now added gently, "We don't call each other names, you must remember that, child."
"Oh!" said Rachel. She stopped her busy towel a minute to think, then it flapped harder and faster, to make up for lost time.
"Well, go ahead," she said to Peletiah, "and wipe your plate."
So Peletiah, letting his elbows take care of themselves, picked up his plate and set to work on its surface again; and pretty soon the dishes were all declared done, the pan and mop washed out, and hung up.
"What'll I do next?" Rachel smoothed down her apron and stood before the baking-table, a boy on either side.
"Now, boys," said Mrs. Henderson, pausing in her work of rolling out the pie crust, "I think you had better take Rachel down to see Grandma Bascom. I've told her she's coming to-day, and she's quite impatient to see her. And, Rachel, you can tell her about Mrs. Fisher and Polly and the boys. And oh, Rachel, be sure to tell her about Phronsie; she does just love that child so!"
The parson's wife leaned on the rolling-pin, and a bright color came into her face.
"I'll tell her," said Rachel, a soft gleam in her eyes, and smoothing her apron.
"And, Peletiah, go into the buttery, and get that little pat of butter done up in a cloth, and give it to Grandma. I do wish my pies were baked"—and she fell to work again—"so I could send her one."
So Peletiah went into the buttery and got the pat of butter, and the three started off. The parson stepped away from the doorway into the entry, where he had been silently watching proceedings, and went over to the window.
"Come here, Almira." He held out his hand.
She dropped her rolling-pin and ran over to his side. He drew her to him.
"See, dear," he said.
Rachel and the two boys were proceeding over the greensward leading down the road. She had one on either side; and, wonder of wonders, they were all hand in hand.
"We're going to see your Gran," said Rachel, a very sober expression settling over her thin little face.
"What?" said Peletiah.
"Your Gran; that's what your mother said."
"Oh, no, she didn't," contradicted Peletiah; "we are going to GrandmaBascom's."
"Well, that's the same thing," said Rachel; "she's your Gran, isn't she?"
"She's Grandma Bascom," repeated Peletiah stolidly.
"Oh, dear me! of course! But she'syourGran, isn't she?"—her tongue fairly aching to call him "ninny" again.
"No, she isn't; she isn't any one's Gran—she's just Grandma Bascom."
"Oh!" said Rachel. Perhaps it wasn't so very bad as she feared. She would wait and see.
"She's dreadfully deaf," remarked Peletiah.
"What's that?"
"She can't hear unless you scream."
Rachel burst into a loud laugh, but it was very musical; and before they knew it, although they were very much astonished, the two boys were laughing, too, though they hadn't the least idea at what.
"I'm glad of it," announced Rachel, when she had gotten through. "I love to scream. Sometimes it seems as if I'd die if I couldn't. Don't you?"
"No, I don't," said Peletiah, "ever feel so."
"Don'tyou?"Rachel leaned over to peer into Ezekiel's face.
"No, I don't, either," he said.
"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Rachel, catching her breath. "Well, let's run." And before either boy knew what was going to happen, she was hauling them along at such a mad pace as they had never before in all their lives indulged in.
The butter-pat slipped out of Peletiah's hand, gone on the wind, and landed on the roadside grass.
"Wasn't that a good one!" cried Rachel, her eyes shining, as she brought up suddenly. "Oh, my! ain't things sweet, though!"—wrinkling up her nose in delight.
"I lost the butter-pat," observed Peletiah, when he could get his breath.
"I never see anything so beautiful," Rachel was saying, over and over. Then she flung herself flat on the grass, and buried her nose in it, smelling it hungrily. "Oh, my!"
"I lost the butter-pat," observed Peletiah again, and standing over her.
"And I'm a-goin' to live here," declared Rachel, in a transport, and wriggling in the sweet clover, "if I'm good. I'm goin' to be good all the time. Yes, sir!"
"I lost the butter-pat," repeated Peletiah.
"Butter-pat?" Rachel caught the last words and sprang to her feet.
"Oh, yes, I forgot; we must hurry with the butter-pat. Come on!" and she whirled around on Peletiah. "Why, where—?" as she saw his empty hands.
"I lost the butter-pat," said Peletiah. "I've been telling you so."
"No, you haven't," contradicted Rachel flatly.
"Yes, I have," said Peletiah stolidly.
"No such thing." Rachel squared up to him, her black eyes flashing. "You haven't said a single word, you bad, wicked boy."
"Yes, I have," repeated Peletiah, ready to say it over for all time; "I've told you so a great many times."
Rachel looked at him, and put up both hands. The only thing proper to do under such circumstances was to shake him smartly, but it seemed so like attacking a granite post, and besides, he was the minister's son, and she was going to be good, else they must send her away (so Mrs. Fisher had said), so her arms flopped down to her side, and hung there dismally. And she burst out:
"Where did you lose it, you nin—? I mean—oh, dear me!—where, I say?"—frowning impatiently.
