CHAPTER VIII.
KING WINTER.
If Fred had been the hero of one of the stories of good little boys, whose pages our mothers and grandmothers used to bedew with salt tears, from the hour of his midnight talk with Bess his whole character would have undergone a sudden and miraculous change. But he was only a natural boy, just starting to fight his own way against heavy odds, and his progress was slow and tiresome. Though he forced himself to go out with Bess, and to see the boys when they came to the house, he still had the old longing to avoid them, and the old quick temper would flash out at Rob now and then. But Bess, watching him closely, could see his struggle, and often rejoiced over some victory too slight to attract the attention of any one else. With a quiet word of suggestion or encouragement she helped the boy onward when he was cross and discouraged, or let fall some expression of approval to show that she appreciated his efforts to live well, as a hero should do.
The first meeting with the boys was a trying one on both sides. Sam, in particular, was so anxious to make the most soothing remarks, that he well-nigh overwhelmed Fred by his expressions of sympathy and solicitude. But just as Fred felt he could endure it no longer, and must beat a retreat, Bert came to the rescue with some well-timed question that turned the conversation to less personal subjects. It was by no means the first time that Bess had been grateful to Bert for his quick perception of danger signals in the conversation, and she hastily followed his lead. But the hour the boys spent together was rather a stiff one, for Fred was silent and shy, and the boys had not the courage to approach him, as they felt, more strongly than ever, the sad difference between them. It was with a sigh of relief that Fred heard the door close behind them; and, returning to the parlor, he threw himself wearily into a chair, while Fuzz climbed on his knee and licked his face. A moment afterwards Bessie's hand was laid on his shoulder.
"In a brown study, Fred?" she asked gayly.
"Yes—no—I don't know," was the somewhat vague response.
"What is it now?" she inquired, as she bent over the fireplace to pile up the scattered embers.
"Nothing, only I didn't enjoy the boys much," said Fred candidly. "And I don't think they enjoyed me. Do you think we shall ever have any more fun together, Miss Bess?"
"Yes, indeed, Fred! It will take a little while to make up for the year you have lost. But be patient; the time will come, and come soon. Was it as bad as you expected?"
"I am afraid it was," confessed Fred. "Sam was the worst of all."
"And yet he had no idea of it," said Bess. "He meant to say something very kind, and we ought to find out what people really mean, before we judge them. I don't believe that, except for Rob, one of the boys would give up as much for your sake as Sam, in spite of his long words and queer grammar. But come, we have our book to finish before bedtime."
January and February had come and gone with but little snow, and no cold weather. But from the very first day March seemed determined to make amends for this neglect. A week of cold, clear weather brought glorious skating, and the boys revelled in it. After a day or two of the sport, Rob, Ted, and Phil put their heads together, and, as a result of their planning, one fine moonlight evening the trio appeared to Bess, who was comfortably toasting her toes and holding Fuzz, while she read aloud to Fred.
"Cousin Bess!" exclaimed Rob, breaking in on this cosy scene, "just drop that old book and come with us! Fred doesn't want you half as much as we do."
"Do come," echoed Phil persuasively. "It is splendid skating, and we want you to come, too."
"But I don't know how to skate," demurred Bess, with an affectionate glance at the fire.
"It's high time you did, at your age," said Rob saucily. "And it's no use to beg off, ma'am, for I know you have some skates, even if you don't know how to use them."
"Yes, we'll teach you," added Ted. "It's fine to-night, and we want you to go like thunder—oh!" And he had the grace to blush over his last word.
"But my skates are dull," pleaded Bessie.
"We've had them sharpened," said Phil, triumphantly dangling them before her eyes. "Sha'n't she go, Fred?"
Now Fred did want to hear the rest of the story, instead of passing a lonely evening. For a moment his face clouded, but a sudden thought came to him, that such a feeling was unworthy the hero he was trying to be, and he said bravely,—
"Please go, Miss Bess. I truly wish you would, and you can tell me how many times you fall down."
Bess had seen his struggle, and more than ever longed to stay with him; but the boys were clamorous, so she yielded, and went with them.
She had told the truth when she had said she could not skate, for, although she had owned her skates for ten years, she had not put them on as many times. But she was naturally sure-footed, and, with the three boys to help her, she was soon able to propel herself slowly across the smooth sheet of ice, in spite of occasional collisions with the many skaters.
"But what makes me turn around?" she asked anxiously, after she had repeatedly had the mortification of starting for some desired spot, only to turn helplessly midway on her course, and drift aimlessly backwards, with her puzzled face fixed on the starting-point.
"It's because you don't strike out evenly," said Teddy. "Now watch me, and do as I do." And he glided away across the pond.
Bess tried to glide after him, but her left foot constantly ran away from her right, and she could only toddle along in a series of short strokes, until she once more turned her back on the coveted goal, and, after a brief slide, stopped short, awaiting further instructions. It was a merry evening, and before they left the ice, Bess had learned to appreciate the fascination of the sport, while she retired amidst the congratulations of her three knights, who vied with one another in sounding the praises of their apt pupil. For a few days Bess made the most of her new accomplishment, and spent an hour or two of each day on the pond, where she quickly learned to feel at home, and at least could keep her face turned towards the object of her hopes. It was provoking to watch the ease with which her friends slid past her, looking so independent and sure of their footing; and Bess at first was tempted to give up the struggle, which she felt was making her ridiculous. But Rob's protestations encouraged her, and on the third day she ceased to be the new-comer. Her successor was a tall youth who awkwardly put on his skates, rose unsteadily to his feet, balanced himself for a moment, and then, with a smile that said as plainly as words, "Conquer or die," struck out boldly, only to land in an ignominious pile at her very feet. From that moment she felt herself a veteran in the art of skating.
It was late the next afternoon when Bess with one of her friends reached the pond. Their skates were soon on, and they struck out together into the merry crowd of skaters. Bess looked about for her cousin and his boon companions, who were nowhere to be seen, and then watched her friend, who was moving away alone, her swaying figure outlined against the ruddy sunset. Then, refusing all offers of assistance, she struggled up the pond, against the strong wind that nearly blew her backward. Half-way up the ice she paused, stood for a moment to catch her breath, and then, with the breeze helping her, lazily slid back, almost to the dam at the lower end of the ice. This performance she repeated several times, greatly to her own satisfaction. At length, she had stopped to speak to a friend, when a sound of mingled scraping and shouting made them both raise their eyes, and glance up the ice. A peculiar apparition was bearing down upon them, as they stood there in the gathering twilight. At first, they could make out little but its outline, but as it came rushing nearer, it was revealed in all its splendor. Four sleds, two red, one yellow, and one blue, had been lashed together, two in front, two behind, and covered with a sort of platform of boards, from the front of which rose a complicated system of bean-poles, crossed and re-crossed, bearing a red and yellow horse-blanket, spread as a sail. Seated in state on the four corners of this platform, each waving a diminutive flag, sat Rob, Ted, Bert, and Phil, while on an inverted keg in the middle stood Sam, blowing on a tin horn with such energy that his crimson cheeks looked ready to pop, like an overheated kernel of corn. There was no way to guide or stop this unwieldy ice-boat, when once it was well under way. For a moment, Bess watched it in amusement, until her friend suddenly exclaimed,—
"The dam! They don't think of it!"
