Oakleigh

CHAPTER XI

Christmas morning dawned cloudy and very cold, but it had stopped snowing, and after a while the sun came out and turned the country into a radiant, dazzling spectacle.

Cynthia and the boys went forth to dig out some of the paths and have a good time in the snow. Bob, frantic with delight, ploughed about in the drifts, jumping, diving, shaking off the dry flakes, and turning wonderful somersaults, to the great entertainment of Janet and Willy, who, too small to venture out before the paths were cut, watched the others from the window.

A gigantic snow man was in course of construction when it became time to go to church, and they all bundled themselves up in furs and warm clothes, and packed themselves in the three-seated sleigh under the buffalo-robes. It was great fun to drive the three miles to the village after such a storm, the children thought, for, although a four-horse team had been sent out early from Oakleigh to break the road, their progress was slow and exciting.

Then came the Christmas dinner, with turkey and plum-pudding and mince-pie, and plenty of laughter and jokes, and after that the family settled down to read their new books, look at their presents anew, and amuse themselves in various ways.

The Franklins were to have a party during the holidays, and it had been planned for the following Tuesday—New Year's Eve.

"If we had only arranged to have it earlier we might have escaped that horrid Bronson," said Cynthia, regretfully, the day after Christmas. "Now, of course, he will come with the Morgans, and, worse still, we shall have to be polite to him in our own house."

"I should hope so," said Edith. "You were rude enough to him at the picnic, and I do think good manners are so attractive. I am going to cultivate them as much as possible. No one will ever like you unless you are polite, Cynthia."

"I seem to have plenty of friends," returned her sister, composedly, "and I don't really care to have Bronson like me. In fact, I would rather prefer that he shouldn't. I wouldn't consider it much of a compliment to be liked by a—a—creature like that!"

It would be impossible to convey an idea of the contempt in Cynthia's voice as she said this.

"And if you are going to have such lovely manners, I should think it would be just as well to begin at home," she added.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I don't suppose you will like it, but really, Edith, sometimes it does seem as if you just tried to hurt mamma's feelings. I know I ought not to say this, perhaps, for you think I am only a younger sister, I suppose, and haven't any right to lecture you; but when I remember how nice you really are, I can't bear to have you act so. If you only would try to like her, instead of trying not to like her! There, don't cry, dear; I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

And Cynthia threw her arms around her sister and kissed her.

"You have hurt them," said Edith, with a sob, "but I know I deserve it. I don't know what has gotten into me since the Gordons came. I can't like her being here. Oh, Cynthia, you don't know how I feel sometimes! I wish I didn't have such bad, wicked thoughts."

"Do you really try to get over it, Edith?"

"No-o, not very hard," she faltered; "I can't forgive her for coming and taking my place, and—and—I don't want to forgive her. There, I know you will think I am bad and horrible and everything else, but I can't help it."

And, rising abruptly, she left the room.

"Poor old Edith!" sighed Cynthia, compassionately. "She will come round some time; she can't help it."

Now that Christmas was over, the Franklins devoted themselves to coasting, which, owing to a slight thaw and a freeze, had become excellent. It slightly lessened the pleasure of Cynthia and Neal that the Morgans, with Tony Bronson in attendance, usually met them on their favorite hill with their sleds; but the Christmas spirit was in the air, and nothing was said or done to mar the peace, and to outward seeming the two boys were perfectly good friends.

On New Year's Eve was to be the Franklins' party.

"Edith, we must have it very original and unique, something quite different from anything we have ever had in our lives," said Cynthia, a few days before.

"How can we? There's nothing new."

"Yes, there is, right in my head. I have an idea."

"What in the world is it?"

"Well, I'll tell you," and she proceeded to unfold it.

It proved to be a good one, and with Mrs. Franklin's help it was carried into effect. The suggestion was to have a "character" party, but to enact the parts without dressing especially for them. A list was made of persons well known in history or fiction, and from this list Mrs. Franklin chose those she considered the best, and wrote against each name that of some girl or boy in Brenton. This she did without telling her daughters how she had apportioned the parts, that they might be as ignorant as their guests about one another's characters.

"It is a truly Bostonese party," said Mrs. Franklin, laughing, when they talked it over. "There is an intellectual flavor to it that you wouldn't find far away from 'the Hub,' but it is a capital idea, nevertheless, Cynthia."

When the list was duly made Mrs. Franklin drove about Brenton to the various girls and boys who were expected, and invited them for Tuesday evening, explaining to them at the same time what they were to do.

It was an old-fashioned tea-party, and the guests began to arrive at six o'clock. There were twenty in all, and they came hurrying in out of the cold, and up-stairs to remove their heavy wraps, the girls tripping down again in their dainty evening dresses, while the boys stood about the doorways in rather an aimless fashion, wondering what they were expected to do at such a very peculiar tea-party as this seemed to be.

It added to the mystery that each was given a card with his or her own name prettily printed upon it, and a little pencil attached.

"I never heard of anything like it, don't you know," drawled Bronson. "I'll be hanged if I know what to talk about."

After supper, which was very jolly and effectually broke the ice, Mr. Franklin made a little speech.

"You are all supposed to be somebody, and no one but my wife knows which is which," he said. "The object is for each one to guess as many characters as possible from their conversation, and when you have made up your mind who some one is, you will write the name on your card, with the name of the person you are guessing about. When your card is filled with twenty-four names, which means that you have given a guess about every one here, you will hand it in. Then the prizes will be bestowed."

"Prizes!" was murmured by the girls; "how lovely!" while the boys looked relieved as the matter became clearer.

Cynthia turned to her nearest neighbor and began to talk.

"Good-evening!" she said; "did you see anything of my broom? I forgot to bring it along. Dear me, there's a lot to be done up there," gazing towards the ceiling; "why didn't I bring it along?"

