Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

MRS. HAMMOND LOOKED PRETTIER THAN EVER, DILLY THOUGHT.

MONTEAGLE

BY

PANSY

[Isabella Alden]

AUTHOR OF

Man of the House
Christie's Christmas
Little Fishers: and their nets
Ester Ried
Eighty-seven
Chautauqua Girls
Ruth Erskine's Crosses
An Endless Chain
Interrupted
        and others

BOSTON

D LOTHROP COMPANY

FRANKLIN AND HAWLEY STREETS

COPYRIGHT, 1888

BY

D. LOTHROP COMPANY.

CONTENTS.

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CHAPTER I.

A MORNING DRIVE

CHAPTER II.

A FORTUNATE THING

CHAPTER III.

THE START

CHAPTER IV.

A SUCCESSFUL EXPERIMENT

CHAPTER V.

A MORNING MEETING

CHAPTER VI.

A LECTURE AND A SERMON

CHAPTER VII.

A LITTLE LOGICIAN

CHAPTER VIII.

TRUE TO HER PLEDGE

CHAPTER IX.

SETTLING THE PUZZLE

CHAPTER X.

SILENT FORCES

CHAPTER XI.

A SURPRISE

CHAPTER XII.

A HAPPY TRANSFER

MONTEAGLE.

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CHAPTER I.

A MORNING DRIVE.

"YES," said Mrs. Hammond, a little sigh in her voice as she spoke, "Mr. Hart is going with us; I don't know how long he will stay. I'm afraid there is very little on Monteagle to hold him."

Two children sat on the extreme end of the broken steps; one was pale, thin, hollow-eyed and sorrowful. The other was rosy-cheeked, chubby, and dirty. The pale one was perhaps twelve years old; the other, somewhat younger.

"Only hear that name!" said the hollow-eyed girl. "Monteagle! Doesn't it make you feel cool just to think it over?"

"I didn't think it over," said Rosy Cheek. "What is it, and where is it?"

"I don't know where it is," spoken very wearily, as though it was an effort to speak at all. "In Heaven, maybe; the word sounds like it. Monteagle! It must be high, and cool, and still. I wonder what it feels like to be cool and still? Oh! How 'hot' it is! O dear me!"

There was such a world of longing and weariness in the sentence, that Mrs. Hammond turned and looked curiously at the girl; then uttered a little exclamation of surprise, and perhaps dismay.

"Who is that girl, and what is the matter with her?"

The man who was busy with a troublesome strap which had to do with Mrs. Hammond's phaeton, glanced up for a moment, then said:

"That is my girl, ma'am, if you mean the pale one. There ain't anything the matter with her now, only weakness, the doctor says. She's had the fever—been dreadful sick. There was a spell when I thought she wouldn't pull through, nohow, but she did, up to a certain p'int, there she stopped, and there she hangs—jest crawls about all day; doesn't eat nothing, and doesn't sleep nights, only off and on, you know. I dunno what to do with her."

Mrs. Hammond looked again at the girl who had dropped into a listless attitude, a very photograph of discouraged weakness. The rosy-cheeked younger one in a much soiled dress had slipped away. Mrs. Hammond looked from the girl to the low, small, tumble-down building on the steps of which she sat, imagined the room in which she must spend her nights, imagined the table at which she must sit down to eat her "nothing," and murmured, "Poor thing!" with another long-drawn sigh.

How could one be expected to gain strength in such a home as that must be!

"Who takes care of you and your daughter?"

She had turned again to the man at the carriage.

He gave a short half-laugh as he answered slowly: "Well, as to that, what care we get we have to give to ourselves. Her and me live alone; since the boy went to work for his board, at the meat market, I've took care of her the best I could, since she got on her feet again; and when she was sick, the neighbors was kind. The doctor was, too—uncommon kind; stayed the most of two nights himself, and brought his woman once or twice to see her; but she's gone now; up to Monteagle, along with the rest of the world. I suppose it is cool up there ma'am?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Hammond, with another sigh. "It is cool there; poor thing! I don't see how she is ever to get well in such a place."

This last, in undertone; then louder: "She is Northern born, too, I think you said?"

"Who, ma'am, the girl? O yes; we're from the North."

It was the man's turn to sigh now. "We come down here to try the climate for her mother—but it didn't do; we came too late, or something. The mother died the very next summer, and we've had to pull along alone. There, ma'am, I think that buckle is all right now; it won't come out again of itself in a hurry. It's lucky I happened to be around; it might have made you trouble. Why, no, ma'am, I don't want no pay for a job like that; it didn't take ten minutes, and it ain't in my line anyhow."

"What can she do when she is well?" asked Mrs. Hammond, holding out the shining silver.

"What, my girl? Why, as to that, I dunno as she can be said to know how to do anything. She works along as well as she can; and we make out to live, but you see it is pretty nigh four years since her mother died; and she was a young thing then. She ain't had no chance. I ain't got no change, Mis' Hammond, and I don't want no pay, neither."

"I don't want change, Mr. West; it is worth a dollar to me to know that all the buckles and straps are in order. I shall leave that matter of hauling the dirt in your hands, then. It can be done just as well while I am away; Mr. Hart will be back and forth, I presume, and he can direct you if you need any directions; good-morning!" And the little pony phaeton drove away.

As the fat little white pony carefully drew the carriage around the curve, his mistress heard a weak, petulant voice say: "O father, it is 'so' hot; I don't know what to do."

"Poor thing!" said Mrs. Hammond for the third time. "I don't know what she will do. It is very warm indeed. She thinks Monteagle sounds like Heaven. I presume it would seem almost like Heaven to her. If there was anything she could do—" And then Mrs. Hammond looked at her watch, and spoke sharply to the fat pony, and they went home at a brisk trot.

It was a lovely home. Before even the pony turned in at the tree-lined carriage drive which wound quite around the house, you would have known by the air of quiet elegance which hung gracefully over everything in sight, that you were coming to a home that commanded money and culture. In the wide handsome hall everything was in order, and the rooms opening from them were cool, and dark, and elegant. Yet Mrs. Hammond as she dropped sun hat and umbrella on a white sofa, and trailed her white morning shawl over the soft carpet toward an easy chair, said:

"O dear! It is warm everywhere. I wish we were on the mountain this minute." Even as she spoke, she thought of that hollow-eyed West girl again. When, after a few minutes of rest, she mounted the long winding flight of stairs to the nursery, the sight which met her eyes was not calculated to cool her.