"Back there," said Peletiah, pointing down the road. "You pulled me along so, it flew out of my hand."
Rachel set her teeth together hard.
"Come on!"
She seized a hand of each boy, Ezekiel being a silent spectator all the time; and if they went fast before, this time, in retracing their steps, it might be called flying, till a little spot on the roadside grass showed the object of their search. Peletiah's breath was gone entirely by this time, and he sank down by its side without a word, his brother following suit.
"I shall carry it now," announced Rachel, gathering up the little pat, safe in its white cloth. "My! 'tain't hurt a bit" She brushed off a few marauding ants. "Come on, now!"
Peletiah struggled to his feet and gasped, "I shall carry it," and put out his hands.
"No such thing." Rachel held the butter-pat firmly in her slender, brown hand. "My! you ain't fit to carry no butter-pats—let 'em drop out of your hands. Come on!"
"I shall carry it," declared Peletiah doggedly, and bringing his pale eyes to bear on her face, while he stood still in his tracks.
"I hope you may get it," cried Rachel triumphantly. "I never see such a boy. Come on, I say." She held out her hand with authority.
"My mother said I was to carry the butter-pat, and I shall carry it," saidPeletiah, putting out one hand for it, and the other behind his back.
Rachel wrinkled her brows and thought a minute.
"So she did," she said. Then she set the butter-pat in Peletiah's hand, and pinched his thumb down over it. "There, hold on to it," she said, "or you'll lose it again. Now, come on!"
The way back was conducted on slower lines, as Rachel had an anxious oversight lest the butter-pat should again be taken off on the wind, so that Peletiah and Ezekiel had a chance to recover their breath, with some degree of composure, by the time they turned down the lane to Grandma Bascom's. There she was, sitting in her big chintz-covered chair, resting after the morning's work, as they found on entering the little old kitchen.
Rachel's eyes had been getting bigger and bigger, though she had said nothing tip to this time; but when they rested on the old lady's face, under the big, frilled cap, she burst out sharply:
"Is that your Gran?"
"She isn't my Gran," replied Peletiah.
"No, she isn't," echoed Ezekiel.
"Well, is she Gran?" demanded Rachel impatiently—"anybody's Gran—justGran? Say, is she?"
"No, she isn't Gran," said Peletiah, shaking his head of stiff, light hair.
"Oh, dear me! you said so," cried Rachel, in a high, disappointed key. "Oh, dear, dear, dear! I wish she was." And, terribly afraid she was going to cry, she marched off to the little-paned window, and twisted her fingers into knots.
"She's Grandma," said Ezekiel, walking over to her and peering around her side.
"Oh, then she is," cried Rachel, springing around. "Say"—she seized his jacket—"she's my Gran, an'——"
"Grandma, I said," repeated Ezekiel.
"Yes, yes, Grandma; well, she's mine."
"She's all our Grandma," said Ezekiel decidedly.
"Yes, yes, but she's mine, too," declared Rachel, bobbing her head decidedly. "She shall be my Gran—Grandma. I shall just take her, so there!"
"You musn't take her away," said Ezekiel, in alarm.
"I ain't goin' to; I don't want to. I'm goin' to live here always an' forever," declared Rachel firmly.
Ezekiel smiled at that in great satisfaction, and the matter being settled, Rachel skipped over to the old lady's chair, and looked steadily down into the wrinkled face.
"Go out and put the butter-pat somewhere," she said to Peletiah, who still held it in his hand, waiting to present it.
"I must give it to Grandma," he said; "my mother told me to."
"Well, you can't while she's asleep," said Rachel quickly, "so you put it somewhere—anywhere—and when she wakes up, why, you can give it to her. Do hurry—and you go and help him."
So the two boys walked off to find a place in the buttery, and quick as lightning Rachel leaned over and set a kiss on the wrinkled old cheek. If Grandma couldn't hear, she was very quick at feeling.
"Why!" She stirred uneasily in her chair, and opened her eyes.
"Who is this?" she asked, staring at the strange little girl, for although the parson's wife had told her all about the new member of the family to come that day, Grandma was so bewildered by being suddenly aroused from her sleep, she had forgotten all about it. "Hey, who is it?"
Peletiah, not having had time to put down the butter-pat, now came up and presented it with all due formality.
"But who is this little gal?" asked Grandma, as he set the butter-pat in the middle of the checked apron over her lap.
"She's Rachel," said Peletiah.
"Eh? What?" Grandma held a shaking hand behind her ear. "Speak a little louder, Peletiah; you know I'm a-growin' hard o' hearin', just a grain."
"Rachel," shouted Peletiah, as he stood still in his tracks in front of her.
"Ain't well! Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Grandma, in a tone of great concern."What a pity!" and she turned and regarded the stranger with anxiety.
