When the fleet to which the Nautilus belonged reached the Banks, everything seemed exceptionally propitious. The weather was fine and tranquil for March, and the fish fairly asking to be taken. In fact, it was all "too lucky," as old Captain Sennett of the Nautilus growled occasionally, he being, like all sailors, superstitious to the core, and "fond of his blow," as the crew put it.
They made a "big haul," with which they put into port, and after disposing of it started out again, only to make a trip as disastrous as the former had been fortunate. There was a week of the "dirtiest" kind of weather,—head-winds, fogs, and treacherous "breezes," which strained every timber in the old tub of a Nautilus, as she rolled clumsily about in the turbulent waves.
At length there came a night (it was one of those in which Sara had watched with baby during the measles) when the sea, as if scorning all previous performances, seemed lashing itself into a very climax of rage. Smutty rags of clouds flew across the ominous horizon, and spiteful gusts, apparently from every direction of the compass, caught the old Nautilus in wild arms, and tossed her about like a foot-ball.
She had sprung a slight leak also, nothing dangerous in a stanch vessel, but an added straw, which might prove the last in this straining wrestle with wind and sea, and she did not answer her rudder as her steersman could have wished.
"Will she stan' it, cap'n, think ee?" asked Reuben anxiously, as a momentary pause in the pounding and smashing found them together.
"God A'mighty knows!" was the solemn answer. "If her rudder"—
The rest was drowned in a new shriek of the blast, and Reuben threw himself flat and clung for dear life to the winch, as a wave washed over the deck, smashing everything breakable into kindling-wood, and almost drowning the two, whom instinct and long practice helped to cling, in spite of the fact that the very breath was beaten out of their bodies.
But this, bad as it seemed, was only the beginning of troubles. There were hours of just such experiences; and Reuben's strength, robust as it was, began to fail him beneath the strain.
In such storms there is no rest for the sailor. Something is needed of him every moment, especially upon these fishing smacks and schooners, which carry such small crews; and often forty or more hours will pass with literally no rest at all.
They labored on until evening set in once more, and all hands had just been ordered aft to secure a broken spar, when Nick the boy uttered a fearful cry, which gave every man a start. They followed the direction of his horrified gaze, and saw a danger which paralyzed the stoutest nerve. Just ahead was a "gray-back,"—sailor parlance for a wave which is to all other waves as a mountain to a hillock,—and Reuben felt their doom was sealed, for the old Nautilus, disabled as she was already, could never stand that terrific onslaught.
With one short, desperate prayer he closed his eyes and clung with the grip of the dying to the shattered spar.
It was all over in a moment. A roar like a thousand thunders, a stunning blow impossible to imagine, and then—a broad, wreck-strewn expanse, amid which those few poor atoms of humanity showed but as black dots for a moment, soon to be sucked beneath the seething waves.
By dawn of the next day the storm was over, for that gray-back had been one of those climaxes in which nature seems to delight; and, having done its worst, the winds hushed their fury, and wailed away into a chill, sullen, but clearing morning.
The remainder of the fleet, scattered in every direction by the storm, did not discover the absence of the Nautilus till mid-forenoon, when bits of wreckage, into which they sailed, soon told the pitiful story. Towards noon two bodies were found, that of the captain and steersman, afloat in the pilot-house, but no more; the fate of Reuben, the boy, and the three other hands could only be conjectured.
The next day the drowned men were given honorable burial; and many of the remaining vessels, having been almost disabled by the fury of the elements, had to make for the nearest port for repairs.
Then came a fair and "lucky" run, in which not a hand could be spared to carry the news home, for these fishermen learn to look almost with contempt upon death and disaster. Many a poor fellow with a broken limb must go days, even weeks, before he can reach a physician; and the friends on shore are left as long in ignorance of their fate.
Nearly a month had passed, then, since that awful night, when Jasper Norris, dreading his task as he had never dreaded any physical danger in his life, walked down the village street toward Sara and Morton in the cottage doorway.
The former watched him with a growing feeling of suffocation and tightness about her throat and heart, for the droop of his figure was ominous.
Had there been good news he would have given a sailors' hurrah at sight of them, and bounded on, waving his cap in welcome. But, still in dead silence, he turned into the little broken gate, and walked up the path to the door.
Sara, quite white now, and leaning for support against the jamb, kept her piercing eyes on his face, though his would not meet their gaze; while Morton rolled great frightened orbs from one to the other, as from within came unconscious Molly's gleeful babble, and the baby's sweet little trills of laughter.
"Jasper!" gasped Sara in desperation, "why—why don't you speak?"
He looked up, and made a hopeless gesture with his hands.
"Don't, Sairay," he said huskily, "don't give way, but—but I've bad news."
A great trembling now shook her limbs, and she lifted her hands as if to ward off a blow, but her agonized eyes seemed dragging the words out of him.
"Your father, Sairay, he's—he's—the Nautilus went to pieces, like the tub she wor, and he's"—
"Drowned!" screamed Morton, putting his hands to his ears.
"Who's drowned?" cried Molly, running to them. "Why, Jap, that you?Where's pa?"
Sara, who had not spoken, at this dropped to the doorstep, and, doubling up in a forlorn little heap, buried her face in her hands. Morton burst out crying; and Molly, with a puzzled look around, joined in promptly, thinking it the proper thing to do, though she had not yet an idea of what had really happened.
But why prolong the heart-rending scene, as little by little Jasper stammered out all the story he had to tell, and the poor children began to realize how doubly orphaned they were? This was a grief before which the loss of their. stepmother seemed as nothing. They had loved their big, kind, good-natured father as a companion, far more than a parent; and the thought of never meeting him again, of never hearing his well- known greeting after his absences,—
"Waal, waal, younkers, come and kiss your old dad! Did you miss him much, eh?"—seemed intolerable.
Sara, under this new blow, for a time lost all self-control, and broke into such a passion of grief, that Jasper, much frightened, ran for the nearest neighbor, Mrs. Updyke.
She soon appeared,—a gaunt woman, with a wrinkled visage, and a constant sniff.
"Land sakes!" she cried, upon hearing Jasper's ill news, "Yeouw don't say! Well, well, it's a disposition o' Providence, to be sure!" by which she doubtless meant a dispensation, though it did not much matter, for no one paid the slightest attention to her moral axioms just then.
By this time the news had spread, and the neighbors were flocking to the afflicted cottages; for all the drowned men had lived in Killamet, and were well known, while each had left a wife, mother, or some weeping female relative, to mourn his loss.
But all agreed that the Olmstead case was hardest, or, if they did not, Mrs. Updyke took pains to impress that idea upon them with a decisive sniff; for, being a next-door neighbor, she naturally desired that the affliction close by should outrank all other distress in the village.