Miss Ethel Hammond was on an investigating tour. At this particular minute she belonged in a wide white crib rolled into the coolest, shadiest corner of the northwestern veranda, eyes closed, lovely face shaded from intruding bugs and flies by a network of delicate creamy lace, and Jeannette, the nurse, within easy range of the treasure. Where Jeannette was just now, was not apparent, but Miss Ethel was certainly not in her crib. Her eyes were very wide open, and she had the room to herself.

BABY ETHEL.

By dint of much energy, she had succeeded in pulling one of the heavy chairs before the object of her most intense desire, and, climbing in, was in the act of leaning forward to grasp it, when Mrs. Hammond opened the door. "It" was a rare and wonderfully mounted clock, heavy enough to put Ethel's busy inquiring brain at rest forever, should the strong little hands succeed in pulling it over on her; or, failing in that, should she lose her balance and pitch head-first against the corner of the cruel marble.

No time for exclamations; rather, enough presence of mind to avoid them. With swift, silent steps she moved across the room; a long room, and seeming to the startled mother miles long, just then. A moment more and she had the wide-awake, energetic, struggling, disappointed baby in her arms. So near to its life-purpose only to be thwarted!

The first thing the mother did, was to kiss Ethel; though her mouth was wide open, and from it were issuing loud, disappointed yells.

The next thing was to think aloud: "That is as much confidence as I was afraid I could place in Jeannette. She is good for ruffling, and tucking, and ironing the baby's dresses, but not for watching her."

The next was to say within her heart, "I should think 'she' might be able to help keep a baby out of mischief."

But this last thought was not about Jeannette.

CHAPTER II.

A FORTUNATE THING.

MR. WEST and his daughter were at breakfast. At least they were sitting before a small square table that held part of a loaf of baker's bread, and a saucer in which floated a sickly yellowish mass named butter, for which only the flies seemed to have a relish; and they, poor creatures, paid for their appetites by their lives. Dilly was constantly engaged in fishing out victim after victim who seemed determined to sacrifice himself in the oily flood.

The little room in which the table was set, had but one window, and that an eastern, and the morning sun had a fierce spite against it, apparently, for he flashed in, even at this comparatively early hour, red and angry, revealing dust and cobwebs, and the bodies of dead moths, and bugs, of every shape and size. The floor was bare and soiled; the three chairs were sadly worn; the low mantel was decorated as the mantels of such rooms are wont to be, with scraps of paper, little bundles of left-over things for which there was no place, a bunch of dried wild flowers, which Dilly had saved because they were once so pretty, and because she hardly ever had any flowers, and could not bear to throw them away; besides which, there were a fork, a spoon, and a soiled cup, left over from yesterday's effort at cooking; and around this spoon, and fork, and cup, the flies had gathered in such masses that they were simply black humps rising out of the surrounding dust.

Yet this was not the home of a drunkard; Mr. West wail a sober, hard-working man, who wasted no money on himself, save that which went for his daily smoke; and he labored under the usual wild delusions, first, that tobacco was necessary to sustain his failing strength, secondly, that it cost a very trifle, not worthy to be counted among the family economies. It was simply a home where hard grinding poverty, occasioned by fire, and flood, and other misfortunes, had brought in its train sickness and death, and left these two to struggle on as best they could. Their "best" was very feeble this morning. Mr. West sturdily ate at his stale and indeed almost moldy bit of bread, grimly dipping it in the oil occasionally, to make it slip down more easily, and stealthily watched Dilly as she turned her piece over on her plate with a knife, looked doubtfully at the under side, turned it back again, and finally took a very little nibble from its outer edge, and sat back discouraged.

"You can't eat a mite this morning, can you, my girl? And it's another scorching day—worse than yesterday, I'm afraid; I don't know what we are going to do." And he heaved such a weary sigh that Dilly, who was almost too sorry for herself to endure it, became so sorry for him that despite her efforts at self-control, the tears seemed rushing into her throat to choke her.

"Don't bother about me, father," she said at last, when she could get her voice. "I ain't a mite hungry, so of course I don't need to eat; and it'll be cooler sometime; then I'll feel better."

"I don't know when," said the father gloomily, referring to the weather. "It ain't August yet, and everybody says that will be a scorcher, this year; and folks who go on day after day without being a mite hungry, don't get strength any too fast. You ought to have something nourishing, but where you are going to get it beats me."

"Of course it does, father. Never mind, I don't want anything; it seems to me I couldn't eat, this morning, not if there was toast, and egg, and milk, and everything."

But this made the father sigh again, and made Dilly so sorry she had spoken that the tears rushed back, and this time a few of them had their way, and rolled down her cheek. Toast and egg were dainties that her mother used to make for her when she was sick; no longer ago than last spring when eggs were scarcest, and had not been seen in the West family for weeks and weeks, she remembered. And the father remembered it too, how Dilly was sick for several days, not dangerously, but a little "down," the mother said, and needed petting; and how one morning there was a covered dish at her place, which, being uncovered with care, disclosed a lovely fresh egg lying on a slice of the daintiest bit of toast, of just such a delicate brown as only a mother could make. How was it possible to keep back tears as she thought of these things?

The father did not wonder at the tears, but drooped his head lower, and at last, when he thought Dilly too much occupied to notice, put up the back of his hard hand and brushed away one or two of his own.

It was well for them both that something happened, just then, to change the current of their thoughts. Dilly saw it first, and exclaimed: "Father, there is Mrs. Hammond's phaeton at the door again. I do hope she has not changed her mind about the work; because I thought—" And there Dilly stopped.

"What did you think, my girl?" the father said, rising hastily, and looking about for his old straw hat.

"It's no matter, father," and a faint flush stole into the sallow face. "I thought maybe she would let you pick a flower or two, when you were there at work; I would so like a sweet-smelling flower. She had one in the carriage yesterday, but I don't suppose she gives away her flowers."

Mr. West went out without saying a word.

Dilly, when she was five or six years old, frolicked about, all the summer day, in a great garden full of old-fashioned flowers, and picked as many as she would. I don't suppose she had an idea how it made her father's heart ache to think that now she longed in vain for one little sweet-smelling blossom. Children know very little about father's hearts.

