The Story of the Gravelys: A Tale for Girls

“‘There must be a little left,’ I said, ‘just a little bit. I’ll make it my business to find it. Good morning,’ and with this threat I left him and ran, ran for River Street.”

“Good for you,” said Margaretta.

“I swept along like a whirlwind. I gathered up the children and took them down on Milligan’s Wharf.”

“‘Children,’ I said, ‘do you know who the Mayor is?’

“They said he was the big man down in the city hall.

“‘And how did he get there?’

“‘They votes him in, and they votes him out,’ a bootblack said.

“‘Who votes?’ I asked.

“‘All the men in the city.’

“‘Do your fathers vote?’”

“‘Course—ain’t they Riverporters?’

“‘Then,’ I said, ‘you belong to the city, and you own a little bit of the Mayor, and I have just been asking him to give you a park to play in, but he won’t.’

“The children didn’t seem to care, so I became demagoguish. ‘Boys and girls,’ I said, ‘the children of the North End have a park, the children of the South End have a park, the children of the West End have a park, but the children of the East End aren’t good enough to have a park! What do you think ought to be done to the Mayor?’

“A little girl giggled, and said, ‘Duck him in the river,’ and a boy said, ‘Tar and feather him.’

“‘No,’ I said, ‘that would not be right, but, come now, children, don’t you want a park—a nice wide place with trees, and benches, and swings, and a big heap of sand to play in?’

“‘Oh, glorymaroo!’ said a little girl, ‘it would be just like a Sunday-school picnic.’

“‘Yes, just like a picnic every day, and now, children, you can have this park if you will do as I tell you; will you?’

“‘Yes, yes,’ they all shouted, for they had begun to get excited. ‘Now listen,’ I went on, and I indicated two of the most ragged little creatures present, ‘go to the city hall, take each other’s hands, and when you see the Mayor coming, go up to him politely, and say, “Please, Mr. Mayor, will you give the children of the East End a park to play in?”’

“They ran off like foxes before I could say another word, then they rushed back. ‘We don’t know that gen’l’man.’

“Here was a dilemma, but a newsboy, with eyes like gimlets, got me out of it. ‘See here,’ he said, ‘I can’t wiggle in ’count of business, but I’ll give signals. You, here, Biddy Malone, when you see me hop on one leg, and kick a stone, you’ll know the Mayor’s coming, see?’

“The girls nodded and ran off, and he ran after them.

“I mustn’t forget to say I told them to go ask their mothers, but, bless you, the street is so narrow that the women all knew what I was doing, and approved, I could tell by their grins.

“‘Now I want a boy for the Mayor’s house,’ I said.

“A shock-headed urchin volunteered, and I detailed him to sit on the Mayor’s steps till that gentleman betook himself home for luncheon, and then to rise and say, ‘Please, Mr. Mayor, give the children of the East End a park to play in.’

“Well, I sent out about ten couples and six singles. They were to station themselves at intervals along the unhappy man’s route, and by this time the little monkeys had all got so much in the spirit of it, that I had hard work to keep the whole crowd from going.”

Margaretta leaned back in her chair and laughed quietly. “Well, if you’re not developing.”

“Put any creature in a tight place,” said Berty, indignantly, “and see how it will squirm.”

“How did the Mayor take this persecution?”

“Like an angel, for the first few days. Then I began to increase the number of my scouts. They met him on his own sidewalk, on the corner as he waited for the car, on the steps of his club, till at last he began to dodge them.”

“Then they got their blood up. You can’t elude the children of the streets. I told them not to beg or whine, just to say their little formula, then vanish.

“At the end of a week he began to have a hunted look. Then he began to peer around street corners, then he took to a coupé, and then he sprained his ankle.”

“What did the children do?”

“Politely waited for him to get well, but he sent me a note, saying he would do all he could to get them their park, and with his influence that meant, of course, that they should have it.”

“How lovely—weren’t you glad?”

“I danced for joy—but this puzzled me. I hadn’t expected to get at his heart so soon. Who had helped me? Grandma said it was the Lord.”

“Aided by Mrs. Jimson, I suspect,” added Margaretta, shrewdly. “This explains a mystery. Some time ago, I heard Roger and Tom Everest down in the library nearly killing themselves laughing. When I asked Roger what it was about, he said only a Jimson joke. Then he said, ‘Can’t you keep Berty out of the city hall?’”

“I said, ‘What do you mean?’ but he wouldn’t tell me any more. I believe that Mr. Jimson’s men friends teased him, and his mother and sisters brought pressure to bear upon him.”

“They called yesterday,” said Berty, demurely.

“Well, well, and did they mention your park?”

“They were full of it. I went down to the wharf with them. I am there half the time. You must come, Margaretta, and see the work going on.”

“Where did the Mayor get the money?”

“Squeezed it out of something. He said his councillors approved. He won’t see me, though—carries on all the business by correspondence.”

Margaretta looked anxious, but Berty was unheeding, and went on, eloquently. “Isn’t it queer how Grandma’s teaching is in our very bones? I didn’t know I had it in me to keep even our own family together, but I have. I’d fight like a wolf for you and Bonny, Margaretta, and now I’m getting so I’ll fight like a wolf for our bigger human family.”

Margaretta’s anxiety passed away, and she smiled indulgently. “Very well, sister. It’s noble to fight for the right, but don’t get to be that thing that men hate so. What is it they call that sort of person—oh, yes, a new woman.”

Berty raised both hands. “I’ll be a new woman, or an old woman, or a wild woman, or a tame woman, or any kind of a woman, except a lazy woman!”

CHAPTER IX.
THE MAYOR’S DILEMMA

Berty was rowing down the river in her pink boat with its bands of white.

She was all pink and white, boat, cushions, oars, dress, and complexion—except her hair and eyes, which formed a striking and almost startling blue-black contrast.

However, Berty was nothing if not original, and just now in the late afternoon, when all the other boats and canoes were speeding homeward, she was hurrying down the river.

She gave a gay greeting to her friends and acquaintances, and to many of the fishermen and river-hands with whom she had become acquainted since she came to live on River Street.

