Jack's Ward; Or, The Boy Guardian

CHAPTER XVII

"It doesn't, somehow, seem natural," said the cooper, as he took his seat at the tea table, "to sit down without Ida. It seems as if half the family were gone."

"Just what I've said to myself twenty times to-day," remarked his wife. "Nobody can tell how much a child is to them till they lose it."

"Not lose it," corrected Jack.

"I didn't mean to say that."

"When you used that word, mother, it made me feel just as if Ida wasn't coming back."

"I don't know why it is," said Mrs. Harding, thoughtfully, "but I've had that same feeling several times today. I've felt just as if something or other would happen to prevent Ida's coming back."

"That is only because she's never been away before," said the cooper, cheerfully. "It isn't best to borrow trouble, Martha; we shall have enough of it without."

"You never said a truer word, brother," said Rachel, mournfully. "Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward. This world is a vale of tears, and a home of misery. Folks may try and try to be happy, but that isn't what they're sent here for."

"You never tried very hard, Aunt Rachel," said Jack.

"It's my fate to be misjudged," said his aunt, with the air of a martyr.

"I don't agree with you in your ideas about life, Rachel," said her brother. "Just as there are more pleasant than stormy days, so I believe there is much more of brightness than shadow in this life of ours, if we would only see it."

"I can't see it," said Rachel.

"It seems to me, Rachel, you take more pains to look at the clouds than the sun."

"Yes," chimed in Jack, "I've noticed whenever Aunt Rachel takes up the newspaper, she always looks first at the deaths, and next at the fatal accidents and steamboat explosions."

"If," retorted Rachel, with severe emphasis, "you should ever be on board a steamboat when it exploded, you wouldn't find much to laugh at."

"Yes, I should," said Jack, "I should laugh—"

"What!" exclaimed Rachel, horrified.

"On the other side of my mouth," concluded Jack. "You didn't wait till I'd finished the sentence."

"I don't think it proper to make light of such serious matters."

"Nor I Aunt Rachel," said Jack, drawing down the corners of his mouth. "I am willing to confess that this is a serious matter. I should feel as they say the cow did, that was thrown three hundred feet up into the air."

"How's that?" inquired his mother.

"Rather discouraged," answered Jack.

All laughed except Aunt Rachel, who preserved the same severe composure, and continued to eat the pie upon her plate with the air of one gulping down medicine.

In the morning all felt more cheerful.

"Ida will be home to-night," said Mrs. Harding, brightly. "What an age it seems since she went away! Who'd think it was only twenty-four hours?"

"We shall know better how to appreciate her when we get her back," said her husband.

"What time do you expect her home, mother? What did Mrs. Hardwick say?"

"Why," said Mrs. Harding, hesitating, "she didn't say as to the hour; but I guess she'll be along in the course of the afternoon."

"If we only knew where she had gone, we could tell better when to expect her."

"But as we don't know," said the cooper, "we must wait patiently till she comes."

"I guess," said Mrs. Harding, with the impulse of a notable housewife, "I'll make some apple turnovers for supper to-night. There's nothing Ida likes so well."

"That's where Ida is right," said Jack, smacking his lips. "Apple turnovers are splendid."

"They are very unwholesome," remarked Rachel.

"I shouldn't think so from the way you eat them, Aunt Rachel," retorted Jack. "You ate four the last time we had them for supper."

"I didn't think you'd begrudge me the little I eat," said his aunt, dolefully. "I didn't think you counted the mouthfuls I took."

"Come, Rachel, don't be so unreasonable," said her brother. "Nobody begrudges you what you eat, even if you choose to eat twice as much as you do. I dare say Jack ate more of the turnovers than you did."

"I ate six," said Jack, candidly.

Rachel, construing this into an apology, said no more.

"If it wasn't for you, Aunt Rachel, I should be in danger of getting too jolly, perhaps, and spilling over. It always makes me sober to look at you."

"It's lucky there's something to make you sober and stiddy," said his aunt. "You are too frivolous."

Evening came, but it did not bring Ida. An indefinable sense of apprehension oppressed the minds of all. Martha feared that Ida's mother, finding her so attractive, could not resist the temptation of keeping her.