But what Mrs. Hammond wanted nearly took the breath away from the astonished father. Dilly watched them curiously while they talked, rather while Mrs. Hammond talked, and her father, after a first startled exclamation, listened, whether in pleasure, as well as in intense surprise, Dilly could not be certain.

"She's coming in!" Dilly exclaimed at last, leaving the window suddenly, and giving the little table an excited push to get it further into the background, dusting a chair with her apron, hanging a towel, which was thrown across the back of another chair, in a corner, as much out of sight as possible, and by these preparations so exhausting her strength, or rather her weakness, that she sat flushed and panting when at last Mrs. Hammond finally appeared at the door.

"Good-morning," she said pleasantly. "She looks a little better this morning, I think, or, is it the heat which has flushed her face?"

The room was insufferably warm. Though there was no fire in the shabby little cook stove, and had not been that day, it was warmer than any room in Mrs. Hammond's house ever became.

Mr. West brought forward the dusted chair for the lady, and she dropped gracefully into it, trailing her delicate white robes and rich embroidery on the bare, and not clean, floor, in a way which made Dilly shiver. Then he said with a troubled look at the girl, "I don't see no great change for the better, ma'am; she ain't eat a mite this morning, and folks can't get strong without eating, I s'pose. Though how folks are going to eat, when—" And there the poor father stopped.

Mrs. Hammond finished the sentence: "When the weather is so oppressive. That is true; this heat takes away the appetites of even well persons."

Mrs. Hammond had no experience with poverty, save that which was given by an occasional glance of her eyes around the homes of the poor; and though she thought she understood all about it, I cannot describe to you how shocked she would have been, had she known that a dry and nearly moldy piece of bread was the only temptation to eat which had been before Dilly that morning.

However, she did appreciate the heat, and made haste to get herself out of it. "You live in such a very close part of the town, Mr. West, I do not see how she is ever to gain strength here; there is no chance for a circulation of air."

Which is a fortunate thing for you, dear Mrs. Hammond, if you did but know it; for the air which would circulate through here if it had a chance, would come direct from the stables and out-houses clustered thick on the East side, or from the over-crowded tenement houses on the North. But the lady knew nothing of all this.

She turned to the girl and spoke rapidly: "I have been talking with your father about you. What is your name?"

"Fidelia, ma'am, but they all call me Dilly."

"Well, Fidelia, I have been asking your father to let you go with me to the mountains; I am going to-morrow. I fancy that after a few days of mountain air you would grow strong enough to look after my little Ethel while she is out of doors, and keep her out of harm's way. What do you say, would you like to try it? It is not far from home, you know; only on Monteagle—a few hours' ride."

But father and visitor had both over-estimated poor Dilly's strength, or else did not understand the strength of her longing for a breath of cool air. The very word "mountains," coupled with the bare possibility of her seeing them, made her feel sick and faint. The room began to whirl about in the most unaccountable manner; Mrs. Hammond faded into the merest gray speck, but rose up without sound and floated to her side, and reached out a white hand which sparkled with rings, and then—Dilly knew no more.

Where she went to, or how long she stayed, she did not know, but when she opened her eyes again, she was spread out on all three of the chairs, and her father was putting little dabbles of warm water over her face with what poor Dilly knew was the cup-cloth! And Mrs. Hammond with an air of the greatest concern stood helplessly looking on, and shuddering a little as the muddy-looking drops from the cloth gathered in a dark puddle on the dark floor.

"Are you better, my girl?" Mr. West asked, his voice as gentle and as full of anxiety as it could have been if the cloth with which he mopped her face had been of the softest linen.

Dilly gasped, and struggled, and pushed away the cloth with her hand, making a great effort to sit up.

"What's the matter?" she asked, "I ain't sick."

"Lie still, my girl, don't try to sit up yet; you fainted dead away while the lady was talking to you. It's the heat, I s'pose. You see, ma'am," turning to Mrs. Hammond, and shaking his head with a troubled air, "she hasn't got any strength to build on; I'm afraid she wouldn't be able to do a thing—she's all tuckered out."

There was the deepest anxiety in his voice. It was clear that the thought of the mountain air had touched the only ray of hope for his girl which this father's heart had left, yet he must be honest, and own that he did not believe she could be of use.

"She would try her level best, ma'am; and before she was sick she was as handy a little woman as could be found; and she is fond of little folks, and as good as gold to them; but the fever has burnt all the life out of her—you see how it is."

"Yes," said Mrs. Hammond, with sudden energy, "I see how it is; and I see she will get no strength so long as she stays here. I think you would do well, Mr. West, to get her ready to go with me to-morrow morning; I am going to take the early train, to avoid as much of the heat as possible. I think the mountain air will help her—in fact, I am almost sure of it. Wouldn't you like to try it, my poor girl?"

"Oh!" said Dilly, drawing a long tremulous sigh, and turning a pair of great earnest eyes which were now dim with a film of tears, full on the lady's face. "I can't think it is possible that I could go; it would be almost like going to heaven."

"You 'shall' go, poor child," Mrs. Hammond said, and she felt the tears starting in her own eyes. "Mr. West, I feel sure it is the thing to do; your daughter will die, I am afraid, if she has not a change."

She was moving toward the door as she spoke, for Dilly had now quite recovered, and had struggled to a seat on one chair.

Mr. West followed the lady, with a strange light in his eyes, and yet with a look of intense perplexity on his face. "I'm sure," he said, "that it would be a wonderful chance for her; but I don't know, ma'am, after all, as I can do it—her clothes, you see—I don't know much about such things; only I know she has got along with almost nothing ever since the sickness and the hard times; and she has been sick now for six weeks or more, and I couldn't get no washing done hardly, and, you see how it is—the poor child's mother is gone." For this last sentence, he sunk his voice almost to a whisper.

Mrs. Hammond who was by this time on the steps, turned and looked thoughtfully again at Dilly.

"How old is she?"

"Going on thirteen; she was twelve early in the spring."

"About the age of Mrs. Chestney's Claire," Mrs. Hammond said, not to the father, but as if speaking aloud to herself. Then she stood lost in thought while Mr. West continued:

"And another thing, ma'am, I understand your kind meaning, but I'm afraid it will be good while before she could do a thing to pay you for it all. She is weaker this morning than ever, and it wouldn't be right, maybe, for you to go to the expense—"

Mrs. Hammond interrupted him. She had not heard a word he said:

"I think I can manage it, Mr. West. I will send a woman to wash and iron Dilly's things to-day, and get them ready. If she has nothing suitable for travelling, I think my friend Mrs. Chestney who has a daughter a little older than she, can help us out. I will manage it in some way. The train leaves the station at six-fifteen; I will send the carriage around for Dilly at a quarter of six. It will be easier for her to get ready before this excessive heat comes on. It will be all right, Mr. West; I will bring her back to you with some color in her cheeks, I believe. Dear! Dear! How intensely hot the sun is! I wish we were at Monteagle this minute. Good-morning."

