"'Rebecca Of Sunnybrook Farm\n\n\nby\n\nKate Douglas Wiggin\n\n\n\n\nTO MY MOTHER\n\n\n Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;\n Like Twilight\'s, too, her dusky hair;\n But all things else about her drawn\n From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;\n A dancing Shape, an Image gay,\n To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.\n\n Wordsworth.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n I. \"WE ARE SEVEN\"\n II. REBECCA\'S RELATIONS\n III. A DIFFERENCE IN HEARTS\n IV. REBECCA\'S POINT OF VIEW\n V. WISDOM\'S WAYS\n VI. SUNSHINE IN A SHADY PLACE\n VII. RIVERBORO SECRETS\n VIII. COLOR OF ROSE\n IX. ASHES OF ROSES\n X. RAINBOW BRIDGES\n XI. \"THE STIRRING OF THE POWERS\"\n XII. \"SEE THE PALE MARTYR\"\n XIII. SNOW-WHITE; ROSE-RED\n XIV. MR. ALADDIN\n XV. THE BANQUET LAMP\n XVI. SEASONS OF GROWTH\n XVII. GRAY DAYS AND GOLD\n XVIII. REBECCA REPRESENTS THE FAMILY\n XIX. DEACON ISRAEL\'S SUCCESSOR\n XX. A CHANGE OF HEART\n XXI. THE SKY LINE WIDENS\n XXII. CLOVER BLOSSOMS AND SUNFLOWERS\n XXIII. THE HILL DIFFICULTY\n XXIV. ALADDIN RUBS HIS LAMP\n XXV. ROSES OF JOY\n XXVI. OVER THE TEACUPS\n XXVII. \"THE VISION SPLENDID\"\n XXVIII. \"TH\' INEVITABLE YOKE\"\n XXIX. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER\n XXX. \"GOOD-BY, SUNNYBROOK!\"\n XXXI. AUNT MIRANDA\'S APOLOGY\n\n\n\n\nREBECCA OF SUNNYBROOK FARM\n\n\n\nI\n\n\"WE ARE SEVEN\"\n\nThe old stage coach was rumbling along the dusty road that runs from\nMaplewood to Riverboro. The day was as warm as midsummer, though it was\nonly the middle of May, and Mr. Jeremiah Cobb was favoring the horses\nas much as possible, yet never losing sight of the fact that he carried\nthe mail. The hills were many, and the reins lay loosely in his hands\nas he lolled back in his seat and extended one foot and leg luxuriously\nover the dashboard. His brimmed hat of worn felt was well pulled over\nhis eyes, and he revolved a quid of tobacco in his left cheek.\n\nThere was one passenger in the coach,--a small dark-haired person in a\nglossy buff calico dress. She was so slender and so stiffly starched\nthat she slid from space to space on the leather cushions, though she\nbraced herself against the middle seat with her feet and extended her\ncotton-gloved hands on each side, in order to maintain some sort of\nbalance. Whenever the wheels sank farther than usual into a rut, or\njolted suddenly over a stone, she bounded involuntarily into the air,\ncame down again, pushed back her funny little straw hat, and picked up\nor settled more firmly a small pink sun shade, which seemed to be her\nchief responsibility,--unless we except a bead purse, into which she\nlooked whenever the condition of the roads would permit, finding great\napparent satisfaction in that its precious contents neither disappeared\nnor grew less. Mr. Cobb guessed nothing of these harassing details of\ntravel, his business being to carry people to their destinations, not,\nnecessarily, to make them comfortable on the way. Indeed he had\nforgotten the very existence of this one unnoteworthy little passenger.\n\nWhen he was about to leave the post-office in Maplewood that morning, a\nwoman had alighted from a wagon, and coming up to him, inquired whether\nthis were the Riverboro stage, and if he were Mr. Cobb. Being answered\nin the affirmative, she nodded to a child who was eagerly waiting for\nthe answer, and who ran towards her as if she feared to be a moment too\nlate. The child might have been ten or eleven years old perhaps, but\nwhatever the number of her summers, she had an air of being small for\nher age. Her mother helped her into the stage coach, deposited a bundle\nand a bouquet of lilacs beside her, superintended the \"roping on\"\nbehind of an old hair trunk, and finally paid the fare, counting out\nthe silver with great care.\n\n\"I want you should take her to my sisters\' in Riverboro,\" she said. \"Do\nyou know Mirandy and Jane Sawyer? They live in the brick house.\"\n\nLord bless your soul, he knew \'em as well as if he\'d made \'em!