"Oh, dear me! You get away, Peletiah," commanded Rachel, brushing him aside. So Peletiah, very glad to be released, moved off, and Rachel, putting her mouth to the nodding cap-border, said very distinctly:
"Mrs. Fisher sent me to live at the minister's; I'm Rachel."
"Oh, my land o' Goshen!" exclaimed Grandma Bascom, lifting both hands in delight. "Why, I can hear you splendid. You see, I'm only a grain deaf. An' so you're that little gal. Well, I'm glad you've come, you pretty creeter, you!"
And in another minute Rachel was telling all about Mrs. Fisher and Polly and Phronsie—oh, and Joel and David—for Grandma kept interrupting and asking all sorts of questions, so that the news and messages were all tangled up together.
"Did Joel say he wanted pep'mints?" asked Grandma, in a lull.
"Oh, yes, he said yours were awful good, and he wished he had some of 'em," Rachel answered. She didn't dare take her mouth away from the cap-frill, and her feet ached dreadfully from standing still so long. But Grandma was as bright as a button, and hungry for every scrap of information.
"Land o' Goshen!" mourned Grandma, "how I wish he was comin' in now! an' I'd give him plenty." She sat still for a minute, lost in thought. Peletiah and Ezekiel had wandered off outside, where they sat under the lilac bushes, to rest after their unwonted exercise, so the hens, undisturbed, stepped over the sill of the kitchen door, and scratched and picked about to their hearts' content.
"I'll drive 'em out," said Rachel, delighted at the chance of action this would give her, and springing off.
"Take the broom," screamed Grandma after her, "and then hurry and come back and tell me some more."
So Rachel, wishing the duty could be an hour long, shooed and waved her broom wildly, and ran and raced, and the fat old hens tumbled over each other to get away. And then she came slowly back to Grandma's side, to go over again every bit she had told before. Until, looking up at the old clock on the shelf, she saw that it was one minute of twelve o'clock.
"Oh, my! I've got to go," she screamed in Grandma's ear, and without another word she dashed off and up to the lilac bushes. "Boys, come this minute." She held out both hands. "It's awful late."
"I know it," said Peletiah, with a very grieved face; "we've been waiting for you ever so long, and dinner's ready at home."
"Well, come now." She stuck her long arms out straight, and shook her fingers impatiently. "Oh, dear me—do hurry!"
"I ain't goin' to take hold of hands," declared Peletiah, edging off.
"Nor I, either," echoed Ezekiel.
"Oh, yes, you must." And without waiting for more words on the matter,Rachel seized a hand of each, and bore off the boys.
If they ran before, they flew now. But all the same they were late to dinner, and the parson and his wife and Miss Jerusha were all helped around, and had begun to eat.
"There, see what that new girl has done already," said Miss Jerusha sternly, laying down her knife and fork. "Peletiah and Ezekiel ain't ever late. Well, you'll see trouble enough with her, or I'll miss my guess."
Peletiah sank down on the upper step of the piazza, but Ezekiel crept into the kitchen, while Rachel pushed boldly up to Mrs. Henderson's chair.
"Oh, I'm awful sorry," she said. Her face was very flushed and her eyes glowed with the run.
"Ben gallivantin' off an' temptin' the boys to play," declared MissJerusha, with a shrewd nod of her brown front. "Oh, I know."
"We won't say any more about it now, dear," said Mrs. Henderson gently, at sight of the hot little face. "There, get into your chair, this one next to me. Where's Peletiah?"—looking about.
"Oh, I'm awful tired," wailed Ezekiel, slipping into his seat next to the parson, and he drew the back of his hand across his red face.
"Ben playing so hard," said Miss Jerusha disagreeably, "an' now you're all het up."
"I haven't played a single bit," declared Ezekiel stoutly, and with a very injured expression of countenance. "Oh, dear me, I AM so tired!" stretching his legs under the table.
"Eat your dinner, my son," said the parson, putting a liberal portion on his plate.
"Oh, dear me!" Ezekiel essayed to, but laid down his spoon. "I don't want anything, I'm so tired."
Mrs. Henderson cast an anxious glance over at him.
"No need to worry," her husband telegraphed back, going quietly on with his own dinner. Rachel had begun on hers with hungry zest, but stopped suddenly, hopped out of her chair, and raced to the door.
"Rachel!" It wasn't a loud voice, but she found herself back again and looking into Mrs. Henderson's face.
"Sit down, dear; we do not leave the table in that way."
So Rachel slipped into her seat, feeling as if all the blood in her body were in her hot cheeks.
"Now, what is it?" The parson's wife took one of the brown hands working nervously under the tablecloth. "Tell me; don't be afraid," she said softly. But Miss Jerusha heard.
"Stuff and nonsense!" she exclaimed, with a sneer. "When I was a child, there was no such coddlin' goin' on, I can tell you."