She scarcely knew why she was turning her back on her home at this, the time of her evening meal, unless it was that she was so full of life and strength that she simply could not go into the house.

Grandma would not care. Grandma was too philosophical to worry. She would take her knitting to the veranda and sit tranquilly awaiting the return of her granddaughter. If she got hungry, she would take her supper.

chanted Berty, then she stopped. “But I must not be selfish. I will just row round Bobbetty’s Island and then go home.”

Bobbetty’s Island was a haunted island about the size of an extensive building lot. Poor old man Bobbetty had lived here alone for so many years that he had become crazy at last, and had hanged himself to one of the spruce-trees.

Picnic-parties rarely landed here—the island was too small, and the young people did not like its reputation. They always went farther down to some of the larger islands.

So this little thickly wooded piece of land stood alone and solitary, dropped like a bit of driftwood in the middle of the river.

Berty was not afraid of the ghost. She was rowing gaily round the spruces singing softly to herself, when she saw something that made her mouth close abruptly.

An annoyed-looking man sat on a big flat rock close to the water’s edge. He stared at her without speaking, and Berty stared at him. This was no ghost. Poor old Bobbetty had not appeared in the flesh. This was a very living and very irritated man, judging from his countenance.

Berty smiled softly to herself, then, without a word, she drew near the islet, took her hands from the oars, and, pulling her note-book from her pocket, coolly scribbled a few lines on a slip of paper:

Having finished her note, she drew in an oar, put the paper flat on the blade, stuck a pin through it to make it firm, then extended it to the waiting and watching man.

Without a word on his part, he got up from his rock seat, and, stretching out a hand, took the slip of paper. Then reseating himself with a slight smile, he produced his own note-book, tore a leaf from it, and took a stylographic pen from his pocket.

The oar was still resting on the rocks. He pinned his answer to it, saw Berty draw it in, read it, and then she brought her boat round for him.

Still without speaking he stepped in, somewhat clumsily, seated himself, and mopped his perspiring face.

They were not moving, and he looked up. Berty had dropped the oars, and had calmly seated herself on the stern cushions. She had no intention of rowing with a man in the boat.

The Mayor set to work, while Berty lounged on her seat and studied the shell-like tints of the sky. Suddenly she heard a slight sound, and brought her gaze down to the river.

The Mayor was laughing—trying not to do so, but slowly and gradually giving way and shaking all over like a bowl of jelly.

She would not ask him what amused him, and presently he said, “Excuse me.”

“Why?” asked Berty, with preternatural gravity.

“Well, well,” he stuttered, “I don’t know, but I guess it isn’t good manners for one person to laugh when the other isn’t.”

“Laugh on,” said Berty, benevolently, “the whole river is before you.”

The Mayor did laugh on, and rowed at the same time, until at last he was obliged to take his hands from the oars, and get out his handkerchief to wipe his eyes.

Berty’s face was hidden from him. She had picked up a huge illustrated paper from the bottom of the boat, and her whole head was concealed by it. But the paper was shaking, and he had an idea that she, too, was laughing.

His suspicion was correct, for presently the paper dropped, and he saw that his companion was in a convulsion of girlish laughter.

“Oh! oh! oh!” she cried, taking away the handkerchief that she had been stuffing in her mouth, “it is too funny. You hate the sight of me, and write notes to avoid me, and then go lose your boat on a desert island, and have to be rescued by me. Oh! it is too delicious!”

The Mayor thought he could laugh, but his laughter was nothing to this ecstasy of youthful enjoyment, and his harsh, thick tones gradually died away, while he listened delightedly to this rippling outflow from pretty lips.

“It is comical,” he said, after a time, when she had somewhat calmed down. “I guess I ought to apologize to you. I have treated you mean. But you got a corner on me.”

“A corner in street urchins,” said Berty, gaspingly; “well, I’m obliged to you for getting the park, but I must say I wish you would give the work some of your personal superintendence.”

“I’ve been down,” he said, unguardedly.

“When?” asked Berty, promptly.

“At night,” he said, with some confusion. “I slip down after I know you’ve gone to bed.”

“How do you think the workmen are getting on?” she asked, anxiously.

“Fairly well—what do you want that high fence for?”

“For games—wall games. I wish we could have baths at the end of the wharf—public baths. The boys can go down to the river, but the women and children have no chance. Poor souls, they suffer. You would not like to be cut off from your daily bath, would you, sir?”

“Well, no,” replied the Mayor, cautiously, “I don’t suppose I would.”

“The city ought to build baths,” said Berty, warmly.

“There’s private charity,” said the Mayor.

“Private charity, my dear sir! You don’t know those River Street people. They have as much pride as you have. What the city does for them is all right—what private citizens do for them publicly, and with all sorts of ridiculous restrictions, angers them.”

The Mayor looked longingly over his shoulder toward the city.

“Oh, pardon me,” said Berty, hurriedly. “I shouldn’t talk business to you in my own boat when you can’t escape me. Pray tell me of your adventures this afternoon. Was your boat stolen?”

“Stolen, no—it was my own carelessness. You know I’m driven to death with business, and if I take a friend out with me he’s got an axe to grind for some one, so I steal off alone whenever I can. Nobody goes to that island, and it’s a fine place to read or snooze, but to-day I neglected to secure my boat, and away it went.”

“And nobody came by?”

“Lots of people, I suppose, but I was asleep until just before you came.”

“Isn’t the river delicious?” said Berty, dreamily.

“I like it well enough,” said Mr. Jimson, letting unappreciative eyes wander over the blue water and the smiling landscape beyond. “It’s a great place to plan your business.”

“Business, business, business,” murmured the girl, “it seems sacrilege to mention that word here.”

“If it weren’t for business of various kinds, there wouldn’t be any Riverport,” said the man, with a backward nod of his head.

“Poor old Riverport!” said Berty; “poor, sordid, material old Riverport!”

The Mayor braced his feet harder and stared at her. Then he said, “If it weren’t for business, most of us would go under.”

“Yes, but we needn’t be holding it up all the time, and bowing down to it, and worshipping, and prostrating our souls before it, till we haven’t any spirit or beauty left.”