The neighbor chanced to be Dennis Morgan.

"I haven't seen your broom," he replied, "but I'm going to find out why you want it. The trouble is, I've come too soon, I think, and I can't find my way; but I can't tell you where I want to go, or you would guess me on the spot."

"Ho!" laughed Cynthia; "I know where you want to go. I think you would like a glass of water, wouldn't you? For I am sure you have burned your mouth," she added, in a whisper.

Then she wrote on her card: "Dennis Morgan—Man in the Moon."

"Pshaw! How did you guess me so soon? And I haven't the ghost of an idea who you are. Let me see, you want your broom. I can't imagine why you need a broom."

"Cobwebs, cobwebs everywhere," murmured Cynthia, as she turned away and listened to the conversation that was being carried on between Neal and Gertrude Morgan.

"I'm a wonderful man," said Neal. "In fact, I don't know but what I'm about as great a person as you ever heard of. You can't mention my name without alluding to it."

"I don't believe you are half as great as I am," retorted Gertrude, "only I don't talk as much about it. Why, I am a queen."

"And I am a king. What kind of a queen are you?"

"I rule over a very important kingdom, and not only do I reign but I can cook, too. I am one of those very convenient people to have about that can turn their hand to almost anything, but I am chiefly celebrated for my cookery. I made something very nice one hot summer day—"

"Take care, Gertrude!" cried Cynthia; "I know you." And she wrote on her card: "Gertrude Morgan—Queen of Hearts."

"Oh come, Cynth, that's too bad!" exclaimed Neal. "I can't guess her at all, but it's because I am so taken up reading a wonderful book when I am very young, and making colored candles, and all that sort of thing."

"Why, I thought you said you were a king?" said Gertrude.

"So I am; a terribly good sort, too."

At last Gertrude guessed him, and wrote "Alfred the Great" with his name on her card.

Neal, however, could not discover who she was, not being as well posted in "Mother Goose" as was Cynthia.

The one who was most mysterious was Edith. For a long time no one could imagine who she was.

"I have had a great many adventures," she said, as they gathered about her. "I have travelled to places that the rest of you have never been to. I have played games with a duchess, and I've taken care of a duchess's baby. A great many of my friends talk poetry. I have long, light hair, and sometimes I'm tall and sometimes I'm short."

"Never short, Edith, I'm sure," said Neal. Every one laughed, for they teased Edith about her stately height.

"I know you! I know you!" cried Cynthia, dancing with glee; "you told too much that time," and she hastily scribbled "Alice in Wonderland" on her card.

She herself, as the "Old woman who swept the cobwebs from the sky," was easily guessed, much to her own chagrin.

At last each one had written twenty-four names on his or her card, and they were given to Mrs. Franklin for inspection. Some funny mistakes were made, and as they were read out they created much merriment.

Somebody thought Yankee Doodle must be Paul Revere, because he had been spoken of as a rider; Julius Cæsar and Columbus were hopelessly mixed, both having mentioned themselves as crossing the water, and it being impossible, from the description given, to distinguish between the Rubicon and the Atlantic Ocean; the Lady of the Lake and Pocahontas were confused, as they each saved a life; and every one mistook the Old Woman that lived in a Shoe for Puss in Boots, because of her persistent talk about foot-wear.

Cynthia bad made a greater number of correct guesses than any one, but as she was one of the hostesses she could not, of course, claim a prize, so it fell to Tony Bronson, who was next on the list. Cynthia turned away to hide the grimace which she could not repress when the dear little clock in a red-leather case was given to him as first prize.

Kitty Morgan, Gertrude's cousin, was awarded the "booby" prize, for having made the poorest guesses—a dainty little pin, which, she said, quite repaid her for her stupidity; while one of the Brenton girls, whose list was next best to Bronson's, received a pretty silver-framed calendar as "Consolation."

It made a merry evening, and after the game was over they danced and played other games until it was time to go home. It was eleven o'clock when the last sleigh drove away.

"Only an hour to midnight," said Cynthia; "can't we sit up and see the old year out? Do, papa, let us! We never have, and it must be such fun. We couldn't go to sleep, anyhow, after such an exciting evening."

Mr. Franklin consented, and they sat about the fire discussing the success of the game and the girls and boys who had been there, one or two of whom remained for the night at Oakleigh.

Neal and Cynthia were alone for a few moments. They had gone out into the hall to see the hour by the tall clock, and they found the hands pointing to ten minutes of twelve.

"Let us wait here for it to strike," said Cynthia, going to the window.

The lamp had gone out in the hall, and it was but dimly lighted from the room where the family were sitting. Outside, the moon was shining on the white fields and frozen river. The old year was dying in a flood of glory.

"I always feel so full of good resolutions on New Year's Eve," said Cynthia, in a low voice; "I wish I could keep them all."

"So do I," returned Neal. "I am always turning over a new leaf. I must have turned over three volumes of new leaves by this time. But they don't amount to much."

"It is discouraging, isn't it? I have never said anything about it to any one before. It seems to me I am always breaking my good resolutions."

"I don't see how. First of all, it doesn't seem as if you did anything that is wrong—a girl doesn't have much chance to."

"Oh yes, she does. You don't know. And I have so many faults. There are my bureau drawers—I can't keep them neat, and my clothes would be all in tatters if it were not for Edith and mamma. And, worst of all, there is my tongue."

"Your tongue?"

"Yes. It is such fun to make fun of people and say sharp things when I don't like them—the kind of thing I am always saying to that Bronson."

Neal laughed, and then he sighed.

"You are putting me into a bad corner. If you think your faults are so tremendous, what must you think of mine? I'm a thief and a coward."

"Neal!"