"It's Peletiah," said Rachel. "Oh, dear me! he's out on the piazza, and he must be awfully hungry. Can't I make him come in?"
"No, sit still. Husband"—the parson's wife looked down the table—"excuse me a minute." She slipped out, and in another moment in she came, and Peletiah with her.
And then Mr. Henderson told such a funny story about a monkey he had read about only just that very morning, that Ezekiel forgot there ever was such a thing as tired legs, and even Peletiah had no thoughts for that dreadful run home from Grandma Bascom's.
As for Rachel, all idea of dinner flew at once out of her head. She laid down her knife and fork and leaned forward with sparkling eyes, to catch every word. Seeing which, Mrs. Henderson burst out laughing.
"I'm afraid you are making things worse, husband," she said, "for they won't eat any dinner at all now."
"I surely am," said the parson, with another laugh, "and I thought I was going to help so much," he added ruefully.
"How you can laugh," exclaimed Miss Jerusha sourly, at the good time in progress, and sitting quite stiffly, "I don't for my part see."
"Oh, well, if you'd laugh more, it would be better for all of us, Jerusha," said her brother good-naturedly.
"I ain't a-goin' to laugh," declared Miss Jerusha, "and it's a wicked, sinful shame to set such an example before those boys, like coddlin' up that girl for keepin' them off playin'. I never see such goin's on!"
"We haven't been playing," said Peletiah stoutly.
"I told her so," said Ezekiel fretfully, seeing that his father had no more monkey stories to offer, "but she keeps saying it just the same. I wish she'd go off and play," he added vindictively.
The idea of Miss Jerusha ever having played, made Rachel turn in her chair and regard her fixedly. Then she broke out into a laugh; it was such a merry peal that presently the boys joined in, and even the parson and his wife had hard work to keep their faces straight.
"Well, if Ieversee such goin's on!" Miss Jerusha shoved back her chair and stalked out of the room.
"Did she ever play?" asked Rachel, when the door into the keeping-room had slammed.
"Why, yes, of course, child," said Mrs. Henderson, with a smile, "when she was a little girl."
"And was she ever a little girl?" persisted Rachel.
"Why, certainly. Now eat your dinner, Rachel."
Rachel picked up her knife and fork. When the two boys saw that she was ready to really begin on her meal, they set to on theirs.
"I'm awful hungry," announced Peletiah, when he had been working busily on his plateful.
The parson burst out into a laugh, like a boy.
"Hush, husband," warned Mrs. Henderson; "I'm afraid Jerusha will hear."
"I can't help it, Almira." His eyes were brimming with amusement. "Our boys are getting waked up already."
"I ain't asleep," declared Peletiah, looking up at his father in amazement;"I'm eating my dinner."
"So am I," announced Ezekiel wisely, and putting out his plate for another potato.
"So I see," said his father gravely. "Well, now we're all getting on very well," he added, in great satisfaction, with a glance around the table. "Good-bye; you must excuse me, wife; you know I must get over to the funeral early."
"Is old Miss Bedlow dead, Ma?" asked Peletiah, pausing in the act of getting some gravy to his mouth.
"Yes, dear. Take care, Peletiah, and pay attention to your dinner."
Peletiah set down the mouthful on his plate. "I hain't got to go, have I,Ma?" he asked, in trepidation.
"No, dear; now go on with your dinner, and don't say 'hain't.'"
"I'm glad I haven't got to go," observed Peletiah, with a long sigh of relief, and beginning on his dinner once more. "I don't like funerals."
"I do." Rachel bobbed her black head at him across the table, and her eyes roved excitedly. "I've seen lots an' lots of 'em in the city. They're fine, I tell you." She laid down her knife and fork again and waved her arms. "Oh, a string of carriages as long—an' the corpse is sometimes in a white box, and heaps of flowers. I like 'em next to the circus."
"There, there, Rachel, eat your dinner, child," broke in Mrs. Henderson quickly. "And, boys, don't talk any more. You must get through dinner, for I have to go to Miss Bedlow's by two o'clock," and she got out of her chair and began to clear the table.
So all that was to be heard now in the parsonage kitchen was the pleasant rattle of knives and forks, and the bustle of clearing up, and presently the children hopped out of their chairs and began to help Mrs. Henderson to set everything in order.
"I'm goin' to wash every single thing up," announced Rachel, hurrying for the mop.
"Can you, dear?" asked the parson's wife. She was very tired, and yet had the funeral of the old parishioner to attend. But the risk seemed great of allowing the new little girl to do up all the dinner dishes. "There are a great many of them, and some of them are big"—glancing doubtfully around the piles. "Are you sure you can manage them?"
"Why, yes," declared Rachel in scorn, "I can do 'em all just as easy!" She stopped to snap her fingers at the greasy plates, then ran over to get the big teakettle on the stove in a twinkling.