True enough! They were rapidly approaching the edge of the ice; beyond lay a strip of still, green water, before it took its final plunge down on the rocks thirty feet below. The two women looked up the pond. There was no one near to help, and, besides, what could any one do? The boys were rushing to certain death; could it be that in the twilight they did not see their danger? But at that moment Bess saw them spring up, run to their improvised sail and try to pull it down, as if hoping in that way to check their mad speed; but it was too firmly lashed to its place. Must she see them drown? There was the one chance for them, and, straining her voice to the utmost, she shouted: "Rob! Phil! Jump for your lives!" and then turned away her head, not daring to look.
But the answering "All right" came ringing back to her, and, turning, she saw five prostrate figures on the ice, and the sleds, blanket and all, just sinking into the strip of dark water. Skating to the spot as quickly as she could, she found four of the heroes ruefully picking themselves up: Rob with a black eye, Phil with a cut lip, and Sam with a bloody nose, while Ted was uninjured. But Bert still lay motionless, stunned by his fall.
"What is it? Is he hurt? Is he killed?" exclaimed the frightened boys, crowding around their companion.
"No, I think he has only fainted," said Bess, reassuring them as best she could. She sent Ted for some water, and soon had the boy on his feet, apparently none the worse for his escapade.
"Now, boys, come home," said she, as she took off her skates, too much exhausted by her recent alarm to give the lecture the boys so richly deserved for their carelessness.
With Bert at her side, she started to walk home, closely followed by four crestfallen lads, who, though speechless, telegraphed to each other, in dumb show, behind her back, that they were going to be scolded. The culprits presented a forlorn appearance. Rob's bump was already showing various rainbow hues, while Sam's nose had no less quickly developed the size, shape, and color of a prize radish, and Phil's lip had grown decidedly puffy. As they reached the Carters' gate, Bess raised her eyes to the window where Fred, a dark little figure against the brightly lighted room, was sitting to listen for her step. Then she turned to the boys.
"Now, my boys," she said, "I wonder if you know how near you came to being drowned, or worse. It was a crazy thing to do, that ice-boat of yours, and I am thankful that you only have some swollen eyes and noses to remember it by. Don't do it again, children. You didn't think this time, I know, but you must never try it again. Will you promise?"
"It was first-rate fun," remonstrated Phil, the clearness of his speech rather impaired by his swollen lip.
"Yes, fun in the time of it; but suppose that you had gone into the water, or that Bert had been more than stunned by his fall. Such fun as that would not be worth while, I am sure. I want you to let this be your last ice-boating, until you are older."
"Yes, I guess we'd better let it alone," said Bert regretfully. "But you just ought to try it once, Miss Bess, to see how fine it is. Good-night!"
And the boys, glad to have escaped so lightly, were off with a shout, while Bess went in, to be met at the door by Fred.
The lads kept their promise the more easily because a heavy fall of snow, the night after their ice-boating, made the pond useless. But as winter is the boy's carnival time, and as boy ingenuity is endless as far as ways to tempt Providence are concerned, the quintette soon devised a new method of imperilling their lives. For two days Phil was shut up, as a result of his bump, and Rob only ventured as far as his cousin's, where he inwardly rejoiced that Fred could not see the yellowish purple bunch that closed his eye for the time being. By the following Saturday, however, the boys were ready for fresh sport, and betook themselves to Bert's yard, where they found that their mates had been wasting no time. At the back of the grounds, Bert and Sam were putting the finishing touches to an inclined plane of boards, while Ted was covering it with a thin layer of snow, and beating it to a hard, smooth sheet.
"Hullo, black-eye!" shouted Bert, as he caught sight of his guests. "Come on; here's some fun for you."
"What's that for?" asked Phil, curiously eying the crazy structure.
"That? Don't you know?" replied Ted, with a disdainful emphasis on the last word.
"It's a toboggan chute," explained Bert. "We're going to cover it with snow, and slide down on it. By the way, there are you fellows' sleds."
"Where did they come from? I thought they went under," said Rob.
"Sam went up the next morning and found them floating close to the dam," answered Ted. "He cut a long pole and hauled them in. But you kids go to work and help me. We want to get this done, so we can have some fun before a thaw."
After two hours of hard work, Phil ventured to suggest that it would be easier to go to some of the ready-made hills for their coasting, but his comrades scorned the suggestion and promptly suppressed him.
By noon the slide was ready, and the boys separated for a hurried dinner, agreeing to be back as soon as possible. Soon afterwards they reappeared, Ted peeling an orange, and Phil with a pocketful of crackers, while Bert came out with a vast wedge of pie in his hand. With their sleds, they scrambled up the incline, and were soon on their way down it again. It was not in all respects a success. The framework, insecurely supported, tottered beneath them, and the boards were not carefully joined, causing occasional bumps in the way. But the charm of novelty covered a multitude of sins, and for an hour the boys followed one another down the slope and up again, with hardly a pause.
"Say, Phil," asked Ted, as if suddenly impressed with a new idea, "what made you take the snow from the foot of the slide to cover it with? That's what ails it, and makes our sleds stick so."
"That's so," responded Phil, diving into his overcoat pocket for another cracker. "I didn't think about that, and it was easier to get the snow here. I'll shovel some on that place."
"I'll tell you what," suggested Bert. "I'm sick of the sleds. There's a pile of boards in the barn. Let's each take one, and go down on that."
There was a race to the barn, a quick pulling over of the pile, and the boys were back at the top of the chute again, each one armed with his bit of board. Rob went down first, and succeeded in managing his improvised sled so that he had the full benefit of the slide; but Sam, who followed him, was so heavy and came with such force that, at the foot of the incline, the boy and his board parted company. The latter stuck fast in the soft snow and mud, and the boy went tumbling and rolling away, amidst the shouts of his friends. The fun waxed fast and furious. Mishaps were many, and Sam was particularly luckless. Sometimes his board would escape from his clutches, and go merrily bobbing down the slope away from him, or else it would run off from the side, and land him in the snow beneath, or, again, some other boy on his sled would come whizzing up behind him, and, knocking his feet out from under him, would carry him along on top of the pile, struggling and laughing.
"It's curious," he remarked at length, "there don't seem to be no reason why my board should act so queer. If there's goin' to be anything left of me, I reckon I'd better quit."
"I say, Bert," suggested Ted, "let's all go down in a crowd. There's a short ladder over there that would be just dandy. Would your father be willing we should try it just once?"
"I guess so," replied Bert. "I don't suppose we'd hurt it any, and it would just about hold us five. That's as much fun as ice-boating."
"I don't know," said Sam, discreetly holding back. "I am afraid that won't work. I don't want to get my neck broke."
"Sam's getting scared," said Ted, as he and Phil clambered up with the ladder.
"No, I ain't!" said Sam warmly, "but I hain't got an inch of skin now that isn't black and blue."
"This will have to be our last grand slide," said Bert, as they took their places. "The snow is going fast."
The five lads settled themselves on their unique toboggan, and at the word Ted gave the starting push. Away they went, rushing down the slope with such force that the forward end of the ladder plunged into the mud at the foot, and the rear flew up and described a half-circle in the air, scattering its riders in all directions. Two shouts broke on the air, one of woe as they took their flight, the other and longer one of mirth, as each surveyed his fallen companions. Phil was particularly funny, for a train of crackers scattered from his pockets marked the course of his flight.
