"I should never dare, after Alan's wonderful success," replied Katharine lightly, as she took out the daffodil she had been wearing in her buttonhole and tossed it over to her cousin. Then she added soberly, "It isn't any story at all, but I believe, while we wait, I'll tell you about the saddest funeral I ever saw in my life."
"Go on, Kit; you have the floor," said Alan encouragingly.
"It isn't much to tell, but you've no idea how pitiful it was to see," the girl went on thoughtfully. "Just a year ago this spring, papa had to go West on business, and he took me with him. We had to stay two or three days in a little bit of a town up in the Rocky Mountains, and while we were there, a young woman died. She had only been married a month, and had just come out from New England, to live in the cunning little new house that her husband had built. It was a winter of very deep snow, even for that region, and when it melted, it grew soft all the way down through, before it seemed to go away, any at all. The cemetery was away from the town, up on the side of the mountain, just the loneliest, most desolate place you can imagine; and it seemed so sad to take her away and leave her there all alone. It was a long, long procession, and papa and I stood at the window to watch it, as it went through the town, and on out into the open country, where no road had been broken. Then, for a mile or two, the long black line crawled along over the snow, while the horses floundered about, half buried in the drifts, and the hearse tipped this way and that, as first one wheel would sink down out of sight, and then another. At last it wound around the foot of the hill, and we couldn't see it any more; but I kept feeling so sorry for the poor little wife and for the lonely husband in his new house."
Katharine paused, but there was no word spoken, so she went on,—
"A month later we spent Sunday there, on our way home. The snow had all melted and, in the afternoon, I teased papa to walk up to the cemetery with me. We remembered the name, so we could find the grave easily enough. It was perfectly bare, without any grass on it, but at the head was a rough little cross made of two boards nailed together, with her name painted on it, in black letters that were a little unsteady, as if somebody's hand shook when he was making them; and at the foot of the cross lay one tiny bunch of white immortelles, to show that she wasn't quite forgotten. But when we turned to look at the view, it didn't seem sad, any more. The little, low, dingy town lay below us, as if she had risen above it, and all around us, the great, soft, kind mountains stood up in the sun to guard her and watch over her, in her sleep. The shabby cross and the little posy and the magnificent brown mountains were all so much more kind and loving than our piles of marble and fussy flowers arranged for show, that when I came down the hill, I didn't feel sorry for her, any longer."
The hush that followed Katharine's simple story was unbroken for some moments. Then Polly sprang up excitedly,—
"The drums! Don't you hear them?" And she rushed away to call her mother.
The procession was moving, at last, and the distant roll of muffled drums could be plainly heard by the girls, as they pressed closely to the window. Touched, as they had been, by the account of that far-away funeral among the mountains, they were in just the mood to be impressed by the scene which was passing before them. And, in truth, any one who stood looking on, that day, must have felt the impressiveness of the long line as it slowly filed down the broad street under the graceful arches of the tall old elms, in the cold light of the cloudy afternoon. First came the drum corps, with wailing fife and muffled drum; next appeared the gray uniforms of the company who marched two by two, with bowed heads and reversed arms, to escort the hearse in their midst. Directly behind the hearse trotted a small, yellow figure, at sight of whom Alan stealthily drew his hand across his eyes. It was Pete's faithful friend, the little Scotch terrier, who was following his master to his last resting-place, with a sturdy determination not to leave his good old master with whom he had spent such a happy little life. Then followed the line of carriages and the straggling groups on foot; but the girls paid little heed to them, for Polly said, in a sudden whisper,—"Just look at Job!"
For a long time the old horse had been quietly grazing, without so much as raising his head to take breath and look about him, so greedy was he for the first tender grass-blades of the spring. Suddenly he heard the roll of the drums and threw up his head to listen, with eager ears and dilating eyes, as if the sound recalled to him some vague memory of his far-off youth. So proud and spirited he looked as he stood there, that it was evident that, in fancy, he was living over his former days, perhaps listening to the triumphant strains of music which heralded the close of the rebellion. As the sound came nearer, and yet nearer, he appeared to be under its spell and slowly moved down towards the street, arching his glossy neck and stepping high, in perfect time to the music. Fifty feet from the fence, he stopped and gazed at the scene before him, still spellbound by the martial sounds and the memories they called up in his mind, while the group in the Adams's windows watched him intently, amazed at the life and fire in the old creature's pose and manner. Still Job stood watching the soldiers, listening to the band until it had moved onward, past the spot where he was. Then his eyes fell on the hearse, and he took one eager step forward. Surely that was a familiar sight! The carriages came next, and by that time there was no hesitancy in his mind; for at length he recognized all the solemn import of the procession. It was a funeral, and in funerals Job had often borne a conspicuous part. The band was doubtless his call to duty; and should any one say that he had failed, even in his old age, to respond to this call? He took another step forward, paused again, for only one instant; then, just as the last carriage passed the gate, he swung his aged tail round and round, in two rapturous, joyful whisks, and with tossing head and flying mane, he trotted rapidly out into the street, overtook the procession and, dropping into a decorous walk just as his nose touched the back of the rear carriage, he marched solemnly off down the street, with patient resignation and unending sadness depicted in every line of his old brown body.
Inside the parlor the girls, without a thought of their past interest in Pete's funeral, turned and gazed at each other in silence for a moment, then sank to the floor, in uncontrollable, though noiseless laughter.
CHAPTER XVII
MISS BEAN'S VISIT IS RETURNED.
Still another month had passed and it was late in May when, one bright Saturday morning, Jessie, Polly, and Alan drove away through the town and out over the western hills. Cob was as full of life and spirits as they were, and they went gaily onward with no particular destination in view, but only intent on enjoying the soft, warm air and the abundance of spring life all about them. Birds in every tree, green leaves and bright blossoms on every hand, and over them all the clear, yellow sunlight, these were enough for the happy young people in the carriage.
"Dear me!" sighed Polly. "When we begin to have days like this, it does seem as if vacation never, never would come. I can't bear to stay in school and work over books in such weather. I'd much rather stay outside and watch things grow."
"Let's cut school for the rest of the term, Polly," suggested Alan, "and take Job and drive off out of the world somewhere, and not come back till winter."
"Thank you, no. I'll take Cob, if Jessie is willing, for we couldn't get outside of the town with Job, if we had any idea of getting back by Christmas," rejoined Polly, laughing.
"Take Cob and welcome, if I can go with you," said Jessie. "Seems to me I never felt so before, but I don't want to stay in school any more than Polly does. Perhaps it's because your springs are pleasanter than ours."
"I shouldn't wonder if they were," said Polly reflectively, as regardless of freckles, she took off her hat and let the sun strike full upon her ruddy curls. "Isn't this perfect?" she added, with a sigh of content. "I do believe everything is nicer in Massachusetts than it is anywhere else. I'm glad I happened to be born in the Bay State."