"Let Peletiah carry that for you," said Mrs. Henderson.
"He's so slow," said Rachel, but she stopped obediently.
"Rachel, there is one thing"—and the parson's wife came over and put her hand on the thin little shoulder—"we all help each other in this house, and we never talk against one."
"Oh," said Rachel.
Peletiah by this time had advanced on the teakettle, and, as soon as he could, he bore it off and solemnly poured a goodly supply of boiling-hot water into the waiting dishpan.
"Now you boys are to wipe the dishes for Rachel," said their mother, with an approving glance at the group.
"I'd rather," began Rachel, wrinkling up her face.
"So remember; and when you are through, and the kitchen is set up neatly, you may all play out of doors this afternoon, for lessons don't begin for you until to-morrow, Rachel. And now be good children."
"I don't like lessons," said Peletiah, when they were left alone.
"Don't you?" exclaimed Rachel, in astonishment, and resting her soapy hands on the edge of the dishpan.
"No, I don't," declared Peletiah, with great deliberation, "like them at all."
"Well, I shall, I know." Rachel twitched off her hands and slapped the mop down smartly among the cups in the hot water.
"Ow! you splashed me all over," exclaimed Ezekiel. "See there, now,Rachel." He stepped hack and held up his arm.
"Phoo! that's nothing," said Rachel.
"It hurt; it's hot," said Ezekiel, squirming about.
"Well, if you ain't a baby!" cried Rachel scornfully.
"My mother said we weren't to call names," observed Peletiah.
"Oh, my! I forgot that. But he is a baby," declared Rachel.
"My mother said we were not to call names," repeated Peletiah, exactly as if he hadn't made that remark before.
"Oh, dear me! how perfectly awful you—I mean I never saw such boys. Oh, my!"
"My mother said——"
"Yes, yes, I know," interrupted Rachel, splashing away for dear life; "well, now we must hurry and get these dishes done."
"And then we can go out and play," said Ezekiel, departing with the plate he was drying to a safe distance from the hot shower from Rachel's busy fingers.
"Yes. Oh, my, what fun! Let's hurry." And before the boys quite knew how, the dishes were all piled in the pantry, the dishpan and mop washed out and hung up to dry, and the crumbs swept from the kitchen floor.
"There," said Rachel, smoothing down her apron in great satisfaction, "now we can go out. Come on, I'm going to the corner to see that funeral go by."
"We can't," said Peletiah, trying his best to hurry after her. "Mother doesn't let us go out of the yard when she's away; and beside, there isn't any corner—the road just goes round."
"Oh, bother!" Rachel whirled around and stamped her foot impatiently.
"And 'twill come past our house," contributed Ezekiel, gaining her side, "so let's sit on the doorstep till it comes."
"And you can tell us about the funerals you've seen in the city," suggestedPeletiah, who had been thinking about them ever since.
"All right," said Rachel, seeing she was not to lose sight of the parade she so dearly loved. "Whoopity—la!" She flung herself down on the long, flat doorstone, and whipped her gown neatly away on either side. "I'm goin' to sit in the middle."
The boys, very much pleased at this arrangement, which they would never have thought of suggesting, sat down sedately in their places and folded their hands in their laps.
"Now tell about those funerals," said Peletiah.
"Well, let me think," said Rachel, reflecting; "you see, I've seen so many.Hmm! Oh, I know!" She jumped so suddenly that she came near precipitatingEzekiel, who was leaning forward to attain a better view of her face, offinto the middle of the peony bed.
"Take care!" Rachel twitched him back into his place. "Yes, I'm goin' to tell you about one perfectly splendid funeral I see just——"
"You mustn't say 'see,'" corrected Peletiah, with disapproval. He was fairly longing for the recital, but it would never do to let such a slip in conversation pass.
"Well, what shall I say, then?" cried Rachel pertly, and not at all pleased at the interruption.
"You must say 'saw.'"
"I didn't saw it; you can't saw a thing," she declared contemptuously."You've got to see it, or else you can't say you did. So there,Pel—Pel—whatever your name is."
"My name is Peletiah," he said solemnly,
"Peletiah—oh, dear me!" Rachel put her face between her two hands and began to giggle.
"Tell about the funeral," said Ezekiel, twitching her sleeve.
"And you must say 'saw,'" reiterated Peletiah.
"I can't; 'tain't right, an' I ain't a-goin' to say 'saw' to please you, so there, now!" declared Rachel, bringing up her head and setting her mouth obstinately.
"Then I ain't going to sit here," said Peletiah, getting off from the door-stone, "because my mother wouldn't like it; she always makes me say 'saw.'"
"Does she?" cried Rachel, a little red spot coming on either cheek. "Does she, Pele—Pele—say, does she?"
"Yes, she does," said Peletiah, moving off slowly.