"Yes, I am. I am a thief because I don't pay that money. I had no business to borrow it in the first place, and I could save it out of my allowance if I would take the trouble, but I am too lazy; and I am such a coward I won't ask Hessie for it, because I am ashamed to have your father know it. It's all a nasty business, anyway."

He looked moodily out on the snow, drumming his fingers on the window-pane.

"Neal," said Cynthia, softly touching his arm with her hand as she spoke, "let's turn over one more new leaf. I will look out for my tongue and my bureau drawers, and you will tell mamma everything and start fresh. Will you, Neal? Promise!"

Before he answered the clock began to strike.

"Happy New Year! Happy New Year!" was heard from the parlor. "Neal and Cynthia, where are you? Come in here, that we may all be together when the clock stops striking."

So the old year died, and Neal had not given the required promise.

One day, shortly before he returned to St. Asaph's, he said to his sister:

"Hessie, if I had been of age I think I would have tried to break that will of grandmother's."

"Oh, Neal dear, don't say that! What do you mean?"

"Well, it isn't that I mind your having the money; you have always been a brick about keeping me supplied; but the trouble is, I need more than you give me."

"Neal, I am afraid you are spending too much," said Mrs. Franklin, looking at him anxiously. "Are you in debt again? You know I would love to give you all I have, but your guardians and the trustees of the estate and John all think that you have a very large allowance for a school-boy, and it would not be a good plan to let you have any more."

"Bother them all!" exclaimed Neal, seizing the poker and giving the fire an angry thrust. A shower of sparks flew out, but he let one burn a hole in the rug without noticing. "I'm tired of being tied to your apron-string. I've a good mind to cut loose altogether."

"Don't say that!" cried Mrs. Franklin, in distress, going to him and putting her arm through his. He was taller than she, and she had to look up at him.

"If it were only you, it would be different," continued her brother; "but you see you're married now, and everything is changed."

"But John is fond of you, Neal; I know he is. But he knows all about boys, and his advice is good. Would—would five dollars help you?"

"You're a good little soul, Hessie," said Neal, looking down at her affectionately, his momentary ill-humor passing, "and I suppose it is not your fault if you can't give me any more. No, thank you; I won't take the fiver. Don't worry about me. Here comes Jack in the cutter; we're going to the village." And in a moment he was off.

The next day he went back to St. Asaph's.

The winter passed quickly after Christmas had come and gone, and all had settled down again to the regular routine of work. Mrs. Franklin could not help feeling anxious about Neal. She confided her fears to her husband, but he made light of them.

"The boy only wanted more spending-money, Hester. He is very extravagant, and you will be doing very wrongly if you supply him with more money. His allowance is too large, at any rate, for a boy of his age. Jack gets along perfectly well with just one-fifth the amount."

"But Jack is different,"

"Very different, and Neal ought to be different, too. You paid his debts in the fall, which were enormous for a school-boy, and then he was free to start afresh. You will never cure him of extravagance if you keep him supplied with all the money he wants."

Mrs. Franklin was forced to acknowledge the truth of her husband's remarks. She said no more, though she was none the less worried.

Cynthia noticed that her step-mother was not as light-hearted as formerly. They were going in to Boston one Saturday morning to do some shopping together. Cynthia had decided to buy a watch with Aunt Betsey's money, and she had brought the gold pieces with her.

"I am so afraid of losing them I don't know what to do," she said. "Fifty dollars is so enormous, isn't it? Please take it in your bag, mamma; I know I shall lose it."

Mrs. Franklin smiled absently, and when she had put away the money she looked out of the window again.

"Mamma," said Cynthia, leaning towards her, "you are worried about something, aren't you? Tell me, is it Neal?"

Mrs. Franklin looked startled.

"I did not know I had such a tell-tale face," she said; "yes, you have guessed it, Cynthia. I cannot help feeling worried about him. I have not heard from him for some time, and that makes me uneasy. But it is just fancy, and will pass off. Probably there will be a letter from him to-night."

Cynthia also had remarked on Neal's silence, and this confirmed her fears. She did not say anything more to Mrs. Franklin, however, for Neal had again made her promise to repeat nothing he had told her.

"I'll never confide in you again if you tell," he had said; so, of course, Cynthia had promised.

Her mind was busy during the remainder of the trip to Boston, and when the train glided into the station she had determined to put her thoughts into action.

"We will go to Shreve's and then to Bigelow's to look at watches," said Mrs. Franklin, as they walked across the Common. "We had better look at both places before you decide."

"I have changed my mind, mamma. I don't think I will buy a watch."

"Why, Cynthia!" exclaimed Mrs. Franklin, almost stopping short in her surprise; "you want one so much!"

"No, I don't think I do—at least, not just now. Let us just go buy the clothes, and I'll keep Aunt Betsey's money a little longer."

She would give no further explanation, and her mother could not induce her even to glance at the watches in Shreve's window. No; she had decided that she did not need one.

When they reached home she took the money and went to her own room. She was standing by the window, carefully packing the coins in a little box with cotton, and about to do it up for the mail—for she knew no better way of sending the money—when she heard the sound of wheels on the drive.

Looking out, she saw one of the depot carriages approaching, and in the vehicle was Neal himself.

Full of apprehension, dreading she knew not what, Cynthia dropped the box of money and flew down-stairs.

It was not vacation, it was the middle of the school-term.

Why had Neal come home?

CHAPTER XII

"Why has he come home?"

This was the question on the lips of each one of the family when they heard of Neal's arrival.

It was soon answered. He had been suspended.

He would give little explanation; he merely asserted that he was innocent of that of which he was accused. Some of the boys, the most unmanageable at St. Asaph's, had plotted to do some mischief. Neal, being more or less intimate with the set, was asked to join in the plot, but refused. He was with the boys, however, up to the moment of their putting it into execution. Afterwards, circumstances pointed to his having been concerned in it, and his known intimacy with these very boys condemned him.