Jessie laughed outright at the fervor of her tone. Then she said, as she drew Cob down to a slow walk, to enjoy a bit of road that lay under a group of tall pines,—
"After all, I shall be sorry to have vacation come, for as soon as this term is over, we shall have to go home, and I don't want to, one bit."
"Sorry to leave me, aren't you, Cousin Jessie?" asked Alan, with, mock sentiment.
"Don't flatter yourself, young man," said Polly, in parenthesis, as Jessie went on. seriously,—
"Why, yes, I suppose I shall miss you, Alan; but it's the girls that I care most for. We've had such good times doing things together, and next year I shall be forlorn enough, for Kit will come out, and I shall be left all to myself."
"Come back here," suggested Alan quite hospitably, considering the frank way in which Jessie had spoken of her slight regret at leaving him.
"Without Kit? Never!" replied Jessie earnestly. "I'd rather be with her and have only a dozen words a day from her, than have to be separated from her. I've always been fond of her, but it seems to me she was never half so lovely as she's been this last year."
Polly stepped on Alan's toe, under cover of the robe, and was met by an answering flash from the gray eyes, but neither spoke, as Jessie continued,—"You do so many more things here, and have so much better times, you girls, that Kit and I both wish papa and mamma would come back here to live. Omaha is pleasant enough, and the river is lovely,—when it isn't muddy; but I shall miss these hills and the elms and the lazy look of the old town. I like old things best. And what do you suppose I shall miss, most of all?"
"Job" and "Aunt Jane," suggested Alan and Polly, in a breath.
"You're too bad to laugh at me." And Jessie tried to pout, but it was too hard work, so she gave up the attempt and laughed instead. "No, it's the garret at your house, Alan, with all the old spinning wheels and warming pans. Some day, when I get my cats, I'll come back here to live, see if I don't." And Jessie nodded with decision as she started up Cob once more.
"Oh, dear! Next year doesn't mean much fun for me," groaned Polly. "I shall have to begin Latin and Greek and all sorts of dreadful things, so as to get ready for college."
"Then you are really going," said Jessie. "What makes you do it, if you don't want to?"
"It's been the family plan ever since I was a baby," said Polly; "and there's no use in trying to change it. Besides, I don't think I mind it much, or shan't when I once get there. I want to know a few things when. I'm grown up, even if I'm not a lawyer or a doctor,—but I'm going to leave that for Alan,"
"Don't worry about that, Polly," said Alan. "At present rate of progress, if I lose a month or two of school every winter, I shouldn't get through college till long after you were dead and out of the way. And then, I don't think I want to be a doctor, anyway."
"Now, Alan," retorted Polly; "that's not quite fair of you, when you know how my heart is set on having you. a splendid doctor, and in time taking papa's place. I've told you, time and time again, that if I had a brother, he would have to be one; and, as long as I haven't, you're the next best thing. You'd make such a splendid one, too. I know, for I asked papa if you wouldn't, and he said yes. He said—" Polly came to a sudden pause.
"Said what, Poll? Out with it."
"I wasn't going to tell, for fear 'twould make you conceited," returned Polly; "but if I thought it would make any difference with your plans, I'd run the risk, only you must be really in earnest about it, Alan, and think it all over. He said you had just the character that goes to make a good doctor, brave and true and unselfish, and always gentle and calm and jolly. Now doesn't that make you want to be something grand?" And Polly turned to look at the boy, with all her earnestness, all her love for him lighting her face and beautifying it, in spite of the brown freckles on her cheeks.
Alan's face flushed and his eyes were shining, as he asked eagerly,—
"Did Dr. Adams really say all that about me?"
"Yes, he said so only the other day, and I suppose I oughtn't to have told you; but, ever since our talk one day last winter when you'd been to the hospital, I've been hoping and hoping that some day you'd be just the right kind of a doctor, one that cures his patients, whether they can pay or not, and makes them love him, in spite of the horrid things he has to do to them. If you'd only do that, Alan, I should be so proud of you."
"Should you, Poll? Well, I'll think about it, but it's too soon to make up my mind yet. Mother wants me to be a minister."
"You a minister! Why, Alan, you'd laugh, even in the middle of a sermon; and I know you'd never go to a funeral without thinking how Job went, the other day. And anyway, I'd a great deal rather be a doctor, for they do more good. Ministers talk; doctors do."
"Some ministers do," said Jessie.
"Yes, some of them; but it's their business to preach, and that's all most of them try to do. You won't hear of many ministers that get up, cold winter nights, every night for a week, to go to see one poor little croupy baby, just for love of it, and not expecting to get a cent. I don't believe that, taken year in and year out, there are many missionaries that work harder or do more good than papa does."
"Not many doctors, either," suggested Alan.
"That may be; but just his doing it proves that it can be done, if anybody is willing to try. Don't shirk that way, Alan; it isn't like you. You can do it just as well as he can, and I mean you shall, some day, if teasing can do any good."
"Do you know, Polly," said Jessie; "you've talked about it till you make me want to be a doctor, myself. I don't suppose mamma would ever let me, but I'd like to try, and I think I could do it."
"Why don't you, then?" asked Polly heartily. "I don't want to myself, and I shouldn't succeed. I should be like the old doctor papa tells about, that used to swear at his patients when they didn't mind him. I never could keep cool when things went wrong. Besides, I think it's a man's work, more than a woman's."
"I'd like to be one, and prove that you are wrong," returned
Jessie, with some spirit.
"If I really made up my mind to be a doctor, I'd be a good one, if I had to give up everything else for the sake of it; but it isn't in my line," said Polly a little regretfully. "But when you and Alan are famous all over the world, I'll go around telling everybody how I was the first one to start you in that line; and they'll all be grateful to me, even if I haven't any career, see if they aren't."
"In the meantime," said Alan, suddenly breaking off the conversation, "has anybody the slightest idea where we are?"
"I haven't," said Jessie, pulling up Cob abruptly. "I've been so busy talking and thinking that I haven't paid any attention to where we were going."
"I never saw this road before," said Polly. "It's too far out of town for Job's wanderings. But go on; we shall come to a house or a guideboard before long."
"To judge by the sun and by my appetite," remarked Alan pensively, "it must be almost noon."
"Oh, that makes me think!" exclaimed Polly. "Get up, Alan; you're right on them!"
"On what?" inquired the boy lazily, without stirring.
"On the gingersnaps. Mamma gave me some to put in my pocket, in case we should get hungry, and here you've been sitting on top of them, all the way!" There was an accent of despair in Polly's tone.
Alan rose, and she plunged her hand into her pocket.
"Just look here!" she said accusingly, as she drew out a crumpled paper bag.
Alan caught it from her hand and peered down into it.
"Pulverized gingersnaps!" he exclaimed. "Want some, Jessie?"
"I'm so hungry, I'm thankful for anything," she replied. "Let's eat up the largest pieces ourselves, Polly, and make Alan take the dust for his share, for he was the one to blame."