"Well, then, I'll say it. Came back and sit down; I'll say it. Saw, saw, saw. There, now"—as Peletiah, very much delighted, settled back into his place. "Well, you know this was a great big-bug who was buried, and——"
"A big bug!" exclaimed Peletiah, terribly disappointed. "I don't want to hear of any bugs; tell about a funeral," he commanded loudly.
"I am tellin' you; keep still an' you'll hear it. Well, he was a gre—at big-bug, an'——"
"Who was?" cried Ezekiel, dreadfully puzzled.
"This man who was to be buried—this one I'm tellin' you of. Do keep still, an' you'll hear if you don't stop me every minute."
"You said it was a bug," said Peletiah, in loud disapproval, on the further side.
"Well, so he was," declared Rachel, turning around to him. "Some men are big-bugs, an' some men are only little mean ones. But this one I'm tellin' you about was, oh, an awful big one," and she spread her arms with a generous sweep to indicate his importance.
"Men aren't ever bugs," said Peletiah decidedly.
"Oh, yes, they are."
"No, they ain't," he declared obstinately.
"My mother says we mustn't contradict," put in Ezekiel, with a reproving glance at him across Rachel's lap.
Peletiah unfolded his hands in extreme distress, but he couldn't say that men were bugs, so he sat still.
"Anyway, they are in the city, where I lived," said Rachel, "so never mind. Well, this funeral was just too splendid for anythin'. In the first place there was——"
"Oh, it's coming," cried Ezekiel, pricking up his ears. "Miss Bedlow's funeral's coming."
Rachel gave a jump that carried her off from the door-stone and quite a piece down the box-bordered path. She was hanging over the gate when the boys came up.
"Where?" she said. "I don't see any."
A small, black, high-topped wagon went by, the old horse at a jog trot, and after it came a two-seated rockaway, and after that a carryall, and around the curve in the road appeared more vehicles of the same patterns, tapering off to a line of chaises and gigs.
"Why, that's the funeral," said Peletiah, in solemn enjoyment, and pointing a finger at it; "it's going by now."
"What!" exclaimed Rachel, horribly disappointed. Then she flew away from the gate and turned her back on it all. "I wish I was back in the city!" she said.
It was dreadful; and after she had said it, Rachel stood overwhelmed with distress. "Don't you tell your father." She whirled around and clutched Peletiah's sleeve.
"We must," he said; "he's the minister, and we have to tell him everything."
"Well, don't tell your mother, anyway," she begged anxiously.
"We must," said Peletiah again, "because we tell her everything, too."
"Then she'll send me back." Rachel, quite gone in despair, gave a loud cry and threw herself face downward on the grass, where she sobbed as if her heart would break.
This was so much worse than he had imagined, as any possible effect from his words, that Peletiah couldn't speak, but stood over her in silent misery. Seeing this, Ezekiel took matters into his own hands.
"I'm going to run after the funeral and get Ma to come home; she'll be at the top of the procession," and he moved off toward the gateway.
"Stop!" Rachel squealed; then she sprang to her feet. "Don't you stir a step, you!" she commanded.
"They're all hearing you," observed Peletiah, who, seeing Rachel upon her feet, found his spirits reviving, and he pointed to the line of buggies and chaises. "See 'em looking back; my father won't like it."
"Oh, dear me!" Rachel struggled with her sobs. "You shouldn't 'a' told me you had 'em. That ain't a funeral."
"It is, too," declared Peletiah; "it's Miss Bedlow's funeral, and my Pa is going to bury her."
"It ain't, either; an' that's a baker's cart," said Rachel, pointing to the departing hearse with scorn.
"Oh, oh, what a story!" exclaimed Ezekiel, who was just on the point of reproving his brother for contradicting, and he pointed his brown finger at her. "That's got Miss Bedlow in, and they're taking her to the burying-ground, and it's her funeral."
"Well, I don't want to go back to the city," said Rachel hastily, dismissing Miss Bedlow and her funeral and all discussion thereon summarily, and she dug the toe of her shoe into the gravel; "don't let your mother send me back."
"You said you wished you were back there," observed Peletiah severely, fixing his pale eyes on her distressed face, along which the tears were making little paths.
"Well, I don't care. I don't want to go. Don't let her!" She seized his arm and shook it smartly.
"You're shaking me!" said Peletiah, in astonishment.
"I know it, an' I'm goin' to," said Rachel, stamping her foot.
"You ain't going to shake my brother," declared Ezekiel loudly, "and we'll make you go back if you shake us," he added vindictively.
"Oh, dear, dear!" Rachel dropped Peletiah's arm, and she hid her face in her hands. "Don't make me go back," she wailed. "It's too dreadful there, for Mrs. Fisher won't have me if you send me away, 'n' Gran 'll get hold of me somehow—she'll—she'll find me, I know she will," and she shivered all over.
