"I'd be a tailor,Jolly and free,With plenty of cabbage,And a goose on my knee.Monday would be blue,Tuesday would be shady,Wednesday I'd set outTo find a pretty lady."
"I'd be a tailor,Jolly and free,With plenty of cabbage,And a goose on my knee.Monday would be blue,Tuesday would be shady,Wednesday I'd set outTo find a pretty lady."
"I'd be a tailor,Jolly and free,With plenty of cabbage,And a goose on my knee.Monday would be blue,Tuesday would be shady,Wednesday I'd set outTo find a pretty lady."
"I'd be a tailor,
Jolly and free,
With plenty of cabbage,
And a goose on my knee.
Monday would be blue,
Tuesday would be shady,
Wednesday I'd set out
To find a pretty lady."
"Much work you would do in that case," commented Florence.
"It's time to go to bed, children," said Granny.
"Yes," Joe went on gravely. "For a rising youngman, who must take time by the fore-lock, or scalp-lock, and who longs to distinguish himself by some great and wonderful discovery, there's nothing like,—
'Early to bed, and early to rise,To make a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.'"
'Early to bed, and early to rise,To make a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.'"
'Early to bed, and early to rise,To make a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.'"
'Early to bed, and early to rise,
To make a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.'"
With that Joe was up stairs with a bound.
"Joe!" Charlie called in great earnest.
"Well?"
"You better take a mouthful of Granny's rising before you go."
"Good for you, Charlie; but smart children always die young. Granny, won't you put a stone on Charlie's head for fear?"
Hal said his good-night in a tenderer manner.
They were all wonderfully interested in Joe's clothes; and, though it was always later on Saturday night when he reached home, they begged to sit up, but Kit took a nap by the chimney-corner with Tabby. Granny sat nodding when they heard the gay whistle without.
"Hurrah! The country's safe!" exclaimed Joe. "Get out your spectacles, all hands."
"You act as if you never had any thing before, Joe," said Florence, with an air of extreme dignity.
"But these are real 'boughten' clothes," said Joe, "and gilt buttons down the jacket. I shall feel like a soldier-boy. Just look now."
The bundle came open with a flourish of the jack-knife. All the heads crowded round, though the one candle gave a rather dim light.
Such exclamations as sounded through the little room, from every voice, and in almost every key.
"But where are the trousers?" asked Hal.
"The trousers?—why"—
Granny held up the beautiful jacket. There was nothing else in the paper.
"Why—he's made a mistake. He never put them in, I am sure."
"You couldn't have lost 'em?" asked Granny mildly.
"Lost them—and the bundle tied with this strong twine! Now, that's mean! I'll have to run right back."
Off went Joe like a flash. He hardly drew a breath until his hand was on Mr. Brigg's door-knob.
"Well, what now, Joe?" asked the astonished Mr. Briggs.
"You didn't put in the trousers!"
"Didn't? Dan done 'em up. Dan!"
Dan emerged from a pile of rags under the counter, where he was taking a snooze.
"You didn't put in Joe's trousers."
"Yes I did."
"No you didn't," said Joe, with more promptness than politeness.
Dan began to search. A sleepy-looking, red-headedboy, to whom Saturday night was an abomination, because his father was always in the drag, and cross.
"I'm sure I put 'em in. Every thing's gone, and they ain't here."
"Look sharp, you young rascal!"
"He has lost 'em out."
"Lost your grandmother!" said Joe contemptuously; "or the liberty pole out on the square! Why, the bundle was not untied until after I was in the house."
"Dan, if you don't find them trousers, I'll larrup you!"
Poor Dan. Fairly wide awake now, he went tumbling over every thing piled on the counter, searched the shelves, and every available nook.
"Somebody's stole 'em."
Dan made this announcement with a very blank face.
"I know better!" said his father.
"You are sure you made them, Mr. Briggs," asked Joe.
"Sure!" in a tone that almost annihilated both boys.
"If you don't find 'em!" shaking his fist at Dan.