But, finding Sara oblivious just now to everything but her grief, she left her to pace back and forth, wringing her hands and moaning like some caged creature, contenting herself with telling the children "they could mourn for their poor pa jest as well with less noise," while she prepared to receive the sympathetic callers with an intense satisfaction, which the solemnity of the occasion could not quench.
"Yes, it's a awful visitation," she sniffed, as the curious, friendly women flocked in; "I don't know's I ever hearn tell of a harrowin'er! Four orphans, with no pa nor ma!" (Sniff, sniff.) "Molly, when that babby squirms so, is it pins or worms?"
"He wants Sara," sobbed the poor child, whose laughter and dimples were now all drowned in tears.
But Sara, unheeding of everybody, still kept up that wild walk back and forth, back and forth, every groan seeming wrenched from her very soul; and poor baby had to squirm,—and stand it.
Ah! that is a lesson that comes almost with our first breath!
"Poor child!" said one little dumpling of a woman. "Let me take him home: he'll be amused with my Johnnie, I know. Come baby!" and, managing at length to coax him away, she took him to more cheerful surroundings, where he was soon quite as happy sucking a peppermint lozenge, and watching Johnnie with his toys, as if no father lay buried under the cruel, restless sea.
Meanwhile, awed by Sara's intense grief, the women stood about, quite powerless, and gazed at her.
"Cain't we do nothin'?" asked Betty Pulcher, who could never endure inaction. "What is there todo?" "Nothin'," sniffed Mrs. Updyke solemnly, "least-wise, not now. Ye see, thar won't be no funeral to make ready fur, an' the sermon won't be till a Sunday. I've gin the house a hasty tech to red it up; an' ef the Armatts an' the Simcotes (them o' his fust wife's kin, an' his own, ye know) should come over from Norcross, we'll hev to divide 'em up. I kin sleep two on 'em, an' eat four, I guess, ef the rest on ye'll do as much."
Each one agreed to do their best, this cannibal-sounding proposition meaning nothing worse than true fishwives' hospitality; and the group had gathered in a knot to discuss in low tones the children's "prospec's" for the future, when Mrs. Norris and Miss Plunkett came in.
They were cousins, and something alike in face and manner, though the spirituality in Miss Prue's visage became a sort of shrewd good-humor in that of Mrs. Norris; and now each proceeded in a characteristic way to her duty.
Miss Prue went straight to Sara, and took the poor, unstrung little bundle of nerves into her arms, her very touch, both firm and gentle, bringing comfort to the half-crazed girl. She did not say much of anything, only kissed her and wept with her; but soon the violence of Sara's grief was subdued, and her heart-rending moans sank into long, sobbing breaths.
Mrs. Norris, after one pitying look, turned to the women.
"Don't you think, friends, it is possible that seeing so many makes her worse? We all want to do something, I know. Mrs. Deering, you're so good with children, why not take the twins home with you for to-day? Perhaps your own bairnies will help to comfort them! And, Betty Pulcher, their clothes will need some fixing, no doubt, for Sunday. You're just the one to manage that; and get Mandy Marsh and Zeba Osterhaus to help you: they'll be glad to, I know. And you, Mrs. Updyke, and Mrs. Shooter,— were you going to look after the cooking, and so on? There'll likely be a crowd over for the sermon."
As each one was given just the work she preferred, and as there seemed little more chance of excitement here, they soon separated, not realizing they had been sent home, however; and a blissful quiet reigned.
When Mrs. Norris stepped outside to close the gate after the last one, a voice arrested her.
"Mother! mother!"
She turned.
"Why, Jap, what are you doing there?" as her son came around one of the rear corners of the little building.
"I'm just—waiting. Say, mother," tremulously, "will it—kill her?"
"Kill her? Who, Sairay? No, indeed. She's lots better now. Gracious! you look sick yourself, child!"
"I'll never do such a thing again, mother,—never! I felt as if I'd stabbed her to the heart. Do—do you s'pose it'll make her—turn agin me?"
"Gracious! No; what an idee! Why, you've worked yourself into a regular chill, I declare. Go home, and tell Hannah to fix you up a good stiff dose of Jamaica ginger right away. Well, I never!"
"Then you think she's coming out of it all right?"
"I think she's enough sight better'n you'll be, if you don't go and do what I tell you this minute; now hustle!" and Jasper, knowing his mother's decisive ways, walked away without more ado.
But not home; not to Hannah's ministering care and the Jamaica ginger, but to a little cove by the sea where, with his body thrown flat on the rocks, and his face buried in his hands, he wept like a child himself, for pure sympathy with that orphaned girl who was so dear to him.
But the poor, perhaps fortunately, have little time for mourning. As the first hint of the long winter came in on the September's equinox, poor Sara had to rouse herself, and she began to look about her with despairing eyes. Friends, so far, had been most kind, and the little family had never actually suffered; but now that the few summer resources for picking up an occasional dollar were ended, what had they to look forward to in the long months to come?
Reuben Olmstead had owned the poor little cottage in which they lived, so a roof over their heads might be counted on, but not much besides; for his share in the last fishing-expedition, promptly paid over by Jasper, had soon been swallowed up by the family's needs, so greatly reduced had they become before it arrived.
Sara was not, perhaps, a good financier,—few girls of barely eighteen are,—but she had done her best, and her feeling had often been that of a mother-bird, wearied by a long day's search for worms, who always finds the mouths stretched wide as ever, clamoring for more. The task of filling those mouths seemed a hopeless one.
"What can I do?" she thought, as she sat huddled over the tiny fire one day, waiting for the children to come home from school. "The flour is all gone, and the potatoes nearly, and so little wood!"
She shivered, then turned to see if the sleeping baby were well covered, and resumed her dreary musing.
"I don't wonder our people almost welcome a wreck when they are so poor. Of course it's wicked; but if there must be storms, and ships have got to go to pieces—God forgive me! I believe I was almost wishing for one, myself! If there were only something I could do; but what can I? Here are the children; they must be cared for, and the baby above all,—what can one do when there's a baby to look after? I suppose some would say, ask her people to take him; but who is there? Her mother is dead, and her father a deaf old man who can't live long; she had no sisters, and her brothers are sailors who are off all the time. There's only her cousin 'Liza, and I couldn't give the poor little fellow up to that hard, coarse woman; besides, I promised her and I promised father to care for him myself. If I could go out into the world, it seems as if I might find a place; I am strong and young, and not afraid to work, but here there is no opportunity."
Then, after a long, silent gaze into the fire,—
"God certainly knows all about it; he could help me if he would; I wonder why he doesn't? Does he treat us as I sometimes do baby—corner us all up till there's only one way to go, and so make us walk straight? But to walk straight now looks as if it led to starvation."