"I suppose," she said, "that she has the best claim to her, but it would be a terrible thing for us to part with her."

"Don't let us trouble ourselves about that," said Timothy. "It seems to me very natural that her mother should keep her a little longer than she intended. Think how long it is since she saw her. Besides, it is not too late for her to return to-night."

At length there came a knock at the door.

"I guess that is Ida," said Mrs. Harding, joyfully.

Jack seized a candle, and hastening to the door, threw it open. But there was no Ida there. In her place stood Charlie Fitts, the boy who had met Ida in the cars.

"How are you, Charlie?" said Jack, trying not to look disappointed. "Come in and tell us all the news."

"Well," said Charlie, "I don't know of any. I suppose Ida has got home?"

"No," answered Jack; "we expected her to-night, but she hasn't come yet."

"She told me she expected to come back to-day."

"What! have you seen her?" exclaimed all, in chorus.

"Yes; I saw her yesterday noon."

"Where?"

"Why, in the cars," answered Charlie.

"What cars?" asked the cooper.

"Why, the Philadelphia cars. Of course you knew it was there she was going?"

"Philadelphia!" exclaimed all, in surprise.

"Yes, the cars were almost there when I saw her. Who was that with her?"

"Mrs. Hardwick, her old nurse."

"I didn't like her looks."

"That's where we paddle in the same canoe," said Jack.

"She didn't seem to want me to speak to Ida," continued Charlie, "but hurried her off as quick as possible."

"There were reasons for that," said the cooper. "She wanted to keep her destination secret."

"I don't know what it was," said the boy, "but I don't like the woman's looks."

CHAPTER XVIII

We left Ida confined in a dark closet, with Peg standing guard over her.

After an hour she was released.

"Well," said the nurse, grimly, "how do you feel now?"

"I want to go home," sobbed the child.

"You are at home," said the woman.

"Shall I never see father, and mother, and Jack again?"

"That depends on how you behave yourself."

"Oh, if you will only let me go," pleaded Ida, gathering hope from this remark, "I'll do anything you say."

"Do you mean this, or do you only say it for the sake of getting away?"

"I mean just what I say. Dear, good Mrs. Hardwick, tell me what to do, and I will obey you cheerfully."

"Very well," said Peg, "only you needn't try to come it over me by calling me dear, good Mrs. Hardwick. In the first place, you don't care a cent about me; in the second place, I am not good; and finally, my name isn't Mrs. Hardwick, except in New York."

"What is it, then?" asked Ida.

"It's just Peg, no more and no less. You may call me Aunt Peg."

"I would rather call you Mrs. Hardwick."

"Then you'll have a good many years to call me so. You'd better do as I tell you, if you want any favors. Now what do you say?"

"Yes, Aunt Peg," said Ida, with a strong effort to conceal her repugnance.

"That's well. Now you're not to tell anybody that you came from New York. That is very important; and you're to pay your board by doing whatever I tell you."

"If it isn't wicked."

"Do you suppose I would ask you to do anything wicked?" demanded Peg, frowning.

"You said you wasn't good," mildly suggested Ida.

"I'm good enough to take care of you. Well, what do you say to that? Answer me?"

"Yes."

"There's another thing. You ain't to try to run away."

Ida hung down her head.

"Ha!" exclaimed Peg. "So you've been thinking of it, have you?"

"Yes," answered Ida, boldly, after a moment's hesitation. "I did think I should if I got a good chance."

"Humph!" said the woman, "I see we must understand one another. Unless you promise this, back you go into the dark closet, and I shall keep you there."

Ida shuddered at this fearful threat—terrible to a child of but eight years.

"Do you promise?"

"Yes," said Ida, faintly.

"For fear you might be tempted to break your promise, I have something to show you."

Mrs. Hardwick went to the closet, and took down a large pistol.

"There," she said, "do you see that?"

"Yes, Aunt Peg."

"Do you know what it is for?"

"To shoot people with," answered the child.

"Yes," said the nurse; "I see you understand. Well, now, do you know what I would do if you should tell anybody where you came from, or attempt to run away? Can you guess, now?"

"Would you shoot me?" asked Ida, terror-stricken.