She was in her carriage already, and the sleek little pony was obeying her word of command.

The father looked after her in a half-dazed way, shading his eyes with his hand, until the fat pony turned the corner.

"Well, I never!" he said at last, and went back to Dilly.

CHAPTER III.

THE START.

HALF-PAST five of a breathless summer morning. "Warmer even than yesterday," Mr. West said, as he mopped his heated face with the skirt of his coat, then rushed away as some new thought for Dilly's comfort came to him.

A bustling home it had been since the first streak of daylight; and now Dilly sat in state on a carefully dusted chair, dressed from head to foot, in neatness, with a broad-brimmed sunhat, already carefully adjusted, and a brown paper bundle containing her wardrobe, occupying another chair at her side. Wonderful times were these for Dilly West.

All yesterday had been a wonderful day. It began with Mrs. Hammond; and she had not been long gone, not long enough for father and daughter to calm into an every-day state, before a trim colored woman presented herself, with a curtsey, and the statement that if this was Mr. West's, if he pleased, she was to wash, iron, and mend Miss Dilly's things. Which astonishing business she had immediately undertaken with such swift skill that Dilly, despite all she had to think of, could but stop and give admiring heed. Poor little duds of "things" they were.

The trim, colored maiden from her more luxurious standpoint, believed in her heart that the thing to do with every one of them was to bundle them up for the ragman; nevertheless she washed, and starched, and sprinkled, and ironed, and mended; going through all the forms as carefully as though they were Mrs. Hammond's tucked and ruffled beauties. And in an incredibly short, time, as it seemed to Dilly, her entire wardrobe had been arranged in a neat little mended pile on one of the chairs.

So proud was Dilly of them! Yet they brought the swift tears to her great sorrowful eyes; for mamma used to mend just as neatly and iron just as carefully.

There had been little time for tears, however; the excitement kept up all day. In the next place there was dinner. Now dinner at the Wests' had long been a burden; something to be endured because the hour for such a performance came around just as regularly when there was nothing with which to perform, as when there was abundance; but on this day, her father came in with an important air, and a bundle under his arm, and motioned her to the little corner cupboard.

"I struck a streak of luck, this forenoon," he said, "and I thought we'd have a celebration in honor of your going off to get well." Then he undid the bundle.

"Eggs!" said Dilly. "Six of them! Why, father, aren't they very dear?"

"Not so dreadful," said Mr. West evasively; "and they are strengthening; I heard the doctor say so. And here's a big loaf of bread baked this morning; it's a present to you, Dilly, from the fat baker at the corner, with his compliments; and he hopes you will tell Mrs. Hammond that he sends up fresh rolls by the train every evening. And here is a pat of very good batter, because toast and eggs need good butter, you know, and this I got cheap, because it had just come, and the tub was very heavy, and the right fellow wasn't around to lift it, so I lifted it myself; he sold me a half pound at half-price. And here," diving into both pockets of the shabby coat, and bringing out two potatoes in each hand, "are some Irish beauties; two of 'em to eat for dinner, and two of them to warm up for breakfast to-morrow. Oh! We'll live high this time."

The anxious father was rewarded by seeing Dilly eat a piece of the baked potato, and a bit of bread, and a whole egg for her dinner; doing better than she had for days before. The truth was, Mr. West had had no "streak of luck" for several days; and though Dilly had faithfully tried, the dry bread, and strong "oil" which she called butter, had been very hard to swallow.

The excitement of dinner was barely over, when a messenger came from Mrs. Hammond, bearing on his head a good-sized basket. "With some things for Miss Dilly," he explained.

What a time they had over that basket! Mr. West cleared the table, wiped it off carefully, and set the basket thereon, so that Dilly need not weary herself by stooping, then stood watching the color deepen on her face, while she drew out, at first with exclamations, and then in excited tremulous silence, the treasures it contained. A dress of some soft material in delicate plaids, threaded with blue—Dilly's own color, as her mother had called it. Then a sack of the same pretty material, with a row of tucks up and down the front, and a ruffle around the edge. Then a pair of button-boots, partly worn, but fitting Dilly's slight foot as though they had been made for her. Then brown stockings, and brown gloves, and a hat trimmed in brown; everything complete—a complete travelling outfit! Dilly was so astonished, and so eager, that she trembled as though she had a chill; yet the perspiration stood in drops on her forehead, and the little room was breathless.

"Father," she said, controlling her chattering teeth as best she could, "what makes her do it? Why does she give me all these things, and take me with her? Why did it all come to me? Do you understand it?"

"I guess, my girl," said the father, stroking her brown hair back from her wet forehead,—"I think maybe the Lord saw that something had got to come now, or you would be slipping away and leaving father all alone. I bless the Lord with all my soul that He has come to our help. It has cut me to the heart, Dilly, to see you failing and failing, and me not being able to do for you; and yet things are queer. The first lift I've had toward giving you a decent meal has been this morning—things all come in a heap, somehow; our 'troubles' did, you know."

Well, they lived through the day and all its excitements; and had had the toast and eggs and warmed-up potatoes for breakfast, and, despite the heated air and the excitement, Dilly had forced herself to eat, because it would disappoint her father if she did not, and now everything was ready, and the carriage was being waited for.

"A carriage to come for me!" said Dilly. "Father, only think how queer!"

And then it came, whirling around the corner, drawing up, in a gleam of silver-mounted harness, and sunshine, the horses tossing their beautiful necks as though hot weather was of no consequence to them. The children from all the little tumble-down houses in the thickly-settled neighborhood, swarmed to doors and windows to view the sight. Mothers with babies in their arms came to the door-steps to see her off; the driver got down and opened the door—carriage door—while he explained to the father that Mrs. Hammond had already been set down at the depot.

"My!" said Mrs. Jenkins, the nearest neighbor, getting a glimpse of Dilly's fluttering ribbons and buttoned boots. "How fine we do look! I declare, if the little piece hasn't got gloves on!" Then she went in and slammed the door.

