Four girls of forty years ago

IT was a glorious morning towards the end of June, and the four little Winslows were comfortably established under the big apple-tree. The Winslow Homestead was on the banks of the Hudson, and from where they sat, the children could watch the boats on the river, and even hear the sound of the paddles, as the big excursion steamers plied their busy way between New York and Albany. They could look across to the opposite shore, where the Palisades rose in forms like castles, from the very brink of the river. It was a beautiful view, and the children loved it, as their father had loved it before them. The place had been in the Winslow family for three generations, and old Dr. Winslow himself had climbed that very apple-tree when a boy, and brought down many a shower of half-ripe apples for his younger brothers and sisters. Dulcie and Daisy had never wearied of their father’s stories of his boyhood at the old homestead on the Hudson, and the two weeks since the family had left the city had been very pleasant ones.

“I don’t know why it is, but Grandma always seems rather nicer in summer than she does in winter,” Molly had remarked only that morning. “She doesn’t scold half so much, and she lets us do pretty nearly everything we want to.”

“I think it’s because there’s so much more room,” Dulcie decided. “We are not so much in her way. I think the less Grandma sees of us, the better she likes us.”

“Perhaps it’s because Papa’s coming home soon, and she knows she isn’t going to have us much longer,” Daisy suggested. “She says I may help pack the next missionary box. I love to see what they send to the missionaries, only I wish some of the ladies wouldn’t send quite such shabby things. I don’t see how any missionary could possibly use them.”

But at this particular moment the little girls were not thinking of Grandma or of missionaries either, for Dulcie was reading “A Peep Behind the Scenes” aloud, and for the past hour they had all been completely absorbed in the story.

“It’s very sad,” remarked Dulcie, pausing at the conclusion of a chapter to wipe her eyes. “I wish something horrid would happen to that stepmother, and Rosalie would hurry and find her Aunt Lucy.”

“Stepmothers must be awful,” said Molly, glancing up from the tea-cozy she was crocheting. “Almost every one we’ve read about is cruel.”

“They are all cruel,” announced Dulcie, in a tone of conviction. “Let’s look at your book-mark, Maud. Oh, you are getting all the stitches crooked. Give it to me, and let me straighten it out for you.”

Maud relinquished her work quite readily, and threw herself back in the soft grass.

“It’s the first one I ever made,” she said. “I don’t believe Miss Leslie will mind even if it is just a little bit crooked. It’s a wedding present, anyhow, and people ought not to criticize presents.”

“Your tea-cozy is going to be lovely,” said Daisy, regarding Molly’s work admiringly. “I’m afraid my pincushion won’t be half as pretty.”

“Oh, yes, it will,” Molly assured her. “Lizzie always said you sewed better than any of us. I’m sure Miss Leslie will love your cushion, and Uncle Stephen, too. Don’t you want one of us to read, Dulcie, while you work on your tidy?”

Dulcie hesitated.

“I think I’d rather go on reading,” she said. “I can read faster than the rest of you, and it’s so interesting about Rosalie and her stepmother. There really isn’t any hurry about finishing our presents. We don’t even know when the wedding is to be.”

“I wish Uncle Stephen had told us more about it,” said Daisy. “It would be so interesting to think of them on their wedding day, but he only said he was sure Miss Leslie would like some wedding presents, and we could give them to her when we saw her. He didn’t even say he was going to marry her himself.”

“Of course he is, though,” said Dulcie, “or else he would have told us we were mistaken. Perhaps they are coming east on their wedding trip. Won’t it be nice to see them again, and to be able to call Miss Leslie ‘Aunt Florence’? I don’t believe Grandma will ask them here for a visit, but perhaps they’ll have us come and spend the day at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. I guess Grandma would let us if Uncle Stephen came for us. It’s only an hour on the train.”

“It would be so lovely that I don’t believe it will ever happen,” said Dulcie, sceptically. “I’m very sorry, Maudie, but I’m afraid I shall have to rip this all out and start over again.”

“I don’t mind,” said Maud, with unruffled composure. “I think perhaps Miss Leslie would like it just as much if I wrote a nice piece of poetry for her wedding present.”

This suggestion was greeted by a peal of laughter from the other three, but Maud remained quite grave.

“I made up one this morning in bed,” she said. “I think it’s rather pretty.”

“Let’s hear it,” said Dulcie, and Maud, nothing loth, sat up on the grass and began to recite in a very sing-song tone:

I can’t remember the rest, but don’t you think it’s nice poetry?”

“It isn’t bad, considering your age,” said Dulcie, indulgently, and Molly added, with real admiration:

“It doesn’t exactly rhyme, but it sounds a little like ‘Hiawatha.’”

“I think I shall be a poet like Mr. Longfellow when I grow up,” announced Maud, “and all my poems will be about the country, because I love it so much. Miss Polly loves the country, too. Her letter made me feel so nice and comfortable inside.”