"It was lots of fun," Rob confided to Bess that night. "We just flew all ways at once. But it's thawing so fast that we can't try it again soon."
And, in her secret thoughts, Bess was thankful that it was so.
Then came a week when it seemed as if the winter were a thing of the past. The snow melted quickly, and the ground settled so thoroughly that, when Saturday came round again, and it dawned warm and bright, Rob came in and invited Bess to play tennis with him. So through the whole March afternoon they played in the sunshine, while Fred, glad to be out once more, either wandered slowly up and down, or lounged on the lawn seat near them.
"I'll tell you what, cousin Bess," said Rob, as he took down the net, "I'll play an hour Monday noon, if you want to."
"Let me see," said Bess. "I've promised to go to walk with Fred in the afternoon, but I think I can play. Will you have time before school?"
"I'll hurry and eat my dinner, and we can play a little, anyway. Come on, Fred," and they went into the house.
But the next morning was cold and raw, as if to make up for the day before, and by afternoon a few flakes of snow were falling lazily and melting as they fell. When Bess with her little cousin came home from church, she suggested that their game could hardly be played the next noon; but Rob laughed at the idea, and left, her with many assurances that the next day would see him on the spot, racket in hand.
But on Monday morning Bess woke up to find a real old-fashioned snowstorm raging outside. Already the drifts lay high and white, and the fierce gusts of wind swept the snow this way and that, and shook the house until each window and door rattled in its casing. Mr. Carter made his usual early start to his business, and Bess and Fred adjourned to the library, where they were glad to curl up over the register, for the wind seemed to force its way even through the walls. But the lessons went hard that morning. The roaring of the storm made Fred unusually nervous, and Bess caught his mood, as she glanced out occasionally to see the air filled with the hurrying snowflakes, and watched the drift against the window slowly mount up until it half shut out the outer world, while the wind blew more and more furiously. At length she put down her book.
"Fred," said she, "this isn't doing either of us any good to-day. Suppose we leave it, and go to see what mother is doing?"
"Is it still snowing?" asked the boy.
"Snowing! I should think it was; faster than ever. And such a large drift by the window! Come over here, and I'll show you how high it is." And she laid Fred's hand on the window, at the top line of the drift.
"It must be awfully deep. Wish I could see it, or else not hear it quite so much. I'm sick of such a racket." And Fred drew a long, tired breath, as he dropped back into his chair.
"You stay here and toast yourself, and I will go out and see how things are."
Bess found her mother looking anxious enough over the storm. It was eleven o'clock, and no meat-man, no grocer's boy, and no milk. The fires needed constant attention, and Bridget, absorbed in her washing, was unwilling to be called on for help.
"Never mind, mother," said Bess consolingly. "I'm a splendid fireman, and I will see to the furnace to-day. And don't worry about the dinner. We'll manage without meat and milk. Let's see, we have some codfish, I know, and we will make coffee by the gallon, if necessary. I pity people who have no water in their houses. But I am afraid father will have a severe time getting home. The snow must be very deep."
She opened the door to look out, but was greeted by a small avalanche of snow that came tumbling in upon her.
"Two feet on a level, I should think," she announced, with an apparent unconsciousness of the wrathful countenance of Bridget, who stalked to the broom, and swept out the snow.
"Where is Fred?" asked Mrs. Carter.
"In the library. He is so nervous with the storm that I found he was getting no good from the lessons, so I stopped reading."
"It is too bad to leave him alone," said her mother. "You'd better go back to him."
"Not a bit of it," said Bess gayly. "You go stay with him, and Bridget and I will get you up a codfish lunch fit for a king."
The day slowly wore on, and the storm still raged.
"It will go down at night," Mrs. Carter had said, but as it grew dark the snow and wind were fiercer than ever; and it was evident that Mr. Carter could not get home that night. At dinner-time it was discovered that the dining-room on the north side of the house must be abandoned, for it was not only very cold, but the snow had forced its way under the door, and a small drift lay across the floor, where it melted and trickled lazily about the room.
By evening Bess felt that she had her hands full, between her duties as stoker, consoling Bridget, who, with the superstition of her race, declared this to be the forerunner of the day of judgment, cheering up her anxious mother, and quieting Fred's fears. The boy tried to be brave, but, in his inability to see the storm, he pictured it as far worse than it really was, and was thoroughly frightened and miserable. Looking up from her magazine, Bess watched him as he moved restlessly from window to window, stopping at each and resting his head against the glass, as if trying to see out into the night. Then she rose and joined him, as he dejectedly turned away. As usual, his face brightened when he felt her hand on his shoulder; and, arm in arm, they walked up and down the long room, while Bess talked busily, hoping to tire him out until he should be ready to sleep. But it was late before he could be persuaded to go to bed, and, although Bess went to his room often during the night, she found him always awake and tossing restlessly, though he made no complaint. The morning found them all rather exhausted, and the boy seemed worn out with his long wakefulness. It still snowed fast, but the wind had died down a little. After a breakfast of such materials as they chanced to have on hand, Bess tucked Fred up on the sofa, hoping he might drop to sleep, and retired to the kitchen, to take an account of stock.
"Only two potatoes left, Bridget! How did we get so nearly out? And just this piece of cold steak and some codfish? Well, we must make the best of it all. They say fish is good for our brains."
"Sure," remarked Bridget sagely, "we'd better be 'atin' a lot of it, thin, for it needs all the brains we can get to know how to get three meals a day, wid nothin' to make 'em of. And all the clo'es layin' wet in the tubs, miss! What in the world will we do wid 'em?"
The second day was longer than the first. Mr. Carter, they knew, was safe in his office, while a restaurant on the ground floor of the building would supply him with food; but they trembled to think of the suffering among the poor about them, suffering that they were powerless to relieve. The time dragged slowly along. Late in the day the wind ceased, and after their dinner Fred threw himself on the sofa, and at once dropped to sleep from sheer exhaustion. Bess covered him gently, and then followed her mother into the parlor, where she dropped into a chair.
"At last," she whispered, with a backward glance at the brown head on the pillow, "I can draw a long breath. That child hasn't slept a moment since yesterday morning. It is strange how nervous he has been."
"It has been a fearful storm for all of us," Mrs. Carter replied, "and it has been even worse for him. He has been so brave and uncomplaining that I suppose we have no idea what he has suffered. And I confess that I didn't sleep much more than you and he last night. I wish I knew that no poor people were starving to death or freezing."
"I dread to hear the reports from the storm," said Bess soberly. "We have come out quite well. But you go to bed and try to have a little sleep. I'll stay here and wait for Fred to wake up. I hate to disturb him."
And tired as she was, drowsy and longing for rest, she sat by the fire until the clock struck one and the lamp burned low, rather than awaken the sleeping child. At length she went out to look at him, and sat down on the edge of the sofa, thinking to waken him; but as she saw his tired little face and quiet, even breathing, she waited and still kept her uncomfortable seat, till her cramped position forced her to move. The boy stirred as she touched his hand.
"What time is it? Have I been asleep?" he inquired, stretching himself.