It was not that she bore poor Dilly any ill-will, but Mrs. Jenkins had five children, and found it hard work to get them enough to eat; still, they were all well and hearty; up to yesterday she had been superior in station to the Wests, and had pitied them, and done them a kind turn when she could, but this rise in their fortunes was too much for her nerves.

At last the carriage door was shut, and Dilly, having hung about her father's neck and kissed him, and cried, and said she was sorry she was going away to leave him alone, and having been assured for the tenth time that he was glad she was going, she rolled away in state.

"Poor thing!" said Mrs. Potter, the neighbor across the street. "I declare, I'm glad for her; I did think the first time she went away from that door it would be in her coffin."

"There comes the Hammond carriage again," said a depot-lounger as the carriage drew up. "I wonder who's come now? I thought all the people, and band-boxes, and bundles, and style, had got here."

What more he might have said, was stopped by the sudden rush past him of Mr. Hart Hammond, who threw open the carriage door, and held out his hand to help Dilly.

"Here we are!" he said briskly. "Not much time to spare. Go in that way; you will find my mother; I'll attend to the luggage."

"Ain't that Jim West's girl?" asked the lounger of one of his mates. "My eyes! Ain't she rigged up! I hardly knew her. What streak of luck has struck her, I wonder? She looks as pale as a sheet; most as though she ought to be carried around in a coffin."

But Dilly did not hear this complimentary bit of talk; she had already passed inside the door where Mrs. Hammond and her maid, and busy little Miss Effie, waited. There was but a moment for greeting. Almost on her entrance sounded the whistle of the train.

"Not a minute to spare," said Mrs. Hammond. "Hart said we were late, but I did not think it. Well, we are all ready; Hart has your ticket, with the rest. How do you feel this morning? It is breathless already, isn't it?"

There was no time in which to answer her. Hart came, and hurried them to the train; other people hurried, also, and pushed and jammed against one another, in the wild fashion which uncultured and selfish people have, and, almost before she knew it, Dilly was seated just back of Mrs. Hammond and Hart, with the nurse and baby Effie in front, and they were off. The train was noisy, and I suppose Hart counted on its hiding the words he spoke, but Dilly could hear them distinctly:

"Mother, what in the world do you want of a sick girl up on the mountain? I thought you were going up there to get rid of care?"

"I hardly know why I took her," said Mrs. Hammond reflectively. "She looked so miserable, it seemed as though I must; it is her one chance, I think. Hart, she would have died if we hadn't taken her with us; and if she should rally, she will do to look after Effie, a little, when nurse is busy."

"She won't rally," said Hart, with a wise toss of his head; "she is too far gone, 'I' believe. She will just be a nuisance to you; she'll get worse, and you won't know what to do with her; and she may get too low to bring home. Besides, how do you know you can trust Effie with her? You don't know anything about her, do you?"

"No," said Mrs. Hammond, in a disturbed tone, "nothing at all; save that she was sick and needed a change. Never mind, Hart, it is done, and cannot be undone, just now. I don't often follow out my impulses in this blind way."

Now all this was not pleasant for Dilly to hear. She disliked the idea of being in the way; she felt it hard to have been gathered up in this sudden manner, and carried away from her father and made a burden of. One thing was certain, she was never a burden to her father, except as he mourned over the impossibility of getting her what she needed. Dilly swallowed hard, and had much difficulty in keeping back some tears that wanted to fall. Much of the intense gratitude with which she had begun the morning seemed to ooze away from her. She was angry with Hart for his disagreeable words, and told herself that she should never like him the least bit in the world, and that she did not love Mrs. Hammond, even, nearly so much as she had thought she would.

"I 'shall' get well," she said to herself in a little burst of indignation over Hart's prophecy. "You don't know everything, Mr. Hart, and you need not think it; I'm not going to die, and leave father. I know why your mother brought me with her, if she doesn't; it was father's prayers that did it; and father wants me to get well, and I'll try as hard as ever I can; and I'll show her I can be useful, too; but I won't do a thing for you, Mr. Hart, if I can help it."

Isn't it a fortunate thing, sometimes, that our thoughts cannot be seen? Some of hers Dilly would have been ashamed to show to Mrs. Hammond.

Just how far hurt feelings, and weakness of body, and homesickness for father, would have carried this little traveller into gloomland, I do not know, for just at that moment came a ray of sunshine for which she had not planned. It suited that busy little woman, Effie, to smile on her, and reach after her, and finally demand that she be set beside her.

"I'm afraid she will tire you," Mrs. Hammond said, but Dilly made a faint protest, her voice being muffled just at that moment with tears, and Effie made a determined spring from the nurse's arms and landed on her feet beside Dilly, and put a pair of witching baby arms about her neck, and the softest little velvet tongue on her cheek—which was Baby Effie's way of offering a kiss.

"Effie takes a fancy to her if you do not," Mrs. Hammond said to Hart, as Dilly smiled, and returned the kiss with great tenderness, and even roused herself to play peek-a-boo behind her glove, at Effie. "I hardly ever knew her to spring to a stranger in that way before."

"Oh! I fancy her enough; at least, I don't care, if it pleases you to take a dozen sick children to the mountain; I should think you would need something to occupy your time, buried up there. It only struck me that she was a particularly doleful specimen, who would give you no end of trouble, probably. I say, mother," he continued, "how long do you want me to vegetate up there?"

This question brought over Mrs. Hammond's face the troubled look which it so often wore, and she sighed heavily as she said,—

"I was hoping, Hart, you would find it so pleasant that you would want to spend the summer with me there."

"Not I. If you choose to bury yourself for the summer, I don't see why I should; after get you comfortably settled, I want to come back to the city. I mean to be there for the twenty-third, if possible."

"What is on the twenty-third?"

The quick, anxious tone in which Mrs. Hammond spoke would have told a careful observer that she was used to being on the watch for all sorts of annoyances with which in one way and another this handsome young son of hers was connected.

"Why, the bicycle race comes off then, and no end of fun connected with it. I'm interested, of course, in having our side beat."

Mrs. Hammond sighed again. Of all the many things which were just now giving her anxiety this Bicycle Club, for certain reasons, troubled her the most. She looked at Dilly's pale face, flushed a little now with pleasure over baby Effie's sweet words, and ways, and said to herself that to have a child fade away before one's eyes, as that girl was doing, was no doubt hard—very hard; but there were other troubles which came in the train of perfect health and high spirits.