"I know it, and now he'll never know how good they were," returned Polly relentlessly, as the girls devoured the contents of the bag, even to the last crumb. "He deserves to go hungry."
"But what's that building over there?" asked Jessie, a little later, pointing to a great red house on the side of a distant hill.
"That? That's the poorhouse," replied Polly, after studying it for a minute or two. "I came here once with papa, ever so long ago. I'd like to know how we ever managed to get here; it's seven or eight miles from town."
"Seven or eight miles from town! And we are dying of starvation," said Alan.
"Speak for yourself, please; Jessie and I have had lunch," said Polly. "But," she went on, struck with a sudden thought, "let's go and see Miss Bean, and maybe she'll invite us to dinner. She ought to, for she's been fed at our house often enough."
Jessie fell in with the idea.
"Let's try it, anyway," she said. "I've always wanted to see what they do in such a place, and I don't believe there would be any harm in it."
"What harm could there be?" said Polly. "We needn't tell her we've come to dinner; only, if she should happen to ask us, we could stay, after she's teased a little."
Turning from the main road, they drove under the great gateway and followed a winding drive up to the very door of the house. A few old crones sat in a row by the door, chattering like so many venerable crows; but when they caught sight of the children, their voices sank to whispers, as they watched Alan spring to the ground, hold up his arms to help Polly and Jessie, and then deliberately tie Cob to the nearest post.
At sight of the women in their plain white caps and dark calico gowns, Jessie was seized with a nervous desire to laugh, and hid behind Polly, whispering,—
"You do the talking, Polly; I can't."
"But what shall I say?" returned Polly, in the same tone.
"Isn't there a matron or something?" said Jessie doubtfully. "Ask for her."
By this time, Alan had joined them and they held a hasty consultation, as a result of which Alan walked straight up to the old women. Hat in hand, and a smile on his bright, boyish face, he bowed low before them and asked if he could be directed to the matron's room. Alan's smile never failed to move a woman's heart, no matter whether she was old or young. In the present instance, one of the aged dames tottered to her feet, saying,—
"Bless your heart, sonny! I'll show you, myself, to pay for your sweet manners." And she toddled away, followed by the girls and by Alan whose sweet manners had collapsed into a stifled giggle at the unlooked-for compliment.
They were taken into a long, wide hall through the middle of which ran a strip of rag carpet, edged with plain wooden settees. Everything was scrupulously neat and clean, but the only ornament in sight was a stuffed poodle under a glass case, above which hung the somewhat inappropriate motto: God loveth a cheerful giver. Here they were told to sit down, while the old woman went in search of the matron. The next few moments were rather uncomfortable for all three of the children. Now that they were really inside the institution, they were a little frightened at what they had done; and yet the ridiculous side of their being there struck them so keenly that they dared not speak, for fear of being found laughing, when the all-powerful matron should make her appearance. At length she came, a trim little woman, with an earnest face and a business-like manner. At Polly's request to be allowed to see Miss Bean, she shook her head doubtfully.
"It isn't one of our regular visiting days," she began." Was your errand an important one?"
"Not very," returned Polly, with a lingering accent on the second word, as she caught the sound of a distant clatter of dishes and breathed in a vague odor of boiled beef.
"I am sorry to disappoint you," the matron went on; "and if you have come all the way from town, it is too bad to send you back without seeing her, for a minute. Call Miss Bean," she said to a servant. "What name shall I tell her?" she asked Polly.
"Polly Adams, ma'am," answered Polly.
The matron became suddenly cordial, like a snowbank under the rays of the spring sun.
"Isn't this Dr. Adams's daughter?" she asked. "I thought I saw a familiar look about the lower part of the face."
"Yes, Dr. Adams is my father," said Polly, whose hopes of staying sprang into life once more.
"Indeed! I am very glad to see you for his sake," returned the matron. "Perhaps he sent you?"
"No—o, he didn't send us; we came," faltered Polly.
"Never mind; I am glad to see you, anyway. And these are your young friends, I suppose. Wouldn't you all like to stay and have dinner here? It is almost ready," she added, in a generous burst of hospitality.
"Thank you, we should be delighted," said Alan hastily, fearing
Polly might lose the opportunity by politely hesitating.
"Well, Polly Adams, where in the name of time did you come from?" asked Miss Bean's voice behind her.
Polly turned around. Could this be Miss Bean, this little, withered figure in the calico gown and white cap? Where was the green and black gown? Where were the lace mitts and the shaker bonnet? However, there could be no doubt of Miss Bean's identity when she said, in her usual abrupt manner,—
"How's your ma? And who are these children?"
"This is Alan Hapgood," replied Polly, introducing her friends; "and this is Jessie Shepard."
"You don't say so! Henry and Kate Shepard's daughter, from out in
Omaha?"
"Yes."
Miss Bean completed Jessie's embarrassment by critically scrutinizing her from head to foot, then asking suddenly,—
"Do they dress much out in. Omaha?"
This unexpected question sent Alan, off to examine the stuffed poodle, while Miss Bean turned to Polly again.
"Did your ma send you?"
"No, ma'am," said Polly.
"Then what did you come for?" was the hospitable query.
"We were driving this way, and so we stopped to see you," answered
Polly, with a feeling of shame at her own insincerity.
"Much obliged," returned Miss Bean, with grim sarcasm; then she added, "How's your Uncle Solomon? I always thought he and Miss Roberts would come round, if I only just put 'em in a way to think of it."
Miss Bean's questions bade fair to last indefinitely, but fortunately the dinner bell sounded, and the matron came back to lead her young guests into the great dining-room, at one end of which she had arranged a small table with seats for them, and for Miss Bean who was regarded with no small degree of envy, as she took her place in this honored circle. The matron seated herself with Alan, and Jessie at her left, Polly and Miss Bean at her right, and the simple dinner of boiled beef and vegetables was brought in. Except for an occasional request for food, the meal was eaten in silence, while the old people curiously watched the matron's group, and listened eagerly to the conversation they kept up. Polly, too, was silent, gazing with a curious fascination at the long line of aged faces, some peaceful, others querulous, but all so alike that the row of them seemed to become an endless perspective of white caps and wagging jaws. Her reverie was interrupted by Miss Bean, who leaned across the table to say reprovingly to Jessie, as she refused the boiled cabbage,—
"Folks that go a-visiting hadn't ought to be difficult with their victuals."
"Can you imagine anything more dreadful than to live in such a place?" exclaimed Polly, as they drove away, after being conducted over the establishment. "I'd work and scrimp, year after year, rather than, just sit down and be supported by the town."
"Yes," answered Jessie; "but I suppose they do have real good times, in their way."
"So does a cat that eats her milk, and then goes to sleep in the sun," returned Polly. "That may be their way, but I'm thankful it isn't mine."