Dan began to blubber.
Joe couldn't help laughing. "Let me help you look," he said.
Down went a box of odd buttons, scattering far and wide.
"You Dan!" shouted his father, with some buttonsin his mouth, that rendered his voice rather thick. "Just wait till I get at you. I have only six buttons to sew on."
"They're not here, Mr. Briggs," exclaimed Joe.
"Well, I declare! If that ain't the strangest thing! Dan, you've taken them trousers to the wrong place!"
A new and overwhelming light burst in upon Dan's benighted brain.
"That's it," said Joe. "Now, where have you taken them?"
"I swow!" ejaculated the youth, rubbing his eyes.
"None o' your swearin' in this place!" interrupted his father sternly. "I'm a strictly moral man, and don't allow such talk in my family."
"Tain't swearin'," mumbled Dan.
Mr. Briggs jumped briskly down from the board, with a pair of pantaloons in one hand, and a needle and thread in the other. Dan dodged round behind Joe.
"You took 'em over to Squire Powell's, I'll be bound!"
Another light was thrown in upon Dan's mental vision.
"There! I'll bet I did."
"Of course you did, you numskull! Start this minute and see how quick you can be gone."
"I will go with him," said Joe.
So the two boys started; and a run of ten minutes—a rather reluctant performance on Dan's part, it must be confessed—brought them to Squire Powell's. There was no light in the kitchen; but Joe beat a double tattoo on the door in the most scientific manner.
"Who's there?" asked a voice from the second story window.
"Dan Briggs!" shouted Joe.
"Guess not," said the squire. The sound was so unlike Dan's sleepy, mumbling tone.
"There was a mistake made in some clothes," began Joe, nothing daunted.
"Oh, that's it! I will be down in a minute."
Pretty soon the kitchen-door was unlocked, and the boys stepped inside.
"I didn't know but you sent these over for one of my girls," said the squire laughingly. "They were aleetletoo small for me. So they belong to you, Joe?"
"Yes, sir," said Joe emphatically, laying hold of his precious trousers.
"Look sharper next time, Dan," was the squire's good advice.
"I wish you'd go home with me, Joe," said Dan, after they had taken a few steps. "Father'll larrup me, sure!"
"Maybe that will brighten your wits," was Joe's consoling answer.
"But, Joe—I'm sure I didn't mean to—and"—
"I'm off like a shot," appended Joe, suiting theaction to the word; and poor Dan was left alone in the middle of the road.
"Why, whathashappened, Joe?" said Granny as he bounced in the kitchen-door.
"Such a time as I've had to find 'them trousers,' as Mr. Briggs calls them! Dan had packed them off to Squire Powell's!"
"That Dan Briggs is too stupid for any thing," commented Florence.
"There's time to try them on yet," Joe exclaimed. "Just you wait a bit."
Joe made a rush into the other room.
"Don't wake up Dot," said Hal.
"Oh! I'll go as softly as a blind mouse."
"There, Granny, what do you think of that?"
"You want a collar and a necktie, and your hair brushed a little," said Florence with critical eyes.
"But aren't they stunners!"
Granny looked at him, turned him round and looked again, and her wrinkled face was all one bright smile. For he was so tall and manly in this long jacket, with its narrow standing collar, and the trousers that fitted to a charm.
"Oh," said Hal with a long breath, "it's splendid!"
"You bet! When I get 'em paid for, Hal, I'll help you out."
Florence sighed.
"O Flo! I can't help being slangy. It comes natural to boys. And then hearing them all talk in the store."
"Wa-a!" said a small voice. "Wa-a-a Danny!"
"There!" exclaimed Hal; and he ran in to comfort Dot.
But Dot insisted upon being taken up, and brought out to candle-light. The buttons on Joe's jacket pleased her fancy at once, and soothed her sorrow.
"I must say, Dot, you are a young woman of some taste," laughed Joe.