Her head drooped lower, and her thoughts grew too roving and uncontrolled for connected expression; in fact, her brooding had become almost actual dreaming, when the door swung back with a bang, and the two children rushed in, Molly screaming with laughter and resistance as she fled before Morton, who was close at her heels.
"Sara! Sara! make him stop! I"—
She was stopped herself by a sudden crash, and all three stood in blank affright and astonishment as the oval, gilt-framed mirror, which hung between the front windows, fell to the floor in the midst of them, and shivered into a dozen pieces. It had been one of the proud possessions of their own mother when she came to the house as a bride, and was the principal ornament of their humble living-room, as all swiftly remembered; and besides, there was that gloomy superstition which had been instilled into them since infancy,—a broken mirror meant death and disaster.
Even Sara was not proof against this. In fact, there are scarcely any of us, no matter how good and wise we may be, who do not have some such pet remnant of barbarism clinging to our souls; and Sara now stood, pale and aghast as the others, looking at that fateful, shattered glass! The baby, thus rudely awakened, set up a lively scream, which broke the spell of awed silence that seemed to have held them all until now. Molly, with a flounce of resignation, cried out,—
"Well, it's more trouble, of course, but we're getting used to it fast!"
Sara said, rather sharply,—
"Go get the baby, Molly, and be quiet, if you can; and, Morton, help me gather up the bits." While Morton, who was already down on the floor, remarked in his slow, thoughtful way,—
"I don't see what we've done, Sara, to have things keep happening so dreadful, do you?"
Sara did not know. Just then the usual sweetness of her nature seemed turning to gall. If she could have put her thoughts into words, she would have said it seemed as if some awful Thing, instead of the God of love, sat up aloft mocking at her wretchedness; and she felt for the instant, as she crossed the floor after the old broom, an impotent rage, almost scorn, of this mighty power which could stoop to deal such malignant blows against a helpless girl.
It was but a moment,—one of those fierce, instantaneous rebellions of the natural heart, which overcome us all at times of utter wretchedness,—then, just as she laid hands on the broom, there came a cry, a choked, wondering cry from Morton,—"Sara! O Sara!"
She turned; what now?
The boy, in removing the larger fragments of the glass from the boards at the back of the frame, had come across something slipped in between, and now held it up with shaking hands and shining eyes. It was a neat pile of greenbacks, laid out straight and trim, with a paper band pinned around them. Sara looked, comprehended, and felt like falling on her knees in repentant gratitude!
But, instead, she sprang towards him, and caught the package from his hands. Twice she counted it; could it be possible? Here were three hundred dollars; a sum that seemed like a fortune to the girl.
Three hundred dollars between them and suffering; and the Thing up aloft became instantly a Friend, a Father, and a God!
Molly, attempting a pirouette with the baby, now stumbled amid thedebris, and for an instant distracted Sara's attention, as she sprang to steady her, and catch the imperilled little one from her irresponsible arms, and Morton remarked hesitantly,—
"Say, Sara, I guess I wasn't feeling just right about things, and I declare this makes me sort of ashamed!"
"Ashamed? Pshaw! Well, it doesn't me!" cried Molly, dancing about. "NowI can have a new dress, and some shoes—
"'Way hay, storm along, John,Old Stormy, he'"—
"Molly! Molly! How often must I tell you not to sing those coarse sailor songs? Now, do sit down, before you cut your feet on this glass. Morton, you see poor mother did divide that money, after all. I presume she left out just a few dollars for every-day expenses, which was what baby threw in the fire, but this must be the bulk of the money that father brought from Squire Scrantoun's."
"Yes," said Morton, still with solemn emphasis; "and perhaps, Sara, broken looking-glasses don't always mean that somebody's going to die; if they did, this would have broken last summer, wouldn't it?"
"I don't know just what to think, Morton," squeezing the baby for very joy, while this great gladness made her eyes brilliant, "only I guess we aren't forgotten, after all! I want to remember that always now, no matter how sorrowful we may be; will you help me, Morton?"
"If I don't forget myself," said her brother; "it's kinder hard to feel good when everything goes contrary, but I'll try;" and as he spoke, she saw him select a sliver of the broken glass, and, wrapping it in a bit of paper, lay it away in a drawer where he was allowed to keep his few treasures.
"Why, what's that for, Morton?" she asked curiously.
He flushed a little, then said very low,—
"It's to make us remember," and she felt that the whole circumstance must have made a deep impression on the boy.
Not so Molly. She mourned the glass because now she had no better place before which to arrange her curls than in one of the larger pieces left, which, being cracked, gave her such a resemblance to a certain old fisherman with a broken nose, who was her special aversion, that she hated to look at herself, which was, possibly, not a bad thing, for she was in danger of growing vain of her pretty, piquant face these days.
But for a long time Sara went about the humble home with a humbler heart. She felt that she had been a traitor to her Kingly Father, and took the pretty little white cross madame had sent her and pinned it up, face inwards, against the wall.
"I am not worthy to wear it," she said, "until I have done something to atone for my rebellion."
But the winter passed quietly away; and, if no opportunity offered for any great deed of atonement, there were always the little worries of every day to be patiently borne, not the least of which was a sort of nagging spirit which had gone abroad among the old neighbors and friends of the Olmstead family. Possibly they were a trifle jealous of Sara's looks and bearing; it may be those who had predicted failure for her, "because them as keeps so stiddy to books ain't apt to hev much sense at things what caounts," were disappointed that she succeeded so well, or,—let us be charitable,—perhaps they thought the children all needed a little maternal scolding on general principles; anyhow, whatever they thought, there was something unpleasant in the air.
Sara felt it keenly, and drew still farther into her shell of reticence, keeping closely to her studies and home duties, until the neighbors had some excuse for their plaints that "she didn't care for nothin' nor nobody but them pesky books!"
One day Mrs. Updyke came in, sniffing as usual, and casting a hasty glance about the room with her cold, restless eyes.
"How d'ye do, Sairay?" she remarked, loosening her shawl. "I thort as how ye mought be lonesome, so I come over an' brung my knittin' a while; you got some on hand tew, I s'pose?"
"Well, not knitting, but I've sewing," said Sara, trying to feel hospitable, and wondering what Mrs. Updyke would think if she should confess that she scarcely knew the meaning of that word "lonesome." "Let me take your hood and shawl, won't you?"
"Waal, while I set; is the babby's well as usual?" with a keen glance at the little fellow, who was happily dragging a pasteboard cart on spool wheels about the floor.
"Very well, thank you; and grows so fast! He walks nicely now, and can say 'Monnie,' and 'Mawta,' and 'Wawa,'—that's me,—besides several other words."
"H'm; got any flannils onto him?" "Oh, yes; I made some out of father's old ones," with a sigh at the beloved name.