\n\n\"Well, she\'s going there, and they\'re expecting her. Will you keep an\neye on her, please? If she can get out anywhere and get with folks, or\nget anybody in to keep her company, she\'ll do it. Good-by, Rebecca; try\nnot to get into any mischief, and sit quiet, so you\'ll look neat an\'\nnice when you get there. Don\'t be any trouble to Mr. Cobb.--You see,\nshe\'s kind of excited.--We came on the cars from Temperance yesterday,\nslept all night at my cousin\'s, and drove from her house--eight miles\nit is--this morning.\"\n\n\"Good-by, mother, don\'t worry; you know it isn\'t as if I hadn\'t\ntraveled before.\"\n\nThe woman gave a short sardonic laugh and said in an explanatory way to\nMr. Cobb, \"She\'s been to Wareham and stayed over night; that isn\'t much\nto be journey-proud on!\"\n\n\"It WAS TRAVELING, mother,\" said the child eagerly and willfully. \"It\nwas leaving the farm, and putting up lunch in a basket, and a little\nriding and a little steam cars, and we carried our nightgowns.\"\n\n\"Don\'t tell the whole village about it, if we did,\" said the mother,\ninterrupting the reminiscences of this experienced voyager. \"Haven\'t I\ntold you before,\" she whispered, in a last attempt at discipline, \"that\nyou shouldn\'t talk about night gowns and stockings and--things like\nthat, in a loud tone of voice, and especially when there\'s men folks\nround?\"\n\n\"I know, mother, I know, and I won\'t. All I want to say is\"--here Mr.\nCobb gave a cluck, slapped the reins, and the horses started sedately\non their daily task--\"all I want to say is that it is a journey\nwhen\"--the stage was really under way now and Rebecca had to put her\nhead out of the window over the door in order to finish her\nsentence--\"it IS a journey when you carry a nightgown!\"\n\nThe objectionable word, uttered in a high treble, floated back to the\noffended ears of Mrs. Randall, who watched the stage out of sight,\ngathered up her packages from the bench at the store door, and stepped\ninto the wagon that had been standing at the hitching-post. As she\nturned the horse\'s head towards home she rose to her feet for a moment,\nand shading her eyes with her hand, looked at a cloud of dust in the\ndim distance.\n\n\"Mirandy\'ll have her hands full, I guess,\" she said to herself; \"but I\nshouldn\'t wonder if it would be the making of Rebecca.\"\n\nAll this had been half an hour ago, and the sun, the heat, the dust,\nthe contemplation of errands to be done in the great metropolis of\nMilltown, had lulled Mr. Cobb\'s never active mind into complete\noblivion as to his promise of keeping an eye on Rebecca.\n\nSuddenly he heard a small voice above the rattle and rumble of the\nwheels and the creaking of the harness. At first he thought it was a\ncricket, a tree toad, or a bird, but having determined the direction\nfrom which it came, he turned his head over his shoulder and saw a\nsmall shape hanging as far out of the window as safety would allow. A\nlong black braid of hair swung with the motion of the coach; the child\nheld her hat in one hand and with the other made ineffectual attempts\nto stab the driver with her microscopic sunshade.\n\n\"Please let me speak!\" she called.\n\nMr. Cobb drew up the horses obediently.\n\n\"Does it cost any more to ride up there with you?\" she asked. \"It\'s so\nslippery and shiny down here, and the stage is so much too big for me,\nthat I rattle round in it till I\'m \'most black and blue. And the\nwindows are so small I can only see pieces of things, and I\'ve \'most\nbroken my neck stretching round to find out whether my trunk has fallen\noff the back. It\'s my mother\'s trunk, and she\'s very choice of it.\"\n\nMr. Cobb waited until this flow of conversation, or more properly\nspeaking this flood of criticism, had ceased, and then said jocularly:--\n\n\"You can come up if you want to; there ain\'t no extry charge to sit\nside o\' me.\" Whereupon he helped her out, \"boosted\" her up to the front\nseat, and resumed his own place.\n\nRebecca sat down carefully, smoothing her dress under her with\npainstaking precision, and putting her sunshade under its extended\nfolds between the driver and herself. This done she pushed back her\nhat, pulled up her darned white cotton gloves, and said delightedly:--\n\n\"Oh! this is better! This is like traveling! I am a real passenger now,\nand down there I felt like our setting hen when we shut her up in a\ncoop. I hope we have a long, long ways to go?