"Yes, I would," said Peg, with fierce emphasis. "That's just what I'd do. And what's more even if you got away, and got back to your family in New York, I would follow you, and shoot you dead in the street."

"You wouldn't be so wicked!" exclaimed Ida.

"Wouldn't I, though?" repeated Peg, significantly. "If you don't believe I would, just try it. Do you think you would like to try it?" she asked, fiercely.

"No," answered Ida, with a shudder.

"Well, that's the most sensible thing you've said yet. Now that you are a little more reasonable, I'll tell you what I am going to do with you."

Ida looked eagerly up into her face.

"I am going to keep you with me for a year. I want the services of a little girl for that time. If you serve me faithfully, I will then send you back to New York."

"Will you?" asked Ida, hopefully.

"Yes, but you must mind and do what I tell you."

"Oh, yes," said Ida, joyfully.

This was so much better than she had been led to fear, that the prospect of returning home at all, even though she had to wait a year, encouraged her.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked.

"You may take the broom and sweep the room."

"Yes, Aunt Peg."

"And then you may wash the dishes."

"Yes, Aunt Peg."

"And after that, I will find something else for you to do."

Mrs. Hardwick threw herself into a rocking-chair, and watched with grim satisfaction the little handmaiden, as she moved quickly about.

"I took the right course with her," she said to herself. "She won't any more dare to run away than to chop her hands off. She thinks I'll shoot her."

And the unprincipled woman chuckled to herself.

Ida heard her indistinctly, and asked, timidly:

"Did you speak, Aunt Peg?"

"No, I didn't; just attend to your work and don't mind me. Did your mother make you work?"

"No; I went to school."

"Time you learned. I'll make a smart woman of you."

The next morning Ida was asked if she would like to go out into the street.

"I am going to let you do a little shopping. There are various things we want. Go and get your hat."

"It's in the closet," said Ida.

"Oh, yes, I put it there. That was before I could trust you."

She went to the closet and returned with the child's hat and shawl. As soon as the two were ready they emerged into the street.

"This is a little better than being shut up in the closet, isn't it?" asked her companion.

"Oh, yes, ever so much."

"You see you'll have a very good time of it, if you do as I bid you. I don't want to do you any harm."

So they walked along together until Peg, suddenly pausing, laid her hands on Ida's arm, and pointing to a shop near by, said to her: "Do you see that shop?"

"Yes," said Ida.

"I want you to go in and ask for a couple of rolls. They come to three cents apiece. Here's some money to pay for them. It is a new dollar. You will give this to the man that stands behind the counter, and he will give you back ninety-four cents. Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Ida, nodding her head. "I think I do."

"And if the man asks if you have anything smaller, you will say no."

"Yes, Aunt Peg."

"I will stay just outside. I want you to go in alone, so you will learn to manage without me."

Ida entered the shop. The baker, a pleasant-looking man, stood behind the counter.

"Well, my dear, what is it?" he asked.

"I should like a couple of rolls."

"For your mother, I suppose?" said the baker.

"No," answered Ida, "for the woman I board with."

"Ha! a dollar bill, and a new one, too," said the baker, as Ida tendered it in payment. "I shall have to save that for my little girl."

Ida left the shop with the two rolls and the silver change.

"Did he say anything about the money?" asked Peg.

"He said he should save it for his little girl."

"Good!" said the woman. "You've done well."

CHAPTER XIX

The baker introduced in the foregoing chapter was named Harding. Singularly, Abel Harding was a brother of Timothy Harding, the cooper.

In many respects he resembled his brother. He was an excellent man, exemplary in all the relations of life, and had a good heart. He was in very comfortable circumstances, having accumulated a little property by diligent attention to his business. Like his brother, Abel Harding had married, and had one child. She had received the name of Ellen.

When the baker closed his shop for the night, he did not forget the new dollar, which he had received, or the disposal he told Ida he would make of it.

Ellen ran to meet her father as he entered the house.

"What do you think I have brought you, Ellen?" he said, with a smile.

"Do tell me quick," said the child, eagerly.

"What if I should tell you it was a new dollar?"

"Oh, papa, thank you!" and Ellen ran to show it to her mother.

"Yes," said the baker, "I received it from a little girl about the size of Ellen, and I suppose it was that that gave me the idea of bringing it home to her."