"Granny," said Kit, after sitting in deep thought, and taking a good chew out of his thumb, "when Joe wears 'em out, can you cut 'em over for me?"
"O Kit! Prudent and economical youth! To you shall be willed the last remaining shreds of my darling gray trousers, jacket, buttons and all."
They had a grand time admiring Joe. Charlie felt so sorry that she wasn't a boy; and Flo declared that "he looked as nice as anybody, if only he wouldn't"—
"No, I won't," said Joe solemnly.
Granny felt proud enough of him the next day when he went to church. Florence was quite satisfied to walk beside him.
"I wish there was something nice for you, Hal," said Granny in a tone of tender regret.
"My turn will come by and by," was the cheerful answer.
For Hal took the odds and ends of every thing, and was content.
"They're a nice lot of children, if I do say it myself," was Granny's comment to Dot. "And I'm glad I never let any of them go to the poor-house or be bound out, or any thing. We'll all get along somehow."
Dot shook her head sagely, as if that was her opinion also.
The story of Joe's Saturday night adventure leaked out; and poor Dan Briggs was tormented a good deal, the boys giving him the nickname of Trousers, much to his discomfort.
Joe discovered, like a good many other people, that whereas getting in debt was very easy, getting out of debt was very hard. He went along bravely for several weeks, and then he began to find so many wants. A new straw hat hemusthave, for the weather was coming warm, and they had such beauties at the store for a dollar; and then his boots grew too rusty, so a pair of shoes were substituted. He bought Dot a pretty Shaker, which she insisted upon calling her "Sunny cool Shaker." She was growing very cunning indeed, though her tongue was exceedingly crooked. Hal laughed over her droll baby words; and Kit's endeavor to make her say tea-kettle was always crowned with shouts of laughter.
Joe succeeded pretty well at the store, but occasionally all things did not work together for good. His margin of fun was so wide that it sometimes brought him into trouble. One day he inadvertently sold old Mrs. Cummings some ground pepper, instead of allspice. That afternoon the old lady flew back in a rage.
"I'll never buy a cent's wuth of this good-for nothin', car'less boy!" she ejaculated. "He does nothin' but jig around the store, and sing songs. An' now he's gone and spiled my whole batch of pies."
"Spoiled your pies?" said Mr. Terry in astonishment.
"Yes, spiled 'em! Four as good pies as anybody in Madison makes. Green apple too!"
"Why, I never saw your pies!" declared Joe.
"I'd like to make you eat 'em all,—to the last smitch!" and she shook her fist.
"But what did he do?" questioned Mr. Terry.
"That's what I'm tryin' to tell you. I run in this mornin' and bought two ounces of allspice; for I hadn't a speck in the house. Seth's so fond of it in apple-pies. Well, I was hurryin' round; an' I lost my smell years ago, when I had the influenzy, so I put in the allspice; an' sez I at dinner, 'Seth, here's the fust green-apple pies. I don't believe a soul in Madison has made 'em yet! They're nice an' hot.' With that he tasted. 'Hot!' sez he, 'hot! I guess they air, and the've somethin' more'n fire in 'em too!' 'What'sin 'em?' sez I; and sez he, 'Jest you taste!' an' so I did, an' it nigh about burnt my tongue off. 'Why,' sez I, 'it's pepper;' an' Seth sez, 'Well, if you ain't smart!' That made me kinder huffy like; an' then I knew right away it was this car'less fellow that's always singin' an' dancin' and a standin' on his head!"
Mrs. Cummings had to stop because she was out of breath. Joe ducked under the counter, experiencing a strong tendency to fly to fragments.
"I am very sorry," returned Mr. Terry. "It must have been a mistake;" and he tried to steady the corners of his mouth to a becoming sense of gravity.
"No mistake at all!" and she gave her head a violent jerk. "Some of his smart tricks he thought he'd play on me. Didn't I see him a treatin' Dave Downs to loaf-sugar one day; an' bime by he gave him a great lump of salt!"
Mr. Terry had heard the story of the salt, and rather enjoyed it; for Dave was always hanging round in the way.