\"\n\n\"Oh! we\'ve only just started on it,\" Mr. Cobb responded genially; \"it\'s\nmore \'n two hours.\"\n\n\"Only two hours,\" she sighed \"That will be half past one; mother will\nbe at cousin Ann\'s, the children at home will have had their dinner,\nand Hannah cleared all away. I have some lunch, because mother said it\nwould be a bad beginning to get to the brick house hungry and have aunt\nMirandy have to get me something to eat the first thing.--It\'s a good\ngrowing day, isn\'t it?\"\n\n\"It is, certain; too hot, most. Why don\'t you put up your parasol?\"\n\nShe extended her dress still farther over the article in question as\nshe said, \"Oh dear no! I never put it up when the sun shines; pink\nfades awfully, you know, and I only carry it to meetin\' cloudy Sundays;\nsometimes the sun comes out all of a sudden, and I have a dreadful time\ncovering it up; it\'s the dearest thing in life to me, but it\'s an awful\ncare.\"\n\nAt this moment the thought gradually permeated Mr. Jeremiah Cobb\'s\nslow-moving mind that the bird perched by his side was a bird of very\ndifferent feather from those to which he was accustomed in his daily\ndrives. He put the whip back in its socket, took his foot from the\ndashboard, pushed his hat back, blew his quid of tobacco into the road,\nand having thus cleared his mental decks for action, he took his first\ngood look at the passenger, a look which she met with a grave,\nchildlike stare of friendly curiosity.\n\nThe buff calico was faded, but scrupulously clean, and starched within\nan inch of its life. From the little standing ruffle at the neck the\nchild\'s slender throat rose very brown and thin, and the head looked\nsmall to bear the weight of dark hair that hung in a thick braid to her\nwaist. She wore an odd little vizored cap of white leghorn, which may\neither have been the latest thing in children\'s hats, or some bit of\nancient finery furbished up for the occasion. It was trimmed with a\ntwist of buff ribbon and a cluster of black and orange porcupine\nquills, which hung or bristled stiffly over one ear, giving her the\nquaintest and most unusual appearance. Her face was without color and\nsharp in outline. As to features, she must have had the usual number,\nthough Mr. Cobb\'s attention never proceeded so far as nose, forehead,\nor chin, being caught on the way and held fast by the eyes. Rebecca\'s\neyes were like faith,--\"the substance of things hoped for, the evidence\nof things not seen.\" Under her delicately etched brows they glowed like\ntwo stars, their dancing lights half hidden in lustrous darkness. Their\nglance was eager and full of interest, yet never satisfied; their\nsteadfast gaze was brilliant and mysterious, and had the effect of\nlooking directly through the obvious to something beyond, in the\nobject, in the landscape, in you. They had never been accounted for,\nRebecca\'s eyes. The school teacher and the minister at Temperance had\ntried and failed; the young artist who came for the summer to sketch\nthe red barn, the ruined mill, and the bridge ended by giving up all\nthese local beauties and devoting herself to the face of a child,--a\nsmall, plain face illuminated by a pair of eyes carrying such messages,\nsuch suggestions, such hints of sleeping power and insight, that one\nnever tired of looking into their shining depths, nor of fancying that\nwhat one saw there was the reflection of one\'s own thought.\n\nMr. Cobb made none of these generalizations; his remark to his wife\nthat night was simply to the effect that whenever the child looked at\nhim she knocked him galley-west.\n\n\"Miss Ross, a lady that paints, gave me the sunshade,\" said Rebecca,\nwhen she had exchanged looks with Mr. Cobb and learned his face by\nheart. \"Did you notice the pinked double ruffle and the white tip and\nhandle? They\'re ivory. The handle is scarred, you see. That\'s because\nFanny sucked and chewed it in meeting when I wasn\'t looking. I\'ve never\nfelt the same to Fanny since.\"\n\n\"Is Fanny your sister?\"\n\n\"She\'s one of them.\"\n\n\"How many are there of you?