There was but one person who could prove absolutely that he had not been with the culprits that night, and that person held his peace.

Of course Cynthia rightly suspected that it was Bronson.

A letter came from the head-master of the school, stating the facts as they appeared to him, and announcing with regret that he had been obliged to suspend Neal Gordon for the remainder of the term.

It was an unfortunate affair altogether. Neal was moody and low-spirited, and he was deeply offended that his story was not universally believed, for the household was divided in regard to it.

Jack and Cynthia stoutly maintained his innocence, Mr. Franklin and Edith looked at the worst side of it, while Mrs. Franklin was undecided in her opinion.

She wanted to believe her brother's word, she did believe it, and yet all the proven facts were so hopelessly against him. The other boys that had been suspended were his friends. Neal had been reproved before for mischief that he had been in with them. It was one of those sad cases when a man's past record counts against him, no matter how innocent he may be of the present offence. But Hester could not believe that her brother would lie to her.

One morning Edith drove her father to the train. Not a vestige of snow was left near the road; only a patch or two on the hills, and even that was rapidly disappearing in the spring sunshine which every day grew warmer.

"Have you heard much about St. Asaph's from any one but Neal?" asked Mr. Franklin, abruptly. "Doesn't that cousin of the Morgans' go there?"

"Do you mean Tom, papa? Yes, he does, and Tony Bronson, too, who stays at the Morgans' occasionally. Don't you know? He was at our New Year's Eve party."

"I think I remember. Did you ever hear either of them speak of Neal, or discuss him in any way?"

Edith hesitated.

"Tom Morgan never did," she said at last.

"And the other fellow?"

"Yes, he said something. Really, papa, I wish you wouldn't ask me."

"What nonsense! Of course it is your duty to tell me, Edith. It is right that I should know how Neal stands with his class. What did the boy say?"

"He spoke as if Neal were in some scrape, and he wished that he could help him out."

"He is a friend of Neal's, then?"

"I don't know. He spoke very nicely of him and really seemed to want to help him, but Cynthia didn't believe that when I told her. She seemed to think he was an enemy of Neal's. But then Cynthia can't bear him, you know. She took one of her tremendous prejudices against Tony Bronson, the way she often does, and she wouldn't believe there was a bit of good in him."

"But you liked him?"

"Yes, very much. I think he is conceited, but then so many boys are that. As far as I could see he is a very nice fellow and the Morgans like him ever so much. The only people that I know of who don't like him are Jack and Cynthia and Neal."

"I don't believe there is much doubt that Neal has been very wild all the time he has been at St. Asaph's," observed Mr. Franklin; "this only goes to prove it. Bronson was not in that set, evidently, as he was not one of those who were suspended, and I have no doubt he is a very good sort of fellow. It is a pity Neal doesn't see more of him."

They drew up at the post-office, and Mr. Franklin went in to get the letters. He came out with quite a budget, and stood at the carriage looking hastily over them.

"All of these are to go home," he said, giving a number to Edith; "here is one for me with the St. Asaph's post-mark. I will see what it is."

He tore it open and glanced at the signature. Then he looked up quickly.

"What was that Bronson fellow's name, Edith?"

"Tony."

"Then this is from him. Odd we should just have been talking about him. Humph!"

Mr. Franklin's face grew grave, then angry, as he read the letter.

"That boy will come to no good end," he muttered. "I don't know what we are going to do with him."

Edith watched him curiously. She wished that her father would give her the letter to read, but he did not. People were hurrying by to the station, which was but a few steps from the post-office.

"You will miss your train, Franklin," said some one, tapping him on the shoulder.

Mr. Franklin glanced at the clock in the station tower, found that he had but half a minute, and with a hasty good-bye to Edith, and strict injunctions not to mention Bronson's letter at home, he ran for his train, thrusting the mysterious note into his pocket as he went.

Edith did the errands and drove home again, after a brief call upon Gertrude Morgan, who was full of curiosity about Neal's return.

"I always knew he was pretty gay," she said. "Of course Tom and Tony Bronson wouldn't say much—boys never do, you know; but I gathered from certain things that Neal was—well, rather sporty, to say the least."

Edith drove homeward rather slowly. She was very sorry about it all: sorry for Neal himself, whom she liked, despite the fact that he was a Gordon; sorry for her stepmother, whom she told herself she disliked; and yet Mrs. Franklin's unvarying kindness and sweet temper had not been without good results. Edith had softened greatly towards her, more than she herself was aware of. She still continued to assure herself that it was an unfortunate day for them when the Gordons came, and she worked herself into a temper when she thought of the added worriment it gave her father to have Neal behave as he had done.

"Papa looked so anxious this morning when he read that letter," she said to herself; "it is too bad. I do wonder what was in it, and from Tony Bronson, too! What would Gertrude have said if I had told her?"

In the meantime Mr. Franklin was reading his letter again.

"MY DEAR MR. FRANKLIN [it ran],—It is with great regret that I am obliged to call a little matter to your attention. I had hoped that it would not be necessary. Your brother-in-law, Neal Gordon, owes me a small amount, fifty dollars, in fact, and I am at present really in need of the money. I have waited for it a good while, nearly a year, and there are one or two bills that I am expected to pay out of my allowance, which I am unable to do until Gordon pays me.

"Of course, I dislike very much to dun him for it when he is in disgrace, but really I see no other way out of the difficulty than to ask you if you will kindly forward a check to my order.

    "Very truly yours,
                        "ANTHONY BRONSON.

"St. Asaph's, April 2d."

This letter had cost the writer much thought. He had written several copies before he was altogether satisfied, but at last the result pleased him.