"Who's Gran?" Peletiah drew quite near.
"She's Gran," said Rachel, shivering again. "Oh, dear! don't ask me; and she beat me dreadful, an'—" her voice broke.
"She beat you?" cried Peletiah.
"Awful," said Rachel, cramming her fingers into her mouth to keep from crying. "Oh, dear, dear! don't send me back."
Peletiah took two or three steps off, then came back.
"You may shake me if you want to," he said generously, "and you ain't going back."
"Well, she isn't going to shake me," said Ezekiel stoutly, "and my Ma will send her back if she shakes me, so there!"
"I hain't shook you yet," said Rachel, disclosing her black eyes between her fingers and viewing him with cold disdain.
"Well, you ain't going to," repeated Ezekiel, with decision.
"Her Gran beat her." Peletiah went over to his brother. "She beat Rachel." He kept repeating it, over and over; meanwhile Ezekiel moved about in confusion, digging the toes of his shoes into the gravel to hide it.
"Well, she ain't going to shake me," he said, but it was in a fainter voice, and he didn't look at Rachel's eyes.
"And you mustn't ask Mother to send her back," said Peletiah stubbornly.
"She ain't going to shake me." It was now so low that scarcely any one could hear it.
"And you mustn't ask Mother to send her back," said Peletiah again. "She's going to stay here just for ever and ever."
There was something in his tone that made Ezekiel hasten to say:
"Oh, I won't."
"And I won't shake you," said Rachel, flying out from behind her hands and up to him, "if you'll only let me stay here; just let me stay," she cried, hungrily.
"Well," said Ezekiel, with a great deal of condescension, "if you won't shake me, you may stay at our house."
So the children went back to the flat door-stone to talk it over, Peletiah saying:
"Maybe you can go to school with us next fall."
"Oh, my!" exclaimed Rachel, with wide eyes, and clasping her hands, "I've got to learn a lot first."
"Yes, my father's got to teach you first," said Peletiah.
"Where's he going to do it?" Rachel leaned over to get a comprehensive view of his face.
"In his study," answered Peletiah.
"Where's that?"
"That's where he writes his sermons in, that he preaches at people Sundays," said Ezekiel, finding it very pleasant to be communicative, now that he was quite sure the new girl would not shake him.
"Oh, how nice!" breathed Rachel. "That's scrumptious!"
"That's what?" asked Peletiah critically.
"Scrumptious. Haven't you ever heard that? Oh, what a nin—I mean, oh, how funny!"
"And it ain't nice at all to have my father teach you," said Peletiah, with very doleful ideas of that study.
"Why?" asked Rachel, with gathering dread.
"Oh, he makes you learn things," said Peletiah dismally, drawing a long sigh at the remembrance.
"But that's just what I want to do," cried Rachel, with sparkling eyes;"I'm goin' to learn an' learn, till I can't learn no more."
Peletiah was so occupied in edging off from her that he forgot to correct her speech.
"Yes, I'm goin' to learn," exclaimed Rachel, in a glad little shout, and, springing to her feet, she swung her arms over her head. "I'm goin' to read an' I'm goin' to write, an' then I can write a letter to my Phronsie."
She ended up with a cheese, plunging down on the grass and puffing out her gown like a small balloon.
"You can't do that," she said, nodding triumphantly up at the two boys.
"I don't want to," said Peletiah, sitting still on the door-stone.
"Well, you can't, anyway, 'cause you haven't got a frock. Well, now, let's play," and she hopped to her feet. "Come on. What'll it be?"
"I'll show you the brook," volunteered Ezekiel, getting up.
"What's a brook?" asked Rachel.
"Hoh—hoh!" Ezekiel really laughed, it was so funny. "She doesn't know what a brook is," he said, and he laughed again.
"Well, what is it?" demanded Rachel, laughing good-naturedly.
"It's water."
"I don't want to see any water," said Rachel, turning off disdainfully; "there's nothing pretty in that."
"But it's awfully pretty," said Peletiah; "it runs all down over the stones, and under the trees and——"
"Where is it?" cried Rachel, running up to him in great excitement. "Oh, take me to it."
"It's just back of the house," said Ezekiel; "I'll show you the way."
But Rachel, once directed, got there first, and was down on her knees on the bank, dabbling her hands in the purling little stream, half wild with delight.
And when the parson and his wife got home from Miss Bedlow's funeral, they found the three children there, perfectly absorbed in the labor of sailing boats of cabbage leaves, and guiding their uncertain craft in and out the shimmering pools and down through the tiny rapids. And they watched them unobserved.
"But I dread to-morrow, when I give her the first lesson," said the parson, as they stood unperceived in the shadow of the trees; "everything else is a splendid success."
"Let us hope the lessons will be, too, husband," said Mrs. Henderson, a happy light in her eyes.
"I hope so, but I'm afraid the child is all for play, and will be hard to teach," he said, with a sigh.