"You certainly have. It is nearly two in the morning," answered Bess, as he rose.
"Oh, Miss Bess! And you sat here with me? How could you? What a pig I am!" said the boy remorsefully. Then, putting his hands on her shoulders as she still sat there, too weary to move: "How awfully good you are to me!" he said. "I wish I could live with you always."
And Bess thought no more of her weariness, as they went up the stairs together.
The next morning, Wednesday, found the snow still falling, but the clouds looked broken, and by noon some stray sunbeams were showing themselves here and there. As the Carters sat at their late lunch, their fourth consecutive meal of codfish, a scramble and clatter were heard at the front door, and the next moment Rob came tumbling in, with his pockets filled with bundles of all shapes and sizes.
"Hullo!" he shouted. "Where are you all? Want some grub?"
"Where did you come from, and how in the world did you get here?" asked his aunt.
"On my feet, aunty. I have taken to snowshoeing; want to see my runners?" And, with great pride, Rob led them to the door, and exhibited a pair of long, narrow boards, slightly turned up at one end, and furnished midway with a strap of heavy leather to support the toe.
"The genuine Norwegian article," he explained. "That man from out West, that civil engineer, you know, says they use them for their camping parties in the blizzards. He let me see his, so I made these. It's lots of fun, see?" and he went striding away over the four feet of snow as if it were covered with an icy crust. Then he came back, took off his coat, and prepared to tell his adventures.
"I thought you might be getting hungry," he said, "so I stopped at the market on my way up, and took what I could get. Hope you aren't particular."
"Not a bit," declared Bess. "We are starved until we will eat anything."
"All the better," said Rob. "Here, Fred, catch hold of these." And he piled into his arms two bologna sausages, a can of potted chicken, a slice of round steak, a can of condensed milk, two pounds of zoölogical crackers, a sheet of baker's gingerbread, and a bag of raisins.
"Oh, Rob! Rob!" said Bess, laughing until she cried, as she saw the motley collection, so evidently selected by the boy himself. "Your warning was needed. We surely ought not to be particular."
Rob laughed, but his color came and he looked rather annoyed, so Bess hastened to add,—
"But it was so good of you to think of us, for we are dreadfully tired of codfish, and this will be a welcome relief. And now tell us how you all are, and what the news is—if you know any."
"Everybody is snowed up," answered Rob, as he helped Fred to lay down his pile of provisions. "No trains, no street-cars. We went to school Monday morning, but they sent us home about ten, and I didn't go out again till last night. Some men in front of our house were trying to plough a path, and I asked them if I mightn't borrow their horse to ride down after some milk. They said I might, so I hopped on and started. He went very well till I was down in front of the church, but there he stopped, so I just hit him with my heels to make him go. He just swung up his hind feet and pitched me off, head first, into a tremendous drift. I went in all over, and all I could do was to kick. A man saw me go, and took hold of my feet to pull me out; but off came my rubber boots, and over he went backwards, with one in each hand. I guess he was scared, and thought he had pulled me in two. But pretty soon I felt him grip my feet again, and that time he got me out. The horse had walked off, back to his master, and I had a sweet time getting home. This morning I saw that man go by the house on his shoes, and I called to him and asked him to let me see what they were like. He was awfully nice, and told me just how to make them, and I'm going to make you a pair, cousin Bess. It's lots of fun to walk on them, only when you turn round you get them crossed, they are so long, and first thing you know you're standing on your own heel. But what about that game of tennis?"
CHAPTER IX.
THE I.I.'S.
"Come, Fuzzy, come!" said Bess, opening the front door an inch, and speaking in a tone of gentle persuasion.
But Fuzz only gazed fixedly at some distant point of the landscape, and refused to move.
"Come, good little Fuzz; come right in!" And Bess tried to express the idea that some pleasing secret lay hidden behind the door that she held open a crack. Slowly the dog turned the white of one eye towards his mistress; but otherwise he was deaf to her voice. Becoming impatient, she went out on the step.
"Come right here, Fuzz!" she said, very decidedly.
The little animal looked at her for a moment, wagged his brief tail as if to say, "Excuse me," and then darted to the gate, where he stood barking furiously, occasionally turning his head to see if his mistress were still waiting for him. She stepped back into the house and shut the door, with an elaborate care that he should notice the fact. Then she applied her eye to one of the glass panes. The dog trotted to the steps, looked about him, and, seeing that the coast was clear, leisurely came up them and lay down on the mat.
"Now I have him!" thought Bess exultingly, and, suddenly opening the door, she made a quick snatch at the spot where the dog had been,—had been, for at the first click of the latch he was several yards away, barking defiance at some imaginary foe.
"Oh, dear!" sighed Bess, adjusting the folds of her pretty spring suit. "How could Bridget be so careless as to let that dog out when I told her not to?" And again she peered out through the glass, only to see the dog peacefully lying on the lower step, with his little black nose laid up on the one above it.
"Can't you get him to come to you with a piece of bread?" queried Fred's voice from the next room. "I'll go ask Bridget for a piece."
He returned in a moment and offered Bess a thick slice of bread, and then passed his hand approvingly down over her gown.
"How fine you are!" he said. "It is a shame for Fuzz to act so."
"He always does when I want to go away, so I usually shut him into the house. To-day he saw me putting on my hat and suspected a departure, and in some way ran out past Bridget. I am sorry, for I ought to call on Mrs. Walsh."
As she opened the door and stepped out into the May sunshine, Fred stood leaning in the doorway, waiting to know if his plan were successful. Fuzz sat on the grass ten feet away, watching their manœuvres with a look of calm, unbiassed criticism.
"Come, Fuzz, come get some bread," said Bess caressingly, as she broke off a bit and tossed it to the dog. He moved lazily towards it, ate it as if he were conferring a favor upon her, then came a step or two nearer to get the next one, and the next, artfully aimed by Bess, in order to bring him by degrees to her feet. But Fuzz was wary, and had no mind to forego either the present feast or the prospective walk. By watching his chance, he would contrive to run up to Bessie's very toes, snatch the morsel, and then dodge away again, before she could touch so much as one of his curls. In this way, he possessed himself of the entire slice of bread, and then returned to his former seat, leaving Bess none the better for her efforts.
"Won't he come?" asked Fred sympathetically, though with a strong desire to laugh.
"He hasn't the remotest idea of such a thing," replied Bess disconsolately, as she looked at her watch.
Mrs. Carter joined them on the steps.
"Fuzz, come here! Come to grandma!" she called authoritatively.
But Fuzz withdrew to the middle of the street, and contemplated a distant carriage.
"I'll tell you, Bess, what you can do. We will all go in, and then, in a few minutes, you can go out the back way, and through to the other street."
"A brilliant idea, mother. Come, Fred." And she led the way into the house, and shut the door with an emphasis to attract the dog's attention.
They waited until he returned to the step, and then, with a stealthy tread, Bess retired through the kitchen and was out of the house grounds when a small gray body rushed madly past her, and then returned to caper about her, leaving an occasional dusty foot-mark on her new gown.