\"\n\n\"Seven. There\'s verses written about seven children:--\n\n \"\'Quick was the little Maid\'s reply,\n O master! we are seven!\'\n\nI learned it to speak in school, but the scholars were hateful and\nlaughed. Hannah is the oldest, I come next, then John, then Jenny, then\nMark, then Fanny, then Mira.\"\n\n\"Well, that IS a big family!\"\n\n\"Far too big, everybody says,\" replied Rebecca with an unexpected and\nthoroughly grown-up candor that induced Mr. Cobb to murmur, \"I swan!\"\nand insert more tobacco in his left cheek.\n\n\"They\'re dear, but such a bother, and cost so much to feed, you see,\"\nshe rippled on. \"Hannah and I haven\'t done anything but put babies to\nbed at night and take them up in the morning for years and years. But\nit\'s finished, that\'s one comfort, and we\'ll have a lovely time when\nwe\'re all grown up and the mortgage is paid off.\"\n\n\"All finished? Oh, you mean you\'ve come away?\"\n\n\"No, I mean they\'re all over and done with; our family \'s finished.\nMother says so, and she always keeps her promises. There hasn\'t been\nany since Mira, and she\'s three. She was born the day father died. Aunt\nMiranda wanted Hannah to come to Riverboro instead of me, but mother\ncouldn\'t spare her; she takes hold of housework better than I do,\nHannah does. I told mother last night if there was likely to be any\nmore children while I was away I\'d have to be sent for, for when\nthere\'s a baby it always takes Hannah and me both, for mother has the\ncooking and the farm.\"\n\n\"Oh, you live on a farm, do ye? Where is it?--near to where you got on?\"\n\n\"Near? Why, it must be thousands of miles! We came from Temperance in\nthe cars. Then we drove a long ways to cousin Ann\'s and went to bed.\nThen we got up and drove ever so far to Maplewood, where the stage was.\nOur farm is away off from everywheres, but our school and meeting house\nis at Temperance, and that\'s only two miles. Sitting up here with you\nis most as good as climbing the meeting-house steeple. I know a boy\nwho\'s been up on our steeple. He said the people and cows looked like\nflies. We haven\'t met any people yet, but I\'m KIND of disappointed in\nthe cows;--they don\'t look so little as I hoped they would; still\n(brightening) they don\'t look quite as big as if we were down side of\nthem, do they? Boys always do the nice splendid things, and girls can\nonly do the nasty dull ones that get left over. They can\'t climb so\nhigh, or go so far, or stay out so late, or run so fast, or anything.\"\n\nMr. Cobb wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and gasped. He had a\nfeeling that he was being hurried from peak to peak of a mountain range\nwithout time to take a good breath in between.\n\n\"I can\'t seem to locate your farm,\" he said, \"though I\'ve been to\nTemperance and used to live up that way. What\'s your folks\' name?\"\n\n\"Randall. My mother\'s name is Aurelia Randall; our names are Hannah\nLucy Randall, Rebecca Rowena Randall, John Halifax Randall, Jenny Lind\nRandall, Marquis Randall, Fanny Ellsler Randall, and Miranda Randall.\nMother named half of us and father the other half, but we didn\'t come\nout even, so they both thought it would be nice to name Mira after aunt\nMiranda in Riverboro; they hoped it might do some good, but it didn\'t,\nand now we call her Mira. We are all named after somebody in\nparticular. Hannah is Hannah at the Window Binding Shoes, and I am\ntaken out of Ivanhoe; John Halifax was a gentleman in a book; Mark is\nafter his uncle Marquis de Lafayette that died a twin. (Twins very\noften don\'t live to grow up, and triplets almost never--did you know\nthat, Mr. Cobb?) We don\'t call him Marquis, only Mark. Jenny is named\nfor a singer and Fanny for a beautiful dancer, but mother says they\'re\nboth misfits, for Jenny can\'t carry a tune and Fanny\'s kind of\nstiff-legged. Mother would like to call them Jane and Frances and give\nup their middle names, but she says it wouldn\'t be fair to father. She\nsays we must always stand up for father, because everything was against\nhim, and he wouldn\'t have died if he hadn\'t had such bad luck. I think\nthat\'s all there is to tell about us,\" she finished seriously.\n\n\"Land o\' Liberty! I should think it was enough,\" ejaculated Mr. Cobb.