The Mayor stared at her again. Then he said, “You don’t seem as silly as most girls.”

This to Berty was a challenge. Her eyes sparkled wickedly, and from that instant till they reached the city she poured out a babble of girlish nonsense that completely bewildered the plain man before her.

“Will you let me off at the city wharf?” he asked, at last, when she had paused to take breath.

“Certainly,” said Berty, “after you row me home.”

“Oh, excuse me,” he said, confusedly. “I am so little in ladies’ society that I don’t know how to act.”

“We’ve got a tiny wharf at the end of our back yard,” said Berty. “You’ll know it because all the wharves round are black and dingy, but ours is painted pink and white. There it is—look ahead and you’ll see.”

The Mayor looked, and soon the little boat was gliding toward the gay flight of steps.

“Now will you tie her up and come in through the house?” asked Berty, politely.

The Mayor did as he was requested, and, stepping ashore, curiously followed his guide up through the tidy back yard to the big old-fashioned house that seemed to peer with its small eyes of windows far out over the river.

On the ground floor were a kitchen and pantry and several good-sized rooms that had been used for servants’ quarters in the first, palmy days of the old mansion.

“A pity this neighbourhood was given up to poor people,” said the Mayor, as he tramped up a narrow, dark stairway behind his guide.

“A blessing that they have something so lovely as this river view,” said Berty, quickly. “I can’t tell you how we appreciate it after our limited outlook from Grand Avenue. Here is our dining-room,” and she threw open the door of a large room at the back of the house.

Mr. Jimson stepped in somewhat awkwardly. The room was plainly furnished, but the small windows were open, and also a glass door leading to a veranda, where a table was prepared for the evening meal. He could see a white cloth, and numerous dishes covered and uncovered.

“Grandma,” said Berty, “here is Mr. Jimson—you remember hearing me speak of him.”

Mr. Jimson, filled with curiosity, turned to the composed little old lady who came in from the veranda and shook hands with him. This was Madam Travers. He had been familiar with her face for years, but she never before had spoken to him.

“Will you stay and have a cup of tea with my granddaughter and me?” she asked him, when he looked uncomfortably toward the door.

His gaze went again to the table. A rising breeze had just brushed aside the napkin covering a pitcher.

“Is that a jug of buttermilk I see?” he asked, wistfully.

“It is,” said the old lady, kindly.

“Then I’ll stay,” he said, and he dropped his hat on a chair.

Grandma and Berty both smiled, and he smiled himself, and, looking longingly toward the table, said, “I can’t get it at home, and in the restaurants it is poor stuff.”

“And do you like curds and cream?” asked Grandma, leading the way to the table.

“Yes, ma’am!” he said, vigorously.

“And sage cheese, and corn-cake, and crullers?”

“Why, you take me back to my grandfather’s farm in the country,” he replied, squeezing himself into the seat indicated.

“My granddaughter and I are very fond of simple dishes,” said Grandma. “Now I’ll ask a blessing on this food, and then, Berty, you must give Mr. Jimson some buttermilk. I see he is very thirsty.”

Mr. Jimson was an exceedingly happy man. He had pumpkin pie, and cold ham, and chicken, in addition to the other dishes he liked, and to wind up with, a cup of hot tea.

“This is first-class tea,” he said, abruptly.

“It came from China,” said Grandma, “a present from a Chinese official to my late husband. I will show you some of the stalks with the leaves on them.”

“Well, you look pretty cozy here,” said the Mayor, after he had finished his meal, and sat gazing out on the river. “I wish I could stay, but I’ve got a meeting.”

“Come some other time,” said Grandma, graciously.

“I’d like to,” he said, abruptly. “I rarely go out, unless it’s to a big dinner which I hate, and sometimes you get tired of your own house—though I’ve got a good mother and sisters,” he added, hastily.

“I have no doubt of that,” said Grandma. “They were kind enough to call on us.”

“You have a good granddaughter,” he said, with a curious expression, as he looked down into the back yard where Berty had gone to feed some white pigeons, “but,” he added, “she is a puzzler sometimes. I expect she hates me.”

“She does not hate any one,” said Grandma, softly. “She is young and overzealous at times, and will heartily scold the latest one to incur her displeasure, but she has a loving heart.”

“It’s fine to be young,” said the Mayor, with a sigh; “good-night, madam. I’ve enjoyed my visit.”

“Come again some other time,” said Grandma, with quaint, old-fashioned courtesy, “we shall always be glad to see you.”

“I will, madam,” said the Mayor, and he gripped her hand till it ached. Then he took his hat, and trotted nimbly away.

“Has he gone?” asked Berty, coming into the room a few minutes later.

“Yes,” said Grandma.

The girl’s eyes were dancing. She was longing to make fun of him, but her grandmother, she knew, was inexorable. No one should ever ridicule in her presence the guest who had broken her bread and eaten her salt.

Yet Berty must say something. “Grandma,” she remarked, softly, “it isn’t safe to cut any one, is it?”

“To cut any one?” repeated the old lady.

“To cut the acquaintance of any one. For instance—you hate a person, you stop speaking to that person. You get into a scrape, that person is the only one who can help you out.”

Grandma said nothing.

“Surely,” said Berty, persuasively, “in the course of your long life, you must have often noticed it is not only mean, but it is bad policy to break abruptly with any one without just cause?”

“Yes,” said Grandma, quietly, “I have.”

“Any further remarks to make?” inquired Berty, after a long pause.

Grandma’s dimple slowly crept into view.

Berty laughed, kissed her, and ran off to bed, saying, as she did so, “I wonder whether your new admirer will ever call again?”

Grandma tranquilly rolled up her knitting and followed her.

CHAPTER X.
A GROUNDLESS SUSPICION

Grandma was on the veranda, knitting, knitting, always knitting.

“What a bird’s perch this is,” said some one suddenly, behind her.

She turned round. Grandson Roger was trying to squeeze his tall frame between the equally tall frame of an old-fashioned rocking-chair and the veranda railing.