"I presume all they care for is to have enough to eat, and to keep warm in winter and cool in summer," said Alan. "Some of them looked as old as the Rocky Mountains, and I don't see why they shouldn't live forever, doing nothing but sun themselves."
"I'd rather live a little shorter time, and live a little harder, while I'm about it," said Polly. "I think I prefer wearing out to rusting out."
It was late in the afternoon when they reached the town once more, and drove up the street to Polly's house. Mrs. Adams was at the gate, watching for them.
"At last!" she exclaimed. "I was really getting quite anxious about you, for fear Cob had run away, or you were lost. Aren't you hungry? Where have you been?"
"Oh, no, we aren't hungry," said Alan, as he jumped out to help
Polly to the ground. "We've been to dinner at the poorhouse, and
Jessie has disgraced us all, by refusing to eat cabbage."
CHAPTER XVIII.
MR. BAXTER TAKES A NAP.
They had all been at the Langs's that afternoon. The third of June was Florence's fourteenth birthday, and Mrs. Lang had celebrated the day by giving a little afternoon tea on the broad piazza, overlooking the grounds. It had been a pretty sight, with the dainty gowns of the girls, and the active figures of the few boys who had been favored with invitations to share in the games on the lawn. The ever-present amateur photographer had thought so too, apparently, and from his position in the street, he had already aimed his detective camera at them, when Alan discovered him and gave the alarm, only just in time to prevent his stolen success.
Polly and Jean walked home with the Hapgoods in the early twilight, and, refusing Mrs. Hapgood's invitation to go into the house, the girls settled themselves on the two high-backed seats at either side of the broad front porch, and gave themselves up to the luxury of talking over the event of the day.
"It must be fun to be able to have company, and do it up in such splendid style as Mrs. Lang does," said Jean a little enviously, as she pulled out the bunch of pink clover she had worn at her belt.
"It was lovely, wasn't it?" assented Molly. "Mrs. Lang doesn't do it often, but when she does have a party, it is always perfect."
"After all," said Katharine, "it's all from the outside, somehow. I don't know whether you understand what I mean, but I know, myself."
"I'm glad you do, Kit," said her sister disrespectfully; "for it's certain that nobody else does. Remember that we are young, and explain yourself a little."
"I did really mean something, Jessie," said Katharine. "With Mrs. Lang, it seems as if she set the day and gave her orders to the servants, and that's all there was about it. Of course she entertains charmingly, and all that; but it makes me feel, all the time, as if she did it to pay her debts, and not because she likes to have us there. When we go to—well, to Polly's, for instance, I. never think of that, for Mrs. Adams always acts as if she enjoyed us as much as we enjoy being there."
"She does," answered Polly, with conviction. "She says she never half grew up, for she likes young people now better than she does those of her own age."
"It must be horrid to have to give parties, whether you want to or not, just because somebody else has invited you," remarked Molly.
"That's the way they all do in society, though," said Jessie, with a knowing air.
"Well, if that's society, then. I don't want any of it," said Polly ungratefully, while she ran her fingers through her hair and stood it wildly on end. "I just want my friends, and I want them whenever I feel like it; but I don't care anything about having a crowd of people round in the way, just because it's fashionable, when I don't, care a snap for them. If I ever grow up and come out, as they call it, I'm going to like my friends for themselves, and not for their clothes and their parties and their good dinners. I can buy those at a hotel, if I get hungry."
"And when hotels fail, there is always the poorhouse," suggested Jean. "But, girls, do you ever want to be very, very rich, just for a little while?"
"I don't think I ever stopped to think much about it," answered
Polly; "but I suppose it would be fun."
"'Tisn't so much that I want more things than I have," said Jean; "but, not often, only just once in a while, I do so wish I could go ahead and be real extravagant, spend ever so much money for all sorts of foolish things, have parties and fine clothes, and travel everywhere I wanted. I know perfectly well that I shouldn't enjoy myself half so much as I do now, when I have to work for all I get; but still, I'd like to try the other, just for a change."
"And then, after a little while, you'd be longing to get back again," returned Polly. "I don't believe life is all fun, even to people that are very rich. I never saw anybody yet that I wanted to change places with."
"Let's all tell what we would do, if we were very rich and could have just what we wanted," suggested Alan, from the step.
"All right, only do come in under cover, child," said Polly, in a maternal tone; "or else you'll be so stiff to-morrow that you can't move." And she tucked up the skirt of her best gown, to make room for the lad, who obediently settled himself between her and Katharine.
"Go it, Jean," he said; "you started us to wishing, so it's only fair you should speak first. What would you do, if you could have your choice?"
"Study, till I knew everything there was to be known," returned Jean, without hesitation. "I'd go to college here, and then I'd go to Europe, to one city after another, and learn all I could in each."
"You'd be a perfect valley of dry bones, then," commented Polly.
"People that know everything are very stupid."
"I wouldn't be," said Jean. "I'd found colleges with my money, and go round lecturing to them, till they knew just as much as I did."
"H'm!" said Alan. "What will you do, Poll?" Polly laughed.
"It would be hard to choose, but I think I'd begin by adopting about twenty small boys. Then, if I had any time left, I'd—I'd— oh, I think perhaps I'd like to write a book of poems."
"Good for you, Poll! How I envy the boys, only you'd make them all into doctors. Molly?"
"I would travel, all over the whole world, and down into Australia," returned Molly. "I'd go to Russia and Spain and China and the Nile, and stay everywhere just as long as I wanted to."
"Who wouldn't like to do that?" said Jean. "Katharine, what will you do?"
"I'd have a lovely house somewhere in Europe, Venice, perhaps, or else Paris, and it should be full of magnificent pictures. And then I'd have my friends come and stay with me for a year at a time; and I'd have young artists come and live there, and give them lessons,—not teach them, you know, but pay for them, to give them a start, when they couldn't afford it. And when they had learned to paint and were ready to go home, I'd pay their expenses for a year, till they were able to support themselves. And then I'd help poor students through college, and do ever so many things like that."
"Katharine, you are modest in your plans!" said Molly, laughing.
"How much of an income do you expect to have?"
"I didn't know we were limited," Katharine answered. "I thought we could have whatever we wished."
"That was the idea," said Alan. "Go on, Jessie; what would you do if you had all the money in the world?"
"Just what I intend to do now," she replied coolly, "be a doctor."
"What!" And Molly stared at her cousin with wide-open eyes.
"Yes, I think that's what I mean to do," answered Jessie. "I believe I should rather like it, and if I can tease mamma into letting me try, I'm coming East again, in a few years, to study."
"Well, you must be in want of something to do," said Molly, "if you have any idea of patching up broken bones and getting yourself exposed to small-pox and all sorts of fevers. But go on, Alan; it's your turn."
"Let's see," said Alan reflectively; "first of all, I'd get over my rheumatism, and then, for a few years, I'd be the very best base-ball player in the world. Then, after I was too old for that, I'd travel round a little while, and then I'd settle down and be— "
Polly listened breathlessly for the decision.