And then she looked again at her handsome boy.

Isn't it hard for a mother of an only son whom she has watched over and cared for, more than sixteen years, that she must nearly always look at, and think of him, with a sigh?

CHAPTER IV.

A SUCCESSFUL EXPERIMENT.

ONLY a few hours and our young traveller found herself in another world. They were climbing the mountain; that is, the engine was climbing, but he was such a powerful creature, with so strong a pair of lungs, that he made no trouble whatever about it, and Dilly would not have known it was other than level ground but for the display which suddenly caught her eye from the car window. A deep, deep gorge, so deep that there seemed to her to be no bottom; and apparently it grew deeper every moment, as indeed it did, for she ascended higher; as for the picture spread around her, the lovely greens of the distant trees, the play of sunlight and shadow near at hand, the trickling of water down the mountain side, it would have been of no use for Dilly to try to describe it; it is almost as little use for me to try to tell how it made her feel; she drew deep breaths occasionally, and a lovely pink color spread over her face; but for the rest, she was still.

Ethel invited her to a frolic in vain; the solemn mountains had gotten possession of her.

"She is an appreciative little thing," said Mrs. Hammond to her son; "look at her face."

There was an amused smile on Hart's face; he thought it absurdly impossible that a child, like Dilly, could appreciate mountain scenery, nevertheless he turned at his mother's word and looked at her face. Presently he arose and took the vacant seat beside her, Ethel having been carried away by the nurse.

"What do you think of it?"

Dilly started, and trembled with surprise and excitement, as she turned toward him. Her cheeks were glowing, her eyes were bright, but there were tears in them.

"I never saw a mountain before," she said. "I didn't think they looked like this."

"What did you think they looked like?"

"Oh! I don't know; I can't tell at all, but I didn't suppose they quite touched the sky; and I didn't think the shadows were all colors, nor that they made you feel so."

"How do they make you feel?"

There was a faint smile on Dilly's face. "I can't tell that, either; I don't know how to tell things."

"Try," persisted Hart. "I have seen mountains all my life, and I have forgotten how they made me feel when I first saw them; I want to know what the feeling is."

"They make me," said Dilly, in a slow, awe-stricken tone, "they make me think—of God."

It was Hart's turn to start, now, and to give her a very surprised look. It was not at all the answer he had expected. He was silent because he really could not think of a proper reply; but to himself he said—"She is a queer little specimen, I guess; not one of the usual sort. It may be worth while to have a little fun with her." Then, aloud, after a moment, "This view is nothing, compared with what you will see when we reach the top. They can get up some wonderful sights up here. I wonder what you would think of sunset on Table Rock, since your taste runs in that direction?"

"What is it like?" asked Dilly after a moment of timid waiting. She was a good deal surprised to find herself talking with this young man with whom she had resolved so recently to have nothing to do.

He laughed, not unpleasantly. "Oh! Don't ask me; sunsets are not in my line; I haven't been to see one of them in three years. Worn out, you know. But I remember having a queer sort of feeling the first time I saw the exhibition. It wasn't hard to fancy that up there behind the crimson and gold was a door, partly open, which might, if you could only contrive to get up there, let a fellow slip into Heaven, before the angels knew what they were about."

Dilly looked a trifle shocked, a good deal excited, and wholly interested. She had never heard any one talk so about Heaven, before; she had never seen a sunset which gave her any such feeling.

"I would like to see it," she said, clasping her hands, and speaking in a sort of fever of suppressed excitement.

"Oh! You'll see it, without any doubt. It is quite the thing to go to Table Rock; my mother goes a dozen times a week—no, not so bad as that; there aren't a dozen sunsets in a week, are there? But she goes a great deal, and of course she will give you a chance; then you shall tell me how it makes you feel. Halloo! Here we are."

He arose suddenly, and the bustle of gathering straps and boxes and shawls, commenced.

A beautiful summer morning, and Dilly came to the door of the tent to look about her. Such a pretty view as one had behind those tent curtains! A large room neatly covered with white matting; curtains of delicate blue and white cretonne dividing it into departments, or, looping back, allowing it to be one large room, as the fancy of the occupant decided. Curtains of creamy lace, drawn at will in front of the opening, shut out the too-curious gaze of passersby, when one chose not to let them gaze. Just now they were pushed away, making a lovely mass of cream color against the tent side. There were easy chairs of bamboo pattern, wide, hospitable-looking arm-chairs, and pretty little rockers; a wide lounge of willow pattern, a table of the same, in the centre of the room, while the toilet articles which retired behind the blue and white curtain, on occasion, were draped in pure white.

To Dilly's mind there was never a prettier room; she had never seen anything like it. So simple, and yet so pure and beautiful. There was one special corner of it closed in with the lovely blue curtains which filled her with delight whenever she looked that way. A cot bed made up in white, occupied one end; a toilet stand draped in white was at its foot; a small rocker occupied the space between the side and the curtains, a corner was curtained off for a clothes press, and this spot in all its richness was Dilly's own. It was impossible not to lie in the small white bed at night and contrast it with the little room over the kitchen at home, where she had passed her weary nights for so long.

There were many contrasts, but the most delightful one to Dilly, was the rush of pure, sweet-scented air which came constantly in at the small round window away above her head, and went over to meet the current flowing in from the opposite round window. When had a breath of air stirred the curtain which hung limp and lifeless over the little window at home? It was the first bit of news Dilly wrote to her father from this new world.

"Father, don't you think the wind comes in all night! Great whiffs, and sometimes I have to partly close the queer little round window at the top, it opens and closes with a blue cord. It is a tent, you know. O father! It is so nice and beautiful to live in a tent."

Almost anything was "nice and beautiful" nowadays to Dilly.

"I never saw so marked a contrast in so short a time in my life!" said Mrs. Hammond to the nurse, one evening, speaking of Dilly. "Just think, Nurse, it is only ten days since we came, and look at her cheeks; they actually begin to puff out; and she has quite a little color."

"There do be quite a great change, that is a fact," said nurse Jeannette, who had not at first approved of Dilly, but was beginning to like her very well. "I thought when we came up here, ma'am, you would just have a sick girl on your hands to pay you for your trouble; but she is getting well, I'm thinking; and she's a comfortable little thing to have around."