“How you must miss your big veranda on Grand Avenue,” he said, coming to sit beside her.

“I don’t,” said Grandma, tranquilly. “It’s wonderful how one gets used to things. Berty and I used to enjoy our roomy veranda, but we have adapted ourselves to this one, and never feel like complaining.”

“It’s a wonderful thing—that power of adaptation,” said the young man, soberly, “and I have a theory that the primitive in us likes to return to small quarters and simplicity. For instance, I am never so happy as when I leave my large house and go to live in my hunting-camp.”

Grandma smiled, and took up her knitting again.

Roger, who had comfortably settled himself in the corner beside her, frowned slightly. “Grandma, the girls tell me that you are selling these stockings you knit.”

“Yes, why not?” she asked, quietly.

“But there is no need of it.”

“They bring a good price. You cannot buy home-knit silk stockings everywhere.”

“But it is drudgery for you.”

“I enjoy it.”

“Very well, if you enjoy it. But you won’t persist if it tires you?”

“No, Roger.”

“Who buys the stockings?” he asked, curiously.

“I sell them among my friends. Mrs. Darley-James buys the most of them.”

His face grew red. “You supply stockings to her?”

“Why should I not?”

“I don’t know why, but it makes me ‘mad,’ as Berty says.”

“Didn’t you supply her husband with that new iron railing for his garden?”

“Yes, ma’am, I did, and it’s a good one.”

“Well, if you sell the husband a garden railing, why shouldn’t I sell the wife a pair of stockings?”

“I don’t know,” he said, with a laugh. “I suppose it’s the nonsensical notion about one kind of labour being degrading, and another ennobling. We’re all simpletons, anyway—we human beings. Where is Berty this evening?”

“Listen,” said Grandma, putting up a hand.

Down in the back yard was a sound of hammering.

Roger leaned over the railing. “What under the sun is she doing?”

“Puttering over those pigeons—making new boxes for them.”

“Who is with her? I see a man’s back.”

“The Mayor.”

“Jimson?”—and Roger fell back in his seat with a disturbed air.

“The same,” said Grandma, calmly.

Roger wrinkled his forehead. “That reminds me—came to see you partly about that. It seems Berty and the Mayor go about a good deal together.”

“How do you know?” asked Grandma, shrewdly.

“Oh, I know, people notice them.”

“Some one has been complaining to you,” said Grandma. “Who was it?”

Roger smiled. “Well, to tell the truth, Tom Everest was grumbling. You know he has been just like a brother to Berty and Margaretta.”

“Yes, I know,” said Grandma, tranquilly. “I just wanted to find out whether there was any public gossip about Berty’s friendship for the Mayor. Friendly inquiry on the part of an old playmate is another matter.”

“I cannot imagine Berty giving any one any occasion for gossip,” said Roger, proudly.

“Nor I—well, go on, what did Tom say?”

“He said, ‘What does this mean, Stanisfield? Berty is for ever on the river with the Mayor, he is for ever dangling about her house, and that park she is getting in shape for the children. If I were you I’d put a word in Mrs. Travers’s ear. Don’t speak to Berty.’”

“Poor Tom!” said Grandma.

“He’s jealous, I suppose,” said Roger. “Still, if he talks, some one else may talk. What does it mean that Jimson comes here so much? You don’t suppose he has taken a fancy to Berty?”

Grandma smiled. “Yes, I do, a strong and uncommon fancy. He is perfectly fascinated by her.”

Roger’s jaw fell, and he smote with his fist on the arm of the rocking-chair. “Get rid of him, Grandma. Don’t have him round.”

“Why not—he’s an honourable man.”

“But not for Berty—you don’t know, Grandma. He’s all right morally, but he’s vulgar—none of our set go with him.”

“I don’t find him unbearably vulgar. He seems a kind-hearted man, but I am unintentionally deceiving you. He is over forty years old, Roger.”

“Well, men of forty, and men of fifty, fancy girls of half their age.”

“Fancy them, yes, but he has no intention of falling in love with Berty. He is simply charmed with her as a companion.”

“It’s a dangerous companionship,” grumbled Roger.

“Not so—they quarrel horribly,” and Grandma laughed enjoyably over some reminiscences.

“Quarrel, do they?”

“Yes, Roger—my theory is that that man is too hard worked. Fagged out when he leaves his office, he is beset by petitioners for this thing and that thing. At home I fancy he has little peace, for his mother and sisters are ambitious socially, and urge him to attend various functions for which he has no heart. Unexpectedly he has found a place of refuge here, and a congenial playfellow in Berty. I think he really has to put a restraint upon himself to keep from coming oftener.”

“This is Jimson in a new light,” said Roger, listening attentively.

“In River Street,” continued Grandma, “he is free. No one comes to find him here. He has plenty of excitement and amusement if Berty is about. If she is out, he sits and talks to me by the hour.”

“To you—” said Roger. “I should not think he would have anything in common with a lady like you.”

“Ah, Roger, there is beauty in every human soul,” said the little old lady, eloquently. “The trouble is we are all too much taken up with externals. There is something pathetic to me about this man. Hard-working, ambitious, longing for congenial companionship, not knowing just where to get it, he keeps on at his daily treadmill. He has got to be a kind of machine, and he has tried to stifle the spirit within him. Berty, with her youth and freshness, has, in some way or other, the knack of putting her finger on some sensitive nerve that responds easily to her touch. He is becoming quite interested in what she is interested in.”

Roger was staring at her in great amusement. “You talk well, Grandma, and at unusual length for you, but a man convinced against his will, you know—”

The old lady smiled sweetly at him, smiled with the patience of one who is willing to wait a long time in order to be understood. Then knitting steadily without looking at her work, she gazed far out over the beautiful river.

It was very wide just here, and, now that evening was falling, they could barely distinguish the fields and white farmhouses on the other side. The stars were coming out one by one—those “beautiful seeds sown in the field of the sky.” Roger could see the old lady’s lips moving. She was probably repeating some favourite passages of Scripture. What a good woman she was. What a help to him, and what a valuable supplement to his own mother, who was a woman of another type.