"And he jest did it a purpose, I know. As soon as ever I tasted that pepper, I knew 'twas one of his tricks. And my whole batch of pies spil't!"
"No," said Joe, in his manly fashion: "I didn't do it purposely, Mrs. Cummings. I must have misunderstood you."
"Pepper an' allspice sound so much alike!" she said wrathfully.
"Well, we will give you a quarter of allspice," Mr. Terry returned soothingly.
"That won't make up for the apples, an' the flour, an' the lard, an' all my hard work!"
"We might throw in a few apples."
"If you're goin' to keep that boy, you'll ruin your trade, I can tell you!"
Still she took the allspice and the apples, though they had plenty at home.
"You must be careful, Joe," said Mr. Terry afterward. "It will not do to have the ill-will of all the old ladies."
Joe told the story at home with embellishments; and Hal enjoyed it wonderfully, in his quiet way.
Hal's chickens prospered remarkably. Five motherly hens clucked to families of black-eyed chicks; and, out of fifty-eight eggs, he only lost seven. So there were fifty-one left. They made some incursions in his garden, to be sure; but presently every thing grew so large that it was out of danger.
There was plenty of work to do on Saturdays. Picking cherries and currants for the neighbors, and the unfailing gardening. It seemed to Hal that weeds had a hundred lives at least, even if you did pull them up by the roots. Sometimes he managed to get a little work out of Kit and Charlie, but they invariably ended by a rough-and-tumble frolic.
Florence succeeded admirably with her embroidering. She managed to earn some pretty dresses for herself, and added enough to Hal's store to enable him to purchase a suit of clothes, though they were not as grand as Joe's.
Hal and Granny took a wonderful sight of comfort sitting on the doorstep through the summer evenings,and talking over old times. Granny would tell how they did when his father, her own dear Joe, was alive, and how pretty his mother had been.
"Flo's a good deal like her," she would always say; "only Flo's wonderful with her fingers. She can do any thing with a needle."
"Flo's a born genius," Hal would reply admiringly.
"But I'm afraid Charlie'll never learn to sew."
"I can sew better myself," was Hal's usual comment.
And it was true. Hal had a bedquilt nearly pieced, which he had done on rainy days and by odd spells. I expect you think he was something of a girl-boy. But then he was very sweet and nice.
Florence stood by the gate one afternoon, looking extremely lovely in her blue and white gingham, and her curls tied back with a bit of blue ribbon. Dot had been in the mud-pie business; and, if it had proved profitable, she would no doubt have made a fortune for the family.
"Go in the house this minute, and get washed," commanded Florence. "What a naughty, dirty child you are!"
Then a carriage passed by very slowly. A young man was driving, and two ladies sat on the back seat. They looked as if they were going to halt.
Florence's heart was in her mouth. She drew herself up in her most stately attitude.
The young man turned; and the lady nearer her beckoned.
Florence stepped out slowly. She thought, with some pride, that, if they wanted a drink, shehada goblet to offer them.
"My little girl," said the lady, in a soft, clear voice, "can you direct us to a blacksmith's?"
"There is one on this road, rather more than a quarter of a mile farther."
"Thank you."
The other lady leaned over, and studied Florence. She had a worn, faded, and fretful look; but some new expression lighted up her sallow face.
"Oh," she sighed, "what a beautiful girl! Now, if I had a daughter like that! I wonder if she lives in that forlorn old rookery?"
"A princess in disguise;" and the young man laughed.
"She was unusually lovely. At her age I had just such hair. But ah, how one fades!"
The straggling auburn hair, very thin on the top, hardly looked as if it had once been "like fine spun gold."
"The trial of my life has beennothaving a daughter."
Mrs. Duncan had heard this plaint very often from her half-sister, who had married a widower nearly three times her age. He had made a very liberal provision for her during her life, but at her death the fortune reverted to his family again. She had always bewailed the fact of having no children; but boys were her abomination. Mrs. Duncan's house was too noisy, with its four rollicking boys; but now that George was growing to manhood he became rather more endurable.