"I call it rather neat," he said, as he folded it carefully and addressed the envelope with an extra flourish. "This will bring the roof down on our fine high-and-mighty Mr. Gordon, if nothing else does. I fancy that brother-in-law of his has a nice little temper of his own, and it will be so pleasant for Gordie to be nagged by a brother-in-law!"

When Edith got back to Oakleigh the morning that Bronson's note was received, she found wild excitement raging, which, for a time, made her forget the letter.

Some of the Leghorn pullets, which, unfortunately, could fly high, had escaped from the yard, notwithstanding the wire netting which enclosed them, and had been having a fine time scratching and pecking in entirely new hunting grounds, when Bob happened along.

Here was his chance. For many months he had been waiting for this very moment. What was the use of being a sporting dog, if he could not now and then indulge his hunting proclivities? His master had gone on the river and left him at home—his master did not treat him well, nowadays. Bob felt neglected. He would have one good time.

He waited his opportunity, and when it came he made the most of it. A fine fat hen, peacefully pecking a worm, found the tables suddenly turned. Instead of the worm being in her mouth, she found herself in the mouth of the horrible black object which she had often seen peering greedily at her through the fence. Oh, that she had never flown over that fence! She gave one despairing "cluck" as she was borne madly through the air, and then was silent forever.

Janet and Willy, playing near, heard the noise and followed in pursuit, calling Cynthia as they did so, who, seeing what was the matter, flew from the house, dog-whip in hand. The boys were both on the river.

For a time the chase was hopeless. Bob had not waited all these months for nothing; he had no intention of dropping the prize at the first command. Round and round he tore, leading his pursuers a pretty dance, through orchard and field, over the lawn and through the currant-bushes. Cynthia fell at this particular point with Janet and Willy on top of her, but they picked themselves up and started again.

At last Mrs. Franklin, coming out, headed Bob off, and Cynthia grasped his collar.

"Bad dog!" she cried. "Neal told me I was to punish you, and I mean to do it."

She cut him with the short whip, but it was of no avail. Bob had dropped the chicken, and, wild with excitement, sprang for her hand. She only succeeded in lashing herself with the whip.

"It's no use," she said, at last; "I've got to punish him some other way. The boys won't be home for ever so long, and it won't do to wait."

"I have always heard the only way of curing a dog of killing hens was to tie one around his neck," said Mrs. Franklin, doubtfully. "Perhaps it had better be done. We will call one of the men."

"No, I will do it all," said Cynthia; "it's not a very nice piece of work, but I'll do it."

Cord was brought, and she finally succeeded in attaching the defunct hen to Bob's collar. Poor Bob! His joy had been quickly turned to mourning. And now this stern Cynthia—she who had hitherto been apparently so affably disposed towards him—fastened him to the hitching-post, and came with a horrid horsewhip to chastise him! Bob never forgot that morning. He always thought of Cynthia with more respect after that.

When Neal came home he highly approved of all the proceedings except the horsewhip.

"Couldn't you do it with his own whip?" he asked. "It places a dog at a mean disadvantage to tie him up and then whip him. It is so lowering to his dignity."

"One of us had to be at a disadvantage," said Cynthia, indignantly, "and I should think it was better for Bob to be at it than for me. And as for his dignity, I think it ought to be lowered."

To which wise remark Neal was forced to agree.

Jack was much disgusted at losing one of his best hens. What with the fox last winter, and a neighbor's dog that had killed seven, and a peculiar disease which had taken off fifty, luck seemed to be against the poultry business. But, undiscouraged, Jack had refilled the machine and was awaiting results. Some of last year's hens had begun to lay, and he was sending eggs to the Boston markets. There were actually a few more figures on the page for receipts.

Bob's misdemeanor temporarily diverted the minds of the family from the trouble about Neal, but Mr. Franklin's return that night brought up the subject again to some of them.

He told his wife that he wished to speak with her, and together they went into the library and shut the door. He laid two letters before her on the table—the one he had received that morning from Bronson, and a second one from the same source, which had come by the evening mail. The latter was very brief:

"MY DEAR MR. FRANKLIN,—The very day that I sent my letter to you I received a money-order from Gordon for the amount he owed me.

"Regretting very much that I should have troubled you, I have the honor to be

        "Very truly yours,
                            "ANTHONY BRONSON."

"What does it mean?" asked Mr. Franklin, when his wife had finished reading the letters.

"I cannot imagine," said she, looking up, completely mystified.

"Did you lend him the money?"

"No, certainly not. I should have told you, John, if I had," she added, reproachfully.

"I know," he said, as he walked up and down the room, "but I could not account for it in any other way. It is extraordinary."

"Suppose we send for Neal and ask him about it."

When Neal came he was given the two letters to read. He did so, and laid them down without a word.

"Well, what have you got to say for yourself?" asked his brother-in-law, impatiently.

"Nothing."

"Neal, dear, you must explain," said Hester.

"Why should I explain? I paid the debt. It doesn't make any difference to either of you how I did it."

"It makes a great deal of difference," exclaimed Mr. Franklin, who was rapidly growing angry. "In the first place, how did you come to be owing fifty dollars so soon after the other debt was paid? What did you do with the first fifty your sister gave you in the fall?"

"Spent it."

"Neal!" cried Hester. "Didn't you pay your debts then? Why didn't you?"

He said nothing.

"It is an abominable affair altogether," said Mr. Franklin. "You were in debt, which you had no business to be. You obtained money from Hester to pay the debt, and then, according to your own words, you spent it otherwise. You get into a bad scrape and are suspended. And now you obtain money in some peculiar way, and refuse to explain how."