"Ye did, hey? Hope they fit som'ers near."
She now critically examined the room once more; but as it was far neater than her own, she could not reasonably find any fault there, so started on a new tack.
"How old's Morton?"
"Twelve next summer."
"Gittin' to be a big boy, ain't he?"
"Yes, and such a good one! He is a great help to me."
"Waal, he orter be; some boys o' twelve airns their own livin', don't ye know?"
"Yes; and Morton can do something when it comes warmer, but he needs more schooling yet, though, indeed, he often does odd jobs on a Saturday that bring in a little. He's an industrious boy, and I want him to have a good education."
"Waal, as to thet, some folks thinks too much o' book-larnin',Isay! Your fayther didn't hev much o' it to boast on, an' see what a good pervider he was. Books is well enough, but sense is better, an' forehandedness is best o' all."
As she talked, her needles clicked sharply amid the clouded blue yarn of her half-formed sock, and her eyes, almost as sharp, kept roving about, while the uneasy nose seemed determined to root out anything that might escape them. Just then Molly came in breezily, her curls flying, and her cheeks a bright pink, and, seeing the visitor, managed, all in one instant, to give Sara a lightning glimpse of a most disgusted little visage, even while she turned with a dimpling smile to say,—
"Why, Mrs. Updyke, is it you? Then that must be why Zeba Osterhaus and Betty Pulcher were crossing the street in front of your house; I guess they couldn't get in."
"Crossin' the street—where? Jest below?" beginning to wind up her yarn hurriedly. "Hed they railly been to my haouse?"
"Well, I'm not sure, but I think so; I didn't ask 'em where they'd been."
"And be they to thet little stuck-up Mis' Gurney's naow?"
"They went in there—yes."
"H'm. Jest bring my shawl, Sairay. Come to think on't, I've got an arrant there myself this arternoon—come nigh to disremembering it. Waal, good-day; why don't ye come over ever? When ye want advice, or anythin', I'm allers there," and the woman ambled swiftly away, having quite forgotten the lecture she had prepared for the "shiftless, bookish gal" she was leaving, and only intent on learning what Zeba and Betty could want with her opposite neighbor.
Molly dropped into a chair, and laughed merrily.
"Didn't I get rid of her slick, though? Say, Sara, what does she make you think of?"
"Hush, Molly, she's a good soul, and means well."
"So's a cow, but you don't want her trampling all over your garden! I'll tell you what she's like—an old rabbit in a cap. She keeps her nose going just the same, and her ears are even longer."
"Molly! Molly!"
"Well, it's so, and you can't deny it. Do you know, Sara, she stopped Morton and me this morning, when we were going to school, and told him it was a shame for him to 'set araound, a-livin' on his sister, and he ought to get a berth in one of the fishing-smacks, and would if he had any grit to him.' It made Mort as blue as anything, and he's gone down to Uncle Jabez Wanamead's now, to see about shipping."
"Molly, are yousure?" springing up in excitement. "I won't have it. He's too young, and hasn't had half schooling enough; and, Molly, are you certain he went there?"
Molly nodded, quite enjoying this excitement in her usually placid sister.
"Then I must go after him, and leave you to tend Neddie. Oh,whycan't people mind their own affairs?"
Poor Sara, trembling all over, started hastily towards the wardrobe for her outer wraps, when a stamping outside the door arrested her, and in a moment the boy entered, knocking the last bit of snow from his boots as he did so.
Sara's eyes, bent upon him, discovered something in his expression which made her cry out,—"Morton, what have you been doing?"
"Doing? Why"—
"Tell me the truth!" she commanded, almost fiercely.
He turned upon Molly with sudden anger.
"Have you been tattling? I'll bet you have!"
"No, but I told Sara; you didn't tell me not to."
"Lots of good 'twould have done, if I had! You never kept a thing in your life—never!"
"Did, too, Morton Olmstead!" her pout melting swiftly into a mischievous smile.
"Well, what, I'd like to know?"
"My shell chain—so there! You've tried and tried to get it away, and you never could!" at which comforting remembrance she broke into a laugh, which was so infectious even Morton had to smile.
But he turned from her with a disdainful gesture, only to meet Sara's anxious, questioning eyes.
"Well, I've shipped," he answered doggedly, "that's what!"
"Morton!" With the word all the strength seemed to go out of her, and she dropped weakly into a chair.
"Who with?" she asked sternly, for once forgetting even grammatical rules in her intense dismay.
"With Uncle Jabez Wanamead; he's going out in a week or two, and needs a boy."
"Morton, you can't go!" a determined look settling over her white face. "It's a rough, dreadful life! Old Jabez drinks like a fish, and you'll have to mix his grog a dozen times a day; then you'll have all the dirty work to do, day and night, and be sent aloft where a cat couldn't cling, with the boat pitching like a sturgeon, and, as likely as not, be thrown to the deck with a broken arm, if you're not killed outright. And when all's said and done, you'll never be anything—_any_thing but a fisherman!"
"What else was pa?" stoutly. "Anybody'd think you was ashamed of him!"
She hesitated for a moment, and in her excitement began pacing the room, her face working with contending emotions, while the children sat still and watched her, awed into silence. At length she stopped before them, and seated herself in the chair which had always been that father's when at home, and said, in a voice so sweet and sad that it thrilled even Molly's careless little soul,—
"No, Morton, never, never ashamed of our father! Instead, I love and revere him, for he was a true, good man,—'one of nature's noblemen,' as Miss Prue once said,—but, listen, Morton! It wasn'tbecausehe was a fisherman, but in spite of it; for, though it is a life that makes men brave, sturdy, fearless, and honest, it makes them also rough, profane, and careless in life and death; in fact, it develops their bodies, but not their minds or souls.
"And, O Morton, I so want you to be all that father was, and something more. I want you to be educated and refined. That Mr. Glendenning was as brave as the best of our fishermen, and dared face any storm, but how kind he was, and gentle! How respectful to poor Zeba, how thoughtful for his aunt and uncle, and what a gentleman in every way! Morton, I wantyouto be a gentleman too."
"He can't, Sara," put in Molly, her eyes big and round, "he's too poor; a man's got to have at least a hundred dollars to be a gentleman, and Morton hasn't but three cents."
Sara smiled, and the boy looked slowly from one to the other in a ruminating way.
"But everybody's twitting me with being a lazy good-for-nothing, Sara, and I can't stand it! Besides, I told Uncle Jabe I'd go, and now I've got to."
"You can't; I forbid it!" her eyes flashing. "Go at once and tell him that it is not to be thought of."
It was an unwise speech, as Sara instantly felt; for Morton, though he could be coaxed into almost anything, was worse than a mule when driven. Now the dogged look she was learning to dread settled over his face, and he squared his shoulders sturdily.