"Be what?" she asked eagerly.
"An undertaker."
"Oh, Alan, how mean of you!" protested Jessie. "Here we've all been and told our wishes as truly as we could, and now you are just making fun of us. That isn't fair."
"Isn't it?" And Alan laughed teasingly. "How do you know I haven't told truly? But, to be honest, I think I'd go into partnership with either Polly or you. I'd like to be a first-class doctor, or else a great author."
"Poems?" inquired Polly sympathetically.
"Poems! No; nor novels either, nor any such trash as that," returned the boy scornfully. "I'd write great, long books with real solid work in them, history, or else some kind of science, books that wouldn't be forgotten just as soon as they were read, but ones that would help the world along by making people know more and more, the more they studied them."
"I wonder if we shall any of us ever get what we want," said Jean thoughtfully." Jessie stands the best chance."
"You wouldn't say so, if you knew mamma as well as Kit and I do," returned Jessie, laughing. "I shan't have an easy time, when I try to persuade her to let me carry out my plan. She wouldn't be any more horrified if I wanted to be a farmer and plant my own potatoes."
"What will Florence be, I wonder," said Polly. "It would have to be something very pretty and dainty, or it would never suit her."
"Florence? Her future is all cut out," said Jean. "Didn't Mrs. Hapgood tell it, last Hallowe'en, a devoted husband and a beautiful home? She'll have everything she can possibly want, and she'll keep it all in apple pie order, and she and her husband will do nothing but bill and coo all day long."
"I don't believe it," said Molly, laughing at the sentimental picture which Jean had called up. "I think Florence has more to her than all that."
"What more can she want?" asked Katharine. "If she is a perfect wife in a happy home, there isn't anything much better for any woman."
"But it's getting dark, and I must go," said Polly, as she rose.
"Come, Jean; mamma will think I am lost. Good night, girls."
In spite of their assurances that they were not at all timid, Alan insisted on going with the girls; so they stopped to speak to Mrs. Adams, then walked on together as far as Jean's gate, where they lingered, talking, for a minute or two.
"Come in now, Alan," said Polly, as they reached her house again; "it's early, really, and Jerusalem's out there on the piazza, all alone. You know she always likes to see you."
Alan hesitated for a moment, but the last fading light of the warm June day was too tempting, and he went in. Mrs. Adams rose from her piazza chair to meet them, and stepped forward into the faint light which shone out through the closely drawn shade of the parlor window.
"Yes, it is pleasant out here," she answered Polly; "but if you children are going to sit outside, you must have some wraps, for it is quite cool. Polly dear, just run in to get a shawl to put on, and bring the afghan to tuck around Alan. It's on the parlor sofa."
Polly vanished through the open door. When she came back, she was laughing.
"Why didn't you tell me they were in there, Jerusalem?" she asked, as she tossed the afghan to Alan, and then settled herself on a sweet-grass mat at her mother's feet. "Aunt Jane is reading aloud a report of something or other, and Mr. Baxter looks so bored. He yawned like a chasm when I went in."
"Perhaps you disturbed him in the middle of a nap," suggested
Alan.
"Maybe I did. I don't blame him for getting sleepy," responded Polly pityingly. "It all seemed to be about convict labor and penal servitude and such things. I shouldn't wonder if something was the matter in Russia."
Then they were silent, watching the lazy shadows from the full moon creep over the lawn, till there came a footstep on the walk and a voice called,—
"So you are all making the most of the moonlight, are you?"
"Oh, Papa Adams!" exclaimed Polly joyfully. "Home so early?"
"Yes," answered the doctor, as he dropped into the chair next Alan; "and I'm going to play all the rest of the evening. How comes on our future doctor?"
"Doctor!" echoed Polly. "He said to-night that he'd rather be an undertaker than anything else."
"Why, how's that?" said the doctor, laughing. "It isn't a week since Polly told me you were going to follow in my footsteps."
"Oh, Polly has doctor on the brain, just now," answered the boy. "She's started up Jessie on the subject, and they do nothing but talk of pills and skeletons. To-night we were discussing what we'd like best to do, and the girls had such wild plans that I thought I'd bring them down to earth again."
"If you can't make better puns than that, don't try to make any, Alan," said Polly severely. "But our plans weren't wild a bit; we only said just what we would do, if we had all the money in the world."
"And what was the decision," asked the doctor; "cooking and sewing, or society belles?"
"Neither," Polly was beginning earnestly, when Alan broke in,—
"I'll tell you, Dr. Adams, and you can see for yourself if they weren't a little extra. Jean was going to know everything; Molly was going to travel everywhere; Polly was going to found an orphan asylum in her house, and write poetry, besides; and Katharine wanted to support poor but honest young men by the dozen. I think that's all but Jessie. She's going to study medicine."
"Such aspiring young people!" said the doctor. "You'll need all the treasures of the earth at your disposal, if you have such magnificent plans. If you are going to undertake so much, then good-by to bread-making and Bridget. And that reminds me to tell you, children, Bridget is going home, the last of next week."
"Next week?" said Mrs. Adams. "What is that for? Her year isn't over."
"No, but she has gained faster than we thought she could, and she is now almost as well as ever. If she hadn't been taken in time, it would have been much harder to cure her; but now we think that, if she is careful, she can go home to her family again. We told her so to-night, and she was half wild for a moment; but then she began to cry, because she must leave her 'dear young ladies,' as she called you."
"Oh, dear, what shall we ever do without her?" sighed Polly. "I was really getting quite fond of her. Now I'll have to devote myself to Dicky and the other babies."
"Bridget has improved in your hands," said the doctor. "You girls, without knowing it, have been doing the best kind of mission work, and the Bridget who goes home will be a much more attractive Bridget than the one who came here, for she has learned that there is something a little beyond her old life of drudgery that she can hope for and, in the end, gain."
"Hark! What's that?" exclaimed Mrs. Adams abruptly.
There was a sudden commotion in the parlor, the sound of excited voices, mingled with inarticulate cries; then Aunt Jane called, in a tone of agony,—
"Isabel! Polly! John! Quick, quick!"
Springing up, the doctor and his wife, followed by Polly and Alan, ran to the parlor door where they looked in upon a strange scene, for a full understanding of which it is necessary to go back a little, to see what had been passing inside the room, while the others had been talking on the piazza.
For the past two or three months, it had been Mr. Baxter's regular habit to spend every Wednesday evening with the woman of his choice, when he either talked of his children and their peculiarities, or his servants and their vices, or, on the other hand, Miss Roberts attempted to form his mind, as she called it, by improving and instructive conversation. Their interviews, it must be confessed, were never of the nature of a duet. Either Mr. Baxter prattled about trifles, and Aunt Jane was politely indifferent; or else Miss Roberts conversed learnedly, and Mr. Baxter dozed off into little "cat-naps," waked again with an apologetic start, and immediately assumed a look of owlish wisdom, as if to convey the idea that he listened to the best advantage with his eyes shut. Such a beginning, when they spent but one evening a week together, did not hold out very brilliant prospects of enlivening domestic intercourse; but the parties most nearly concerned appeared to be satisfied, so no one else needed to complain.