"Hold on a minute, Mr. Franklin," said Neal, who was in a towering rage by this time. "You go a little too far. I don't consider that it is at all necessary for me to explain to you, but I am willing to do it on Hessie's account. I did not say that I spent her money otherwise. I merely said that I spent it, which was perfectly true. I spent it paying half my debt. I owed a hundred dollars at that time, instead of fifty as I told you. I paid half then, and the rest I paid a few days ago, and it doesn't make any difference to you or any one else how I got the money. As for the scrape, I was not in it. You can believe my word or not, as you like. I've said all I am going to say, and if you don't mind I'll leave you. I've had enough of this."

He stalked out of the library, and went up to his own room. No one saw him again that evening.

"You are too hard on him, John," said Mrs. Franklin.

"Hard on him! It would have been better for the boy if some one had begun earlier to be hard on him. It is the most extraordinary thing where he got that money."

Nothing was said to the others about it all. They knew that Neal was in fresh disgrace, but Mr. and Mrs. Franklin withheld the details at present. Neal himself was dumb. Not even to his only confidante, Cynthia, did he unburden himself. He was too angry with her father to trust himself to speak to her on the subject, and his silence made Cynthia miserable.

Neal did not acknowledge for a moment that the stand taken by Mr. Franklin was perfectly justifiable and natural, and he allowed his resentment to burn furiously, making no effort to overcome it.

His mistake from the beginning had been concealment, but this he had yet to realize. He fancied that it would be lowering to his pride to make any explanation whatever.

Let them think what they liked, he did not care, he said to himself again and again.

CHAPTER XIII

During these early months of the year a change had come over Miss Betsey Trinkett's life. Silas Green had died.

Mr. and Mrs. Franklin went to Wayborough for the funeral, and found Miss Betsey quite broken.

"To think that the day was fixed at last," she said, "and he died only the week before. Well, well, it does seem passing queer, after all these years. It doesn't do to put a thing off too long. And yet, perhaps, it's all for the best, for if I'd given up and gone down there to live, I should have had nothing now to look at but the Soldiers' Monument, and I'd have felt real lonesome without the Merrimac."

And with this consolation the old lady took up her life again, and found it very much the same thing it had been before, with the exception of Sunday night. On that evening she would not have the lamps lighted, but would sit in her favorite window and look out across the valley at her beloved view, her eyes turned in that direction long after it became too dark to see.

Sometimes then she regretted that she had not yielded to Silas's arguments, and gone to live in the house in the village. It would have pleased him. And it seemed very lonely Sunday night without Silas.

After a while—it was a day or two after the communications came from Bronson—Mr. Franklin received a letter from his aunt. She was pretty well, but felt as if she had not heard from them for a long time. She would send Willy's present soon. Had Janet's been placed in the savings-bank? She had not heard from Janet since she sent it. Why did not the child write?

As nothing had come to Janet from Miss Trinkett, this caused some surprise.

"I am afraid Aunt Betsey has trusted to government once too often," said Mr. Franklin, "for evidently the package has gone astray. I wonder what was there besides the gold dollars."

"Something to make it an odd-looking package, you may be sure, papa," said Cynthia.

Mr. Franklin inquired of the postmaster. That personage was a nervous little man, much harassed with the responsibilities and duties of his position.

"Something lost, Mr. Franklin? Now that's very strange. I can't think it's lost. Yes, I remember a number of odd-looking packages that have come for your family from Wayborough. There may have been one lately, though I can't say for sure. Let me see. I remember young Gordon coming for the mail one day, and getting—no, he didn't get one, he sent it—a money-order. Happen to remember it because he paid for it in gold. That's all I can safely say about anything, Mr. Franklin. There may have been a package—what did you say, Miss? Stamps and postal-cards? Yes, yes."

And the busy little man turned to the next comer.

Mr. Franklin left the office with a thoughtful face. He was a very impulsive man, too apt to say the first thing that occurred to him, without regard to consequences. Therefore, when he got into the carriage and, taking the reins from Edith, drove hurriedly out High Street towards Oakleigh, he exclaimed:

"I am almost inclined to believe that Neal knows more about Aunt Betsey's present to Janet than any of us."

Janet, who was perched on the back seat, heard her own name mentioned, and proceeded to listen attentively. Both her father and sister forgot that she was there, and she took especial pains not to remind them of her presence.

"How do you mean, papa?" asked Edith.

"I think it is a remarkable coincidence, if nothing more. I had a letter the other day from young Bronson, stating that Neal owed him fifty dollars. The same night I had another letter from him, saying that he had received a money-order from Neal for the amount. We questioned Neal, and he would give no satisfactory answer as to where he got the money. The postmaster tells me that Neal paid for his money-order in gold. Aunt Betsey's present to Janet is missing; we all know that Aunt Betsey always sends gold. The postmaster seems to think that a package may have come through the office to us, though he is not absolutely certain of it. What more natural than to suppose that the gold Neal had was meant for Janet? He may have called for the mail that day, recognized the package from Aunt Betsey, and the temptation was too much for him."

"Oh, papa!" cried Edith, much shocked, "I can't believe that Neal would do a thing like that."

"I can't either," said her father, cutting the air with his whip in his impatience, and making his horse prance madly—"I can't either, and I am sure I don't want to! Let us forget that I said it, Edith. Don't think of it again, and on no account repeat what I said. The idea came into my head, and I spoke without thinking. I wouldn't have Hester know it for the world. But it is strange, isn't it, that Neal paid gold for his money-order. Where did he get it?"

"It is strange, papa, but indeed I think Neal is honest. I am sure—oh, I am very sure—that it couldn't have been Janet's."

"Then where did he get it?" repeated Mr. Franklin, with another cut of his whip.

"Perhaps Mrs. Franklin gave it to him."

