Mr. Burroughs staid to tea, and, while it was being prepared, strolled with Karl about the little farm; looked at the Alderney cow, the Suffolk pigs, the span of Morgan horses named Pope and Pagan; quietly sounded the depths of Capt. Karl's open and joyous nature, and made him talk of his cousin Dora, and reveal his love and his hopes regarding her.
"They will marry out there, and she will manage him, and make him very happy," thought Mr. Burroughs, returning toward the farmhouse, and admiring the long slope of the mossy roof, and the clinging masses of woodbine creeping to the ridge-pole.
"You won't make so picturesque a thing of your new home for several years to come, if ever, Mr. Windsor," added he aloud.
"No, I suppose not; but the genius of our people is more for beginning than ending, and this old place was built by my grandfather," said the young man.
"An excellent and most American reason for deserting it," said Mr. Burroughs gravely; "and, if you are thinking of selling, I should like the opportunity of becoming purchaser. This sort of thing is going out of the market, and I should like to secure a specimen before it is too late. It is same as a picture, except that it is stationary, and one must come to it instead of carrying it away in triumph."
"I think we may like to sell; but I must consult my sister and cousin first," said Karl rather gravely: for, after all, he did not just like the tone assumed by this fine city gentleman in speaking of the place that had been a home to Karl and his ancestors for more than a century. The quick tact of the lawyer perceived the slight wound he had given, and repaired it by carelessly saying,—
"And, besides the beauty of the place, I should be proud possessing any thing that had belonged to a grandfather. My family has been so migratory, that I can hardly say I had a grandfather or not: certainly I have not the remotest idea where he lived."
Capt. Karl laughed.
"Our family has been settled here since the days of the Pilgrims" said he; "and Kitty could show you a family chart, as large as a table-cloth, of which she is mightily proud, although I never could see any particular benefit it has been to us."
"And Miss Dora-is she fond of recalling her ancestors and their fame? or is she satisfied with her own?" asked Mr. Burroughs.
"I don't believe it ever occurred to her that either she or they deserved any," said Karl, laughing. "You never knew a creature so entirely simple and self-forgetful in your life, and yet of so wide and noble a nature. She is never so happy as in doing good to other people."
"But likes to do it in her own way?" suggested the lawyer pleasantly.
"Likes to do it in the best way, and her own way is sure to be that," replied Karl somewhat decidedly; and Mr. Burroughs smiled and bowed.
In the, doorway, under the swinging branch of the tall sweetbrier, suddenly appeared Kitty, her brown face becoming flushed, and the buttons of her under-sleeves not yet adjusted.
"Tea is ready; will you please to walk in, Mr. Burroughs?" said she: and the guest followed, well pleased, to the wide, cool kitchen, with its white, scoured floor, its vine-shaded windows and open door giving a view of broad meadow-lands, with a brook curling crisply through them, and a dark pine-wood beyond. In the centre stood the neat tea-table, with its country dainties of rich cream, yellow butter, custards, ripe peaches sliced and served with sugar, buttermilk-biscuit, and the fresh sponge-cake, on which Kitty justly prided herself.
"You see we are plain country-folks, and eat in the kitchen, Mr. Burroughs," said she, with a little laugh, as they seated themselves.
"Is this room called a kitchen? You amuse yourself by jesting with my ignorance," said Mr. Burroughs, looking about him with affected simplicity. "If ever I should live here, I would call this the refreshing-room; for I can imagine nothing more soothing to eyes weary of a summer sun than these vine-covered windows, and the cool greens of that meadow and the pine-forest beyond."
Kitty smiled a little vaguely, half inclined to insist upon the kitchen-side of the question; when Karl asked, in a disappointed tone,—
"Where is Dora? Isn't she coming?"
"Not yet. Molly waked up, and Dora is giving her some supper. She said she would come as soon as she had done. You didn't know, Mr. Burroughs, that Dora has an adopted child, did you?"
"No, indeed. She is young to undertake such responsibility," saidMr. Burroughs a little curiously.
"This is a little foreigner too, that Dora picked up in the road. No one knows who she may be, or what dreadful people may come after her any day. Dora is so queer!"
"Will you have a biscuit, Kitty? Mr. Burroughs, let me give you some of this peach? We shall be sorry to leave our peach-orchard behind in going to the West. I suppose, however, one can soon be started there."
And Karl, determined not to allow Kitty the chance of making any of her spiteful little speeches about Dora in presence of the visitor, kept the conversation upon purely impersonal topics, until they rose from table, and the two gentlemen strolled out upon the porch at the western door; while Kitty ran up to call Dora, whom she found sitting beside the bed, with Sunshine's head lying upon her arm.
"Isn't she asleep?" whispered Kitty.
The child half opened her eyes, and murmured drowsily,—
"I want to ride on the elephant. It's my little wife."
"What did she say, Dora?"
"Hush! She is out of her head, I think. She has been saying I was her little wife," whispered Dora.
"Well, that's English, anyway," replied Kitty, staring at the child."What do you suppose she is?"