On this particular Wednesday evening, Mr. Baxter was unusually drowsy. His youngest child, he fretfully explained, had been ill all the night before, and his own rest had been badly broken. But in spite of this warning. Miss Roberts had taken up from the table a pamphlet on prison reform, and announced her intention of reading it aloud. In vain Mr. Baxter looked about for some way of escape. Seeing none, he seated himself in the darkest corner of the room, with a lingering hope that his lapses into dreamland might pass unnoticed. He was not disappointed. In a few moments, Aunt Jane had become so absorbed in her subject that she read on and on, quite unconscious of the fact that her guest, from yawning behind his hand, and nodding now forward, now backward, and now sideways, had passed on into a quiet slumber, unbroken by dreams of restless children and hardened criminals.
But Polly's sudden entrance had roused him, and he propped himself up anew, with a manful resolve to hold his eyes open, or die. Unfortunately it was by no means so easy for Mr. Baxter to hold his mouth shut, and yawn followed yawn, wider and still more wide, until his hand could no longer cover the opening. And yet Miss Roberts read on endlessly, remorselessly. Suddenly she was interrupted by Mr. Baxter who sprang up wildly and, with his body bent forward, his eyes distended and his mouth wide open, began plunging distractedly about the room, with both hands to his face, as if in mortal anguish.
"Oh, Solomon! What is it?" And Miss Roberts sprang up, in her turn.
But Mr. Solomon Baxter only paused to clasp his face more closely and groan, and then resumed his former antics. Miss Roberts was seriously alarmed. Had the man suddenly gone mad? Was he dying?
"Solomon! Solomon!" she implored him. "Tell me, only speak to me and tell me what is the matter!"
"'Y 'ou'," replied Mr. Baxter vehemently, but not very intelligibly.
"What?" Miss Roberts hurried to his side and, bending, gazed up into his face which was still turned floorward.
"'Y 'ou'; I 'aw' 'uh' 'y 'ou'," answered Mr. Baxter again, this time pointing down his throat.
Miss Roberts saw that there was some trouble with his mouth. It was a relief to find that her lover was of sound mind. From his broken speech, she was beginning to fear some new, strange form of paralysis, but his wild lunges about the room relieved those apprehensions. It was only his mouth, then. She smiled sympathetically.
"I understand," she said; "it is the toothache. It is very painful, while it lasts, but I have something that will stop it. Just shut your mouth and make yourself as comfortable as you can, and I will get it."
But Mr. Baxter shook his head sadly.
"I 'aw' 'uh' 'ih," he answered.
Then Aunt Jane's courage began to fail.
"Can't shut it! Oh, Solomon, Solomon! What is it?"
"I 'o 'oo'," he replied testily. Then, clasping his jaw in both hands, he began to walk the floor again, groaning dismally. Miss Roberts's tears were flowing. She felt sure that Mr. Baxter's hours were' numbered, and that she would soon be forced to look on at his funeral. Could she be a mother to his little ones, thus doubly bereaved? These thoughts passed in rapid succession through her brain; then, raising her voice to the utmost, she called for aid. That done, for the first and only time in the course of her life, Aunt Jane Roberts, the strong-minded, the firm, sank down on the sofa and quietly fainted away. This was the state of affairs which met the doctor's gaze, as he entered the room.
To his practised eye there was no ground for doubt. He recognized the disease and the remedy. It only needed one pull with his strong hands, one roar of anguish from Mr. Baxter, and the dislocated jaw was slipped back into place once more. Then the doctor turned to help his wife who was trying to restore Aunt Jane to consciousness. At length she gasped, opened one eye, gasped again, opened both and faintly whispered,—
"Is he dead? Tell me gently. Was it lock-jaw?"
Then the doctor's professional dignity gave way. Dropping into the nearest chair, he laughed, and laughed, and laughed again, while Mr. Baxter grew more and more shamefaced, and Miss Roberts more and more exasperated at his unseemly merriment. When he could speak again, he answered,—
"Lockjaw; no. This was all your fault, Jane. You read till the poor man was so sleepy that he fairly yawned his jaw out of joint."
And this time the doctor's shout was echoed by his wife and the two children.
CHAPTER XIX.
KATHARINE'S CALL.
The next afternoon Katharine and Florence sat on the side piazza of the Hapgood house, Florence in the hammock, Katharine curled up among the cushions of a bamboo lounge, idly stroking the back of Scott, Molly's plump tiger kitten.
"Well, Scotty," she was saying caressingly, as she held up the little creature and gazed straight into its yellow eyes, "are you feeling happy in your mind to-day? Well, so am I."
"What a queer name I" said Florence. "Where did Molly ever get it?"
Katharine laughed.
"I should think you might know," she answered. "Alan was responsible for it, of course. Don't you know how he is always saying 'Great Scott'?"
"That is it, is it?" said Florence. Then she returned to the subject of which they had just been speaking. "When do you think you will go, Katharine?"
"In about two weeks, I think," Katharine replied, as she rolled the cat over on its back and tickled it under its furry chin. "Papa wrote, some time ago, that he wanted us to be at home before July, for then he is going to start on a trip to Alaska, and we are both to go with. him. He hasn't mentioned it for a month, now, but I suppose of course he means to go. I hope so, I am sure, for I love to travel, and Jessie has never taken a real long journey, except to come here."
"To Alaska? How I envy you!" said Florence longingly.
"I wish you could go with us," answered Katharine. "It will be a lovely journey, I know, for it is so different from anything else we have seen. I'll tell you, Florence, you must come out to see us, some day, and then we'll go again. If it were not for this Alaska plan, I should hate to go home, for I have had such a pleasant year, here in New England. Sometimes I feel as if I had never known what it was to really live, till I came here; and Jessie dreads going worse than I do."
"You'll probably forget us, before you've been away a month," said
Florenge lightly.
Katharine moved among her cushions until she was facing her friend.
"Do you think I am so fickle as that, Florence?" she asked, and her tone was a little hurt. "If that is all my friendship amounts to, it isn't worth the having."
"I didn't mean that," said Florence; "but it wouldn't be strange if you did forget us, Kit, when you are back again among your other friends."
"What an absurd idea, Florence! Do you think I shall ever forget Bridget and Job and the cooking club, and all the rest of our good times? I shan't be nearly as likely to, just because we don't have anything like it in Omaha. And if I do come out next winter, I know that, right in the middle of all the parties and things, I shall have little homesick twinges for our frolics in the attic, and the cosy talks around Mrs. Adams's open fire."