"She certainly is," said Mrs. Hammond, speaking in a satisfied tone as she watched Dilly with careful fingers brush the dust from Effie's white dress, straighten her little sun hat, and lovingly pat her baby cheek. "Effie is very fond of her, Nurse."

"She is that, ma'am; and more good-tempered with her than she is with anybody else."

Mrs. Hammond smiled, and did not say what she thought: that Effie was good-tempered with Dilly, because Dilly was good-tempered with her. Nurse Jeannette was an excellent washer and ironer, and was always to be trusted to do her work carefully; it was not worth while to offend her by reminding her that she had not as much patience with the baby as Dilly had.

So, on this lovely morning when Dilly paused at the tent door a moment, she had been on the mountain for two delicious weeks, and was beginning to feel the blood bound through her veins, and to be glad to spring up in the morning, and to think that her breakfast of milk and eggs, and good bread and butter, was more delicious than anything she had ever before tasted. A very happy girl was Dilly. Her small outburst of indignation and self-pity in which she had indulged on the cars, was quite gone.

Nothing but gratitude remained for Mrs. Hammond; she had brought her to Paradise and was keeping her there. And when she went home, she could be well enough to keep house for her father as it ought to be kept; this was enough for Dilly.

On the whole, Mrs. Hammond's experiment was working very well. Certainly Effie thought so; the nurse was right, there was no one with whom she was happier than Dilly.

At first, Effie's mother had watched with anxiety; but peep when she would, even during the first days of Dilly's coming, when she was too weak to do much beside sit out of doors and watch Effie's slumbers, no stray fly was ever caught perching on that dear little nose, no sudden breeze was allowed to carry away the lace shield from the sleeping carriage. The lovely embroidered blanket was always carefully spread in just the right place, and the sun-shade tipped to exactly the right angle.

A few days later, when Dilly was able to have the wide-awake Effie entrusted to her, the mother kept them within seeing distance from her tent door, and wondered as the hours passed, that no fretful cry came from Effie, and arose often and looked, and found her always happy; digging in the dirt, or fluttering from grass plot to gay flower bed, always attended by Dilly, always happy and busy.

"She is a treasure," Mrs. Hammond said, going back to her book with a long-drawn sigh of relief; "she is just a treasure. I am very glad I brought her, and she is getting well, too; what a comfort she will be to her father," and then Mrs. Hammond sighed again.

It was of her Dilly was thinking while she stood at the door this morning, she had learned, she could hardly have told how, that Mrs. Hammond was often sorrowful over her son. Just what her fear or anxiety was, Dilly did not understand; but it was only too apparent that he was not in all respects what his mother wished; and Dilly had even seen her wipe away tears after one of their long talks together.

To this matter the little girl gave a great deal of thought. Mrs. Hammond had been so very kind to her, if she could in some way repay her; if there was only something she could do for Mr. Hart which would make her happier!

She was so beautiful, and so rich, and Effie was so sweet, and there was so very much for her to be happy about, yet she was not happy. Dilly could not fail to see that her face, when quiet, was nearly always sad.

What led her to think of it even more than usual this morning, was the fact that when she went into Mrs. Hammond's room at the hotel to get something for Effie, it was plain that that lady had been crying; and Mr. Hart had come out just before her, and had banged the door. What could he be doing to worry his mother? While she stood and thought, he came in sight, and stopped before her.

CHAPTER V.

A MORNING MEETING.

"WELL, little mountain worshipper, at it as hard as ever, I see; you show it in your eyes. What is being worshipped now?"

"Sir," said Dilly, flushing, but smiling a little; she had found it hard work to be angry with Hart Hammond, he was always so good-natured to her.

"Do you like the mountain as well as ever?"

"O, yes better than ever; I think it is just too lovely for anything, all about here."

"Just so. I never heard of a girl who didn't express herself in just exactly that way,—about a mountain or a piece of sponge cake; it doesn't make any difference which. But what you find to like so much, passes my comprehension; I think it is the slowest place I was ever in, in my life. What is it that you fancy?"

"Why, I fancy everything; the trees, and the flowers, and the birds, and the lovely breeze; there wasn't ever any breeze you know, Mr. Hart, in the city; at least there never came any down where we lived. It was just like an oven all the time; it makes me feel faint to think how hot it must be there this morning; and only see how the curtains blow here!"

"It is pretty warm in town, I presume; but then, I don't mind the heat so much, when there is anything going on; it is so dreadfully 'slow' up here; that is what I complain of. How is a fellow to occupy his time?"

"Isn't there a meeting most all the time down there where the big open building is?" Dilly asked the question somewhat timidly; she was now on ground of which she knew very little. She had been to no meeting since she came; she had very little idea of what sort they were; sometimes distant strains of music floated to her when she was out with Effie, and she often saw crowds of prettily dressed people hurrying by, and caught bits of talk about this speaker, and that song; but Mrs. Hammond went out only occasionally, during the day, and had never mentioned before her, the fact that there was anything of the kind going on. So, though Dilly's curiosity had been roused to the utmost, she had not felt at liberty to inquire.

"Most all the time!" Hart burst forth with a sarcastic laugh. "That is putting it mildly; there is a meeting all the time, from morning till night; or till noon, anyway; and again in the evening; I should think these people would be 'meetinged' to death. Haven't you been down to the 'big open building?'"

"O, yes! I've walked past it two or three times, when it was all empty: I saw ever and ever so many seats; I wonder if they are ever all filled up. Don't they have nice things there?"

"More than I know. Who wants to go to meetings such weather as this? On week days, too! Do you say you have never been to one of them?"

Dilly made haste to shut away a little sigh into her heart. What right had she to sigh, when so many wonderful blessings had come to her lot? Fresh mountain air, a cool room to sleep in every night, and constantly nice cool things to eat? "O, no! I have never been," she said quickly, and she thought the sigh was quite hidden; but Hart had been right about her eyes, everything showed there.

"And you want to go! Extraordinary taste; but I believe in letting folks do what they want to. There's a meeting down there this very minute; come on and we'll see what it is like."

"Oh!" said Dilly, and she clasped her two hands together, and they and the "oh" said a great deal. "You are very, very good, Mr. Hart, but I can't; Miss Effie is ready for her walk, and is waiting for me now, I am afraid."