\n\"There wa\'n\'t many names left when your mother got through choosin\'!\nYou\'ve got a powerful good memory! I guess it ain\'t no trouble for you\nto learn your lessons, is it?\"\n\n\"Not much; the trouble is to get the shoes to go and learn \'em. These\nare spandy new I\'ve got on, and they have to last six months. Mother\nalways says to save my shoes. There don\'t seem to be any way of saving\nshoes but taking \'em off and going barefoot; but I can\'t do that in\nRiverboro without shaming aunt Mirandy. I\'m going to school right along\nnow when I\'m living with aunt Mirandy, and in two years I\'m going to\nthe seminary at Wareham; mother says it ought to be the making of me!\nI\'m going to be a painter like Miss Ross when I get through school. At\nany rate, that\'s what _I_ think I\'m going to be. Mother thinks I\'d\nbetter teach.\"\n\n\"Your farm ain\'t the old Hobbs place, is it?\"\n\n\"No, it\'s just Randall\'s Farm. At least that\'s what mother calls it. I\ncall it Sunnybrook Farm.\"\n\n\"I guess it don\'t make no difference what you call it so long as you\nknow where it is,\" remarked Mr. Cobb sententiously.\n\nRebecca turned the full light of her eyes upon him reproachfully,\nalmost severely, as she answered:--\n\n\"Oh! don\'t say that, and be like all the rest! It does make a\ndifference what you call things. When I say Randall\'s Farm, do you see\nhow it looks?\"\n\n\"No, I can\'t say I do,\" responded Mr. Cobb uneasily.\n\n\"Now when I say Sunnybrook Farm, what does it make you think of?\"\n\nMr. Cobb felt like a fish removed from his native element and left\npanting on the sand; there was no evading the awful responsibility of a\nreply, for Rebecca\'s eyes were searchlights, that pierced the fiction\nof his brain and perceived the bald spot on the back of his head.\n\n\"I s\'pose there\'s a brook somewheres near it,\" he said timorously.\n\nRebecca looked disappointed but not quite dis-heartened. \"That\'s pretty\ngood,\" she said encouragingly. \"You\'re warm but not hot; there\'s a\nbrook, but not a common brook. It has young trees and baby bushes on\neach side of it, and it\'s a shallow chattering little brook with a\nwhite sandy bottom and lots of little shiny pebbles. Whenever there\'s a\nbit of sunshine the brook catches it, and it\'s always full of sparkles\nthe livelong day. Don\'t your stomach feel hollow? Mine doest I was so\n\'fraid I\'d miss the stage I couldn\'t eat any breakfast.\"\n\n\"You\'d better have your lunch, then. I don\'t eat nothin\' till I get to\nMilltown; then I get a piece o\' pie and cup o\' coffee.\"\n\n\"I wish I could see Milltown. I suppose it\'s bigger and grander even\nthan Wareham; more like Paris? Miss Ross told me about Paris; she\nbought my pink sunshade there and my bead purse. You see how it opens\nwith a snap? I\'ve twenty cents in it, and it\'s got to last three\nmonths, for stamps and paper and ink. Mother says aunt Mirandy won\'t\nwant to buy things like those when she\'s feeding and clothing me and\npaying for my school books.\"\n\n\"Paris ain\'t no great,\" said Mr. Cobb disparagingly. \"It\'s the dullest\nplace in the State o\' Maine. I\'ve druv there many a time.\"\n\nAgain Rebecca was obliged to reprove Mr. Cobb, tacitly and quietly, but\nnone the less surely, though the reproof was dealt with one glance,\nquickly sent and as quickly withdrawn.\n\n\"Paris is the capital of France, and you have to go to it on a boat,\"\nshe said instructively. \"It\'s in my geography, and it says: \'The French\nare a gay and polite people, fond of dancing and light wines.\' I asked\nthe teacher what light wines were, and he thought it was something like\nnew cider, or maybe ginger pop. I can see Paris as plain as day by just\nshutting my eyes. The beautiful ladies are always gayly dancing around\nwith pink sunshades and bead purses, and the grand gentlemen are\npolitely dancing and drinking ginger pop. But you can see Milltown most\nevery day with your eyes wide open,\" Rebecca said wistfully.\n\n\"Milltown ain\'t no great, neither,\" replied Mr. Cobb, with the air of\nhaving visited all the cities of the earth and found them as naught.\n\"Now you watch me heave this newspaper right onto Mis\' Brown\'s\ndoorstep.