"I do not believe the child could have belonged there," she commenced again.
"Because she was so pretty?" asked George.
"She doesn't look like a country girl."
"But some country girls are very handsome," said Mrs. Duncan.
"They do not possess this air of refinement generally. And did you observe that she answered in a correct and ladylike manner?"
"Aunt Sophie is captivated. A clear case of love at first sight. Why not adopther?"
"It would be a charity to take her out of that hovel, if it is her home."
"I shouldn't think of such a thing now, Sophie, with your poor health," said her sister.
There are some natures on which the least contradiction or opposition acts instantly, rousing them to a spirit of defiance. For several years Mrs. Duncan had urged her sister to adopt a child; but she had never found one that answered her requirements. She was not fond of the trouble of small children. Now that Mrs. Duncan had advised contrarywise, Mrs. Osgood was seized with a perverse fit.
"I am sure I need a companion," she returned with martyr-like air.
"Take a young woman then, who can be a companion."
"Here is the blacksmith's," announced George. "I suppose you will have to find some place of refuge;" and he laughed again gayly.
"Where can we go?"
George held a short conversation with the smith.
"My house is just opposite, and the ladies will be welcome," the latter said. "It will take me about half an hour to repair your mishap."
George conducted them thither. The good woman would fain have invited them in; but they preferred sitting on the vine-covered porch. Mrs. Osgood asked for a glass of water. O Florence! if you had been there!
It happened after a while, that George and his mother walked down the garden. Mrs. Green felt bound to entertain this stranger cast upon her care, as she considered it.
Mrs. Osgood made some inquiries presently about the house they had passed, with a small stream of water just below it.
"Why, that's Granny Kenneth's," said Mrs. Green.
"And who is the child,—almost a young lady?"
"Why, that must be Florence. Did she have long yeller curls? If she was my gal she should braid 'em up decently. I wouldn't have 'em flyin' about."
"And who is Florence?"
Mrs. Osgood's curiosity must have been very great to induce her to listen to the faulty grammar and country pronunciations. But she listened to the story from beginning to end,—Joe, and Joe's wife, and all the children, figuring largely in it.
"And if Granny Kenneth'd had any sense, she would a bundled 'em all off to the poor-house. One of the neighbors here did want to take Florence; but law! what a time they made! She's a peart, stuck-up thing!"
If Florence had heard this verdict against all her small industries and neatnesses and ladylike habits, her heart would have been almost broken. But there are a great many narrow-minded people in this world, who can see no good except in their own way.
Mrs. Osgood made no comments. Presently the carriage was repaired, and the accidental guests departed. They had a long ride yet to take. George asked if there was any nearer way of getting to Seabury.
"There's a narrer road just below Granny Kenneth's,—the little shanty by the crick. It's ruther hard trav'lin', but it cuts off nigh on ter three miles."
"I think we had better take it," said George. "Even that will give us a five-miles drive."
So they passed the cottage again. This time Hal was feeding the chickens; Kit and Charlie swingingupon an old dilapidated apple-tree; and Florence sat by the open window, sewing.
"There's your princess!" exclaimed George with a laugh.
Florence colored a little at beholding the party again.
Mrs. Duncan had come to Seabury, a rather mountainous place, remarkable for its pure air, for the sake of her youngest son, Arthur, who had been ill with a fever. Mrs. Osgood took an odd fancy to accompany her. The seven years of her widowhood had not been happy years, though she had a house like a palace. When she first laid off mourning, she tried Newport and Saratoga; but somehow she did not succeed in making a belle of herself, and that rather mortified her.
Then she sank into invalidism; which tried everybody's patience sorely.
Leaning back in the carriage now, she thought to herself, "Yes, if I onlyhadsome one of my own! Sister Duncan never did understand me, or appreciate the delicacy of my constitution. Her nerves have been blunted by those great rude boys. And that girl looks so refined and graceful,—she would make a pleasant companion I am sure. But I should want to take her away from her family: I never could consent to any intimacy with them."