His eyes grew moist, and for a long time he sat gazing with her at the darkening yet increasingly beautiful sky and river.

The hammering went on below, until Berty’s voice suddenly rang out. “We’ll have to stop, Mr. Jimson. It’s getting too dark to see where to put the nails.”

“I’ll come help you to-morrow evening,” replied the Mayor, in his thick, good-natured voice.

“No, thank you. I won’t trouble you. I’ll get a carpenter. You’ve been too good already.”

“I like to do it. You’ve no idea how much I enjoy puttering round a house,” replied Mr. Jimson. “I never get a chance at home.”

“Why—aren’t there things to do about your house?”

“Yes; but if I get at a thing I’m sure to be interrupted, and then my mother doesn’t like to see me carpentering.”

“You ought to have a house of your own,” said Berty, decidedly. “It is the duty of every man to marry and bring up a family and to keep it together. That helps the Union, but if you have no family you can’t keep it together, and you are an unworthy son of this great republic.”

“That’s a fact,” replied the Mayor. “I guess we’ll have a little talk about it. I’ll just sit down here on this bench a minute to rest. I’m quite blown.”

Berty made no response, or, if she did, it was in such a low tone that the occupants of the veranda could not hear, and presently the Mayor went on.

“Yes, I’ve often thought of getting married. A man ought to, before he gets too old. How old would you take me to be?”

“About fifty,” came promptly, in Berty’s clear voice.

Her companion was evidently annoyed, for it was some time before he spoke, and then he said, briefly, “Fifty!”

“Well,” said Berty, kindly, “I said about fifty. I dare say you’re not much more than forty.”

“I suppose forty seems like dead old age to you?” queried the Mayor, curiously.

“Oh, yes—it seems far off like the other side of the river,” replied the girl.

“Well, I’m forty-five,” said the Mayor.

“Forty-five,” repeated Berty, musingly, “just think of it! You seem quite young in your ways.”

“Young—I dare say I feel as young as you,” he replied. “I wish you were a bit older.”

“Why?” asked Berty, innocently.

“Oh, well, I don’t know why,” he replied, with sudden sheepishness.

Roger glanced at Grandma. It was not like her to play eavesdropper.

But dear Grandma was not hearing a word of what was being said below. Her knitting had fallen from her hand, her head had dropped forward, her cheeks were gently puffing in and out. She was quietly and unmistakably asleep.

Roger smiled, and kept on listening. He had no scruples on his own account, and he wanted his question answered. Why was the Mayor dangling about Berty?

Mr. Jimson was still on the subject of matrimony. The quiet evening, the, as he supposed, secluded spot, Berty’s amiability, all tended to excite confidence in him.

In response to something he had said, Berty was remarking, with gentle severity, “I should think you would talk this matter over with your mother rather than with me.”

“Well,” Mr. Jimson said, thoughtfully, “it’s queer how you can tell things to strangers, easier than to your mother.”

“I couldn’t,” said Berty, promptly. “If I were thinking of getting married, I’d ask Grandma to advise me. She’s had so much experience. She chose Roger of all Margaretta’s admirers.”

“Did she, now?” said the Mayor, in admiration. “That was a first-class choice.” Then he asked, insinuatingly, “And have you ever consulted her for yourself?”

“Of course not—not yet. It’s too soon.”

“I suppose it is,” said Mr. Jimson, in a disappointed voice, “and, as I said before, I wish you were ten years older.”

“You don’t mean to say that you would think of me for yourself?” asked Berty, in a sudden, joyful voice.

“Yes, I would,” he replied, boldly.

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” said the girl, gaily; “that’s my first proposal, or, rather, I suppose it isn’t a bona fide proposal. It’s just a hint. Still it counts. I’ve really got out into life. Margaretta has always kept me down where gentlemen were concerned. Older sisters have to, you know. I’ll be just dreadfully interested in you after this. Do let me pick you out a wife.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” said the Mayor, guardedly.

“Just tell me what you want,” continued Berty. “I know lots of girls, but I suppose you will want a woman. I know some of them, too—must she be light or dark?”

Mr. Jimson looked at Berty. “Black hair.”

“Very well—black hair to start with. Not tall, but short, I suppose.”

“Why short?” asked the Mayor, suspiciously.

“Well, you’re not dreadfully tall for a man, you know.”

The Mayor seemed to be sulking for some time. Then he said, “I like a good-sized woman.”

“Tall and black-haired,” said Berty, in a businesslike way. “Now, do you want a quiet woman, or a lively woman—a social woman, or a home body?”

“None of your rattlers for me,” said the man, hastily. “I want a quiet tongue, good manners, and no wasteful habits.”

“Do you want to entertain much?”

“Oh, law, no!” said her companion, wearily. “Upon my word, I think a deaf and dumb wife would suit me best. Then she couldn’t go to parties and drag me with her—Look here, there’s a woman I’ve seen sometimes when I go to church with my mother, that I’ve often thought was a nice-looking kind of person. You’d be sure to know her, for one of her brothers is a great friend of your brother-in-law.”

“Who is she?” asked Berty, eagerly.

Her companion seemed to have some hesitation about mentioning the name. At last he said, “Mother says her first name is Selina.”

“Not Selina Everest—don’t tell me that,” said Berty, quickly.

“Yes, that’s her name.”

Berty groaned. “And is she the only woman you have in your mind?”

“She’s the only one I can think of now as cutting any kind of a figure before me.”

“Selina Everest!” groaned Berty again. “Why don’t you say the Queen of England and be done with it? She’s the most exclusive of our ridiculously exclusive set. She is an aristocrat to her finger-tips. She wouldn’t look at you—that is, I don’t think—she probably wouldn’t—”

“How old is she?” asked the Mayor, breaking in upon her.

“Let me see—Tom, her brother, is six years older than I am, Walter is twenty-seven, Jim is thirty, Maude is older than he is, and Augustus is older than that. Oh, Miss Everest must be nearly forty.”

“Then she’ll jump at a chance to marry,” said the Mayor, coolly. “Has she a good temper?”

“Yes,” said Berty, feebly, “but—”

“But what? Does she snap sometimes?”