"Well, I guess you'll find I can, Sara Olmstead, and it will take somebody older and bigger'n you to stop me, too! So 'forbid' till you're tired, if you like; I've given my word, and I'm going—that's settled!"
The poor girl's heart sank like lead, and she could have bitten her unruly tongue out for those foolish words. She knew only too well that Morton would have the support of nearly all their friends in Killamet, who could see no reason why he should not follow his father's calling, and begin, like him, at the bottom of the ladder, as "the boy."
Though they knew the hardness of the life, they reasoned that it "helped toughen a youngster, and make a man of him." To them, Sara's ideas were foolish and high-flown, their notion of a "gentleman" being too often associated with city "lubbers" who came down to spy out the land—and sea—in their ridiculous knickerbockers and helmets, and who did not know a jib from a spanker, or had any idea when a sailor spoke of the "hull" of his vessel, that he referred to anything but the sum of its component parts! Gentlemen, as a class, were not held in high esteem at Killamet. Even Captain Norris laughed at fine manners, and would doubtless say,—
"Oh, give the boy a chance to try his sea-legs, if he wants to—a little toughening won't hurt him."
No one but Miss Prue would thoroughly sympathize with, and stand by her, and what were she and Miss Prue against so many?
They ate their supper in a glowering silence, unusual in that cottage, even Molly for once being oppressed by the gloomy faces about her; then, still in silence, she washed the few dishes, while Sara undressed the baby; Morton, meanwhile, taking up a school-book, in which he sat apparently absorbed, until his twin, happening to pass behind him, stopped, and, with a flip of her dish-towel, cried out,—
"Why-y, Mort Olmstead, you're studying your g'oggerfy upside down!"
He gave her a scowl, but his face flushed sensitively, as he quickly reversed the book, and Sara, turning a little from the fire, where she was cuddling the baby, met his eyes with so loving and tender a look that he could scarcely bear it. Something rose in his throat, threatened to rise in his eyes too, and feeling that his only safety lay in flight, he muttered that he had an errand down town, caught up his hat and worsted tippet, and ran out of the door, nearly knocking some one over who stood upon the step. "Well, I like being welcomed with open arms," laughed a manly voice outside; "but there is such a thing as too hearty a greeting, eh, Morton?" and the boy, too dazed to speak, re-entered the room, followed by Mr. Robert Glendenning.
Sara rose, with the now sleeping baby in her arms, and stood with the firelight playing over her noble young form, and with something—was it the firelight too?—flushing her sweet, sensitive face. She had no idea what a picture she made, nor how fair she appeared in the eyes of the young man in the doorway; for her thoughts were full of chagrin at what seemed the untidiness of the room, with baby's clothes and the children's books scattered about, and the fact that she had on an old, worn dress, instead of the Boston cashmere. For she did not realize that our most beautiful moments come from thoughts within, and are quite independent of dress and adornment, and that to-night the struggle she had been through made her expression so lovely, she had never been more attractive. She held out the hand that could best be spared from the little one's support, and said cordially,—
"I'm very glad to see you, Mr. Glendenning; are your aunt and uncle here?"
"No, Miss Olmstead; I left them in Boston, and just ran down for a day or two, before I go West once more. I—had business."
She saw him seated before she stepped to the alcove bed to lay the baby down, then, coming back, took a seat on the other side of the fireplace, and asked softly,—
"Have you heard?"
"Yes," in the same tone; "Miss Zeba told me. You did not write to auntie?"
"I could not—yet."
There was a little pause, which was broken by an outburst from the other side of the room, where the children were supposed to be studying.
"I tell you 'tis too, Morton Olmstead. I'll ask Sara, now!"
"Well, Molly, what is it?" she turned to ask.
"Isn't it right to say 'seven and sixaretwelve?" Morton says it isn't."
"Why, certainly," began Sara obliviously, when the guest interposed,—
"How'll seven andfivedo, Molly? Perhaps that will suit Morton better."
Molly tossed her head at her grinning brother, pouting an instant, then broke into a giggle, as she caught the full force of the sell, and went on with her sums, while Sara remarked,—
"I am not quick at such things, Mr. Glendenning. I wish I were! You spoke of going West just now; do you go soon?"
"Yes; my home is in Chicago. I have been East nearly six months on business for my firm, and now am recalled."
She looked pensively into the fire, and he thought he heard a little sigh, which perhaps encouraged him to go on, though it was with something like embarrassment that he said,—
"I felt before going so far that I ought to make a call on some of the good people here: it may be years before I return."
"H'm," muttered Molly; "I tell you, if I ever get away I'll never want to come back."
"Well, nobody'd want to have you, either," muttered her brother in return. "A girl who can't add two simple little numbers!"
Molly contented herself with making a face at him, and the two by the fire continued their rather patchy discourse:—
"I have sometimes thought," said Sara, "that we will have to leave here now, though I haven't much of an idea where we should go, or what I could do—but I must do something soon."
He was longing to ask all sorts of questions, but dared not; instead, he leaned forward, and said earnestly,—
"Miss Olmstead, I have been thinking of that, and I want you to promise me you will not take any decisive step without consulting my aunt. If I had known—all, I would have brought her with me, but here is her latest address," producing a card. "Write her everything, and let her counsel you, will you?" She bowed her head.
"It's very kind of you all to care, and if you are sure she would not be annoyed"—
"Annoyed? What an idea! Why, aren't you both daughters of the King?Doesn't that make you sisters? I know you will not break your word, MissOlmstead."
"No, she won't," said Molly briskly; "when she says she is going to send us to bed early, she always does it."
"Molly!" cried Sara, half-laughing, half-angry, "I think it must be your bedtime, now."
"There! That's just because you want to talk to Mr. Glendenning," whined the child. "Last night, 'cause you was lonesome, you let us sit up till nine. I don't think it's fair!"
"Well," laughed the young man, to cover Sara's embarrassment, for she had blushed like a rose at this, "I did have something in my pocket; however, as it's only for early-go-to-beders, I don't believe I'll produce it to-night."
Molly was on her feet in an instant.
"I always go to bed early, Mr. Glendenning, only when Sara wants me to sit up, like last night: you don't blame me for that, do you?"
"Indeed I don't; and seeing you're so anxious to go to-night, I think I will give it to you, after all," slowly drawing a package from the pocket of his great-coat, which was thrown over a neighboring chair. Molly grasped it, managing to get out a hurried "Thank you," under Sara's eyes; pulled at the string, whirled around a few times in search for a knife, though Morton was holding his out all the time, and finally, getting to the box, snatched at its cover—and dropped the whole thing, the bonbons inside rolling all over the floor.
"Oh, oh, oh! Sara," she screamed, dancing up and down, "they're running away! What are they?"