"I don't know. There, pet, there! Hus-h!" As she spoke, Dora carefully withdrew her arm from under the little head, where, in the August night, the hair clung in moist golden spirals, and a soft dew stood upon the white forehead.
"I'll stay and fan her for a while longer, she looks so warm," whispered Dora.
"No, no! come down and eat your supper, and help clear away. Charley asked Mr. Burroughs to stay all night, and I guess he will. Isn't he real splendid? Come down, and talk about him."
Sunshine slept soundly; and Dora, half reluctantly, suffered herself to be led away by her cousin, closing the door softly behind her, and leaving the little child to dreams of a home so far away, and yet so near; of a vanished past, that, even in this moment, stretched a detaining hand from out the darkness, groping for her own; of human love immortal as heaven, and yet, for the moment, less trustworthy than the instinct of the brutes: for if Mr. Thomas Burroughs, instead of being a highly cultivated and intellectual man, had been a dog of only average intelligence, 'Toinette Legrange would already have been discovered and, before another sunset, the slow agony devouring her mother's heart would have been relieved.
But to each of us our gifts; and Mr. Burroughs, never suspecting how deficient were his own, strolled with his host beneath the trees, until the appearance of the young ladies upon the porch; when he joined them, and resumed his conversation with Dora. From army matters, the talk soon wandered to the new prospects of Col. Blank's heiress; and Mr. Burroughs found himself first amused, then animated and interested, quite beyond his wont, in the young girl's plans and expectations.
It was late when the party separated; and as the guest closed the door of the rosy-room, and cast an admiring glance over its neat appointments, he muttered to himself,—
"What a bright, fresh little room! and what a brighter, fresher little girl!-as different from thy city friends, Tom Burroughs, as the cream she pours is from the chalky composition of the hotels. Thou dost half persuade me to turn Hoosier, and help thee convert the wilderness to a blooming garden, O darlingest of Darlings!"
And as the young man, with a half-smile upon his lips, set sail for the vague and beautiful shores of Dreamland, a bright, sweet face lighted by two earnest eyes, seemed to herald him the way, and join itself to all his fairest fancies.
HEAVILY went the days in the lowly home of Mrs. Ginniss and her son. Teddy sought early and late for employment, disdaining nothing, however humble, whereby he might earn a few cents, and working as diligently at street-sweeping, dust-gathering, errand-running, or horse-holding, as he had ever done in the way of gaining an education under the kind tuition of his late master.
Every night he brought home some small sum, and silently placed it in his mother's hand; nor, though she urged it, would he retain a penny for himself, or indulge in any of the small luxuries he had in former days enjoyed so much.
"Go buy a wather-million, honey, or get an ice-crame; sure it's nothin' at all ye're atin'," the fond mother would say: but Teddy always shook his head, or, if the matter were urged, took his cap and went out, always with the weary step that had become habitual to him, and returned no more until bedtime.
"It's frettin' himsilf to his grave the crather is," said poor Mrs. Ginniss, and tried in many a motherly way to make home pleasant to her boy, and to re-awaken the ambition that seemed quite dead in his heart. No more reading aloud now, of which he had been so fond; no more recitals of interesting or humorous scenes in office or street; no more wise opinions upon public events: all the boy's boyish conceit and self-esteem, germs in a strong character of worthy self— respect, seemed crushed out of him. Patient, humble, silent, one could hardly recognize in this Teddy Ginniss that other Teddy, whose cheery voice, frequent laugh, positive opinions and wishes, and good-humored self-satisfaction, had been the leading features of his modest home.
Poor Mrs. Ginniss longed to be contradicted or instructed or laughed at once more, and fought against her son's submissive respect as another mother might have done against disobedience or insolence.
"Can't ye be mad nor yet be merry at nothin', Teddy?" asked she impatiently one day.
"I'm thinking I'll never be merry again, mother," said Teddy sadly, as he left the room.
It was in the afternoon of the same day, that Mrs. Ginniss, sitting at her sewing in melancholy mood enough, heard a little tap at her door, and, opening it, found upon the threshold a lady, elegant in her simple dress of gray, who asked,—
"Are you Mrs. Ginniss?"
"Yes, ma'am; I'm that same," said the laundress, staring strangely at the lovely face framed in a shower of feathery golden ringlets, and lighted by large violet eyes as sad as they were sweet.
"Will ye be plazed to walk in, ma'am?" continued she. "It's but a poor place for the likes uv yees."
The lady made no reply, but, gliding into the room, stood for a moment looking about it, and then turning to the Irish woman, who still regarded her in the same awestruck manner, said piteously,—
"I am her mother!"
"Sure an' I knowed it the minute I sot eyes on ye; for it's the same swate face, an' eyes that's worse nor cryin, ye've got; an' the same way of a born lady, so quite an' so grand. Och! it wor a purty darlint, it wor; an' it's me own heart that's sore for her the day, forbye your'n that's her borned mother; and, if it wor my own life that 'ud fetch her back to yees"—
But here the long breath on which Mrs. Ginniss had started came to an end, and with it the impulse of consolation and self-defence that had so far sustained her; and with a wild cry of "Wurra, wurra! och the black day that's in it!" she sank upon a chair, and buried her head in her apron, sobbing loudly.