\"\n\nPiff! and the packet landed exactly as it was intended, on the corn\nhusk mat in front of the screen door.\n\n\"Oh, how splendid that was!\" cried Rebecca with enthusiasm. \"Just like\nthe knife thrower Mark saw at the circus. I wish there was a long, long\nrow of houses each with a corn husk mat and a screen door in the\nmiddle, and a newspaper to throw on every one!\"\n\n\"I might fail on some of \'em, you know,\" said Mr. Cobb, beaming with\nmodest pride. \"If your aunt Mirandy\'ll let you, I\'ll take you down to\nMilltown some day this summer when the stage ain\'t full.\"\n\nA thrill of delicious excitement ran through Rebecca\'s frame, from her\nnew shoes up, up to the leghorn cap and down the black braid. She\npressed Mr. Cobb\'s knee ardently and said in a voice choking with tears\nof joy and astonishment, \"Oh, it can\'t be true, it can\'t; to think I\nshould see Milltown. It\'s like having a fairy godmother who asks you\nyour wish and then gives it to you! Did you ever read Cinderella, or\nThe Yellow Dwarf, or The Enchanted Frog, or The Fair One with Golden\nLocks?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Mr. Cobb cautiously, after a moment\'s reflection. \"I don\'t\nseem to think I ever did read jest those partic\'lar ones. Where\'d you\nget a chance at so much readin\'?\"\n\n\"Oh, I\'ve read lots of books,\" answered Rebecca casually. \"Father\'s and\nMiss Ross\'s and all the dif\'rent school teachers\', and all in the\nSunday-school library. I\'ve read The Lamplighter, and Scottish Chiefs,\nand Ivanhoe, and The Heir of Redclyffe, and Cora, the Doctor\'s Wife,\nand David Copperfield, and The Gold of Chickaree, and Plutarch\'s Lives,\nand Thaddeus of Warsaw, and Pilgrim\'s Progress, and lots more.--What\nhave you read?\"\n\n\"I\'ve never happened to read those partic\'lar books; but land! I\'ve\nread a sight in my time! Nowadays I\'m so drove I get along with the\nAlmanac, the Weekly Argus, and the Maine State Agriculturist.--There\'s\nthe river again; this is the last long hill, and when we get to the top\nof it we\'ll see the chimbleys of Riverboro in the distance. \'T ain\'t\nfur. I live \'bout half a mile beyond the brick house myself.\"\n\nRebecca\'s hand stirred nervously in her lap and she moved in her seat.\n\"I didn\'t think I was going to be afraid,\" she said almost under her\nbreath; \"but I guess I am, just a little mite--when you say it\'s coming\nso near.\"\n\n\"Would you go back?\" asked Mr. Cobb curiously.\n\nShe flashed him an intrepid look and then said proudly, \"I\'d never go\nback--I might be frightened, but I\'d be ashamed to run. Going to aunt\nMirandy\'s is like going down cellar in the dark. There might be ogres\nand giants under the stairs,--but, as I tell Hannah, there MIGHT be\nelves and fairies and enchanted frogs!--Is there a main street to the\nvillage, like that in Wareham?\"\n\n\"I s\'pose you might call it a main street, an\' your aunt Sawyer lives\non it, but there ain\'t no stores nor mills, an\' it\'s an awful one-horse\nvillage! You have to go \'cross the river an\' get on to our side if you\nwant to see anything goin\' on.\"\n\n\"I\'m almost sorry,\" she sighed, \"because it would be so grand to drive\ndown a real main street, sitting high up like this behind two splendid\nhorses, with my pink sunshade up, and everybody in town wondering who\nthe bunch of lilacs and the hair trunk belongs to. It would be just\nlike the beautiful lady in the parade. Last summer the circus came to\nTemperance, and they had a procession in the morning. Mother let us all\nwalk in and wheel Mira in the baby carriage, because we couldn\'t afford\nto go to the circus in the afternoon. And there were lovely horses and\nanimals in cages, and clowns on horseback; and at the very end came a\nlittle red and gold chariot drawn by two ponies, and in it, sitting on\na velvet cushion, was the snake charmer, all dressed in satin and\nspangles. She was so beautiful beyond compare, Mr. Cobb, that you had\nto swallow lumps in your throat when you looked at her, and little cold\nfeelings crept up and down your back. Don\'t you know how I mean? Didn\'t\nyou ever see anybody that made you feel like that?