She ventured to broach her subject to Mrs. Duncan the next day. Perhaps Mrs. Duncan had grown rather impatient with her sister's whims and fancies;and she discouraged the plan on some very sensible grounds. Mrs. Osgood felt like a martyr.
Yet the opposition roused her to attempt it. One day, a week afterward perhaps, she hired a carriage, and was driven over to Madison. George had gone back to the city, so there was no question of having him for escort.
Granny Kenneth was much surprised at the appearance of so fine a lady. She seized Dot, and scrubbed her face, her usual employment upon the entrance of any one.
Mrs. Osgood held up her ruffled skirts as if afraid of contamination.
"Is your granddaughter at home?" was asked in the most languid of voices.
"Flo, you mean? No: she hasn't come from school yet. Do walk in and wait—that is—I mean—if you please," said Granny a good deal flustered, while the little gray curls kept bobbing up and down. "Here's a clean cheer;" and she gave one a whiff with her apron.
Poor Flossy. She had tried so hard to correct Granny's old-fashioned words and pronunciations.
"Thank you. Miss Florence embroiders, I believe."
"Yes, she works baby-petticoats, and does 'em splendid."
And then Granny wondered if she, the fine lady, had any work for Florence.
"How glad Flo'll be, and vacation coming so soon," she thought in the depth of her tender old soul.
"And she's a genius at crochetin'! The laces and shawls and hoods she's knit are a real wonder. They didn't do any thing of the kind in my young days."
"You must find it pretty hard to get along," condescended Mrs. Osgood.
"Yes; but the Lord allers provides some way. Joe's gone in a store,—Mr. Terry's. He's next to Florence," went on Granny in sublime disregard of her pronoun.
Mrs. Osgood took an inventory of the little room, and waited rather impatiently. Then she asked for a glass of water.
O Granny! how could you have been so forgetful! To take that old, thick, greenish glass tumbler when Flossy's choice goblet stood on the shelf above! And then to fill it in the pail, and let the water dribble!
Granny wondered whether it would be polite to entertain her or not. But just then there was a crash and a splash; and Dot and the water-pail were in the middle of the floor.
"Here's a chance!" exclaimed Kit, pausing in the doorway. "Give us a hook and line, Granny: Dot's mouth is just at an angle of ten degrees, good for a bite."
"A wail, sure enough!" said Charlie. "Wring her out, and hang her up to dry."
"Oh, dear!" and Granny, much disconcerted, sat Dot wrong side up on a chair, and the result was a fresh tumble.
It was Hal who picked her up tenderly,—poor wet baby, with a big red lump on her forehead, and dismal cries issuing from the mouth that seemed to run all round her head.
"Stay out there till I wipe up," said Granny to the others. "Then I'll get Dot a dry dress. I never did see such an onlucky child—and company too. WhatwillFlo say!"
For Florence came tripping up the path, knitting her delicate brows in consternation.
"Never you mind. There's a lady in the parlor who's been waitin'. Oh, my! what did I do with that floor-cloth?"
"A lady?"
"Yes: run right along."
Luckily the door was shut between. Florence gave her curls a twist and a smoothing with her fingers, took off her soiled white apron, pulled her dress out here and there, stepped over the pools of water, and entered.
Mrs. Osgood admired her self-possession, and pitied the poor child profoundly. The flush and partial embarrassment were very becoming to her.
That lady did not mean to rush headlong into her proposal. She broke the ground delicately by inquiring about the embroidering; and Florence brought some to show her.
"Who taught you?" she asked in surprise.
"No one;" and Florence colored a little. "I did not do the first as neatly, but it is quite easy after one is fairly started."
"I really do not see how you find time, with going to school;" and this persevering industry did touch Mrs. Osgood's heart.
"I cannot do very much," answered Florence with a sigh. "But it will soon be vacation."