The visitor, hardly regarding her, still stood in the centre of the little room, her sad eyes wandering over its humble furniture and adornments as if each one were a relic.
"Are there some little things of hers, clothes or playthings or books,—any thing she touched or loved?" asked she presently in a hushed voice.
Mrs. Ginniss, still crying, rose, and opened a drawer in the pine bureau, which, with a looking-glass and some vases of blue china upon it, stood as the ornamental piece of furniture of the place.
"Here they bees, ivery one uv 'em, and poor enough for her, an' yit the bist we could git," said she.
More as a bird, long restrained and suddenly set free, would dart toward the tree where nest and young awaited it, than in the ordinary mode of human movement, the mother, so long hungering for smallest tidings of her child, darted upon this sudden mine of wealth, and, bending low, seemed to caress each object with her eyes before touching it. Then tearing off her gloves, she laid her white fingers softly upon the coarse garments, the broken toys, the few worn books, and bits of paper covered with pencil-marks, the strip of gay patchwork with the needle still sticking in it, and the little brass thimble upon it.
At one end of the drawer stood a little pair of slippers, with some slightly soiled white stockings rolled up and laid within them. At sight of these, a low cry-it might have been of pain, it might have been of joy-crept from between the pale lips of the mother; and, reverently lifting the little shoes, she kissed them again and again, in an eager, longing fashion, as one might kiss the lips of a dying child whom human love may yet recall to human life.
"Thim's the little shlippers that Teddy saved his bit uv spinding-money till he could buy for her, bekase he said the fut uv her wor too purty to put in sich sthrong shoe's as I'd got; and thin it was mesilf that saved the white little shtockings out uv me tay an' sugar; an' it's like a little fairy (save me for spakin' the word) that she lucked in 'em."
Pressing the little shoes close to her bosom with both hands, the mother turned those mournful eyes upon the speaker, listening to every word, and, at the end, said eagerly,—
"Tell me some more! Tell me every thing she said and did! Oh! was she happy?"
The word had grown so strange upon her lips and in her heart, that, as she said it, all the tense chords, so long attuned to grief, thrilled with a sharp discord; and, turning yet paler than before, she sank upon a chair, and, leaning her forehead on the edge of the open drawer, wept such tears as, pray God, happy mothers, you and I may never weep.
"O my baby, my baby! O my little child!" moaned she again and again, until the tender heart of the Irish woman could endure no longer; and, coming to the side of her guest, she knelt beside her, and put her arms about the slender figure that shook with every sob, and drew the bright head to rest upon her own shoulder.
"O ye poor darlint! ye poor, young crather, that's got the black sorrer atin' inter yer heart, all the same as if ye wor owld an' mane an' oogly, like mesilf!-it's none but Him aboov as kin comfort yees. Blissid Vargin, as was a moother yersilf, an' knowed a moother's pains an' a moother's love, an' all the ins an' outs uv a moother's heart, luck down on this young moother an' help her, an' spake to thim as can help her betther nor yees, an' give back her child; bekase ye mind the time yer own Howly Child wor lost, an' ye sought him sorrerin'; an' ye mind the joy an' the comfort that wor in it whin he was foun'. Och Mother of Jasus! hear us this day, if niver again."
As the passionate prayer ended, the lady raised her head, and kissed the tear-stained cheek of the petitioner.
"Thank you," said she. "I know that you were good to her, and that she loved you; but, oh! did she forget me so soon?"
Alas poor human heart whose purest impulses are tinged with selfishness! You who have lost your nearest and dearest, can you say from your inmost soul that you would be content to know yourself and all of earth forgotten, or that it is sorrow to you to fancy that a lingering memory, a faint regret for the love you so lavished, stains the perfection of heavenly bliss?
Tact is not a matter of breeding; and Chesterfield or Machiavelli could have found no better answer than that of Mrs. Ginniss:—
"Sure, honey, it wor alluz she remembered yees, an' longed for yees; though the little crather wor that yoong, an' the faver had so poot her about, that she didn' know what it wor she wanted nor missed; but it wor 'mother' as wor writ in the blue eyes uv her as plain as prentin'."
"And was she very, very sick?" asked the sad voice again.
"The sickest crather that iver coom back from hivin's gate," replied the other; and then, seating herself beside her visitor, she began at the beginning, and gave a long detail of the circumstances attending Cherry's first appearance in the garret, and her subsequent illness and convalescence. Then came the story of her acquaintance with Giovanni; her passion for dancing and singing with him; and finally their flight, and the consternation and sorrow of her adopted mother.
Mrs. Legrange listened to every thing with the most profound attention, asking now and then a question, or uttering an exclamation; even smiling faintly at mention of the child's graceful dancing and sweet voice in singing.