"Of course she didn't," exclaimed her father, with irritation, "and I wish you would oblige me, Edith, by not calling my wife 'Mrs. Franklin.' If you do not choose to speak of her as the rest of my children do, you can at least call her 'Hester.' You annoy me beyond measure."

Edith turned very white as she said:

"I am sorry, papa. Then I will call her nothing. I can't possibly say 'mamma' to her, and I don't feel like speaking to her by her first name."

"What nonsense it all is," said Mr. Franklin. "I am thoroughly disappointed in you, Edith."

"I don't know why you should be, papa. I have nothing to do with it. If the Gordons had not come here this would never have happened. The money would not be missing, you wouldn't have had the letters from Tony Bronson, and I—oh, I would have been so much happier!"

"If you are not happy, it is entirely your own fault," said her father, sternly. "Now let me hear no more of these absurd notions of yours. I have too much to think of that is of more importance."

Edith wanted to cry, but she controlled herself. She was to drive with her father over to Upper Falls, where he had to attend to some business, and now she had made him seriously angry, she knew. She swallowed the lumps that rose in her throat, and presently she managed to speak on some indifferent subject; but her father made no reply, and they soon turned in at Oakleigh gates. Janet, the small, quiet person on the back seat, could scarcely wait to get home. She must find Neal at once.

But Neal was not easily to be found. She trotted up to his room, but he was not there. She went to the cellar stairs and called, but Neal had neglected his duties of late as partner in the poultry business; in fact, he had retired altogether, and the eggs reposed there alone. Janet was not allowed to descend the stairs because of her misdemeanors last year.

She went to the workshop, but all was quiet. Looking out from the upper window, however, she spied Bob in the pasture; perhaps Neal was with him. She went down and unfastened the big gate that opened into the barn-yard.

Country child though she was, Janet was sorely afraid of venturing through the barn-yard alone. Were there any pigs there? Yes, there were a great many. Janet detested pigs, ugly grunting creatures! And there were some cows also, and she had on her red jacket. She promptly laid it aside and made a bold rush through the yard.

On the whole, she rather enjoyed the excitement. She was alone, for Willy had gone to Boston with her mother, and Cynthia and Jack were at school. Janet herself was enjoying an unlooked-for holiday owing to the illness of her teacher, and she was about to fulfil the proverb which tells of the occupation that is found for idle hands to do, though in this case it was an idle tongue.

The dangers of the barn-yard overcome, Janet pursued her way along the cart-road that led to the far meadow, and there, sitting on a rock near the river, she found the object of her search. He was whittling a boat while he pondered moodily about his affairs.

"Neal, Neal!" she called, breathless from excitement and haste, "I want to speak to you. What have you done with my present?"

"Where did you come from, you small imp?" said Neal, with lazy good-nature. Preoccupied though he was, he was fond of children, and particularly of mischief-loving Janet, and he was not sorry to have his solitude relieved by her coming.

"Where's my present?" repeated Janet; "I want it dreadful bad."

"Your present! What do you mean, young one? You don't suppose for an instant that I'm making this boat for you, do you?"

"Boat!" cried Janet, disdainfully; "I don't want any old boat; I want Aunt Betsey's present."

"I suppose you do. I would myself if I were so lucky as to own an Aunt Betsey. But I'm afraid I can't help you in that line, my child."

"Yes, you can," said Janet, tugging at his elbow, "you can too. You've got it. Papa said so."

"Got what?"

"Aunt Betsey's present. He and the postmaster man said you took it."

"Said I took it?"

"Yes. Come, Neal, give it to me. I don't want the gold dollars—you can have those—but I'd like the funny thing she sent with them. Aunt Betsey allus sends funny things. Come along, Neal. Give it to me."

"Did your father say I took that money?"

"Yes, he did. Didn't I say so lots of times? Edith said you didn't, and papa said you did. What's the matter with your face? It looks awful funny."

"Never mind what it looks like. Tell me what your father said."

"Oh, I don't know what he said, and I've told you ten hundred times. Don't hold my arm so tight; it hurts. Let me go, Neal."

"I won't, till you tell me what he said."

"I'll never tell unless you let go. I'll scream and people'll know you're killing me dead, and then you'll get punished."

She opened her mouth and gave a long, shrill shriek.

"Oh, hush up!" exclaimed Neal, roughly; "if I let go will you tell me?"

"Yes, if you'll give me that boat. I think I'd like it, after all."

Neal released her and thrust the boat into her hand.

"Now what?" he said.

"Oh, nothing much, except papa came out of the post-office and told Edith the postmaster man said maybe you'd taken Aunt Betsey's package, 'cause you gave him some gold dollars. And papa said it must have been my present, 'cause you couldn't get gold dollars any other way no-how, and papa was mad, I guess, 'cause his face looked the way it does when some of us chillens is naughty, with his mouth all shut up tight. There, that's all. Now, Neal, give me the thing Aunt Betsey sent."

"I haven't got it and I never had it. And now good-bye to you, every one of you, forever! Do you hear? Forever! I'm not going to stay another minute in a place where I'm insulted."

He strode away, and Janet, frightened at she knew not what, sat down on a rock and began to cry. How very queer Neal was, and how queer his face looked! She wondered what he was going to do. Perhaps he was going down to the cellar to smash all the eggs. He looked that way.

She sat there a while, but it was cool without the red jacket, left on the other side of the barn-yard—for although it was spring according to the almanac, there was still a sharpness in the air—and very soon she too went towards home. She had not found Aunt Betsey's present, after all, and she had nothing to repay her for her search but a half-made wooden boat and an aching arm.

And there were those pigs, still at large. She got through safely, but left the gate open, thereby allowing the animals to escape, and incurring the wrath of the farmer.