“No, no, she is always ladylike, but I am just sure she wouldn’t marry you.”

“Why are you so sure,” asked the Mayor, sharply.

“Because—because—”

“Am I a red Indian or a cowboy?” asked Mr. Jimson, indignantly.

“No, but—”

“Is she a strong girl?”

“No, she is often in bed—I don’t really think—”

“Airs, probably,” said her companion. “Has been brought up soft. I’d break her of that.”

“She wouldn’t marry you,” said Berty, desperately.

“Don’t be too sure of that,” and Mr. Jimson’s voice sounded angry to the man on the veranda above.

“I tell you she wouldn’t. I’ve heard her just rave against people who don’t do things just as she does. If you ate with your knife, she’d think you were dust beneath her feet.”

The Mayor was silent.

“Why, if you wore carpet slippers in the parlour, or a dressing-gown, or went about the house in your shirt-sleeves, she’d have a fit.”

“And who does all these things?” asked the Mayor, sneeringly.

“You do!” replied Berty, stung into impertinence. “They say you received a delegation of clergymen in your slippers and dressing-gown.”

“That’s a lie,” he said, promptly, “got up by enemies.”

“Well, you don’t talk elegantly,” said Berty, wildly. “Miss Everest couldn’t stand that.”

“Who says I ain’t elegant?” asked the Mayor, fiercely.

“I do,” replied his companion. “You say ‘dry’ for thirsty, and ‘I ain’t’ for I am not, and ‘git’ for get, and—and lots of other things, and you don’t move gracefully. Miss Everest likes tall, thin men. I once heard her say so.”

“Is it my fault that I’m short?” roared the Mayor. “I didn’t make myself.”

Roger, convulsed with amusement on the veranda above, saw with regret that Grandma was waking up.

“Quarrelling again!” she murmured, moving her head about restlessly. “Send him home, Berty. Mr. Jimson, don’t mind her.”

Roger had missed something, for Berty was now giving the Mayor a terrible scolding. “I think you are a horrid, deceitful man. You come here with your mind all made up about a certain woman. You pretend to like me, then draw me out about the one you like. I’ll never speak to you again.”

Roger hung entranced over the railing. The back gate had just slammed on Mr. Jimson, and Berty was pouring out a flood of eloquent endearment on the pigeons.

Roger ran down the stairs with a broad smile on his face. There was no danger of sentimental nonsense between these two people.

“Hello, Berty,” he said, “want some help with your pidgie widgies?”

“No, Roger,” she replied, disconsolately, “I can’t get the boxes up to-night. Still, you might help me cover them some more. I’m dreadfully afraid of rats getting at them. There are legions of them down here.”

“You’ve had some one here, haven’t you?” said Roger, hypocritically.

“Yes, that miserable Mayor, but he’s so disagreeable that I shan’t let him help me finish. I’m never going to speak to him again. He’s too mean to live.”

“I’ll come and help you,” said Roger, bending over the pigeons to conceal his face. “Where are these boxes going in the meantime?”

“Up on top of those barrels. Aren’t those fan-tails sweet? Oh, you lubbie dubbies, Berty loves you better than the hateful old Mayor.”

Roger laughed outright, helped his young sister-in-law at the same time, and wondered whether the breach between her and her new friend would be final.

CHAPTER XI.
A PROPOSED SUPPER-PARTY

Two mornings later, Roger had come down to River Street with a basket of green stuff for Grandma.

One result of his wife’s new economy was that he had turned errand-boy. He grumbled a little about it, but Margaretta was inexorable.

“You want me to save,” she said. “I’m going to do it. You can just as well run down to River Street before you go to your office, as for me to give a boy ten cents for doing it.”

“Ten cents is a paltry sum.”

“Yes, but ten tens are not paltry, and if you save ten cents twenty times you have two dollars. Now trot along!” and Roger always trotted, smiling as he went.

On this particular morning, Grandma, after gratefully receiving the basket, stood turning over the crisp, green lettuce, the parsley, beets, and lovely flowers with her slender fingers, when Berty appeared fresh and rosy.

“Oh, Roger, dear,” she cried, flying to her writing-desk when she saw him, “wait a moment and take a note to the city hall, will you?”

“Yes, Miss Lobbyist,” said her brother-in-law, good-naturedly.

“Why, this is to the Mayor,” he said, in pretended surprise, when she handed him her note.

“Yes, why not?” asked Berty, opening her eyes wide.

“I thought you had done with him.”

“Oh, that quarrel,” said Berty, carelessly, “that was two whole days ago. I’ve had two bouquets, and a bag of some new kind of feed for the pigeons from him since then. I’m doing him a favour now. There’s some one coming here to supper to-night that he’d like to meet.”

“Who is it?” asked Roger, curiously.

“Selina Everest.”

“I shouldn’t think he’d be her style,” said the young man, guilelessly.

“He isn’t,” sighed Berty, “but he likes her, and I’m bound to give them a chance to meet. I hope she won’t snub him.”

“She is too much of a lady to do that,” said Roger.

“You’re right,” replied Berty, but she sighed again.

Roger’s eyes sparkled. “Grandma,” he said, abruptly turning to her, “it is some time since Margaretta and I have had a meal in your house. Can’t you invite us, too? We both like Selina.”

“Certainly, come by all means,” said the little old lady.

Berty looked doubtful and did not second the invitation.

“What time is supper?” asked Roger.

Grandma looked at Berty. “I let her have her own way about the meals. Breakfast is at eight, dinner at twelve—the universal hour on this street—high tea at six, supper is a movable feast—what time to-night, granddaughter?”

“Ten,” said Berty, promptly, “but we’ll sit on the veranda first and talk. Some one must keep at the piano all the time, playing dreamy music.”

“All right,” said Roger, promptly, “we’ll be here.”

Berty followed him to the street door. “You’ll be nice to the Mayor.”

“Nice!—I guess so.”

“But don’t be too nice—don’t make fun of him.”

“Berty!” he said, reproachfully.

“Oh, you wouldn’t make fun of him openly,” she said, with sudden wrath, “but I know that look in your eyes,” and with a decided tap on the back she sent him out the front door.