"Yes, she had an extraordinary ear for music," murmured she; "and to think of her remembering being called Cerito!"
Nor did the mother fail to notice how the whole coarse fabric of the Irish woman's story was embroidered with a golden thread of love and admiration, and even reverence, for the exquisite little creature she had cherished and cared for so tenderly.
"Yes, you loved her; and I love you for it, and will always be your friend. But Teddy?" asked she at last; for Mrs. Ginniss, through the whole story, had carefully avoided all mention of her son, except in the most casual and general fashion. Now, however, she boldly answered,—
"An' its mesilf loved the purty crather well; but my love kim no nearer the love the b'y had for her than the light of a taller candle does to the sun in hiven. He loved her that sthrong, that it med him do a mane thing in kapin' her whin he knowed who she wor; but sure it's betther ter sin fer love than ter sin fer sin's sake."
Mrs. Legrange smiled sadly. To her it had seemed, from the first, small matter of surprise, however great of regret, that Teddy should have found 'Toinette's attractions irresistible; or that, having once appropriated her as his little sister, he should have found it almost impossible to relinquish her.
She had not, therefore, shared at all in the indignation of her cousin and husband toward the boy, and had even solicited the former to retain him in his employ. But Mr. Burroughs, kind, generous, and forbearing as he was, cherished implacable ideas of integrity and honor, and never forgave an offence against either, whether in friend or servant; so that his cousin had finally withdrawn her request, asking, instead, that he should conduct her to Mrs. Ginniss's dwelling, and leave the rest to her. This the young man had consented to do; and, as Mrs. Legrange would not allow him to wait for her, he had privately instructed James to do so, and had not left the outer door until he saw that faithful servitor upon guard.
Just what were her own intentions with regard to Teddy, or his mother, Mrs. Legrange did not herself know; and, once arrived in the room where 'Toinette had lived out the weary months since her loss, all other ideas had faded and disappeared before the memories there confronting her. Now, however, the sweet and generous nature of the woman re-asserted itself, and she kindly said,—
"Yes: I see how great Teddy's temptation was, and I cannot wonder that he yielded to it. Any one would have found it hard to part with 'Toinette; and he, poor boy! could not know how I was suffering. It would have been different if you had known who she was."
"Indade an' it would. One moother can fale fer another; but these childhren hasn't the sinse till they gits the sorrer. Small fear that Teddy'll iver go asthray agin from light-heartedness."
"Does he feel very sorry, then?" asked Mrs. Legrange timidly.
"Sorry isn't the word, ma'am. It's his own heart as he consumes day an' night," said Mrs. Ginniss gloomily.
"Because she is lost, or because he kept her in the first place?" asked the lady.
"It's hard tellin', an' he niver spakin' whin he can help it; but I belave it's all together. He wor sich a bowld b'y, an' so sthrong for risin' in the world; an' wor alluz sayin' as he'd be a gintleman afore he died, an' readin' his bit books and writins, an' tillin' me about the way the counthry wor goin'; an', right or wrong, it's he wor ready to guide the whole of 'em. An', sure, it wor wondherful to see the sinse that wor in him when he get spakin' of thim things; an' one day, whin I said to him,—
"'Sure, Teddy, an', if it's one or tither of 'em is Prisident, what differ'll it make to us?' An' he says, says he, 'Whist, moother! fer one day, mabbe, it's I'll be the Prisident mesilf; an' what way 'ud that be fer me moother to be talkin'?'
"But now it's no sich talk ye'll git out uv him, an' niver a laugh nor a joke, nor the bit bowld ways he used to have wid him. An' och, honey! if ye've lost yer purty darlint, it's I've lost me b'y that wor as mooch to me; an' it's I'm the heavy-hearted woman, this' day an' alluz."
TEDDY, dragging his heavy feet up the stairs in the stifling September twilight, paused suddenly to listen to a murmur of voices in his mother's room.
Some one was speaking; and the pure, clear tone sent a thrill through his veins like the shock of an electric battery. No voice but one had ever sounded like that to him; and, springing up the remaining stairs, Teddy threw open the door of the chamber, and looked eagerly about it.
The one for whom he looked was not there; but, instead, a lady, whose fragile loveliness reminded him so strangely of the little sister as she had looked in her long days of convalescence, that he stood still, staring dumbly.
"An' where's yer manners, Teddy Ginniss? Couldn' ye see the lady forenenst ye, widout starin' like a stuck pig?-It's dazed he is, ma'am, wid seein' the likes uv yees in this poor place."
"Come here, Teddy; I am waiting to see you," said the lady. And again the pure, silvery tones tingled along Teddy's nerves with a sharp, sweet thrill.
"O ma'am! are you her mother?" cried he breathlessly.
"Yes, I am her mother, and have come to see you, who loved her so well, and your good mother, who cared for her when she was motherless"—
The sweet voice faltered, and Teddy broke in,—
"And you needn't be afraid to say the worst that can be said, ma'am. I've said it all before; and you can't hate me worse than I hate myself."