"It must be so exciting to come out," sighed Florence. "We can't do it in this little place, for we're never in, very much. I should be sorry to leave the girls, Kit, but I almost wish I lived in a city, the way you do."
"You wouldn't, if you had tried it," said Katharine decidedly. "I used to long for the time when I could be in society, as mamma is. Why, only last year I felt as if I couldn't wait; but since I have been here, I don't care half so much about it. It will probably be fun for just a little while, and then I shall get tired of it and wish I could stop, and be cross and pale and headache-y, the way mamma used to be. But, at least, I've had this one year, and I can think about it over and over again, and remember just what we have all done and said. Perhaps sometime we can all be together at our house."
"I do wish you didn't have to go away," said Florence a little forlornly. "We feel as if you belonged to us, Katharine, and we four girls don't seem half so many as we did before you and Jessie came."
"What an idea! And, besides, you have Alan, and he is equal to all the rest of us put together. Dear fellow, how I shall miss him! I wish I had a brother. But, Florence, it isn't as if we weren't likely to drop in on you again, before long. It takes such a little while to go back and forth, now; and I mean to go to Europe in a year or two, and then I shall stop here on the way. It isn't as bad as it would be if papa couldn't afford to let us travel."
But Florence shook her head.
"No," said she, "I know how it will be. You think now that you'll come, but you'll go out there and get so interested in society that you will forget all about New England, and all about us. Or, if you do remember us, it will be when you are dancing all night, and you'll stop a minute to pity us because we go to bed and to sleep like civilized beings." And Florence laughed, in spite of herself, at the idea.
"Now, Florence, that isn't fair to me. I really don't mean to be just a silly girl who thinks of nothing but her clothes. I shall have to go into society, but I believe I can be good for a little something besides that. If I find I can't do both, why, then I'll give up the society part of it; but I won't be a do-nothing all my days. I know there are always more chances for a woman to do good than there are women to do it, and I mean to keep my eyes open to look for my own especial chance. I don't believe that all the helpful ideas auntie and Mrs. Adams have given me this year were intended to be thrown away, and I think the time will come when I can use them. If not, why were they given me? Wait a few years, Florence, and see if I am just a butterfly. It is only fair to give me the chance to win my spurs." Katharine spoke earnestly, for her whole soul was in her words. The past year had been a revelation to her, and her rapid development towards womanhood had been in the line of all that was truest and noblest in her character. She had come to New England an unformed girl whose nature was one of endless possibilities, only waiting for the word which should make them actual and turn her in one way or the other. The word was spoken and, thanks to her aunt's influence and to her association with the simple, natural girls about her, the impulse given was in the right direction. It was as if Katharine had suddenly been born into a new life. No drifting, idle maturity could satisfy her now; her womanhood must be one of purpose and of action. The time for it had come much nearer than she thought.
But now her little outburst was followed by a hearty,—
"Good for you, Kit!"
Both the girls started and looked up, to see Alan's head stretched out from his window, with a look of perfect approval on his boyish face.
"I didn't mean to listen," he said penitently. "I was up here reading and, honestly, I didn't hear a thing but Kit's last speech. That was such a good one that I did just want to pat her on the back. I'm going to stop up my ears now."
"Come down, and stay with us, Alan," his cousin, said.
"No, thanks; not even you can bribe me to leave this book. I want to know what they found in the bottom of the cave." And Alan returned to his reading.
However, the unexpected interruption had put an end to all serious talk, and the girls were chatting idly, now of this matter, now of that, when a boy stepped up on the piazza. He had a telegram in his hand.
"Miss Katharine W. Shepard?" he asked, referring to his address book.
Katharine rose, dropping the kitten on the floor.
"I am Miss Shepard," she said, taking the envelope from his hand and signing the receipt.
"I hope nothing is wrong," said Florence, eyeing the yellow paper with a true feminine dislike of a telegram.
"Wrong? Oh, no; it is probably from papa. He often telegraphs us," said Katharine carelessly, as she tore open the end of the envelope.
She glanced at the paper in her hand, then looked a little surprised.
"It's from mamma," she said. "Papa has probably changed his plans.
Listen: 'Start for home first of next week. Have written.'"
"The first of next week! That is so soon, Katharine; we can't let you go." And Florence sat up in the hammock and stared at her friend in bewilderment.
"It is very sudden," said Katharine slowly. "It doesn't seem as if I could go. But isn't it strange? Papa must have decided, all at once, to go to Alaska sooner than he planned, for this is such a little bit of a warning. Let me see, this is Thursday, and we can't get a letter before Monday. We must start on Tuesday. How I do hate to go!" And Katharine choked down a sudden lump that had risen in her throat. "Come in," she added. "I must tell auntie."
"No, I must go home," said Florence. "Oh, dear! Only four days more, Katharine!"
"Don't cry, dear," said Katharine protectingly. "Remember it isn't for always, for I shall come East often."
She stood and watched her guest until she was out of sight, then ran into the house in search of her aunt, to whom she showed the telegram. In spite of herself, Mrs. Hapgood was very uneasy over the sudden summons to the girls. It certainly did seem strange that the message should come from their mother; but for Katharine's sake, her aunt hid her fears as best she could, and only tried to make the girls' last days as pleasant as possible, while she waited with a burning impatience for the letter which should explain everything. However, the girls, accustomed as they were to their father's rapid changes in his plans, were not at all disturbed, but quietly made their arrangements for the journey, sure that Mr. Shepard would either come for them, or else meet them on the way.
Friday and Saturday passed only too quickly for the young people, who were dreading the approaching separation, and Sunday afternoon found them all assembled at Mrs. Hapgood's for a farewell dinner together. But it was rather a silent, subdued party that gathered about the table; the conversation was fitful and broken by long pauses, and the jokes were rather forced and feeble; while Molly's red eyes and Florence's white cheeks showed that something was wrong. If it was bad at the table, it was worse when they all sat in the front porch after dinner, with nothing to do but watch the darkness settle slowly down over the valley, and listen, to the last sleepy twitterings of the birds. They talked little as they sat there. Now and then Alan would attempt a jest, or Katharine would try to start some fresh subject; but soon the voices would die away, and another silence follow the momentary interruption. So they lingered until long past the time for separation. At length Polly started up.
"Come, girls," said she; "I can't stand this any longer. We may as well say good night now, for it won't be any easier by and by."
"Oh, why did you girls ever come here and make us so fond of you, and then have to go and leave us!" wailed Jean. "I wish you hadn't come in the first place."
"I don't," said Polly steadily; "I'm glad I've had just this one year of knowing you. It's ever so much better than nothing, and I'm thankful even for this. Besides," she added, valiantly brushing away the tears, "I don't mean to cry yet, for we have all day to-morrow, and Tuesday morning; and then, you'll come back again some day. When you are gone is time enough to do the crying." And smiling resolutely, she bade them good night, then went away up the street, with the tears running down her cheeks.