“It’s lovely to think of Miss Polly being so happy,” said Daisy. “I can’t ever feel sorry I wrote that letter to her brother, though I don’t believe I should ever dare do such a thing again.”

“I’m so glad it’s only June,” reflected Molly, “and we can stay here till September. It’s so much pleasanter than being in New York, especially now that Miss Polly’s gone away.”

“I should like to be going to Europe with Aunt Julia and Paul,” said Dulcie. “It must be wonderful to see different countries, and all the places you’ve read about in history.”

“Paul doesn’t care about that part of it,” said Molly, and taking from her pocket a crumpled letter, she read aloud:

“People don’t always appreciate their advantages, as Miss Hammond says,” quoted Dulcie. “If I were in Paul’s place, I should want to see every single thing I possibly could. Oh, here comes the telegraph boy. I wonder what’s happened.”

Dulcie’s tone had changed to one of excitement, not unmixed with anxiety. The arrival of a telegram was rather an unusual event in the Winslow family, and Dulcie and Maud both sprang to their feet, and ran to meet the small boy from the village, who was seen crossing the lawn, with a yellow envelope in his hand.

“It’s for Grandma,” announced Dulcie, when she had taken the envelope from the messenger. “I’ll take it in to her. The boy says there’s ten cents to collect.”

Mrs. Winslow was in the kitchen, superintending the putting up of strawberry jam. She was in the midst of delivering a lecture to Bridget when Dulcie, flushed and panting, appeared in the doorway.

“A telegram for you, Grandma,” she said, “and the boy says there’s ten cents to collect.”

Grandma turned a trifle pale as she held out her hand for the envelope. Her thoughts instantly flew to a possible accident in the Chester family, or to her daughter Kate, who had gone away for a week’s visit to a friend. But her manner was apparently as composed as usual, as she took out her purse, and counted the change.

“He will have to change a quarter,” she said.

Dulcie hurried away, glad of the excuse to return with the change, and possibly learn the contents of the telegram. There was a strong probability that she would not be told, however, for Grandma and Aunt Kate were always silent about their affairs. She paid the messenger, received the correct change, and was on her way back to the kitchen, when she encountered her three younger sisters.

“It was so exciting, we couldn’t wait any longer,” Molly explained. “What did Grandma say when she opened it?”

“She hadn’t opened it when she sent me away,” said Dulcie, “but I’ve got to go back with the change, and perhaps she’ll tell me.”

“We’ll come with you,” said Daisy, “but we’ll wait outside, so as not to seem too curious. If Grandma thought we were curious she wouldn’t tell us anything.”

Accordingly, only Dulcie entered the kitchen, while the other three remained discretely in the background. Mrs. Winslow had evidently read her message, for the telegram was nowhere to be seen, and she was talking to Bridget, who looked as if she had heard something interesting. At Dulcie’s entrance, however, Grandma broke off abruptly in the middle of a sentence.

“Here’s the change, Grandma,” said the little girl, “and—and I hope it isn’t any bad news.”

“No,” said Mrs. Winslow, with a rather grim smile; “I don’t imagine you will consider it bad news. The telegram was from your father, and it was sent from Chicago. I have known for some time that he was on his way home, but thought best not to tell you sooner. You children get so excited over things, and you know how much I dislike a fuss.”

“I’m rather glad Grandma didn’t tell us sooner,” remarked Dulcie, with a happy laugh. “I really don’t see how we could have lived if we had known Papa was on his way home, and not know how soon he would get here. Oh, girls, isn’t it the most glorious thing that ever happened?”

It was afternoon, and the four little sisters were once more in their favorite place, under the big apple-tree. The first excitement of Grandma’s wonderful news had, in a measure, subsided, but for the first few hours it had really seemed quite impossible to keep still, and at last Grandma, in despair, had gone out to call on a neighbor, declaring that so much talking was more than she could endure. But in spite of her sharp words, Mrs. Winslow had not looked altogether displeased.

“I think she is a little happy herself,” Daisy said, as the tall erect figure of the old lady passed out of the gate. “Of course when Papa comes she won’t have to keep us any longer, and that will be a great relief.”

“I don’t think we’ve been such a terrible trouble to her,” said Molly, a little indignantly; “we’ve tried to be pretty good.”

“Yes, I know,” said Daisy, “but then, you see, Grandma doesn’t care much about children, and we are only steps. If it had been Paul it might be different.”

“Oh, I’m so glad we’re not going to be steps any longer,” cried Dulcie, with shining eyes. “Think of having a little home all by ourselves with Papa. I’m so happy I don’t know whether I want to laugh or cry.”

“Do you suppose Papa will let you keep house?” inquired Molly. “You’re twelve.”

“He might,” admitted Dulcie, with becoming modesty. “I think I could, but I shouldn’t scold the servants as much as Grandma does. I wonder where our home will be.”