"Bad Fuzz!" she scolded. "Fuzz must go right back!" But Fuzz would neither go of himself, nor let her pick him up to carry him. So she walked back to the house, saying to herself,—
"Well, I don't mind my call, but I do hate to be late at Rob's, when I've constantly tried to impress on those boys that they must be prompt at engagements. However, 'the best laid plans of mice and men' must be changed to suit the will of a small imp of a puppy."
As she entered the house, Fuzz, with a skill that would do credit to a civil engineer, at the very least, took up his position at such a vantage point that he commanded an unobstructed view of both modes of exit, and sat watching them with an unblinking steadiness. Bess waited for a long quarter of an hour, hoping that the dog would give up the idea and signify his desire to come in. But no imperative bark was heard. On the contrary, Fuzz appeared to be abundantly satisfied with his position. Then Fred went out and sat down on the steps, inviting the dog to join him. But he proved less attractive than usual, and neither his coaxing nor Mrs. Carter's commands could move the delinquent from his post of observation. Then Bridget, now truly penitent for the carelessness that was causing "Miss Bess" so much delay, promenaded up and down before him, trailing behind her a perfectly bare beef-bone, tied to a string. Fuzz eyed her with seeming indifference, while she made three or four turns, then he darted forward, seized the bone, pulled till he broke the string, and then triumphantly walked off to a safe distance, where he lay down and fell to gnawing his bone. Annoyed and impatient as she was, Bess laughed outright, as she saw the quick act; and Bridget, in her turn, gave up.
Another period of waiting, and then Fred had a fresh proposal.
"See here, Miss Bess, if Fuzz wants a walk, I will give him one. I'll put on my hat and walk out beyond the tennis court, and he will come too. Then you can go."
"Could you, Fred? I am so anxious to go, only I hate to send you off alone," said Bess doubtfully, for as yet Fred's out-of-door excursions had mainly been made with her or Rob as escort.
"Yes, I'll be all right," said the boy, and then added wistfully, "How long shall you be gone?"
"No longer than I can help, my dear. Now be very careful of yourself." And she gave him his hat and the light, strong cane he depended on when alone.
She watched him as he moved slowly off across the broad lawn, with Fuzz frisking along by his side, and occasionally jumping against him with such unexpected force that it made him totter.
"Bless the child!" she thought. "He grows unselfish and considerate every day; and how well and happy he seems. I hope he will enjoy this new plan."
And she started on her errand, with one backward glance at the lad, as he sat down for a moment on one of the seats scattered about the lawn, and turned his face to the soft, clear air. Above his head the trees were in the beauty of their first tiny leaves, so light and delicate in their unfolding that they looked like a cloud of butterflies lighted on every little twig and stem. And the birds chirped and twittered in all the gladness of the sunshine, rejoicing in the new life about them. The influence of the spring was over them all, and vaguely, in his boy fashion, Fred felt it too. For a moment he went back to a year or two ago, and longed for the old free, happy days; but as he remembered the lonely, dull hours he had spent between the times of his return from Boston and his coming to live at the Carters', his mood brightened again, and he patted the now docile Fuzz, saying cheerfully,—
"It isn't so bad after all, is it, Fuzz?"
And the dog presented his little paw, as if to shake hands, in token of their perfect agreement.
In the meantime Bess had betaken herself to her cousin's, where she was greeted by five eager, curious lads, who, perched on the front fence, were awaiting her coming with loud denunciations of her tardiness.
"I couldn't help it, boys. Fuzz wouldn't let me come any earlier." And, to the merriment of the lads, Bess recounted her experiences of the afternoon, and then asked: "Is aunt Bess at home, Rob?"
"No; but she said tell you to go right in and make yourself at home. Do hurry up, for we're awfully curious and can't stand it another minute." And Rob led the way to their pleasant sitting-room.
"Doesn't Rob know what's up?" asked Phil, as Bess seated herself deliberately, and the boys gathered around her.
"Not a blessed thing," said Bess, disregarding her cousin's winks begging her to keep silence; "only that I told him to have you meet me here this afternoon."
"Oh ho, young lad!" exclaimed Ted, giving his host a sounding thump on the back, "you're a fraud. Here you've been pretending all day you knew what was going on, and you are as much in the dark now as any of us."
"What is it, Miss Bess?" inquired Phil, swinging himself impatiently back and forth in his rocking-chair, as he sat astride of it, with an ankle clasped in either hand. "It's sure to be fun, if you start it."
"Don't get your expectations too high, Phil," said Bess. "It is only just this. If you boys have time enough to spare for it, how would you like to spend one evening a week with me?"
"Club?" suggested Rob, who had often begged for something of this kind.
"Yes, club; if you choose to call it so." And there was an enthusiastic burst of applause from the boys, who took a true masculine delight in anything rejoicing in the name of club. When quiet was restored, Bess went on quite seriously:—
"Now, my boys, I don't want you to be selfish in starting this club. It is for us all to enjoy together, and I want you to help me make it a great success; but most of all it is for Fred. He tries so hard not to be shy with you, but it is hard for him when he doesn't see you but once in a long time. He needs boys and boy fun now, more than anything else, and he is staying with me so much that there is danger of his growing girlish and—and—what is it you call it?—a mollycoddle."
"Not much danger of that when you are round," said Sam, with a smile to point his intended compliment.
Bess took it as such, and beamed on him in return, before she continued,—
"Well, as I say, he needs you all to stir him up and give him a taste of the old fun. Now, it depends on you whether this fun will do him good, or only make him feel farther away from you than ever. Can you think what I mean?"
"Yes, I think I know, Miss Bessie," said Bert, who was leaning back in the depths of his chair, his knees crossed and his hands loosely clasped in front of him, while his eyes were intently fixed on Bessie's face. "You mean, if we stir him up in ways he can enjoy, or whether we tease him and do things he can't have the fun of with us."
"Who'd be mean enough to tease Fred Allen, anyhow?" asked Sam belligerently.
"Nobody; so keep cool and let Miss Bess go on," said Teddy patronizingly.
"Bert has my idea. How many of you will help to carry it out?" and Bess looked around at the eager young faces, beaming with good-will to their absent friend.
"I! I!" shouted the chorus of five; and then Rob asked,—
"What kind of a club are you going to have?"
"How do you like this plan? Suppose you come up every Saturday evening early, say by seven, and stay two hours. At nine I shall send you off home, and to bed, for I don't approve of late hours for children."
"Children! Oh, cracky!" groaned Ted, in parenthesis.
"Yes, children," repeated Bess, with a malicious pleasure in the word. "What else are you, I should like to know? But so much for times and seasons. And now for the way we are to spend our time. Beginning with myself, and working down by ages, I am going to let you each select some good subject for an evening, and then we will all bring in what information we can about it, and talk it over together. You can give out your subjects the week before, so we can prepare them, you know. I only make one condition, that you submit your subjects to me, first of all. Then we shall end with some games. How does the idea strike you?"
"First-rate" and "dandy," exclaimed Phil and Ted in unison; and Sam added,—
"Have you told Fred?"
"Not yet, for I wanted first to talk it over with you, and see if I could depend on you to make it a success. It rests with you to decide, and if you go into it in the right way, each trying to help on the general good time, we shall have some very pleasant evenings, I am sure.
"But I don't see why we need study for it," sighed Phil.