The young man laughed heartily.
"Only French creams and candied fruits, child; you may not like them as well as Miss Zeba's striped lemon and horehound sticks, but I thought I'd give you a taste of Vanity Fair, at least."
"Is that its name?" asked Molly, who had secured a chocolate-cream, and was now burying her little white teeth in its soft lusciousness. "Oh, how sweet! and it melts while you're tasting. Is Vanity Fair all that way?"
"Pretty much," he said gravely, with an odd look at Sara.
"Well, it's nice," she concluded, after a second taste, "but there isn't much to it; you can'tchompit like horehound, or wintergreen candy.Ilike to chomp!"
"I presume so, and suck lobster-claws too, don't you? The fact is, I fear your tastes are too commonplace for you to thoroughly relish these French sweeties, and I'm glad of it! Now, don't eat too much to-night, for a very little of Vanity Fair goes a great way, you'll find. And now, good-night."
"Good-night, sir. I suppose some is for Morton?"
"I left that to your magnanimity."
"My who?" bewilderedly. "Do you mean Sara? Well, then, I may as well give him half this minute, 'cause she'll certainly make me," and the two finally disappeared, Molly laboriously counting over the recovered bonbons, to be sure the division was exact.
He turned back to Sara.
"It is too much care for you," he said warmly. "Think of that boy, who will soon be beginning to assert himself, and Molly, who is enough to keep a whole family on the alert, to say nothing of the baby. How are you going to manage?"
His reference to Morton reminded her of their difference, which for a time she had forgotten, and she told him about it, adding,—
"What can I do?"
"Stand firm," he said at once. "But wait; I see how hard that will be, with the whole town against you. Let me think."
She waited, watching him, while he gazed into the fire.
Finally he turned again to her.
"You spoke of leaving here, why not do so now, soon? Put it to Morton that you need his protection and help, and go to Boston. You have some means?"
"Yes." If Sara had mentioned the sum of these, the young man would have been aghast; but, accustomed as she was to the most frugal living, it seemed large to her.
"Then what is to hinder?" eagerly. "Uncle Leon will stay there this winter, anyhow; and they can find you a small flat, where you could keep house in a cosey way. Then there are things you can do at home, I am sure; things for the Woman's Exchange, say, that'll help you out."
Sara's eyes brightened. It was her dream to go out into that wider life she had read of, and this seemed her opportunity.
"What would I have to pay for such rooms?" she asked.
"Oh, that would depend on locality, the conveniences, and so on; probably from eighteen to thirty dollars, although I am more familiar with Western than Eastern rentals, but I presume that's somewhere near it."
Sara, supposing him to mean this as the yearly rental, thought it moderate enough, and went on,—
"If it were not for baby, I could teach perhaps, or go out to sew; butI'll have to wait till he's older for that."
"Would you take the baby?" he asked surprisedly.
"How could I leave him?" she returned.
"I thought perhaps—didn't your stepmother have any relatives?"
"A few; but they are not people with whom he would be happy," she said simply.
He looked at her with a puzzled face, made a move to speak, then stopped, ashamed to utter what was in his mind; ashamed to tell her that such devotion to a half-brother would hardly be expected of her, and that, freed from him, she might make a far easier start in life. Instead, he merely nodded his head understandingly, and kept silence, feeling that here was a nature not to be approached, except with care and reverence, first putting off the dust-soiled shoes of custom and worldly prudence, as unfit to enter there. After a little more talk he rose reluctantly.
"Our good Mrs. Updyke will be scandalized to see a light here after half-past nine," he remarked lightly. "Have you any word to send to Aunt Felicie?"
"Always my love and reverence," said Sara, with a touch of the old- fashioned manner that Robert thought one of her greatest charms. "And, if you think I may trouble her, I will write what there is to tell, though even Miss Prue does not know all the dreams I have had for the future."
"Why should she?" asked the young man jealously. "My aunt may not be so old a friend, but I am sure she is as good a one."
"She's more than kind! I can't understand," with a little burst of confidence, "why you are all so good to a poor fisherman's daughter like me?" They had risen, and he had shaken himself into his fur-trimmed great-coat; now he turned, hat in hand, and looked down upon her, for, though Sara was tall for a girl of eighteen, he towered well above her.
"You ask why?" he began in a quick, eager tone, then something in her calm face seemed to alter his mind, or at least speech, for he added more carelessly, "Do you think it so queer? But you forget you are a princess!" laughing lightly. "Well, good-night; it is time for me to go," and, with a more hasty farewell than he had intended, he turned, and left her standing in the doorway.
* * * * *
The next morning he was sitting before a cheerful grate fire in his aunt's private parlor at a certain hotel in Boston, his long legs stretched towards the blaze, and his chin dropped meditatively on his breast, while she, at the other end of the leopard-skin, worked busily on some fleecy white wool-work, occasionally glancing towards his darkly-thoughtful face.
"Ah, well, Robare," she said at last, "this is then your last evening here?"
He shook himself a little, sat upright, took his hands from his pockets, and, forcing a smile, turned to her.
"Yes, Aunt Felicie; and a nice way to spend it, glowering at the fire!Where's uncle?"
"He has to that meeting gone at the Natural History building; I cannot its name remember. Why? had you a private word to say?"
"Well, I haven't told you about my trip yet, to Killamet."
"Ah! It was then to Killamet that you have been? I have thought so, though you did say it was a business trip."
"And so it was, partly; old Adam has sold my yacht, and I went to get the money."
"Are there, then, no banks with drafts, or notes of post in Killamet?" rallyingly.
"Don't tease, auntie, but listen. I called on the little princess."
"Of course."
"And, Aunt Felicie, her father is lost at sea, and she is caring for all those little ones, alone."
"Ah, the poor child! Is she then born to trouble, as the sparks do fly upward? Are they very, very poor, Robert?"
"No; she said they had means, though it is probably but little, a thousand or two at most; they seemed comfortable, though you know how plainly they live; and, aunt, she is more beautiful than ever!"
"Yes, hers is of that kind of beauty that does grow, as her soul grows, for it is from the within. Did she to me send any special word?"
"Yes, her 'love and reverence;' can't you imagine just how she said it, with that little Priscilla touch which is so quaintly charming?" Then he told of Morton's revolt, and the advice he had given Sara, at her request; also the promise he had extorted.
"And now, aunt, she must have help; not only advice, but other things perhaps."
"Never from you, Robare!" sharply. "Of what are you thinking?"
"You have always let me help in your charities, auntie," he said in a wheedling tone; then, tossing back his head suddenly, "But this is different, of course; only just think, Aunt Felicie, how the poor child's hands are tied!"