This was all that passed concerning Ida at that time. The thought of her would have passed from the baker's mind, if it had not been recalled by circumstances.

Ellen, like most girls of her age, when in possession of money, could not be easy until she had spent it. Her mother advised her to deposit it in some savings bank; but Ellen preferred present gratification.

Accordingly, one afternoon, when walking out with her mother, she persuaded her to go into a toy shop, and price a doll which she saw in the window. The price was seventy-five cents. Ellen concluded to buy it, and her mother tendered the dollar in payment.

The shopman took it in his hand, glanced at it carelessly at first, then scrutinized it with increased attention.

"What is the matter?" inquired Mrs. Harding. "It is good, isn't it?"

"That is what I am doubtful of," was the reply.

"It is new."

"And that is against it. If it were old, it would be more likely to be genuine."

"But you wouldn't condemn a bill because it is new?"

"Certainly not; but the fact is, there have been lately many cases where counterfeit bills have been passed, and I suspect this is one of them. However, I can soon ascertain."

"I wish you would," said the baker's wife. "My husband took it at his shop, and will be likely to take more unless he is put on his guard."

The shopman sent it to the bank where it was pronounced counterfeit.

Mr. Harding was much surprised at his wife's story.

"Really!" he said. "I had no suspicion of this. Can it be possible that such a young and beautiful child could be guilty of such an offense?"

"Perhaps not," answered his wife. "She may be as innocent in the matter as Ellen or myself."

"I hope so," said the baker; "it would be a pity that so young a child should be given to wickedness. However, I shall find out before long."

"How?"

"She will undoubtedly come again sometime."

The baker watched daily for the coming of Ida. He waited some days in vain. It was not Peg's policy to send the child too often to the same place, as that would increase the chances of detection.

One day, however, Ida entered the shop as before.

"Good-morning," said the baker; "what will you have to-day?"

"You may give me a sheet of gingerbread, sir."

The baker placed it in her hand.

"How much will it be?"

"Twelve cents."

Ida offered him another new bill.

As if to make change, he stepped from behind the counter and placed himself between Ida and the door.

"What is your name, my child?" he asked.

"Ida, sir."

"Ida? But what is your other name?"

Ida hesitated a moment, because Peg had forbidden her to use the name of Harding, and had told her, if ever the inquiry were made, she must answer Hardwick.

She answered reluctantly: "Ida Hardwick."

The baker observed her hesitation, and this increased his suspicion.

"Hardwick!" he repeated, musingly, endeavoring to draw from the child as much information as possible before allowing her to perceive that he suspected her. "And where do you live?"

Ida was a child of spirit, and did not understand why she should be questioned so closely.

She said, with some impatience: "I am in a hurry, sir, and would like to have the change as soon as you can."

"I have no doubt of it," said the baker, his manner suddenly changing, "but you cannot go just yet."

"Why not?" asked Ida.

"Because you have been trying to deceive me."

"I trying to deceive you!" exclaimed Ida.

"Really," thought Mr. Harding, "she does it well; but no doubt she is trained to it. It is perfectly shocking, such artful depravity in a child."

"Don't you remember buying something here a week ago?" he asked, in as stern a tone as his good nature would allow him to employ.

"Yes," answered Ida, promptly; "I bought two rolls, at three cents apiece."

"And what did you offer me in payment?"

"I handed you a dollar bill."

"Like this?" asked the baker, holding up the one she had just offered him.

"Yes, sir."

"And do you mean to say," demanded the baker, sternly, "that you didn't know it was bad when you offered it to me?"

"Bad!" gasped Ida.

"Yes, spurious. Not as good as blank paper."

"Indeed, sir, I didn't know anything about it," said Ida, earnestly; "I hope you'll believe me when I say that I thought it was good."

"I don't know what to think," said the baker, perplexed. "Who gave you the money?"

"The woman I board with."

"Of course I can't give you the gingerbread. Some men, in my place, would deliver you up to the police. But I will let you go, if you will make me one promise."

"Oh, I will promise anything, sir," said Ida.

"You have given me a bad dollar. Will you promise to bring me a good one to-morrow?"

Ida made the required promise, and was allowed to go.