"For two or three reasons, you lazy boy," answered Bess. "If we spent our evenings just playing games, we should soon be heartily tired of them and of each other. But a little work—I don't mean it to be hard work—will give a variety, so we shall like them both better. And then it is high time you boys were getting some new ideas beyond your daily doses of arithmetic and geography. You can take any subject you wish, from the moon to potato bugs, or Napoleon Bonaparte, provided you take one about which we can really learn something. We shall work an hour, and play an hour, and enjoy each better for having the other." And Bess paused amid a hum of admiration from her followers.
"What shall we call the club?" asked Rob.
"Genuine Grubbers," said Phil, in whose mind the thought of study was still rankling.
"The Brotherhood of Frederick the Great," was Bert's pertinent suggestion.
"Queen Bess and her Jolly Lads would be good," remarked Teddy. "Q.B.J.L. for short, you know, and none of the other fellows would know what it meant."
"It strikes me," Sam interposed, "we'd ought to let Fred have something to say about it."
"I agree with you, Sam," rejoined Bess. "Come home with me now, all of you, and we will plan for the name, first subject, and so on, and then on Saturday night we can have our first meeting."
And so Saturday evening found the house brightly lighted, and Fred in his best suit, with a white carnation in his buttonhole, while Bess arranged Fuzz with his basket, ball, and rag doll in a comfortable corner of the kitchen, to keep Bridget company, and persuaded the Dominie to retire to the dining-room.
Punctually at the moment came the boys, each one with a proud consciousness of being dressed up for the occasion, although Phil's front lock of hair would stand rampant, and Ted's shoes bore traces of his having splashed through some wayside puddle. After a few moments of chatter, Bess stepped to the table and rapped on it with mock solemnity.
"The members of the Club of Inquisitive Investigators will please come to order. I will call the roll of officers and members. President, Miss Elizabeth Carter. Well, I'm here. Vice-President, Master Frederic Allen."
"Present," remarked Fred from the corner of the sofa, where he was sitting with Rob and Bert.
"Treasurer, Master Edward Preston."
"Yes'm, I'm here," responded Ted with a giggle, "but I don't see what there is to treasure."
"Secretary, Master Robert Atkinson," continued Bess, regardless of the interruption.
"Here! What am I to do about it?" inquired Rob meekly.
"Chairman of Entertainment Committee, Master Philip Cameron."
"Trust me for coming," answered Phil, while Rob whispered,—
"That means you are chief clown."
"Beadle-in-chief and Disciplinarian, Master Samuel Boeminghausen."
"Yes, ma'am!" said Sam, and then fulfilled his official duties by frowning on Ted, who, mindful of his "Pickwick," murmured,—
"'Samivel, my son, bevare of vidders.'
"Grand Referee, Critic, and Curator of Encyclopædia and Dictionary, Master Herbert Walsh," concluded Bess, and Bert's response was lost amid the shouts of the boys, to whom these offices were unexpected honors.
"Now," said Bess, in more natural tones, as she seated herself, "we have just members enough for the offices, and just offices enough for the members, so I don't see how the I.I.'s can increase. To-night we were to talk about coal, and I will ask Phil to begin by telling us what he knows on the subject."
"Oh, dear!" groaned Phil, "that won't be much. Let's see. There are different kinds of coal, the hard or anthracite, and the soft or bit—bit—"
"Bituminous?" suggested Bert.
"Oh, yes! Bituminous. The bit-uminous has more oil in it, and is smokier. So people that live in cities where it is burned get black all over themselves when they go out on the street."
"Yes," interposed Sam. "When my father took me to Chicago with him, there was one day that it was so thick in the air you couldn't see any distance at all, and when I went back to the hotel to dinner, my nose was all covered with black streaks."
"I know how that is," said Bess. "But go on, Phil."
"We burn the hard coal here. Then they divide it up by the size it is broken into, and call it pea-coal and nut-coal, and so on. I guess that's all I know, Miss Bess."
"Very good, Phil. Bert, can you tell us something more?"
"Not very much. Phil's told a good share of what I had found out. I think I know where some of the best coal-beds are, though."
Sam and Ted between them added a description of coal mining; Fred gave, as his share, a vivid account of the primeval forests, and the way the coal-beds were formed; while Rob contributed a few words about the fossils met with in the coal. Bess made a running commentary on the whole, and ended with a short account of the more common kindred substances: petroleum, illuminating gas, and the diamond. Then she looked at her watch.
"Half-past eight. Only half an hour for our games, boys."
"Is it really so late?" asked Ted incredulously. "This has been immense. What are we going to take next?"
"Well, Sam, that is for you to say." And Bess turned to the boy who was lounging in his chair, with one foot stretched in front of him, the other toe hooked around the leg of his chair.
"George Washington," he replied promptly, with a modest pride in the wisdom and novelty of his choice.
"You all hear it?" asked President Bess. "Rob, as secretary, I want you to keep a list of the subjects and their dates. Then, six months from now, we will have an evening when each one of you may take some one of these subjects and write all you have learned about it; and we will have these essays read before a small and select audience. That will be about the last of October. And one thing more I have to say before our games. I want my boys to be careful about their positions, to sit up straight like gentlemen, and not curl up like a set of small caterpillars."
The sudden effect of this last remark was comical to behold. Feet were firmly planted, backs straightened, shoulders squared, and coats pulled into place; while Teddy vainly tried to conceal a yawning chasm in the knee of his stocking, which had mysteriously appeared since his arrival.
Promptly as the clock struck nine, Bess sent her guests away, but not before Ted, from the front steps, led off in a rousing: "Rah! Rah! Rah! for the Inquisitive Investigators." They then departed, chanting at the top of their lungs, as an appropriate serenade:—
"The owl and the pussy-cat went to sea,
In a beautiful pea-green boat.
They took some honey and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-pound note."
CHAPTER X.
ROB AND FRED ENTERTAIN CALLERS.
"I say, cousin Bess," said Rob, coming into the library one evening, "why weren't you at church last night?"
"Father and mother went to Boston Saturday afternoon, to stay till Wednesday, and it was going to be rather dismal for Fred to stay alone here, so we spent the evening reading," answered Bess, moving to let Rob perch himself on the arm of her great easy-chair.
"I tried to make her go, but she just wouldn't," remarked Fred, in a remorseful parenthesis.
"Well, you'd better have been there, both of you," responded Rob, as he slyly drew a long shell pin from his cousin's hair, and tucked it into his side pocket. "Do you remember that friend of Mr. Washburn that sang here one night in January, that New York tenor? He was here again last night, and sang splendidly. We had the worst time in the recessional. It was 'How sweet the name,' and just as we were coming down the steps,—I don't know what made him do it, but Phil dropped his book right whack down on his own toes. We both got to laughing so we couldn't sing any coming out. Wasn't it mean, when we wanted to do our best? And Mr. Washburn was awfully cross about it."
"I don't know that I wonder, Rob," said Bess.
"What did Phil do?" asked Fred. "Did he pick up his hymnal?"
"Course not," answered Rob, as he secured another hairpin; "he couldn't stop and stoop down for it. We just had to go ahead and leave the others to hop over it best way they could. Say, cousin Bessie, did you ever notice that old woman in the front seat, the one in the great big black bonnet, with the wreath of purple flowers?"