"Hate you, my poor boy? I only pity you; for I have heard, and can see, how much you suffer. I cannot wonder that you should love her so well; and, when you knew who she was, I dare say you were meaning to restore her, so soon as you could bring yourself to it."
"Indeed I was, ma'am. I can take God to witness that I was," said Teddy solemnly, his eyes brimming, and his face working with the strong emotion he tried so hard to subdue.
"I am sure of it; and I love you more for the love you bore her than I blame you for the fault that love led you into." She paused a moment; and then the insatiate mother pride and love burst out, demanding sympathy.
"She was a lovely child, wasn't she, Teddy?" asked she with a tremulous smile.
The boy's rough face lighted, as if by reflection from her own, as he replied,—
"O ma'am! it's so good of you to let me talk about her! There was never another like her in all the world, I believe. I used to take her walking Sundays, and look at all the children we met (some of them rich folks' children, and dressed all out in their best); but there was never one could hold a candle to my little sister. Oh! and I hope you'll forgive me that word, ma'am; for I know it's no business I had ever to call her so, or think of her so; but I was so proud of her!"
"I don't need to forgive you, Teddy. It shows how much you loved her; and that is what I like to think best."
"But if you please, ma'am, will you tell me what is doing about looking for her?" asked Teddy eagerly.
"Very little now," answered the lady sadly. "The police traced Giovanni, the Italian organ-grinder, to the station, where he took the cars for the West. At Springfield, a man answering to his description, with a little girl, staid all night; and next day the child danced-in the streets."
The mother's face grew deadly pale as she said the last words, and she paused a moment. Teddy turned away his head, and Mrs. Ginniss groaned aloud. Mrs. Legrange went on hurriedly:—
"Where they went afterwards is not yet discovered; but they are looking everywhere. It seems so strange"—
She fell into a momentary revery, thinking, as she thought so many, many times in every day, how hard and strange it seemed that no clew could be found to her lost darling beyond the terrible day that saw her dancing in the public streets,—an ignominy, that, to the lady's sensitive mind, seemed almost equivalent to death.
Perhaps it would have been kinder had her husband and cousin told her the worst they knew or suspected, and allowed her to mourn her child as dead. The acute detective in whose hands the new clew had been placed had not only traced the fugitives to Springfield, as Mrs. Legrange had said, but had ascertained at what hour they left the hotel for the railway-station. It was impossible, however, to discover for what point the Italian had purchased tickets, as the station-master had no recollection of him, and the baggage-master was sure he had seen "no sich lot" as was described to him.
And, from Springfield, a man may take passage to almost any point in the Union. One startling fact remained, and upon this fact the whole report of the detective turned.
The train leaving Springfield for Albany upon the night when Giovanni left that town, encountered, at a certain point, another train, which, by some incomprehensible stupidity, was supposed to have passed that point half an hour before.
Consequences as usual,—frightful loss of life; a game of give and take in the newspapers, as to who should bear the blame, finally resulting in a service of plate to one party, and a donation in money to the other; several lawsuits brought by enterprising widowers who demand consolation for the loss of their wives; by other men, who, having skulked the draft, now found themselves minus both legs and glory; by spinsters whose bandboxes had been crushed, and by young ladies whose beauty had suffered damage from broken noses and scattered teeth.
But, among all these sufferers, not one remembered seeing an Italian organ-grinder with a little girl until, at the very last, a small boy was found, who averred, that, on the morning after the disaster, he had seen a sort of box, with a little creature chained to the top of it, floating down the river; and that the little creature had seemed very much scared, and kept laughing, and showing all his teeth; and that they had gone on and out of sight. And that was all he knew about it.
The river!-what use to question those dark and swollen waters? what use to demand of them the bright form, that, it might be, slept beneath them?-it might be, had been washed piecemeal to the ocean?
At the brink of that river, mournful and terrible as Styx, river of the dead, ended, that night, the story of many a life; and why not that of the child so strangely lost, so nearly recovered, and now, perhaps, lost again forever?
"We have found her, I am afraid, Tom," said Mr. Legrange to his cousin, as the detective closed his report, and his two hearers looked at each other. "But," added the father, "keep on; keep every engine at work; search everywhere; spend any amount of money that is needful; leave no chance untried. Remember, the reward is always ready." And, when they were alone, he added,—
"But, Tom, don't tell her. She can't bear it as we can. Poor little Sunshine!" And, to show how well he bore it, the father hid his face, and sobbed like a woman.
"No, I won't say any thing," said Tom Burroughs in a strange, choked voice. And so we come back to Mrs. Legrange wistfully saying, "It seems so strange"—
And then, with the patience of a woman, she put aside her own great grief, and added,—
"But, Teddy, I am going to do something for you; and what shall it be? You wish to be educated; do you not?"
"O ma'am! but I've give it up now."
Mrs. Legrange smiled at the sudden enthusiasm and the sudden blank upon the boy's face, and answered, almost gayly,—
"But I have not given it up for you, Teddy.-By the way, Mrs.Ginniss, is that your son's real name?-his whole name, I mean?"