"Stuff and nonsense! Let Miss Effie wait, then. Tell my mother that—here, I'll tell her myself. Mother," raising his voice as he caught a glimpse of her white morning robes passing from the hotel piazza to the tent, "I'm going to run away with Dilly."

"Run away with Dilly!" repeated Mrs. Hammond in a tone of wonder, as she came around the side of the tent. "Where is Dilly? Effie is ready for you, child."

"But I tell you Effie can't have her; I want her myself; I'm going to show her the tabernacle; she wants to know how the seats look with people in them. Get your hat, Dilly, I see the people trooping that way as though there was a sensation of some sort."

If Mr. West could have seen his daughter's cheeks just then, he would have been amazed; they were fairly blazing. She opened her lips to speak, then not knowing what to say turned and went into the tent to confront Mrs. Hammond. What would that lady say to her? Would she be angry with her, Dilly wondered.

She met Mrs. Hammond almost at the door of the tent; she looked very much amazed, and there was also another look in her eyes which Dilly did not understand.

"Did you ask him?" she began eagerly. "Did you ask Mr. Hart to take you to the tabernacle?"

"O, no indeed, ma'am," said Dilly in intense earnestness, "I would not have done such a thing for the world; I did not think of going anywhere at all; he was just saying he liked to be where things were going on, and I asked him if there wasn't a meeting of some kind at the big building where all the seats are. Then he asked if I had never been there; and he said he saw in my eyes that I wanted to go; but I did not mean to put it into my eyes, ma'am, indeed I didn't."

"Never mind," said Mrs. Hammond, and she was smiling now, "just get ready as quickly as you can; never mind Miss Effie, I will attend to her; and don't keep saying to Mr. Hart that you must hurry back; stay as long as he wants you to."

And while the much bewildered Dilly ran for hat and gloves, Mrs. Hammond looking fondly out at Hart as he sauntered about, making little hollows in the soil with the toe of his polished boot, said, "If this new fancy would only hold him until the eleven o'clock train goes out, I should have one day more of peace; but it is too much to hope for."

Out came Dilly, looking very neat and very happy, despite the bewilderment and embarrassment of the occasion.

"Give her a chance to look at everything, Hart; it is very kind in you to take the trouble."

Hart laughed good-naturedly; he thought himself, that the situation was queer. What would the "fellows" think to see him tramping off to a morning camp meeting with his baby sister's maid. He hardly understood his own motive; only she was such a queer little thing, this Dilly, with her flashing eyes and her eager ways, and her intense love for the mountains, and the clouds, and all the new sights and sounds.

There were plenty of new sights to hold her eyes this morning. Men and women and children, large and small, were gathering from all parts of the grounds, making speed toward the building; diving down the steps with apparent eagerness, and being lost to sight in the distance.

"They are all in haste to get the best seat; there is only one best seat, by their actions, and each one is determined to have it; that isn't the way they act in a religious meeting, is it, Dilly? There, the people all want to get as far from the front as possible."

"Do they?" asked Dilly, laughing. "I never saw people try to do that in church on Sundays."

"Oh! On Sundays they generally own their pews and go to them; but when I was a little fellow I had a Scotch nurse who took me to prayer meeting on Thursday evening as often as she got a chance; I used to rather like to go for the sake of being with Nurse Campbell, but the people acted the queerest, I thought! Slipping in as though they were half-ashamed of themselves for being there at all; taking the farthest possible seat from the minister; and no amount of coaxing on his part could induce them to come to the front."

"What made them act that way?"

"Couldn't say; it was a problem over which I studied in my young and innocent days, but I have never solved it. I haven't been to prayer meetings much lately; got caught once or twice by accident—and they always seemed to me the most doleful places in the world; people who frequent them seem to do it as a sort of penance. They are sorry when the bell rings, and look glad when the last 'amen' is said; that is my experience of prayer meetings. What is yours?"

"I haven't any," said Dilly. "Mother wasn't ever well enough to go, since I can remember; and I always stayed with her; then, after she went away, father would not leave me alone; but I have a feeling that my father went to prayer meeting because he liked to go."

"Did, eh? Well he was peculiar, I guess; I never saw any people who acted as though they liked to go. Nurse Campbell liked the fun of getting out, and having a pleasant walk, and shaking hands with a few of her mates, but she always looked pleased when the meeting was over. Here we are at the tabernacle."

And then they plunged down that flight of steps, and Dilly saw why the people in the distance had been so suddenly lost to sight. They had gone, as many as could, beyond the rows of seats which stretched tier on tier to the very top, and seated themselves in the long wide level space, also filled with pews; even the broad aisles were, on this morning, crowded with chairs which late comers took eagerly. Very little space left below; those who came after this must be content with seats in the circle.

"They could see just as well there, if they only thought so," said Hart; "but every one feels greedy to get the best place. There's a spot just the other side of that post; an excellent place for a view, but the people do not know it; let us make for those two seats."

"Then we will be greedy, too," answered Dilly in a soft and gleeful voice; she was having great fun.

"What is it they want to see?" she whispered as soon as they were settled in the two excellent seats which had somehow been overlooked.

"Pictures," whispered Hart. "A man makes pictures of birds, and bugs, and boys, and any and everything, right before your eyes, and talks about them."

"Finishes them now while we are looking at him! How can he? I thought it took a long time to make a picture."

"Depends upon the amount of skill a man has, I suppose; this one they say is a genius. I heard about him when I was North, last summer; I thought then, if ever I had a chance, I would go and hear him, or see him; and I haven't thought of it since, until this morning. I forgot what was going on until I saw the blackboard—that is what he works on—and that one with the tourist's cap on must be he."

Dilly had not the least idea what a tourist's cap might be, but she resolved to look hard at whoever should come to the platform, and learn for herself that, and many other things. It was all new ground to her. The level seats which stretched away in front and on either side of her, and back almost as far as her eye could reach, were largely filled with children. Very little bits of people occupied the extreme front, and those a little older were seated just behind them; after that, children of all ages had crowded in. Some of them had gray hairs.

"We are all children this morning," said a smiling gentleman with cane, and spectacles, and a white beard; he was seated just behind Dilly, and gave her an encouraging smile when she glanced around.

"Is it a children's meeting?" she whispered.

"I think it must be," Hart said, gazing about curiously, "a children's meeting all the grown people are determined to attend. Look at that old lady in the arm-chair; she must be nearly eighty! Now, Dilly, watch, and you will see what common chalk can do in some people's hands."