But on the morrow—well, the minister came out of his study when the lesson hour was over, with a flush on his face that betokened pleasure as well as hard work. And Rachel began to skip around for very joy. She was really to be a little student, Mr. Henderson had said. Not that Rachel really knew what that meant exactly, but the master was pleased, and that was enough, and all of a sudden, when she was putting up some dishes in the keeping-room closet, she began to sing.
Mrs. Henderson nearly dropped the dish she was wiping.
"Why, my child!" she exclaimed, then stopped, but Rachel didn't hear her, and sang on. It was a wild little thing that she had heard from the hand organs and the people singing it in the streets of the big city.
Just then old Miss Parrott's stately, ancestral coach drove up. The parson's wife hurried to the front door, which was seldom opened except for special company like the present.
"I heard," said Miss Parrott, as Mrs. Henderson ushered her in, "that you'd taken a little girl out of charity, and I want to see you and your husband about it."
"Will you come into his study, then?" said Mrs. Henderson. "Husband has gone out to work in his garden, and I will call him in."
Miss Parrott stepped into the apartment in stately fashion, her black silk gown crackling pleasantly as she walked, and seated herself very primly, as befitted her ancestry and bringing-up, in one of the stiff, high-backed chairs. And presently the parson, his garden clothes off and his best coat on, came in hurriedly to know his honored parishioner's bidding.
"I will come to the point at once," said Miss Parrott, with dignified precision, as he sat beside her, and she drew herself up stiffer yet, in the pleasing confidence that what she was about to say would strike both of her hearers as the most proper thing to do. "You have taken this little girl, I hear, to educate and bring up."
"For a time," said the minister, hurriedly.
"Very true, for a period of time," said Miss Parrott throwing her black-figured lace veil, worn by her mother before her, away from her face. "Well, now, Pastor, it is not appropriate for you to do this work, with your hands already overburdened. Neither should you bear the expense——"
"But I don't," cried Parson Henderson, guilty now of interrupting. "Mr. King pays me, and well, for teaching the little girl until she will be ready for the district school. You see, she has never been in a schoolroom in her life, and it would be cruel to put her with children of her own age, when she is so ignorant. But she is singularly bright, and I have the greatest hopes of her, madam, for she is far above and beyond most children in many ways."
But Miss Parrott hadn't come to hear all this, so she gave a stately bow.
"No doubt, Pastor, but I must say what is on my mind. It is that I have for some time wanted to do a bit of charity like this, and Providence now seems to point the way for it. I would like to take the child and do for her. Let her come to you here, for lessons, but let me bring her up in my house."
There was an awful pause. Parson Henderson looked at his wife, but said never a word, helplessly leaving it to her.
"Dear Miss Parrott," said Mrs. Henderson, and she so far forgot her fear of the stately, reserved parishioner as to lay her hand on the black-mitted one of the visitor, "we were given the care of the child by Mr. King, who rescued her from her terrible surroundings, and we couldn't possibly surrender this charge to another. But I will tell you what we might do, husband," and her eyes sought his face. "Rachel might go down now and then to spend the day with Miss Parrott. Oh, your beautiful house!" she broke off like a child in her enthusiasm. "I do so want her to be in it sometimes." She turned suddenly to the visitor.
Miss Parrott's old face glowed, and a smile lingered among the wrinkles.
"And she must pass the night occasionally," she said. There was a world of entreaty in her eyes. "I think so," said Mrs. Henderson, "but we must leave that to Rachel."
And Rachel, in the keeping-room closet, was trilling up and down some of the jigs her feet had kept time to when she, with the other tenement-house children, had run out to dance on the corner when the organ man came round, all unconscious of what was going on in the study.
"What's that?" cried Miss Parrott, starting. The conference was over and she was coming out of the pastor's study, to get into her ancestral carriage.
"That's Rachel singing," said Mrs. Henderson.
Old Miss Parrott gasped:
"Why, my dear Pastor, and Mrs. Henderson, can the child sing like that?"
"This is the first time she has tried it," said the parson, who had no ear for music and was sorely tried when expected to admire any specimens of it. "But I dare say she will do very well. She is a very teachable child."
"Very well!" repeated Miss Parrott quickly. "I should say so indeed. Well, I will send for the child on Saturday to pass the day and night with me, and then we shall see what we shall see."
With which enigmatical expression, she mounted her ancestral carriage; the solemn coachman, who had served considerably more than a generation in the family, gathered up the reins, and the coach rumbled off.
"Oh, what an awful old carriage!" exclaimed Rachel, running to the window."It looks as if its bones would stick out."
"It hasn't got any bones," said Peletiah, viewing it with awe, "and she's awful rich, Miss Parrott is."
"I don't care," said Rachel, running back to her work and beginning to sing again, "her carriage is all bones, anyway."