"How old are you?"
"I shall be fifteen the last of this month."
"What a family your grandmother has on her hands!"
"Yes. If my father had lived, it would have been very different."
A touching expression overspread Florence's face, and made her lovelier than ever in Mrs. Osgood's eyes.
"She certainlyisvery pretty," that lady thought; "and how attractive such a daughter would be in my house! I should live my young life over again in her."
For Mrs. Osgood had found that the days for charming young men were over, and prosy middle-aged people were little to her taste. No woman ever clung to youth with a greater longing.
"What do you study at school?" she asked.
"Only the English branches. I have been thinkingof—of becoming a teacher," said Florence hesitatingly.
"You would have a poor opportunity in this little town."
"I might go away;" and Florence sighed again.
"You have never studied music, I suppose."
"No: I have had no opportunity," returned Florence honestly enough.
"Do you sing?"
"Yes. And I love music so very, very much! I do mean to learn by and by, if it is possible."
"I wish you would sing something for me,—a little school-song, or any thing you are familiar with."
Florence glanced up in amazement; and for a few moments was awkwardly silent.
"I should like to hear your voice. It is very pleasant in talking, and ought to be musical in singing."
Florence was a good deal flattered; and then she had the consciousness that she was one of the best singers in school. So she ran over the songs in her own mind, and selected "Natalie, the Maid of the Mill," which she was very familiar with.
She sang it beautifully. Florence was one of the children who are always good in an emergency. She was seldom "flustered," as Granny expressed it, and always seemed to know how to make the best of herself. And, as she saw the pleasure in Mrs. Osgood's face, her own heart beat with satisfaction.
"That is really charming. A little cultivation would make your voice very fine indeed. What a pity that you should be buried in this little town!"
"Do you think—that I could—do any thing with it?" asked Florence in a tremor of delight.
"I suppose your grandmother would not stand in the way of your advancement?" questioned Mrs. Osgood.
"Oh, no! And then if Icoulddo something"—
Florence felt that she ought to add, "for the others," but somehow she did not. She wondered if Mrs. Osgood was a music-teacher, or a professional singer. But she did not like to ask.
"There is my carriage," said Mrs. Osgood, as a man drove slowly round. "I am spending a few weeks at some distance from here, and wished to have you do a little flannel embroidery for me. When will your vacation commence?"
"In about ten days,—the first of July."
"I wish to see you when we can have a longer interview. I will come over again then."
Mrs. Osgood rose, and shook out her elegant grenadine dress, much trimmed and ruffled. On her wrists were beautiful bracelets, and her watch-chain glittered with every movement. Then she really smiled very sweetly upon the young girl; and Florence was charmed.
Some dim recollection passed over her mind.
"Oh!" she said, "were you not in a carriage that stopped here some days ago. Another lady and a young gentleman"—
"Yes," answered Mrs. Osgood, pleased at being remembered. "And, my dear, I took a great fancy to you that day. You are so different from the majority of country girls, that it is a pity you should have no better chance."
The longing and eloquent eyes of Florence said more than words.
"Yes. I will see you again; and I may, perhaps, think of something to your advantage."
There was a mode of egress through this "best-room," though Granny had brought her guest in by the kitchen way. Florence opened the door now.
"What a lovely, graceful child!" thought Mrs. Osgood; and she scrutinized her from head to feet.
Florence watched the carriage out of sight in a half-dream. How long she would have stood in a brown study is uncertain; but Granny came in to get some dry clothes for Dot.
"Whatdidshe want of you?" exclaimed Charlie, all curiosity. "And what were you singing for? Oh, my! wasn't she splendid?"
"You sang like a bird," said Hal in wide-eyed wonder as well. "Did she ask you?"
"Of course. You don't suppose I would offer to sing for a stranger,—a lady too?"
"Did she like it?"
"Yes. She thought I might—that is, if I had any opportunity—oh, I wish wewerea little richer!" and Florence burst into a flood of hysterical tears.