CHAPTER XX

"Well, what kept you so long?" asked Peg, impatiently, as Ida rejoined her at the corner of the street. "I thought you were going to stay all the forenoon. And Where's your gingerbread?"

"He wouldn't let me have it," answered Ida.

"And why wouldn't he let you have it?" said Peg.

"Because he said the money wasn't good."

"Stuff and nonsense! It's good enough. However, it's no matter. We'll go somewhere else."

"But he said the money I gave him last week wasn't good, and I promised to bring him another to-morrow, or he wouldn't have let me go."

"Well, where are you going to get your dollar?"

"Why, won't you give it to me?" said the child.

"Catch me at such nonsense!" said Mrs. Hardwick, contemptuously. "I ain't quite a fool. But here we are at another shop. Go in and see if you can do any better there. Here's the money."

"Why, it's the same bill I gave you."

"What if it is?"

"I don't want to pass bad money."

"Tut! What hurt will it do?"

"It's the same as stealing."

"The man won't lose anything. He'll pass it off again."

"Somebody'll have to lose it by and by," said Ida.

"So you've taken up preaching, have you?" said Peg, sneeringly. "Maybe you know better than I what is proper to do. It won't do for you to be so mighty particular, and so you'll find out, if you stay with me long."

"Where did you get the dollar?" asked Ida; "and how is it you have so many of them?"

"None of your business. You mustn't pry into the affairs of other people. Are you going to do as I told you?" she continued, menacingly.

"I can't," answered Ida, pale but resolute.

"You can't!" repeated Peg, furiously. "Didn't you promise to do whatever I told you?"

"Except what was wicked," interposed Ida.

"And what business have you to decide what is wicked? Come home with me."

Peg seized the child's hand, and walked on in sullen silence, occasionally turning to scowl upon Ida, who had been strong enough, in her determination to do right, to resist successfully the will of the woman whom she had so much reason to dread.

Arrived at home, Peg walked Ida into the room by the shoulder. Dick was lounging in a chair.

"Hillo!" said he, lazily, observing his wife's frowning face. "What's the gal been doin', hey?"

"What's she been doing?" repeated Peg. "I should like to know what she hasn't been doing. She's refused to go in and buy gingerbread of the baker."

"Look here, little gal," said Dick, in a moralizing vein, "isn't this rayther undootiful conduct on your part? Ain't it a piece of ingratitude, when Peg and I go to the trouble of earning the money to pay for gingerbread for you to eat, that you ain't even willin' to go in and buy it?"

"I would just as lieve go in," said Ida, "if Peg would give me good money to pay for it."

"That don't make any difference," said the admirable moralist. "It's your dooty to do just as she tells you, and you'll do right. She'll take the risk."

"I can't," said the child.

"You hear her!" said Peg.

"Very improper conduct!" said Dick, shaking his head in grave reproval. "Little gal, I'm ashamed of you. Put her in the closet, Peg."

"Come along," said Peg, harshly. "I'll show you how I deal with those that don't obey me."

So Ida was incarcerated once more in the dark closet. Yet in the midst of her desolation, child as she was, she was sustained and comforted by the thought that she was suffering for doing right.

When Ida failed to return on the appointed day, the Hardings, though disappointed, did not think it strange.

"If I were her mother," said the cooper's wife, "and had been parted from her for so long, I should want to keep her as long as I could. Dear heart! how pretty she is and how proud her mother must be of her!"

"It's all a delusion," said Rachel, shaking her head, solemnly. "It's all a delusion. I don't believe she's got a mother at all. That Mrs. Hardwick is an impostor. I know it, and told you so at the time, but you wouldn't believe me. I never expect to set eyes on Ida again in this world."

The next day passed, and still no tidings of Jack's ward. Her young guardian, though not as gloomy as Aunt Rachel, looked unusually serious.

There was a cloud of anxiety even upon the cooper's usually placid face, and he was more silent than usual at the evening meal. At night, after Jack and his aunt had retired, he said, anxiously: "What do you think is the cause of Ida's prolonged absence, Martha?"

"I can't tell," said his wife, seriously. "It seems to me, if her mother wanted to keep her longer it would be no more than right that she should drop us a line. She must know that we would feel anxious."