Roger, chuckling with delight as he made his way to the iron works, ran into Tom Everest.

“What are you laughing at?” asked Tom, with his own eyes shining.

“Can’t tell,” said Roger.

“I’ll bet it was some joke about Berty,” remarked Tom.

“Oh, Berty! Berty!” exclaimed his friend, “all the world is thinking Berty, and dreaming Berty, and seeing Berty. You’re a crank, Everest.”

“It was Berty,” said Tom, decidedly. “Come, now, out with it.”

“She’s going to have a party to-night,” said Roger, exploding with laughter; “your sister Selina and the Mayor, my wife and I.”

“I’m going too,” said Tom, firmly.

Roger caught him by the shoulder. “Man, if I find you there to-night, I’ll shoot you.”

“I’m going,” said Tom, and he backed into his insurance office, leaving Roger wildly waving his market-basket at him from the street.

A few hours later, Roger looked up at his wife as he sat at the lunch-table, and said, “Don’t you want to go to Grandma’s this evening?”

“Yes, dear, if you do,” she replied, holding out his cup of bouillon for him.

At luncheon they were obliged to wait on themselves, and Roger vowed that he liked it.

“All right, dear,” he said, as he carefully took the hot bouillon from her, “we’ll go.”

“After dinner, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“Any one else going?” asked Margaretta.

“She expects some others—Selina Everest for one.”

“That’s nice,” said Margaretta, emphatically.

“And the Mayor,” added Roger.

“Oh!” and Margaretta drew a long breath. “I have never met him.”

“Don’t you want to?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, lingeringly.

“Very well. I’ll come home a bit early.”

Margaretta, brimming over with satisfaction, gazed affectionately at him. “Roger, you look ten years younger than you did four weeks ago.”

“I’ve got the burden of foreboding off my shoulders,” he said, giving them a slight shake as he spoke.

“A burden that will never be placed there again, I hope.”

Roger smiled, and, looking at her happy face, said, earnestly, “Margaretta, every day of my life I thank God for the good fortune that made you my partner for life.”

While Roger was talking to his wife, Berty was having a somewhat excited interview with the Mayor.

“Just grabbed ten minutes from lunch-hour,” he said, “to run up and thank you for your invitation for to-night—now what shall I wear? Dress suit?”

Berty looked him over. No young girl going to her first ball ever waited a reply with more anxiety than he did.

“Let me see,” she said, thoughtfully. “We shall be sitting out-of-doors. I think I would not wear evening dress. Have you got a nice dark suit?”

“Yes, just got one from the tailor.”

“Good—put that on.”

“And what kind of a tie?” he asked, feverishly.

“Oh, I don’t know—white, I think. That is cool and nice for summer.”

“Can’t I wear red?” he asked, anxiously.

“Well, yes, a certain shade, but you’d have to be very particular. Why do you wish red?”

“I—I—a woman once told me I looked well in red,” he said, sheepishly.

Berty surveyed him as an indulgent mother might survey a child.

“Very well, wear red. It is a great thing to have something on that you feel at ease in. But, as I say, you must be very particular about the shade. I’ll run up-stairs and get a piece of silk, and do you try to match it,” and she darted away.

Mr. Jimson occupied the time while she was gone in walking about the room, nervously mopping his face, and staring out the window at the carriage waiting for him.

“Here it is,” exclaimed Berty, running back, “the precise shade. Now do be particular.”

“You’re real good,” he replied, gratefully, and, pocketing the scrap, he was hurrying away, when he turned back. “What time shall I come? Can’t I get here before the others?”

“Yes, do,” replied Berty, “come about half-past seven.”

“All right—thank you,” and he rushed away.

Berty followed him to the front door. “Mr. Jimson,” she called, when his hand was on the door-knob.

“Hello!” and he turned back.

“You won’t be offended with me if I say something?” she replied, hesitatingly.

“Not a bit of it.”

“Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t talk too much to-night. Dignified reserve impresses women.”

“All right,” he said, good-naturedly. “I’m safe enough, if I don’t get rattled. Then I’m apt to make a fool of myself and gabble. Sometimes in making a speech I can’t wind up, even if I see people looking mad enough to kill me.”

“Don’t do that!” exclaimed Berty. “Oh, don’t be long-winded. Just sit and watch Miss Everest.”

“All right,” said the Mayor, “till this evening!” and he ran down the steps.

“Oh, dear,” murmured Berty, as she went up-stairs, “I’m dreadfully in doubt about this party. I wish Margaretta and Roger weren’t coming. The Mayor has been working himself into a state over Miss Everest. If he doesn’t please her he’ll blame me. Oh, dear!”

“What’s the matter, granddaughter?” asked a cheery voice.

“I’m in trouble, Grandma. The Mayor likes Miss Everest. That’s why I’m asking him here to meet her, but I’m afraid things won’t go right.”

“Poor little matchmaker,” said Grandma, soothingly.

“Did I do right, Grandma? I would have consulted you before, but I didn’t like to give his secret away.”

“You did what a kind heart would prompt you to do. Don’t worry—I will help you with your party.”

“Will you?—oh, that is lovely. Everything will go right!” and she threw both arms round her grandmother’s neck.

CHAPTER XII.
A DISTURBED HOSTESS

Unfortunately for Berty, a woman across the street chose the hour of seven o’clock to have a fit of hysterics. Nothing would satisfy her perturbed relatives but a visit from “Madam,” as Grandma was known to the street.

Half-past seven came, and no Mayor. Selina Everest, tall, pale, and lilylike, in white and green, arrived soon after, then came Margaretta and Roger, and then, to Berty’s dismay, appeared Tom Everest, dropping in as if he expected to find her alone.

Berty said nothing, but her face grew pinker. Then she swept them all out to the semi-darkness of the veranda. The Mayor should not step into that brightly lighted room and find them all there.

Wedged comfortably on the veranda, and talking over mutual friends, Margaretta, Selina, and Tom were having a charming time. Roger, seated by the glass door, was restless, and kept moving in and out the dining-room.