"It's short for Taodoor, I'm thinkin', ma'am; but joost Teddy we alluz calls it."
"Ah, yes! Theodore. That is a very nice name, and will sound better, when he comes to be a lawyer or doctor or minister, than Teddy. Don't you think so?"
"Ye're right, ma'am: it's a dale the dacenter name uv the two; an' Taodoor I'll call him iver an' always," said Mrs. Ginniss complacently.
"I was thinking more of what other people would call him," said Mrs. Legrange, smiling a little. "Some friends of mine are interested in a school and college at the West,—somewhere in Ohio, I believe. It is a very fine school and the West is the place for a young man who means to rise. So, Theodore, if you would like to go, I shall be very happy to see to all your expenses until you graduate, and to help you about settling in a profession, or in trade, as you like."
Teddy's healthy face turned deadly white; and, although his lips trembled violently, not a word came from between them. But Mrs. Ginniss, raising hands and eyes to heaven, called down such a shower of blessings from so many and varied sources, in such an inimitable brogue, that the pen refuses to transcribe her rhapsody, as Mrs. Legrange failed to comprehend more than the half of it.
"I am glad you are pleased; and it pleases me as much as it can you," said she, half frightened at the Celtic vehemence of the other's manner and language.
"I can't say what I want to, ma'am," spoke a low voice beside her; "but if you'll believe I'm grateful, and wait till some time when I can show it better than I can now-that time will come, if we both live. And when I'm a man, if she isn't found first, I'll go the world round but I'll find her, and Jovarny too: I'll promise that."
A wan smile played over the lovely face, as Mrs. Legrange, laying her hand upon the boy's, said kindly,—
"If she is not found before then, Teddy, I shall not be here to know it."
Then going to the drawer, still standing open, she said,—
"May I have some of these little things, Mrs. Ginniss; not all,—forI know that you love them too,—but some of them?"
So Mrs. Ginniss made a package of the relics; and Teddy asked and obtained the privilege of carrying it home for his new friend, while James stalked discontentedly behind.
Upon the way, Mrs. Legrange said quietly, "I left a little money in the drawer, Theodore. It is to buy you some new clothes, and whatever else you and your mother need most. And I have just thought of something else. How would your mother like living in the country?"
"Very much, ma'am, I think. Her father had a farm in Ireland, and she is mighty fond of telling about it."
"Well, Mr. Legrange has recently made me a present of a nice old farmhouse somewhere in the western part of the State, thinking I might like to go there for a few weeks in the summer. It is a lovely place, they say; and, if your mother would like it, she might go there and keep the house for me. A man is going to take care of the farm, and he could board with her."
"That would be first-rate, ma'am," said Teddy enthusiastically. "But you're doing too much for us entirely."
"You were kind to her, Teddy; and I cannot do too much for you," said Mrs. Legrange, lowering her veil.
"TIME they was here, ain't it, miss?" asked Mehitable Ross, wiping the flour from her bare arms, and coming out upon the step of the door.
"Yes," said Dora: "I expect them every moment. Is tea all ready?"
"All but the short-cakes. I hain't put them down to bake yet, because they're best when they're first done. But the cold meat is sliced, and the strawberries dished, and the johnny-cake a-baking."
"Well, keep them all as nice as you can; and I will walk out a little, and meet the wagon."
"Take Argus along, you'd better, case you should meet one of them tiger-cats Silas told on."
Dora smiled, but called, "Argus!" and at the word a great hound came leaping from one of the out-buildings, and fawned upon his young mistress; then, with stately step and uplifted head, followed her along the faint track worn by the wheels of the ox-cart in the short, sweet grass of the prairie.
The young girl walked slowly, and, at the distance of some rods from the house, stopped, and, leaning against the stem of a great chestnut-tree, stood looking earnestly down the path as it wound into the forest, and out of sight. Then her eyes turned slowly back, and lingered with a strange and solemn joy upon the scene she had just left; while from her full heart came one whispered word that told the whole story of her emotion,—
"Home!"
For this was Outpost, Dora's inheritance from her friend and father, Col. Blank; and she felt to-night, as she waited to welcome home the family whose head she had become, that her duties and responsibilities were indeed solemn and onerous. Not too much so, however, for the courage and strength the young girl felt within her soul,—the energy and will so long without an adequate field of action.
"Plenty to do, and, thank God, plenty of health and strength to do it. Experience will come of itself," thought Dora; and from her throbbing heart went up a "song without words," of joy and praise and high resolve.
It was June now; but the house at Outpost had only been ready for occupancy a week or so. The family had left Massachusetts about the first of October in the previous autumn, and had spent the winter in Cincinnati; Dora having been reluctantly convinced of the folly of proceeding to Iowa at that season. With the opening of spring, however, she had made a journey thither, escorted by Charles Windsor, and accompanied by Seth and Mehitable Ross,—a sturdy New-England couple, who were very glad, in emigrating to the West, to avail themselves of the offers made by Dora, who engaged the man as principal workman upon the new farm, and his wife as assistant in the labors of the house.