"Perhaps she is so taken up with Ida that she can think of no one else."

"It may be so; but if we neither see Ida to-morrow, nor hear from her, I shall be seriously troubled."

"Suppose she should never come back," suggested the cooper, very soberly.

"Oh, husband, don't hint at such a thing," said his wife.

"We must contemplate it as a possibility," said Timothy, gravely, "though not, as I hope, as a probability. Ida's mother has an undoubted right to her."

"Then it would be better if she had never been placed in our charge," said Martha, tearfully, "for we should not have had the pain of parting with her."

"Not so, Martha," her husband said, seriously. "We ought to be grateful for God's blessings, even if He suffers us to retain them but a short time. And Ida has been a blessing to us all, I am sure. The memory of that can't be taken from us, Martha. There's some lines I came across in the paper to-night that express just what I've been sayin'. Let me find them."

The cooper put on his spectacles, and hunted slowly down the columns of the daily paper till he came to these beautiful lines of Tennyson, which he read aloud:

"There, wife," he said, as he laid down the paper; "I don't know who writ them lines, but I'm sure it's some one that's met with a great sorrow and conquered it."

"They are beautiful," said his wife, after a pause; "and I dare say you're right, Timothy; but I hope we mayn't have to learn the truth of them by experience. After all, it isn't certain but that Ida will come back."

"At any rate," said her husband, "there is no doubt that it is our duty to take every means that we can to recover Ida. Of course, if her mother insists upon keepin' her, we can't say anything; but we ought to be sure of that before we yield her up."

"What do you mean, Timothy?" asked Martha.

"I don't know as I ought to mention it," said the cooper. "Very likely there isn't anything in it, and it would only make you feel more anxious."

"You have already aroused my anxiety. I should feel better if you would speak out."

"Then I will," said the cooper. "I have sometimes been tempted," he continued, lowering his voice, "to doubt whether Ida's mother really sent for her."

"How do you account for the letter, then?"

"I have thought—mind, it is only a guess—that Mrs. Hardwick may have got somebody to write it for her."

"It is very singular," murmured Martha.

"What is singular?"

"Why, the very same thought has occurred to me. Somehow, I can't help feeling a little distrustful of Mrs. Hardwick, though perhaps unjustly. What object can she have in getting possession of the child?"

"That I can't conjecture; but I have come to one determination."

"What is that?"

"Unless we learn something of Ida within a week from the time she left here, I shall go on to Philadelphia, or else send Jack, and endeavor to get track of her."

CHAPTER XXI

The week slipped away, and still no tidings of Ida. The house seemed lonely without her. Not until then did they understand how largely she had entered into their life and thoughts. But worse even than the sense of loss was the uncertainty as to her fate.

"It is time that we took some steps about finding Ida," the cooper said. "I would like to go to Philadelphia myself, to make inquiries about her, but I am just now engaged upon a job which I cannot very well leave, and so I have concluded to send Jack."

"When shall I start?" exclaimed Jack.

"To-morrow morning," answered his father.

"What good do you think it will do," interposed Rachel, "to send a mere boy like Jack to Philadelphia?"

"A mere boy!" repeated her nephew, indignantly.

"A boy hardly sixteen years old," continued Rachel. "Why, he'll need somebody to take care of him. Most likely you'll have to go after him."

"What's the use of provoking a fellow so, Aunt Rachel?" said Jack. "You know I'm 'most eighteen. Hardly sixteen! Why, I might as well say you're hardly forty, when we all know you're fifty."

"Fifty!" ejaculated the scandalized spinster. "It's a base slander. I'm only thirty-seven."

"Maybe I'm mistaken," said Jack, carelessly. "I didn't know exactly how old you were; I only judged from your looks."

At this point, Rachel applied a segment of a pocket handkerchief to her eyes; but, unfortunately, owing to circumstances, the effect instead of being pathetic, as she intended it to be, was simply ludicrous.

It so happened that a short time previous, the inkstand had been partially spilled upon the table, through Jack's carelessness and this handkerchief had been used to sop it up. It had been placed inadvertently upon the window seat, where it had remained until Rachel, who was sitting beside the window, called it into requisition. The ink upon it was by no means dry. The consequence was, that, when Rachel removed it from her eyes, her face was discovered to be covered with ink in streaks mingling with the tears that were falling, for Rachel always had a plentiful supply of tears at command.