When she reached the house Neal was not to be found. There was no one at home, for Edith and her father had driven over to Upper Falls on business, after leaving Janet at the door. There was nothing to do but to go out and tease the good-natured kitchen-maid into giving her a huge slice of bread and butter and sugar. Mary Ann and Martha, the old servants, would never do it, but the youthful Amanda was more lenient.

"Where's Neal, 'Manda?" asked Janet, as she munched the delicious portion which was placed before her. They were in the pantry, beyond the ken of the other maids.

"I don't know. He came a-stalkin' past the latching windies a little while ago, an' I heard him run up-stairs an' down like a house a-fire, an' out the front door with a bang."

"Guess he's excited," murmured Janet, with her mouth full; "guess that must be it. He's gone off mad. We had a fight out in the pasture."

"La, child! What do you mean?"

"Oh, I'm not going to say any more, 'cept me and Neal, we fit a fight in the pasture. I made him awful mad," with another huge bite.

"La, child, you do beat everything! But there's Mary Ann calling me. Don't you take a bit more sugar. Now mind!"

But Janet, left to herself in the pantry, made a fine repast.

The family came home to dinner, with the exception of Mr. Franklin and Edith, and although Neal's absence was commented upon, no one thought anything of it. He frequently went off for a long day alone on the river.

When the meal was nearly over and dessert had been placed upon the table, Janet thought that she would announce what had taken place. She felt quite important at being the cause of Neal's disappearance.

"Guess Neal's awful mad with me," she said, suddenly. No one paid much attention. She would try again.

"Guess Neal's awful mad with me 'bout what I said 'bout Aunt Betsey's present."

"What did you say about it?" asked Jack, who sat next to her. There was a lull in the conversation, and every one heard her reply.

"Oh, I told him to give it to me. I said papa said he took it, and he could have the gold dollars, but I wanted the funny thing. Why, maybe it was a doll or a purse or some other nice thing. Course I wanted it. My, though, Neal was mad!"

"What did you tell him, Janet?" asked Mrs. Franklin, in much astonishment; "that your father said Neal had taken your present? When did he say so, and what do you mean?"

"Goody, mamma, you're asking most as many questions as Neal did. Guess you're excited, like he was. I told him papa said he'd taken my present from Aunt Betsey. The postmaster man said so this morning. And Neal looked awful queer when I told him, and he hurted my arm awful bad. And then he went off and left me."

Mrs. Franklin became very white.

"I think you will have to excuse me, children. I—I do not feel very well. I will go lie down. Jack, your arm, please."

Jack sprang to help her and led her from the room. Cynthia only waited to scold Janet for her idle chatter and then followed.

"But it's true, Cynthia," her small sister called after her. "It's true, and you're real mean to say it isn't. You just ask Edith."

When Mr. Franklin returned and learned that his hastily uttered words of the morning had been repeated to his wife and to Neal, he was distressed beyond measure.

"My dear, I never meant it," he said. "Hester, you must know that I could not really believe that Neal would do such a thing. It was impossible to help remarking upon the singular coincidence. I never thought the child would hear me. What shall I do with her? She ought not to have repeated what I said."

"Do nothing, John. Janet is not to blame; naturally a child of her age would get it wrong. But oh, I am relieved to find you did not really think it! It gave me such a shock to hear that you thought him capable of such an action."

"Where is the boy? I want to tell him myself."

But Neal could not be found. Cynthia and Jack hunted over the place, looking for him in all his haunts. He was not on the river, for his canoe was in its place. He had not gone to the village, for no horse was out, and, whether he had walked or driven, his sister would have met him when she returned from Boston. He could not have gone for a walk, for Bob had been left at home, and Neal never walked without Bob.

A horrible foreboding seized Cynthia. What if Neal had run away? But no, surely he would never do such a thing. The idea of her even thinking of it when such a course would only make people believe that he had really taken the money. Cynthia scolded herself severely for having allowed the supposition to come into her mind. But where was he? As a last resource she called Janet to her and again questioned the child closely. They were standing on the drive in front of the house.

"What did Neal say to you, Janet, when he went off?"

"Oh, he was awful mad, I told you, Cynthia. He was just mad."

"But did he say anything?"

"Oh yes, lots. But I forget what."

"Can't you remember anything, Janet? Not one word? Did he say where he was going?"

"No-o," drawled Janet, "he just said— My, Cynthia, look at that bluebird! It's a real bluebird, sure's you're alive. Wish I could catch him."

"But, Janet, never mind the bird. What did Neal say?"

"Oh, he said good-bye and he was going. Cynthia, I b'lieve if I had some salt to put on that bird's tail I could catch him. Mayn't I, Cynthia? Mayn't I get some salt and put it on his tail?"

"No, you can't!" cried Cynthia, stamping her foot. "I do wish you would tell me all Neal said."

"There now, you're in an angry passion," observed her small sister, gazing at her calmly; "you've let your angry passions rise. You frightened that bird away, a-stampin' of your foot that way. Aren't you 'shamed!"

"Oh, Janet, never mind. Please tell me. Did he really say good-bye?"

"Will you give me your coral necklace if I tell you all he said?" said Janet, who was ever prompt to seize an opportunity.

"Yes, yes! Anything!"

"Well, he said—are you sure you mean it, Cynthia? I want the coral necklace with the nice little gold clasp and—"

"Yes, I know," groaned Cynthia. "I've only got one coral necklace, you dreadful child! Go on, do go on!"

"My, Cynthia! You're terrible impatient, and I guess your angry passions have riz again. Well, he said, 'Good-bye forever, I'm going away,' and off he went."

"Was that all? Truthfully, Janet?"

"Yes, truthfully all. He said he wouldn't stay any longer 'cause he was salted, or something."

"Salted!"

"Yes, or sulted, or some word like that."

"Insulted, do you mean?"

"Yes, I guess so. And now, where's the necklace?"