Bess nodded assent, and then turned her head to watch her little cousin, as he still sat on her chair-arm, steadying himself with a hand on her shoulder, while he talked animatedly, with his dimples coming and going, and his eyes sparkling with fun. At her other side sat Fred, with both elbows on the table, and his chin in his hands, as he listened to Rob's merry chatter, and occasionally threw in a word or two of his own.
"Well," pursued Rob, with a chuckle, "she hasn't as much breath as she used to have, but she always will sing in the hymns, and sometimes it's pretty hard work for her to keep up. Last night she lost her breath more than common; and once, after she had stopped to puff a minute, she struck in again, full tilt, about an octave and a half higher than we were, and it made a most awful noise."
"Poor old woman!" said Bess, trying to speak soberly, while Fred's shoulders shook. "You shouldn't laugh at such old people, Robin. Where's your chivalry?"
"I can't help it, cousin Bess. It was too funny to hear her go 'peep,' way up high."
Bess felt her dignity fast collapsing at Rob's, imitation of the high, quavering voice, and, to change the subject, she said,—
"Fred and I went to the shore this afternoon."
"Did you?" asked Rob. "Why didn't you wait till after school and let me go, too? I haven't had a drive with you for ever so long."
"You couldn't have had one to-day," replied Fred. "We walked."
"Well, you might have waited for me, anyhow."
"How do you know we wanted you?" asked Fred teasingly.
Rob frowned for a moment, and then, determined not to be thrown out from his jolly mood, answered with a laugh,—
"What's the difference, so long as I wanted you?"
"Of course we always do want you, Bob. We will go again next Saturday, that is, if Miss Bess can, and take our time about it," said Fred, moved to gentleness by his friend's unexpected meekness.
"Certainly I will go," said Bess heartily. "Oh, there's the bell! Rob, will you go to the door, dear?"
Rob vanished on his errand, and soon reappeared, saying disconsolately,—
"It's Mr. Washburn and that tenor, to see you. Mean old things! What did they come for?" And both the boys scowled darkly in the direction of the parlor, as Bess rose to leave them, saying laughingly,—
"Take good care of each other, and don't get into mischief. Rob, you'd better stay with Fred until they go." And taking a Jacqueminot rose from a vase on the table, she put it in the buttonhole of her new gray gown, and was gone, leaving the boys in solitary possession of the room, except for the great black cat that was slumbering peacefully on one end of the sofa.
"I want you to see Miss Carter, Muir," Mr. Washburn had said, as they were putting on their hats, preparatory to starting; "she is quite an unusual young woman. She is not only attractive and rather pretty, but she knows a thing or two; and then she has a great gift for managing small boys, and making the best of them. That little dark-eyed fellow that leads the choir is her cousin, and her influence over him and two or three of the others helps out my discipline wonderfully. I don't know how I should get along without her."
"Bring on your paragon," laughed Frank Muir. "It passes my comprehension how any woman can manage to keep small boys in order, but I'll take your word for it."
But when he rose to meet Bess as she came into the parlor, he felt at once that she might easily deserve his friend's praise, and that her pleasant, cordial manner would win the heart of the most cross-grained little urchin in existence. He was rather critical in his judgment of young women, perhaps because they usually courted his attentions in a most unblushing fashion; but this one was quite to his taste, and he settled himself for a long, enjoyable call, exerting himself to be as entertaining as possible, while the rector sat by, reflecting how well they were suited to each other.
But as Bessie sat there, talking so easily of one thing and another, with a frank pleasure in the young man's society, she gradually became conscious of the fact that her hair was fast slipping from its usual smooth coils on top of her head, and dropping towards her neck. Cautiously putting up her hand to investigate the cause, she discovered that, of the four long pins that usually held it in place, two were missing, and of course they were the more critical ones.
"It is that wretch of a Rob!" she thought. "Well, fortunately, it all grows on. But what can I do?"
Warned by the increasing looseness that any attempt to move from the room would result in a general ruin, she sat as motionless as possible, while she tried to talk away as if nothing were amiss. Her guests were watching the impending catastrophe, the older man, who had a wife and sisters of his own, with sympathy, and the younger one with unmixed amusement.
"How I wish they would go home!" meditated Bess, as she smiled brightly in answer to some sally of Mr. Muir. "Time is precious, for this won't hold five minutes longer, and the least move I make will bring it all down."
And at the moment, the last pin slipped from its place, and a mass of bright, wavy hair fell on the girl's shoulders. It was a trying moment, but, determined to make the best of a bad matter, she said,—
"I shall have to be excused for a moment. My mischievous little cousin has been experimenting with my hairpins, without my knowing it. Please excuse me a minute." And with flaming cheeks she fled to her room.
She was back almost immediately, but not before the gentlemen had enjoyed a hearty though smothered laugh, and Mr. Muir had inquired,—
"Is this a sample of the fine influence she has on small boys?"
The conversation was once more running smoothly, and Bess was just losing the recollection of her mortifying experience, when a little sound caught her ears, a light, stealthy footstep that cautiously advanced to the drawn portière, and then retreated. Five minutes later they all gave a sudden start of surprise, as the vigorous, clattering alarm attached to a noisy little nickel clock gradually unwound the entire length of its spring. It was difficult to talk away composedly, but Bess managed to do it; and while her guests were inwardly shaking over the too palpable hint, she was longing to give the boys an outward shaking for their annoying pranks.
Another half-hour passed by, a long one to Bess, who momentarily feared a fresh outbreak. But quiet seemed to be restored, and she was just beginning to breathe freely again, when once more she heard the quiet footfall. Turning, she gazed towards the doorway in an agony of apprehension. What now? The portière trembled, slightly parted, and through the opening was pushed the old house cat, a great black animal of staid demeanor and unimpeachable dignity. But at this moment the unfortunate creature's dignity was not so manifest as it might have been. Each one of her four paws was wrapped in a neat casing of heavy paper, while securely lashed to her glossy tail was the mate to the rose that Bess was wearing.
As if overpowered by her unwonted decorations, the poor animal stood motionless for a moment, and then attempted to walk across the room. However, this usually simple operation was attended with unforeseen difficulties. Pussy's toes, in their smooth envelopes, slipped this way and that as her weight was thrown first on one foot, then on the other; and as she lifted each foot, she gave it a hasty but energetic shake to free it, before she put it down on the carpet again; and in the meantime she was angrily snapping her insulted tail from side to side. It was too much to be passed over in silence, and, to Bessie's great relief, Frank Muir burst into a hearty laugh, as he rose to rescue the unoffending cat, who, at sight of the stranger, fled under the sofa, and was only dragged out with some difficulty. Bess and the rector joined in the laugh, and for a few moments no one of the three could speak. When she could control her voice:
"I am sorry, Mr. Muir," Bess said, "to be forced to apologize for such mischief. The truth of the matter is, that I left two small boys alone in the library, with nothing to do. This is only one more proof that; Satan finds some mischief still."
"FRANK MUIR BURST INTO A HEARTY LAUGH
AS HE ROSE TO RESCUE THE UNOFFENDING CAT."
"Who are they?" asked Mr. Washburn, wiping the tears of mirth from his eyes, while Mr. Muir put the cat, now barefooted again, down on the floor, and fastened the rose into his own buttonhole.