"But the poor child's spirit is not, my Robare, and it is that of a free-born fisher-lass, who would not be dependent, even in its thought; leave Sara to me, my dear boy; I think it is that you may trust my discretions, is it not?"
He leaned forward, caught the pretty white hand from its flying task, crushed it against his lips, then, flushing hotly, rose from his chair, and walked down the room, ashamed of the agitation he could not suppress.
There was silence for a moment, while the perky little Bougival clock on the mantel ticked merrily, and madame's needles kept the time; then Robert broke it abruptly.
"Aunt, I'm almost twenty-four."
"Yes."
"And worth a clear ten thousand."
"Yes." "And make at least three thousand a year."
"Yes."
"And uncle and yourself are my nearest relatives."
"I am aware."
"Well, haven't I a right to please myself?"
"You haven't a right to tie yourself by your hands, and your feet, for a whimsey which may pass away. Go back to your busy Chicago, my Robare, and work hard, and live the right, pure life for one year, then tell me what is your thought."
"MustI, auntie?"
It was with the old boyish voice and manner he said this, and his aunt broke into a laugh, though her eyes were wet.
"You naughty child! Will you now obey your goodtante, or not?"
"Yes, ma'am, I will; but you will keep me posted?"
"Possibly, my boy," bending carelessly over her work.
"Aunt Felicie," he strode up to her with sudden passion.
"Do not answer me so! I am a man, and I love this fisher-lass with all my heart!"
He had stopped directly before her, and she saw that his face was white with feeling. Down went the worsted-work, and, rising, she flung both arms about his neck.
"My Robare, my nephew, my son!" she cried in a choked voice, "I want the best that earth and heaven can give to you; and you—you do push over my ambitions, and expect that I will at once be glad and gay."
"But, auntie, you admire her too."
"I do, Robare; she is good and fair to see; but you must of the others take thought too, and she does need many teachings, dear."
"You'll teach her, auntie?"
"Oh, be quiet, then!" pushing him pettishly away. "Of what use to argue with a man so enamoured? Go thy Western way; obey me, and I will tell you every week all that there is to tell. Are you content?"
"I'll have to be," laughing a little at her expression; "but remember," turning in the doorway, "if I don't hear, I shall immediately find that business compels an Eastern trip." And, shaking a warning finger at her, he disappeared to his packing in an opposite apartment.
Madame Grandet, meanwhile, resumed her work, and held it till the door had closed behind the young man. Then she dropped it, her smiles vanished, and she grew grave and thoughtful; for, though far less worldly than many, she was too much of a Frenchwoman to look upon a misalliance without a shiver of dread and apprehension. Her relationship to Robert was only by marriage, but an own child could not have been dearer, for he was bound to her by all the traditions and ties of a lifetime. His mother, pretty Nadine Grandet, had been her earliest friend, and they had lived side by side, in a little village on the Ouise, until she was wooed and won by the American artist, Robert Glendenning, who had been attracted to that neighborhood by his studies, and the fame of Sevigne, whom he worshipped afar. He finally brought his pretty French bride to America, and they lived happily in an Eastern city till the little Robert was twelve years old. Then a sudden illness took the wife and mother to heaven, leaving the husband and son to keep house in a Bohemianish way, until Nadine's studious brother, Leon, who had meanwhile married the lifelong friend of his sister, Felicie Bougane, decided to come to America.
The Grandets had no children, and as soon as the madame's eyes fell upon the little Robert, who was wonderfully like his dead mother, her heart went out to him; and from that time on he had been like a son to her, especially after his father's death, a few years later.
As the artist was unusually prudent, and no genius, by which I mean he painted pictures which the public could understand, and therefore did buy, he left a snug little sum to his son. This the young man decided to invest in Chicago, and chose architecture for a profession, two wise moves, as subsequent events proved. As for his uncle and aunt, they had no settled home, but followed wherever science beckoned, and a wild dance she sometimes led the two, as the poor little madame often thought.
But this winter certain proof-sheets anchored them in Boston; hence Robert's intense desire that Sara should make haste to settle under his aunt's protection, before some new flitting should put too great a distance between them. This devoted aunt was ready to make any sacrifice for her dear boy, but not so ready to see him make one; often a much harder thing for a loving heart.
The madame, being of Huguenot ancestry, and as sturdy a Protestant as ever lived, could have suffered martyrdom, like her grandfather of blessed memory, for the faith that was in her; but to see her boy suffer perhaps a ruined life because of one mistake in early manhood, terrified her, and she was now often sorry she had let her artistic admiration for that unusually fine head in the cottage doorway lead her to such lengths the summer before.
Sara as a pet andprotegeewas one thing; Sara as her nephew's wife quite, quite another!
But in her varied life she had learned the two wisest lessons God ever sets his children,—those of waiting and trusting. So, after a half- hour's silent meditation now, she resumed her work with a more cheerful look and manner.
"What is done is done," she said in her own tongue. "The only thing left is to make the best of it;" and when Robert returned, after completing the preparations for his journey, he would never have dreamed that she had a care upon her mind, or the least foreboding in her heart, to see her bright face, and hear her sunny laughter.
As for Sara, the interview with Robert Glendenning roused her to a new interest in her changed life, and to new hopes and plans, which are always delightful to youth; and these kept her from sinking back into that settled sadness which had been almost unnatural in one of her years. First, she wrote the promised letter to Madame Grandet, which was no light task for one so little accustomed to the use of the pen.
It began stiffly enough, but after the first few sentences the interest of her subject so occupied her, that she forgot to choose her words, and, when afterwards she read it over, she felt almost frightened at its ease and abandon.
"I'm afraid she will think it too—too—not respectful enough," she said, eying the closely written sheets dubiously; "but if I write it over I shall have to send Morton to Zeba's for more paper," and, pressed as usual by economy, she let it go without change, thereby greatly astonishing and delighting the madame. "For," thought she, "a girl who can write like that is of no common clay, and is bound to find her level. If it is to be as the wife of my Robare that she reaches it, have I any right to keep her back?"
After Sara had written the letter, her loyal heart reproached her so that she could not rest until she had also invited a talk with Miss Prue; so one fine day when there was just a hint of spring softness in the air, as delicate as the flavor in a perfect dish, she wrapped baby in his cloak, and drew him on Morton's sled to the cosey bay-windowed cottage. Miss Plunkett seemed delighted to see them, so was the parrot, who insisted on so much notice at first, that conversation progressed only by hitches; but, becoming sleepy after a time (for Miss Polly was an ancient maiden, and extremely fond of her "forty winks"), she relapsed into a grunting quiet, and, as baby was also still and happy over some blocks always kept ready for his use, the two soon became deeply engaged.
When, however, Sara had gotten as far as the removal to Boston, the elder woman threw up her hands in dismay.
