A borrowed sister

The oldest inhabitant could not remember so severe a storm in July as the one that followed Mrs. Page’s weather-breeder. Ellen, who liked adventures, was delighted to find, when she waked in the morning, that it was raining very hard.

She ran to a window and opened the blinds.

“Look, Lois!” she cried; “see how the brook has risen already; it is almost up to the feather-bed!”

Lois came and looked. All her pretty, peaceful view of the night before was blurred by the down-coming rain.

In the dining-room the guests were all talking of the storm, as they ate their baked beans and fish-balls, and when church time approached, it was raining so hard that Mr. Morgan said he thought that the little girls had better stay at home.

“I have my raincoat and my rubbers,” said Lois.

“Of course we are going to church,” said Ellen, who longed to be out in the storm.

“Well, if the landlady can lend you a waterproof,” Mr. Morgan began.

Lois put on her rubbers joyfully.

“I think you are very selfish,” said Ellen, with a gleam of mischief in her eye that was lost on Lois, “to have two rubbers and never offer me one.”

Lois pulled one off hastily.

Ellen laughed. “Goosie, what good would one rubber do either of us?” she said.

“Of course it wouldn’t. I never stopped to think.”

“Ellen, you ought to be ashamed of yourself to tease her so,” said Ellen’s father.

The landlady was not anxious to brave the storm, and cheerfully lent Ellen an old-fashioned blue circular waterproof, that swept the ground; but when it was pinned up with safety-pins and Ellen’s feet were encased in rubbers far too large for her, the little company set out for church. The children were glad that the services were to be held in a white meeting-house a quarter of a mile away, instead of in the brick one, as it meant a longer walk.

The church was very old, with galleries, and square pews with doors. They had the building almost to themselves, and Ellen selected a pew near the door.

“I have to sit so far forward at home that I want to sit where I can see every one go in,” she whispered to Lois. “Doesn’t it seem just as if we were keeping house in a dear little room?” she added presently, as she closed the pew door. Lois, who had been taught never to whisper in church, pretended not to hear. She sat up very straight with her hands folded.

It seemed strange to the children that the slender congregation was composed chiefly of the old or middle-aged, the very persons they would have supposed the storm would have kept at home.

There were only three children present, besides themselves, and these were boys, who were marshaled in by a severe-looking lady. When the first hymn was given out, Ellen felt it her duty to sing as loud as possible, as there were so few to join in the singing, and she let out her voice in a way that astonished Lois, and caused a woman in the pew in front of them to turn around.

When Mr. Morgan began his sermon, Lois found, to her delight, that it was an old favorite of hers, a sermon upon looking on the bright side, which he preached the first Sunday she ever heard him.

Lois felt a great deal older than she had done then, and she was sure she was not half so apt to look on the dark side. Indeed, until Jessie had gone away on her vacation, there had seldom been a dark side to look on. Dear, sunny Jessie, who always made light of any little trial. There never was any one half so sweet as Jessie.

When church was over, there was a temporary lull in the storm, and Ellen persuaded her father to take them on a little walk across the bridge and up the hill. Ellen walked into every puddle they came to. She said that her rubbers were boats, and that it was her duty to give them a sail whenever she could.

“Ellen, I wish your sense of duty was not quite so strong,” said her father.

When they came back, they stood for a long time on the bridge throwing in sticks and watching them sail out on the other side. Ellen had a name for every vessel.

“Come, children, we really must go home,” said Mr. Morgan, cutting into a description that Ellen was giving of the crew of the Shooting Star. “It is beginning to rain hard again.”

After their walk the children were very hungry. Lois was beginning to feel quite at home at the long table. Both she and Ellen were delighted to find that there was roast chicken for dinner, with the accompaniment of mashed potatoes, peas, string beans, and jelly: each vegetable was on a separate little dish. There were four kinds of dessert, apple pie, raspberry tart, custard pie, and tapioca pudding. Again the maid came to Lois first, and it was very hard to decide what to take, but she finally chose raspberry tart and apple pie. The apple pie was made of dried apples, which was a sad disappointment.

Ellen saw that her father was absorbed in a conversation with the man next to him, and she seized the opportunity to order all four kinds of dessert. “Doesn’t it seem just like Thanksgiving?” she whispered to Lois.

Ellen was eating her raspberry tart when her father unexpectedly turned and said to the maid, who was waiting for his order, “I see that my little girl has saved me the trouble of ordering any dessert,” and he pushed the tapioca pudding and the custard pie towards him, and said, “That was very thoughtful of you, Ellen.”

“I never can get ahead of father,” Ellen said in a resigned voice.