"Rob and Fred," answered Bess. "I am sorry to confess that my small cousin is such an imp."
"I had no idea of it," said Mr. Washburn. "He is always so demure in the choir, and I fancied that Fred was very quiet, too."
"He usually is, but Rob is in one of his wild moods to-night, and I suspect they set each other on, for it isn't like either one of them, alone. Please excuse them, for I know it was simple thoughtlessness, and they had no idea of being rude."
Bess spoke with such a pretty air of earnestness that Mr. Muir would have excused her boys twice over, even if he had been annoyed by their mischief, instead of thoroughly amused.
"Who are these boys?" he asked. "Is one the darker of the choir-leaders, the one with the high soprano voice? I think Mr. Washburn said he was your cousin. And who is the other? I think you ought to make them appear now."
Bess hesitated for a moment.
"If Mr. Washburn will tell you about Fred while I am gone, I will go to call them," she said.
Rob had prudently gone home, and Fred was on the sofa, apparently asleep, but Bess knew better than that.
"Come, Fred," she said seriously, as she bent over him, "I want you to come into the parlor now. Mr. Washburn and Mr. Muir have asked to see you. I am sorry my boy should have forgotten himself and been so rude to guests."
"Oh, Miss Bessie," said Fred penitently, for he read from Bessie's tone that she was really displeased, "we truly didn't mean any harm, only they stayed so long that we thought perhaps they'd forgotten the time, and would hurry a little if they knew it, so as to give us a chance to have some fun. I'm so sorry!"
"I don't think you did mean to be quite so ungentlemanly," answered Bess quietly. "But we will talk it over by and by. Now come with me."
"Oh, no! Must I?" And the child drew back.
"Yes, Fred."
Frank Muir glanced up as they entered the parlor. He had been interested in his friend's account of the child, and was curious to see the imp who had caused so much embarrassment and amusement for them all. But when he caught sight of the strong, finely formed little figure, the head set so proudly on his shoulders, the refined, sensitive face that showed so plainly every thought and feeling, and the great, pleading brown eyes, as the boy came shyly into the room, his own eyes grew strangely misty, and his face was very tender and pitiful as he went forward, saying heartily,—
"So this is the small friend that has been giving us a good laugh." And, drawing the child to the sofa, he sat down by his side.
"I didn't mean to be rude," said Fred slowly. "It sounded like such fun. Please excuse us."
"Excuse you," said Mr. Muir, laughing, though he watched the boy closely, attracted by his grace of manner and gentle face; "it doesn't need to be excused, for we enjoyed it as much as you did; and then I have a vivid recollection of some of my own performances in that line, that makes me appreciate yours all the more. And so your friend went home, did he? I should have liked to see him, for I enjoyed his singing last night."
"Rob told me about your being there," said Fred, completely won from his shyness by the kind, genial manner of his new friend. "I wish I'd gone, for I heard you sing last January, and I don't believe I shall ever forget that."
Frank Muir had received many a compliment for his singing, but never had one pleased him more than this, so innocently given.
"Do you like music?" he asked pleasantly.
"Yes, ever so much," Fred answered. "I was going into the choir, if I hadn't been—sick; and that night you sang, it was the first time I had heard any music for 'most a year. Some people put too much flourish into their singing. I don't know whether you'll know what I mean, but, anyway, you sang just as if you meant it."
Bess, in the midst of her chat with the rector, wondered to see the boy talking so freely with a stranger. She wondered yet more when to Mr. Muir's frank, sympathizing question,—
"Have you been—sick long?"
Fred answered bravely, with no trace of his usual sensitiveness,—
"More than a year. I studied too much, and was sick ever so long. Then I went to Boston, and there I grew blind, about six months ago."
"Poor Fred!" said Mr. Muir, gently stroking the firm little hand that lay by his side.
"Yes, it was pretty bad at first, but since I came here," and Fred lowered his voice to a confidential murmur, "I've had such good times. You see, Miss Bess is no end good to me, and she's more fun than half the boys. She reads to me and plays games with me, and we go to walk together, and, really, we do have lots of fun."
"You are a real hero, my boy," said Mr. Muir warmly. "A brave boy will make a brave man."
"Yes," said Fred, nodding soberly; "that's what Miss Bess said she wanted me to be. But it's kind of hard work sometimes, for I do get awfully mad at the boys when they do things I can't."
Frank Muir smiled to himself at the confession so artlessly made. The boy interested him greatly, for he seemed so shy, yet had responded so quickly to his attentions. And what a picture he made there, sitting on one foot on the sofa, with the other foot in its dainty slipper dangling towards the floor, while, in his earnest talking, his color came and went, and his smile and frown succeeded each other by turns.
"As long as you were not at church last night," the young man proposed, "suppose I sing something to you now. That is, of course, if Miss Carter will excuse us." And he looked to her for her consent.
"That isn't much like Muir," said Mr. Washburn in a low tone, as his friend seated himself at the piano. "He isn't given to singing, except when he has to. He seems to have taken a fancy to your charge there."
"Fred surely returns the compliment," said Bess, as the boy followed to the piano. "I don't see what has come over him to talk so much to a stranger, for he is usually so shy."
"Muir is irresistible to nearly everybody, I find," replied the rector quietly.
Then they were silent, as Mr. Muir played a little prelude, light, rocking, swinging, with an occasional dash like the breaking of a tiny wave on a pebbly shore. Then, in the same clear, sweet tenor that had fascinated the child before, he began to sing the quaint little lullaby,—
"Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe—
Sailed on a river of misty light,
Into a sea of dew.
'Where are you going, and what do you wish?'
The old moon asked the three.
'We have come to fish for the herring-fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we,'
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod."
When he had finished, he turned away from the piano with a laugh.
"There!" he said, as he rested his hand on Fred's shoulder. "I know boys like nonsense songs, and what could be more appropriate than this charming little Dutch one, after the hint you gave us with that alarm clock? Washburn, we've made a disgracefully long call, and we ought to have left Miss Carter in peace long ago."
"Oh, Mr. Muir, don't stop!" urged Bess. "Please sing something more, just one." And she motioned him back to the piano.
The young man demurred a little, but, as she insisted,—
"Well," said he, "I sang to Fred before, now I will sing to you."
And, after a few random chords, he gradually drifted into the prelude to Schubert's "Serenade," a song that had always won the enthusiastic applause of the impressionable young ladies whom he met in society. With all its intense sentimentality, it had never been a favorite with practical Bess; but there was no resisting the influence of such a voice, and before he had finished a dozen notes, Bess was held by the same charm which she had felt that other evening in the church. She was fast losing all consciousness of everything but the passionate beauty of the music, when a long, gusty howl brought her back to herself, and made them all turn their heads to see whence the sound proceeded. There on the floor sat Fuzz, erect on his haunches, his paws in the air and his curls dejectedly flattened over one eye, while, with his nose pointed skyward, he was giving expression to his feelings in wail after wail, each one longer and louder than the last. Bess sprang to catch the dog, but with a quick movement he dodged away, and ran to the other side of Mr. Muir, where he again sat up, and, at the next high note, chimed in with another discordant shriek, while his furiously wagging tail expressed his pleasure in this novel duet. It was useless to try to go on, and the singer rose from the piano, while Bess said,—