"Come, Alan," said Katharine, early the next morning; "come down to the post-office with me. My letter from home must be here by this time, and I'm in a hurry to get it, to see if papa is going to come for us. It takes Jessie so long to get ready, that we won't wait for her."
They walked away together, laughing and talking as they went, determined to forget the morrow, and only enjoy the bright, beautiful morning and their pleasure in each other's society. At the post-office, Alan ran inside, leaving his cousin to wait for him at the door.
"Here it is, sure enough, Kit," he said, as he joined her again.
"What a little thin one, and from mamma, too!" said Katharine, as she deliberately tore it open. "Papa must be away on one of his business trips, I suppose."
Alan made no reply, but left her to read her letter while he walked along at her side, whistling softly to himself. All at once he heard a low exclamation, like a half-smothered cry of pain. Turning quickly, he saw his cousin's face was ashy white, and her breath was coming in short, quick gasps.
"Katharine! What is it?" he cried, in terror at the change in her face.
For answer, she held out the letter to him. "Oh, Alan, what does it mean?"
He thought she was going to fall, and threw his arm around her to support her, but she rallied quickly.
"Read it, Alan," she begged. "I can't seem to understand it."
Alan read it. But before he was half through it, his face was as white as hers had been. "Oh, Kit!" he began; then he paused, not daring to offer one word of pity.
The short letter was the bitter outcry of a selfish woman who forgot her children's suffering in her own, for it bore its sad message abruptly and with no word to soften the blow. Mr. Shepard had proved to be a defaulter and, after he had for years been using money from the bank of which he was president, he had saved himself, on the eve of exposure, by hastily quitting the country, leaving his wife and children to bear the burden of his guilt as best they could.
"Papa has taken money that didn't belong to him; is that it, Alan?" said Katharine slowly, as if dazed by the sudden shock. "I can't believe it. How can mamma say such a cruel thing?" she added indignantly.
Alan made no reply, beyond drawing the girl's limp hand through his arm. Katharine felt the unspoken sympathy of his gesture and pressed closer to him.
"Do say you don't believe it, Alan," she urged. "You must know that papa couldn't do such a thing."
"Oh, Kit, I wish I knew what to say!" the boy burst out. "I am so awfully sorry for you, dear." But Katharine stopped him with a motion of her hand.
"Don't pity me, Alan, or I shall begin to cry; and I mustn't do that here. We must hurry home to tell auntie." And she quickened her pace, almost to a run.
Alan kept by her side, watching the white, set face, and marvelling that she did not give way to her sorrow. His own eyes were full of tears, and his throat was aching with a dull, dry pain; but his cousin, after her first exclamations, was perfectly quiet. So they went up the long, sunny street, deaf to the gay bird-songs, blind to the sunlight that slanted down through the arching elms and set the dewdrops to twinkling, only anxious to reach the safe refuge of the old house, and the motherly woman within it.
They found her on the piazza watching for them, eager for the news the letter must bring.
Even then, Katharine's self-control did not leave her. Pausing before her aunt, she said quietly, as she held out the letter,—
"Do you remember our talk last fall, auntie? My call has come, and
I must answer: 'ready.'"
"Katharine!"
Mrs. Hapgood snatched the note, read it, and turned impulsively to the young girl before her.
"You poor child!" she began; but Katharine interrupted her, as she had done Alan.
"Don't worry about me, auntie. But can you tell Jessie now, please? I am afraid I can't." And she turned away and went into the house.
When Mrs. Hapgood came down-stairs, an hour later, it seemed as if a shadow had always rested on the house, the sorrow it contained had so soon become a part of their lives. Up-stairs, Jessie had cried until she was tired, stopped to listen vaguely to her aunt's comforting words, then cried again, but all without any real understanding of the trouble which had come upon her. Down-stairs, Alan and Molly were walking the room, arm in arm, with a settled look of sadness which was strangely out of place on their young faces. Alan had told his sister the news as gently as he could, and she could only cling to him and cry, as she took in all the meaning of the shame and disgrace, all the consequences of the father's sin upon the coming life of his children.
"But where is Katharine?" asked Mrs. Hapgood anxiously.
"Isn't she up-stairs?" said Molly.
"I haven't seen her," answered her mother.
"Why, we supposed she was with you!" And Alan hurried away to look for his cousin.
At last he found her. Up in the familiar old garret that she had loved so well, close by the great gray chimney which seemed to be shielding her with its giant strength, there lay Katharine on the shabby old sofa, sobbing as if her heart must break. To the young lad, these unrestrained tears were much more alarming than her former quiet, and he dared not speak, as he sat down on the floor by her side, and put his brown hand against her cheek.
"Oh, Alan!"
"Yes, Kit; I know."
"Let me have my cry out now," she said brokenly. "It must come sometime; then I can be brave for mamma and Jessie."
Alan stole away to tell his mother where Katharine was, and then went back to her side. All the morning he remained there, saying little, but keeping near her with a simple, boyish devotion of which, in after years, she never lost the memory.
[Illustration: "THERE LAY KATHARINE ON THE SHABBY OLD SOFA,
SOBBING AS IF HER HEART MUST BREAK."—Page 350.]
When Katharine went down-stairs again, she appeared to have grown years older during that one morning. It was not that she was less beautiful than she had been; but she seemed to have gained a new, gentle dignity which suddenly changed her from a child into a woman. As she entered the room, with her hand on Alan's shoulder, she met them with a perfect composure which gave no hint of her trouble; but they all felt instinctively that it was as she had said to her aunt, her call had come, and she had answered "ready."
The day wore slowly away. They were to start on their journey, late the next afternoon, accompanied by Mrs. Hapgood, who had made up her mind to go to her sister for a few weeks, to help her through the sad changes which must inevitably follow. Late in the day, Mrs. Adams and Polly came in, for Molly had told them of the letter. Mrs. Adams took both the girls into her motherly arms, and her few whispered words were very tender, while Polly threw her arms around Katharine, as she said,—
"Alan has told me what you said, Kit, about your call's coming, and I think it was grand; but it isn't one bit more so than we expected, only it makes us proud to be your friends."
At length it was bedtime, and for the last time the girls went up to their pleasant room in the old Hapgood house. The whole place was in confusion, and trunks stood in the middle of the floor, with piles of clothing, books, and pictures heaped about them, just as they had been left in the morning. At sight of them, Jessie threw herself down on the bed.
"Oh, Kit!" she cried; "what are we going to do?" "Please don't cry so, Jessie," said Katharine wearily. "We must try not to be babyish about it."
"Babyish!" And Jessie turned on her petulantly. "I do believe you don't care, Katharine. Oh, poor papa!" Then, as she saw the pain in her sister's face, she added, "Forgive me, Kit! I know you do care; but how can you keep so quiet? It's all so dreadful, and we shall be poor and alone, and nobody will care for us."