The first intimation the luckless spinster had of her mishap was conveyed in a stentorian laugh from Jack.

He looked intently at the dark traces of sorrow on his aunt's face—of which she was yet unconscious—and doubling up, went off into a perfect paroxysm of laughter.

"Jack!" said his mother, reprovingly, for she had not observed the cause of his amusement, "it's improper for you to laugh at your aunt in such a rude manner."

"Oh, I can't help it, mother. Just look at her."

Thus invited, Mrs. Harding did look, and the rueful expression of Rachel, set off by the inky stains, was so irresistibly comical, that, after a hard struggle, she too gave way, and followed Jack's example.

Astonished and indignant at this unexpected behavior of her sister-in-law, Rachel burst into a fresh fit of weeping, and again had recourse to the handkerchief.

"This is too much!" she sobbed. "I've stayed here long enough, if even my sister-in-law, as well as my own nephew, from whom I expect nothing better, makes me her laughingstock. Brother Timothy, I can no longer remain in your dwelling to be laughed at; I will go to the poorhouse and end my miserable existence as a common pauper. If I only receive Christian burial when I leave the world, it will be all I hope or expect from my relatives, who will be glad enough to get rid of me."

The second application of the handkerchief had so increased the effect, that Jack found it impossible to check his laughter, while the cooper, whose attention was now drawn to his sister's face, burst out in a similar manner.

This more amazed Rachel than Martha's merriment.

"Even you, Timothy, join in ridiculing your sister!" she exclaimed, in an "Et tu, Brute" tone.

"We don't mean to ridicule you, Rachel," gasped her sister-in-law, "but we can't help laughing."

"At the prospect of my death!" uttered Rachel, in a tragic tone. "Well, I'm a poor, forlorn creetur, I know. Even my nearest relations make sport of me, and when I speak of dying, they shout their joy to my face."

"Yes," gasped Jack, nearly choking, "that's it exactly. It isn't your death we're laughing at, but your face."

"My face!" exclaimed the insulted spinster. "One would think I was a fright by the way you laugh at it."

"So you are!" said Jack, with a fresh burst of laughter.

"To be called a fright to my face!" shrieked Rachel, "by my own nephew! This is too much. Timothy, I leave your house forever."

The excited maiden seized her hood; which was hanging from a nail, and was about to leave the house when she was arrested in her progress toward the door by the cooper, who stifled his laughter sufficiently to say: "Before you go, Rachel, just look in the glass."

Mechanically his sister did look, and her horrified eyes rested upon a face streaked with inky spots and lines seaming it in every direction.

In her first confusion Rachel jumped to the conclusion that she had been suddenly stricken by the plague. Accordingly she began to wring her hands in an excess of terror, and exclaimed in tones of piercing anguish:

"It is the fatal plague spot! I am marked for the tomb. The sands of my life are fast running out."

This convulsed Jack afresh with merriment, so that an observer might, not without reason, have imagined him to be in imminent danger of suffocation.

"You'll kill me, Aunt Rachel! I know you will," he gasped.

"You may order my coffin, Timothy," said Rachel, in a sepulchral voice; "I shan't live twenty-four hours. I've felt it coming on for a week past. I forgive you for all your ill-treatment. I should like to have some one go for the doctor, though I know I'm past help."

"I think," said the cooper, trying to look sober, "you will find the cold-water treatment efficacious in removing the plague spots, as you call them."

Rachel turned toward him with a puzzled look. Then, as her eyes rested for the first time upon the handkerchief she had used, its appearance at once suggested a clew by which she was enabled to account for her own.

Somewhat ashamed of the emotion which she had betrayed, as well as the ridiculous figure which she had cut, she left the room abruptly, and did not make her appearance again till the next morning.

After this little episode, the conversation turned upon Jack's approaching journey.

"I don't know," said his mother, "but Rachel is right. Perhaps Jack isn't old enough, and hasn't had sufficient experience to undertake such a mission."

"Now, mother," expostulated Jack, "you ain't going to side against me, are you?"

"There is no better plan," said his father, quietly.