"Goodness! child, of what are you thinking? Are you left so well off that you can afford even to think of this thing? Why, my dear, even I, with my means, which most Killamet people think large, would feel as if abandoned to the wolves, there! I couldn't begin to live on my income."
Sara's eyes opened wide.
"But, dear Miss Prue, I haven't so much altogether as you have in a year."
"Then, are you crazy, child? You'll feel as if cast on a desert island in that crowd of strangers, with no one to care whether you live or die; and you couldn't live six months on so little."
"But Mr. Glendenning said I could get two or three rooms for somewhere from eighteen to thirty dollars, and I hoped, with the rent of the cottage here"—
"A month, Sara, a month; surely you didn't expect to pay so little for a year!"
"Why, yes, I did; I'm afraid I'm dreadfully ignorant, Miss Prue."
"As bad as a chicken just out of the shell," shaking her head with comical lugubriousness. "Go to Boston, indeed! you'd starve to death on a doorstep, all four of you, I can see you now, laid out like a row of assorted pins, for all the world. Humph! Boston, indeed!" with bridling earnestness. "Besides, what business has that Glendwing, or whatever his high-falutin name may be, to mix himself up with our affairs? I declare, Sara, I've a great mind to move the whole lot of you down here, and take care of you myself. I would, too, if it wasn't for Polly; but she'd quarrel with the children all day long, and make life a burden."
Sara laughed, but looked disappointed too.
"I see it's not to be thought of now, Miss Prue; but I hoped I could work there, and indeed I don't know what there is to do here."
"Well, there's that, of course, and I'll have to own that Cousin Nancy Prime, who lives in Hartford, always says, when I talk so, that there's no place where the poor are so well looked after as in a large city; but it seems to me just like a howling wilderness, and, besides, who wants to be looked after? I don't, nor you either; we want to have our own means, and be independent of charity."
"Yes; but it won't take so very long to finish my little capital, then what will I do if there is no work to be got? and you know there isn't any here."
"Advertise for summer boarders," said Miss Prue brilliantly. "I don't know why people shouldn't come to Killamet, as well as to fifty other places along this coast. It's only because when they get here there's no place to put them in, or, possibly, they haven't discovered our great merits yet. Our beach, and the scenery about it, are finer than those of half the places they throng, and what if they do have to come either by stage or boat the last few miles! It gives all who don't consider time, and are only off for an outing, so much the more variety. If you advertise as I've seen people do before now, you could make it seem a perfect paradise, and not be half so far out of the way, either."
"I never thought of that.Itake boarders? How queer!"
"Well, everything's queer, that is about you; my life has been humdrum enough, we all know; but you seem marked out for exceptional fates—and fortunes perhaps."
A funny light glinted in the girl's eyes.
"I'm afraid the summer boarders would thinktheyhad been marked out for hard fortune, after eating my meals. What do I know about fancy cooking?"
"Nothing; and you don't want to. Most of them have got their stomachs so upset by their high-spiced Frenchy dishes that they've got to have a change of diet. You can cook fish to perfection, for I've tried you, and make good bread, and you are naturally neat and dainty, which goes for much. Take my cookbook home, and study up a few simple, nice recipes this winter, so's to be ready. Don't try for too much, but do excellently well all you undertake; and try it. You know I'll help you all I can; I believe you'll succeed!"
"But what rooms have I?"
"I knew you'd say that, and I am prepared with an answer. There is, to begin with, the spare room off your living-room."
"Oh, that?" broke in Sara, as if Miss Prue had touched on something sacred.
"Yes, just that: we all have too much veneration for our spare rooms.Now, answer me truly, of what earthly use is it to you?"
"Why, none; but mother's best things"—
"Will lie there, given over to spiders, dampness, and moths, till they fall to pieces. Use them; that's what they were made for, and, so far, they haven't fulfilled their purpose in life much better than some of the rest of us," smiling at her own conceit. "Get them out, air them, and use them; then, if needs be, and you could get boarders enough to warrant it, you could have the roof raised, and make that loft into two nice rooms; but that is far ahead yet. Take two people first, for your spare room, then get Mrs. Updyke and Mrs. Filcher to lodge a few more, and you board them. Isn't that a scheme?" with a triumphant laugh.
"If I can do it; but I'm afraid, almost."
"So am I!" with a funny look. These sudden changes of base were a characteristic of Miss Prue's; perhaps she believed, with Emerson, that "unchanging consistency is the mark of a stagnant soul." "But what else is there for you here, safe at home?"
"Nothing," discouragedly. "If there was only a canning factory, I could work in that."
"Well, there isn't, so there's no use wishing. After all, I believe my plan is practicable. Of course you are young in years, but you've had any amount of experience; then you would only take women and children, and they'd be easy with you." (O confiding Miss Prue!) "I believe I'd try it, really."
If "in a multitude of counsellors there is safety," there is often also confusion, as poor Job had occasion to experience; and Sara felt that the more she talked about her future, the less she knew what disposition to make of it. Finally she abandoned the subject with something like despair, and asked a question in regard to the neighborhood, which made Miss Prue say quickly, "Oh! that reminds me, Sara, I want you to be sure to go to Betty's quilting-bee; you will, won't you?"
"O Miss Prue! must I? You know I never liked those bees, and now"—
"Yes, I understand all that, still I want you to go. I have reasons. You are a King's daughter; make it one of your acts of self-denial."
Sara laughed.
"That seems odd enough, mayn't I ask your reasons?"
"No; well, yes, I believe I will tell you after all. I heard two of the girls talking about you the other day, never mind who, and I didn't like what they said. The fact is, Sara, they think you feel above them."
"Oh! how can they?"
"Well, they do, and perhaps they're half right; there, you needn't color so!Iwon't say you're not above them, but you mustn't feel so. Did you ever think, Sara, that you might get up a circle of ten here?"
"Why, no."
"Well, why not? It wouldn't hurt the girls, nor you either," dryly. "Anyhow, I want you to go to this quilting, wear that pretty new dress, and be just as nice and cordial as you know how."
Sara sighed, but acquiesced. She had always obeyed Miss Prue, but this was a trial. She wondered, all the way home, just why it should seem so. Did she really feel above the other girls, that they failed to interest her? Was it pride that made her long for quiet, and her books, rather than for the society about her? Could it be she only cared for Miss Prue because she was richer and better born than the others?
"No!" she said emphatically to that last, "I should love her in rags, I'm sure; but I do like her better because she is neat and trim, and can talk intelligently about anything. I wonder if it's wrong to feel so? I must remember that being a King's daughter makes it more necessary that I should be thoughtful for all. How prettily madame explained those two words, 'Noblesse oblige' to me. 'The nobility of my birth constrains me.' So, if I call myself one of the royal family, how courteous and kind I must be to every one, whether agreeable or not."