"I wish we were;" and Hal gave her hand a soft squeeze. "If you could learn to play on the melodeon at church, and give music-lessons"—
The vision called up a heaven of delight to poor Flossy.
"But whatdidshe want?" asked Granny in a great puzzle, putting Dot's foot through the sleeve of her dress, and tying the neck-string in garter fashion.
"I do believe she is a singer herself. Maybe she belongs to a company who give concerts; but then she was dressed so elegantly."
"They make lots of money," said Kit with a sagacious nod of the head. "It's what I'm going to be, only I shall have a fiddle."
"And a scalp-lock."
Charlie pulled this ornamentation to its fullest height, which was considerable, as Kit's hair needed cutting.
"Oh! suppose she was," said Hal. "And suppose she wanted to take Flossy, and teach her music,—why, it's like your plan, you know, only it isn't an old gentleman; and I don't believe she has any little girls,—I mean a little girl who died. Did she ask for a drink, Granny?"
"Yes; and then Dot pulled over the water-pail. Oh, my! if I haven't put this dress on upside down, and the string's in a hard knot. Whatever shall I do? And, Flossy, I forgot all about the gobler. I took the first thing that came to hand."
"Not that old tumbler with a nick in the edge? And it isgoblet. I do wish you'd learn to call things by their right names!" exclaimed Florence in vexation.
"It's the very same, isn't it?" began Charlie, "only, as Hal said, it isn't an old gentleman. Oh, suppose itshouldcome true! And if Kitshouldhave a fiddle like black Jake."
"And if youshouldrun away," laughed Hal. "I don't believe you can find a better time than this present moment. Kit, you had better go after the cows."
Charlie started too, upon Hal's suggestion. Florence gave a little sniff, and betook herself to the next room.
Oh, dear! How poor and mean and tumbled about their house always was! No, notalways, but if any one ever came. Dot chose just that moment to be unfortunate; and then that Granny should have used that forlorn old tumbler. She doubted very much if the lady would ever come again.
So Flossy had a good cry from wounded vanity, and then felt better. Hal took Dot out with him to feed the chickens, and Granny prepared the table.
Still Florence's lady was the theme of comment and wonder for several days, although the child insisted that she only came to get some embroidering done. All further speculations seemed too wild for sober brains.
"But it is so odd that she asked you to sing," said Hal. "And I do believe something will come of it."
Florence gave a little despairing sniff.
Mrs. Osgood leaned back in the carriage,—it was the very best that Seabury afforded,—and, looking out on the pleasant sunshine and waving trees, considered the subject before her.Ifshe took Florence, she would have a governess in the house, and go on as rapidly as possible with the finishing process. Music should be the first thing: the childdidhave a lovely voice, and such fair, slender hands! In a year she would be quite presentable. How vexed all the Osgood nieces would be! They were continually hinting at visits, and would be delighted at having Aunt Osgood take them up. But somehow she had a grudge against her husband's relatives, because the property reverted to them in the end.
And then she fancied herself riding out with this beautiful daughter by her side, or stopping at hotels where every one would wonder "who that lovely girl could be!" And Florence would certainly be most grateful for the change. It was a deed of charity to rescue the poor child from the life before her, withno better prospect than that of a school-teacher. She certainly had some ideas and ambitions beyond her sphere.
School closed presently, and the children were wild with delight. They had a great time on examination day, and Florence acquitted herself finely. Mr. Fielder was very proud of her.
"If you can go to school another year, and improve as much," he said, "I can almost promise you a very good situation."
Flossy's dream in respect to her elegant lady was fading, and she came back to humbler prospects quite thankfully.
What Granny was to do with the children through vacation she hardly knew.
"Oh, you needn't worry!" said Charlie consolingly. "Kit and me are going out in the woods; and we'll build a stunning log-hut, or make a cave"—
"O Charlie, if you would be a little more careful! Kit and I."
"I can't be always bothering! Mr. Fielder almost wears me out, so you might let me have a little rest in vacation.