The site selected by Col. Blank proved a very satisfactory one. But Dora rejected his plans of a house, submitted to her by Mr. Ferrars, as too expensive, and too elaborate for the style of living she proposed; and chose, instead, a simple log-cabin, divided into four rooms, with another at a little distance for the accommodation of Ross and his wife, who were also to keep whatever additional workmen should be required upon the place.
These buildings, neatly and substantially formed of logs from the neighboring wood, were placed at the top of a natural lawn half enclosed by primeval forest; while at its foot nearly a quarter of a mile away, wound the blue waters of the Des Moines; and beyond it, swept to the horizon, mile after mile of prairie, limitless, apparently, as ocean, and, like ocean, solemnly beautiful in its loneliness and calm.
The house faced south; and eastward from its door, across the lawn and into the rustling wood, wound the faint wheel-track, leading back to civilization, ease, and safety: but Dora, standing beneath the chestnut-tree, fixed her dreamy eyes upon the setting sun, and, half smiling at her own fancy, thought,—
"I wonder if God doesn't make the western sky so beautiful just to draw us toward it. There is so much to do here, and so few to do it!"
A distant noise in the forest attracted her attention; and Argus, who had been dreaming at the feet of his mistress, started up with a short bark.
"Hush, Argus! It's the wagon; don't you know?" explained Dora, as she hastened down the path, and, at the distance of a few hundred rods, caught sight of the black heads of Pope and Pagan, and, the next moment, of the wagon and its occupants.
These were Karl, Kitty, and Sunshine, the two last of whom had remained all the spring in Cincinnati, while Karl and Dora had vibrated between that city and Outpost; for Dora, while choosing to superintend the building of her house and opening of the farm operations in person, had not wished to expose her cousin or the delicate child to such discomforts as she cheerfully and even gayly bore for herself.
Kitty, moreover, had found the change from her native seclusion to a gay city very pleasant; and had made so many acquaintances in Cincinnati, that she declared it was a great deal worse than leaving home to abandon them all.
"Oho! here's the general come to meet us! Whoa, Pope! don't you see your mistress? Now, then!" shouted Karl; while Kitty cried,—
"O Dora! I'm so glad to see you alive!" And little Sunshine, jumping up and down in the front of the wagon, exclaimed,—
"Dora's come! Dora's come! Karlo said we'd come to Dora by and by!"
"O you little darling! if Dora isn't glad to see you again! Kitty, how do you do? I'm so glad to see you!"
She had jumped into the wagon as she spoke; and, after giving Kitty a hearty kiss and hug, she took Sunshine in her arms, and buried her face in the child's sunny curls.
"Am I your own little girl, Dora? and do you love me same as you always did?" asked Sunshine anxiously. "Kitty said you'd so much to think about now, that maybe you wouldn't care for us."
"Oh! Kitty never meant that, dear," said Dora quickly; and Kitty, with rather a forced laugh, added,—
"Of course I didn't. It was only a joke, Molly. You talked so much about Dora, I wanted to plague you a little."
The child looked earnestly at her for a moment; and then, putting her arms about Dora's neck, hid her face upon her bosom, murmuring,—
"I'm glad I've got Dora again!"
"Well, now everybody else is attended to, hasn't the general a word for his humble orderly?" asked Karl, turning to smile over his shoulder at the group behind.
"Why, you jealous old Karl! you know you've only been away two weeks, and the girls I have not seen for almost as many months: besides, I told you not to call me general, and yourself orderly."
"Oh! that reminds me of a new name for pet. You know she persists in calling me Karlo; so I have given her the title of Dolce: and the two of us together are going some day to paint pictures far fairer than those of our great original."
"Carlo Dolce? Yes: Mr. Brown told me about him once, and said his name only meant sweet Charley," said Dora simply.
"I wonder, then, that you should have left it for Sunshine to discover how appropriate the name is to me," said Karl with mock gravity.
"I'll call you sweet Charley if you like; only it must be at all times, and before all persons," said Dora roguishly.
"No, I thank you," replied her cousin, laughing. "Fancy Parson Brown's face if he should hear such a title, or Seth's astonishment if you told him to call sweet Charley to dinner! But isn't Dolce a pretty name? Let us really adopt it for her."
"Well, if she likes; but I shall call her Sunshine still sometimes."
"What say, pet? will you have Dolce for a name?" asked Karl, turning to pinch the little ear peeping from Sunshine's curls.
"I don't know; would you, Dora?" asked the child, gravely deliberating.
"Yes: I think it is pretty."
"And Kitty sha'n't call me Molly any more; shall she?"
"Don't you like Molly?"
"No: because that man in Cincinnati asked me if my last name wasCoddle; and it ain't."
"Oh, dear! what an odd little thing she is!" exclaimed Kitty. "It was Mr. Thomson, Dora; and he is so witty, you know! And one day he asked the child if her name wasn't Miss Molly Coddle, just for a joke, you see; and we all laughed: but she ran away; and, when I went to my room, there she was crying, and wouldn't come down again for ever so long. She's a regular little fuss-bunch about such things."