“I hope it will be in the country,” said Maud. “Maybe I can have rabbits.”

“I don’t care where it is,” said Daisy; “I don’t care about anything but seeing Papa. I suppose he didn’t tell us he was coming so soon because he wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Of course that was the reason,” agreed Dulcie, confidently. “It would have been a surprise, too, if we hadn’t happened to take in the telegram. I don’t believe Grandma would have told us anything, but then we wouldn’t have had the pleasure of anticipating. I think to anticipate something pleasant is one of the nicest things, if you don’t have to wait too long.”

“The telegram was from Chicago,” said Daisy. “Grandma says Papa may get here to-morrow.”

“I’m hungry,” announced Maud, somewhat irrelevantly. “I was so excited about Papa’s coming home I couldn’t eat any dinner. I don’t see how I can possibly wait till tea-time.”

“I think we are all a little hungry,” said Dulcie. “I know I was too excited to eat much dinner. Grandma doesn’t like to have us eat between meals, but I don’t believe she’d mind our having a little bread and butter to-day.”

“Go and ask Bridget for some,” urged Molly. “She generally gives you what you ask for, and she’s called you Miss Dulcie since you were twelve.”

“Ask her to put some brown sugar on it,” charged Maud, as Dulcie rose, and walked away in the direction of the house.

As she approached the back premises, Dulcie noticed that a horse and buggy were standing outside the kitchen door. The buggy was empty, and the horse was fastened to the hitching-post. It was also evident from the sound of voices in the kitchen that Bridget was entertaining visitors. Dulcie paused a moment before going in, and as she did so, some words fell upon her ears, which set her heart beating so fast that she could scarcely breathe.

“It was the madam herself told me,” Bridget was saying. “She read out the message, and then she says, ‘the children don’t know a thing about it,’ she says, ‘and he wants it kept from them till he can tell them himself.’”

“It’s just too awful, that’s what it is!” cried another voice. “I never thought he’d do it, him such a nice, kind gentleman, and so fond of the first one, too. Oh, the poor lambs; the poor lambs!”

Dulcie knew that voice, although it was many months since she had heard it last. Impulsively she hurried forward, regardless of the fact that there were several persons in the kitchen, including a strange young man, with freckles, and very red hair, and in another moment her arms were round the neck of a stout, pleasant-faced young woman, and she was hugging her tight, and laughing and crying both together.

The young woman returned Dulcie’s embrace heartily, and at the same time began to cry.

“Oh, my precious!” she cried, “I couldn’t keep away another minute, I just couldn’t. I heard you’d moved up for the summer, and I said to Michael—that’s my husband, dear—I said ‘you’ve got to drive me over to the old place this afternoon. I’ve got to see those precious children,’ I said. I didn’t think your grandma’d have any objections, seeing as I’m married, and couldn’t come back even if she’d have me, but O dear, O dear! I never thought to hear such dreadful news.” And the young woman—who was a very emotional person—began to sob more violently than ever.

“But there isn’t any dreadful news, Lizzie; I don’t know what you mean,” faltered Dulcie, who was still clinging round her old nurse’s neck. “Papa is coming home. Grandma had a telegram from him this morning, and he may be home to-morrow.”

“Yes, yes, my darling, I know all about it, but how is he coming home, that’s the question? How is he coming home to the dear little trusting children who love him so much?”

“Lizzie, what is it?” cried Dulcie, in sudden terror; “has something terrible happened to Papa, that we don’t know about? Is he ill?”

“No, no, dearie, he’s well enough, I guess, but—do stop making signs to me, Bridget; there’s no reason why she shouldn’t be told. They’ve all got to know soon.”

“Know what?” questioned Dulcie, gazing with big frightened eyes from one face to another. “Something has happened to Papa, I know it has, and nobody will tell us. Oh! oh!” And Dulcie burst into tears, and hid her face on Lizzie’s shoulder.

“There, there, Miss Dulcie, don’t take on so,” soothed Bridget. “Nothing so very bad has happened. Lizzie always makes a fuss over things. She don’t know what she’s saying.”

“I don’t, don’t I?” retorted the indignant Lizzie, “and who should know better, I’d like to ask? Didn’t I have one myself, and isn’t that the reason I ran away from home at sixteen, and have been working for my living ever since? I guess if anybody in this world knows about stepmothers I do.”

“Stepmothers!” repeated Dulcie, lifting her face, from which the color had suddenly faded. “Lizzie, is somebody going to have a stepmother?”

“You are, my lamb,” sobbed Lizzie, and the words were accompanied by a convulsive hug. “Your papa is bringing her home to you. He was married in California last week. Your grandma’s known it was going to happen ever since last winter, but it was your papa’s wish you shouldn’t be told till he came home and told you himself. Oh, my poor baby, don’t cry so, don’t now. It’s an awful thing, I know, and my heart’s just breaking for you all, but it can’t be helped, and you’ve got to make the best of it.”