It rained hard all the afternoon. When they were tired of reading, Lois and Ellen went out to the barn to see some kittens. There were five of them, and they were an exceedingly riotous family, and so little used to people that they would not come near the children. They looked very fascinating as they peered at Lois and Ellen from distant corners. The mother was very friendly. She was something like Minnie, only she had yellow streaks in her fur. Two of the kittens looked like her, two were black and white, and the prettiest one was yellow and white. “How nice it is for the cat to have five kittens!” said Lois. “It is so lonely for Minnie and Mittens, now that Chinchilla has been given away.” Lois was sure she could make friends with them in time. The landlady gave her some milk in a pie-plate, which she put down on the barn floor. The cat at once began to drink, and made the low call to her kittens that Lois knew so well. Presently, to Lois’s delight, the kittens came scurrying from different quarters, and there was a family group around the pie-plate of a mother and her five children.

This excitement made a break in the long Sunday afternoon, and towards tea-time Mr. Morgan took the children for another walk in the rain.

The next morning it was still raining. The brook had become a raging torrent, and the feather-bed had been taken in at last. It was all very well for it to have rained on Sunday, but they had planned to have a day out of doors exploring the country on Monday, and the children were not at all pleased to find such a wet day.

How hard it poured! There seemed no prospect of its ever clearing. Lois and Ellen pressed their noses against the window-pane at intervals, but there was no exploring to be done on this day.

After breakfast Lois thought it would help and please the landlady if they made their bed.

It was not an easy one to make, for there was an old-fashioned feather-bed on top, and punch and pull it as they would, they could not get it into shape.

“It is like kneading bread,” said Ellen, “only it never seems to get kneaded.”

When the bed was made it presented a strange appearance, for it stood up like a mountain in the middle and sloped away in an amazing fashion at each side.

“Good-morning,” said the landlady pleasantly, as she came in with clean towels. “For the land’s sake!” She stood as if petrified for a moment, and then said, “Who made that bed? Did Delia make it? I must give her a scolding.”

“We made it. We wanted to help you,” Lois faltered.

“Well, the next time you want to help, you had better take a few lessons in putting on feather-beds first. I guess you don’t have them where you live.”

“No; I wish we did,” said Ellen, “they are so downy and comfortable.”

The landlady pulled the bed to pieces, and Lois had a discouraged feeling. She thought she had been of so much help.

Afterwards Mr. Morgan read to them from “Ivanhoe,” and they were so thrilled over the trials of Rebecca that they forgot they had wanted the sunshine.

Mr. Morgan had to get home by Tuesday noon, so when the sun finally came out the next morning, there was no time to do any exploring of the neighboring country.

The drive home was an adventurous one, for a pond had risen so that it spread over the road, and as they drove along, the water came up almost to the steps of the carriage. But this was not all: when they reached the hill where they had seen the three cats in the window, they found the road was badly gullied. Mr. Morgan drew up his horse, and Lois looked with dismay into the yawning chasm in front of them. A great slice had been taken off the hill, and the road was impassable.

“What shall we do, father?” Ellen asked. Any sort of an adventure delighted her. “Shall we scramble down into that hole and then climb up on the other side?” She did not wait for an answer, but plunged into the abyss, while Lois stood cautiously on the edge.

“I shall have to lead the horse around through that field,” said Mr. Morgan.

“And you want us to let down those bars for you,” said Ellen, scrambling up again with the mud clinging to her shoes and skirt. “That is a cave, and there is an enchanted princess in it who has been turned into a stone,” she informed Lois. “You ought to go down. It is most interesting.”

“I don’t care to get my shoes muddy,” said Lois.

It was so exciting to drive through the rocky pasture that the rest of the journey was commonplace in comparison.

No European traveler, returning to his native land, could have had a greater sense of having had adventures and seen the world than Lois had, as she went up the steps and opened the green door of her house. Was it possible that it was only three days since she had left her quiet home?

“Well, dearest, did you have a good time?” her mother asked.

“We had such a good time, mother, and so many adventures!”

“What were they, dear?”

And then the hopelessness of ever describing them came over Lois. How could she make her mother know the charm of that glorious drive in the summer sunshine, or understand the excitement of life in the little hotel, or feel the terror of the midnight burglar-ghost, the quaint charm of the old church, and the rapture of the walk in the rain? How could she make her feel that it was all doubly dear to her because shared with Ellen and Ellen’s father?

“I am sorry it rained so much of the time,” said Mrs. Page; “it must have been a great disappointment; but isn’t it fortunate I put in your rubbers and raincoat?”