"Very strange, when you and I are so fond of being ridiculed and laughed at!" remarked Karl gravely; and Sunshine whispered,—
"Am I a fuss-bunch, Dora?"
Dora did not answer, except by a little pat upon the child's rosy cheek, as she exclaimed,—
"Here we are! Look, Kitty! that is home; and we must bid each other welcome, since there is no one to do it for us both except Mehitable, and I don't believe she will think of it."
"Well, I must say, Dora, you've got things to going a great deal better than I should expect," said Kitty graciously, as she looked about her. "Why, that sweetbrier beside the door, and the white rose the other side, are just like ours at home; and the woodbine growing up the corner too!"
"They came from the old home, every one of them," said Dora, smiling happily. "I wrote in the spring, and asked Mr. Burroughs to be so kind as to ask whoever lives in the house to take up a little root of each of the roses, and send them to me by express. You know he said, when we left, that we should have any thing we liked from the place, then or afterwards. So he wrote such a pleasant note, and said he had sold the house to a cousin of his, a Mr. Legrange, who had made a present of it to his wife; but I could have the slips all the same: and next day, to be sure, they came, all nicely packed in matting, and some other plants with them. Karl brought them out and set them in April; and they are growing beautifully, you see. Wasn't Mr. Burroughs good?"
Kitty did not answer. She was bending low over the sweetbrier, and inhaling the fragrance of its leaves. Karl and Sunshine had driven to the barn, and the girls remained alone. Dora glanced sharply at her cousin once, and then was turning away, when Kitty detained her, and said in a low voice,—
"My mother planted that sweetbrier, and used to call it herMarnie-bush, after me."
"I know it," said Dora softly.
"And that was the reason you brought it here. And I have been cross to you so much! But I did love her so, Dora! oh, you don't know how much I loved my mother! That is the reason I never will let any one call me Marnie now. It was the name she always called me, though Kitty belongs to me too; but she said it so softly! And to think you should bring the Marnie-bush all the way from Massachusetts!"
"I thought you would like it, dear," said Dora absently; while her eyes grew dim and vague, and around her mouth settled the white, hard line, that, in her reticent nature, showed an emotion no less intense because it was suppressed.
Then her arm stole round Kitty's waist, and she whispered in her ear,—
"We two motherless girls ought to feel for each other, and love each other better than those who never knew what it is; shouldn't we, Kitty?"
"We should that, Dora," returned her cousin with emphasis; "and I don't believe I shall forget again right away. Let us begin from now, and see how good we can be to each other."
Dora's kisses, except for Sunshine, were almost as rare as her tears; but she gave one now to Kitty, who accepted it as sufficient answer to her proposition.
At this moment, Mehitable, who had, at the appearance of the wagon, rushed home to give a finishing touch to her toilet, was seen crossing the little interval between the two houses with an elaborate air of unconsciousness of observation, and carrying a large white handkerchief by its exact centre.
"My!-how fine we look!" whispered Kitty.
"This is my cousin, Miss Windsor, Mehitable," said Dora simply. "I believe you didn't see her in Cincinnati?"
"No: she was away when we was there.-Happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Windsor. How do you like out here?"
"Well, I don't know yet. I never tried keeping house in a log-cabin.You'll have to show me how, I expect," said Kitty rather loftily.
"Lor! I guess you know as much as I do about it. I never see a log-cabin in my life till we come out here. My father had a fust-rate house, cla'borded and shingled, and all, down in Maine; and we alluz had a plenty to do with of every sort: so I hain't no experience at all in this sort of way."
"But you have a way of getting on without it that is almost as good. I don't know what I should have done without Mehitable, Kitty; and I dare say she will help you very much by telling all the ingenious ways she has contrived to make our rude accommodations answer. You know, as we are all beginning together, each must help on the other; and we must all keep up our courage, and try to be contented."
"Well, I must say I never see one that kep' up her own courage, and everybody else's, like her, since I was born into the world," said Mehitable, turning confidentially to Kitty. "Talk of my helping her! Lor! if it hadn't been for her, I never would have stopped here over night, in the world. Why, the first night, I didn't do nothing but roar the whole night long. Mr. Ross he said I'd raise the river if I didn't stop: but in the morning down come Miss Dora, looking so bright and sunshiny, that I couldn't somehow open my head to say I wouldn't stop; and then she begun to talk"—
"Mehitable, the short-cake is done. Will you speak to Mr. Windsor?" called Dora from within; and Kitty entered, saying,—
"How nice the tea-table looks!-just like home, Dora; the old India china and all."
"It is home, Kit-cat. Here is Karl, and here is little Sunshine. Come, friends, and let us sit down to our first meal in the new house," said Dora: and Kitty, subduing a little feeling of fallen dignity, seated herself at the side of the table; leaving the head for Dora, who colored a little, but took it quietly.