Berty was like a bird, perching here and there, and running at intervals to the front windows, ostensibly to watch for her grandmother, in reality to seize upon the Mayor at the earliest moment of his arrival.

Margaretta and Selina were in a corner of the veranda. Tom was nearest the dining-room, and presently there was a whisper in his ear. “Jimson has arrived—hot—mad—explanatory—detained—Berty condoling.”

Not a muscle of Tom’s face moved, and Roger, turning on his heel, departed.

Presently he came back. “Berty frantic—Jimson has got on wrong kind of necktie. She has corralled him behind piano.”

Poor Berty—she had indeed driven the unhappy late-comer behind the upright piano in the parlour. “Oh, Mr. Jimson, how could you? That necktie is a bright green!”

“Gr—green!” stuttered the discomfited man. “Why, I matched your sample.”

“You’re colour blind!” exclaimed the girl, in despair. “Oh, what shall we do—but your suit is lovely,” she added, as she saw the wilting effect of her words upon him. “Come, quick, before any one sees,” and she hurried him out into the hall. “Here, go in that corner while I get one of my shirt-waist ties.”

Mr. Jimson, hot and perspiring, tried to obliterate himself against the wall until she came back.

“Here is a pale blue tie,” said Berty. “Now stand before the glass in that hat-rack,—give me that green thing. Selina Everest would have a fit if she saw it.”

The Mayor hastily tore off the bit of brilliant grass-green silk, and, seizing Berty’s blue satin, endeavoured to fasten it round his creaking collar.

Roger peeped out through the dining-room door and went back to Tom, and in a convulsion of wicked delight reported. “He’s titivating in the hall—has got on one of Berty’s ties. Just creep out to see him.”

Tom could not resist, and seeing that Margaretta and his sister were deep in the mysteries of coming fashions in dress, he tiptoed into the dining-room.

Berty and the Mayor out in the hall were too much engaged with each other to heed the peeping eyes at the crack of the dining-room door.

Mr. Jimson was in a rage, and was sputtering unintelligible words. Berty, too, was getting excited. “If you say a naughty word,” she threatened, “I’ll take that tie away from you, and you’ll have to go home!”

The Mayor, wrathfully beating one foot up and down on the oilcloth, was trying to make the tie tie itself.

“Hang it!” he said, at last, throwing it down, “the thing won’t go at all. It was made for some woman’s neck. Give me that green thing.”

“You sha’n’t have it,” Berty flared up. “You will spoil yourself. Here, let me have the blue one. I’ll fasten it for you, if you’ll never tell any one I did it.”

Tom and Roger nearly exploded into unseemly merriment. The sight of the unfortunate Jimson’s face, the mingled patience and wrath of Berty, made them clap their hands over their mouths.

“There!” cried Berty, at last, “it’s tied. You men have no patience. Look round now. Come softly into the dining-room and drink some lemonade before I introduce you—no, stay here, I’ll bring it to you. Smooth your hair on the left side.”

The unfortunate man, breathing heavily, stood like a statue, while Tom and Roger tumbled over each other out to the veranda.

“What are you two laughing at?” asked Margaretta, suspiciously.

“At that black cloud there,” said Tom, pointing to the sky. “See it dragging itself over the stars. I say, Stanisfield, doesn’t that cloud strike you as being of a comical shape?”

“Very,” exclaimed Roger, with sudden laughter, “very comical. Trails out just like a four-in-hand necktie.”

“Very like it,” echoed Tom; then they both laughed again.

In the midst of their merriment, a quiet, patient voice was heard saying, “Margaretta, let me introduce Mr. Jimson to you,—and Miss Everest, Mr. Jimson.”

Tom and Roger huddled aside like two naughty boys, and Berty, with the Mayor behind her, stepped to the other end of the veranda.

Margaretta stretched out a slim, pretty hand. Miss Everest did likewise, and the Mayor, breathing hard and fast, turned to the two men. “I don’t need an introduction to you.”

“No,” they both said, shaking hands with a sudden and overwhelming solemnity.

They all sat down, and an uninterrupted and uninteresting chatter began. Every one but the Mayor was good-naturedly trying to make Berty’s party a success, and every one was unconsciously defeating this object by engaging in trifling and stupid small talk.

“We’re not having a bit of a good time,” said Berty, at last, desperately. “Let’s go into the house.”

They all smiled, and followed her into the parlour. Here at least the Mayor would be able to look at Miss Everest. Out on the veranda he could not see her at all.

Quite unconscious of the others, he stared uninterruptedly at her. She was apparently oblivious of him, and was again talking fashions to Margaretta.

But Tom and Roger—Berty glared wrathfully at them. They were examining one of Grandma’s books of engravings taken from Italian paintings, and if it had been the latest number of some comic paper they would not have had more fun over it.

“Here is a framed one,” she said, taking a picture from the mantel, “by Sandro Botticelli.” Then, as she got close to them, she said, threateningly, “If you two don’t stop giggling, I’ll shame you before everybody!”

They tried to be good, they honestly did. They did not want to tease the kind little sister, but something had come over the two men—they were just like two bad schoolboys. If Mr. Jimson had been aware of their mirth, they would have ceased, but just now he was so utterly unconscious—so wrapped up in the contemplation of Miss Everest, that they went on enjoying their secret pleasure with the luxury of good men who seldom indulge in a joke at the expense of others, but who rival the most thoughtless and frivolous when once they set out to amuse themselves.

Yes, Mr. Jimson was staring and silent, but after a time his silence ceased, and he began to talk. To talk for no apparent reason, and on no apparent subject.

Margaretta and Selina, who had been paying very little attention to him, courteously paused to listen, and he went on. Went on, till Berty began to twitch in dismay, and to wink—at first slyly and secretly, then openly and undisguisedly at him.

It was of no use. He had got “rattled,” as he had predicted, and was bound to have his say out. He made her a slight sign with his head to assure her that he understood her signals, and would if he could pay attention to them, but he was too far gone.

Berty was in despair. Tom and Roger, to keep themselves from downright shouting, were also talking very fast and very glibly about nothing in particular.