\"\n\nMr. Cobb was more distinctly uncomfortable at this moment than he had\nbeen at any one time during the eventful morning, but he evaded the\npoint dexterously by saying, \"There ain\'t no harm, as I can see, in our\nmakin\' the grand entry in the biggest style we can. I\'ll take the whip\nout, set up straight, an\' drive fast; you hold your bo\'quet in your\nlap, an\' open your little red parasol, an\' we\'ll jest make the natives\nstare!\"\n\nThe child\'s face was radiant for a moment, but the glow faded just as\nquickly as she said, \"I forgot--mother put me inside, and maybe she\'d\nwant me to be there when I got to aunt Mirandy\'s. Maybe I\'d be more\ngenteel inside, and then I wouldn\'t have to be jumped down and my\nclothes fly up, but could open the door and step down like a lady\npassenger. Would you please stop a minute, Mr. Cobb, and let me change?\"\n\nThe stage driver good-naturedly pulled up his horses, lifted the\nexcited little creature down, opened the door, and helped her in,\nputting the lilacs and the pink sunshade beside her.\n\n\"We\'ve had a great trip,\" he said, \"and we\'ve got real well acquainted,\nhaven\'t we?--You won\'t forget about Milltown?\"\n\n\"Never!\" she exclaimed fervently; \"and you\'re sure you won\'t, either?\"\n\n\"Never! Cross my heart!\" vowed Mr. Cobb solemnly, as he remounted his\nperch; and as the stage rumbled down the village street between the\ngreen maples, those who looked from their windows saw a little brown\nelf in buff calico sitting primly on the back seat holding a great\nbouquet tightly in one hand and a pink parasol in the other. Had they\nbeen farsighted enough they might have seen, when the stage turned into\nthe side dooryard of the old brick house, a calico yoke rising and\nfalling tempestuously over the beating heart beneath, the red color\ncoming and going in two pale cheeks, and a mist of tears swimming in\ntwo brilliant dark eyes.\n\nRebecca\'s journey had ended.\n\n\"There\'s the stage turnin\' into the Sawyer girls\' dooryard,\" said Mrs.\nPerkins to her husband. \"That must be the niece from up Temperance way.\nIt seems they wrote to Aurelia and invited Hannah, the oldest, but\nAurelia said she could spare Rebecca better, if \'t was all the same to\nMirandy \'n\' Jane; so it\'s Rebecca that\'s come. She\'ll be good comp\'ny\nfor our Emma Jane, but I don\'t believe they\'ll keep her three months!\nShe looks black as an Injun what I can see of her; black and kind of\nup-an-comin\'. They used to say that one o\' the Randalls married a\nSpanish woman, somebody that was teachin\' music and languages at a\nboardin\' school. Lorenzo was dark complected, you remember, and this\nchild is, too. Well, I don\'t know as Spanish blood is any real\ndisgrace, not if it\'s a good ways back and the woman was respectable.\"\n\n\n\nII\n\nREBECCA\'S RELATIONS\n\nThey had been called the Sawyer girls when Miranda at eighteen, Jane at\ntwelve, and Aurelia at eight participated in the various activities of\nvillage life; and when Riverboro fell into a habit of thought or\nspeech, it saw no reason for falling out of it, at any rate in the same\ncentury. So although Miranda and Jane were between fifty and sixty at\nthe time this story opens, Riverboro still called them the Sawyer\ngirls. They were spinsters; but Aurelia, the youngest, had made what\nshe called a romantic marriage and what her sisters termed a mighty\npoor speculation. \"There\'s worse things than bein\' old maids,\" they\nsaid; whether they thought so is quite another matter.\n\nThe element of romance in Aurelia\'s marriage existed chiefly in the\nfact that Mr. L. D. M. Randall had a soul above farming or trading and\nwas a votary of the Muses. He taught the weekly singing-school (then a\nfeature of village life) in half a dozen neighboring towns, he played\nthe violin and \"called off\" at dances, or evoked rich harmonies from\nchurch melodeons on Sundays. He taught certain uncouth lads, when they\nwere of an age to enter society, the intricacies of contra dances, or\nthe steps of the schottische and mazurka, and he was a marked figure in\nall social assemblies, though conspicuously absent from town-meetings\nand the purely masculine gatherings at the store or tavern or bridge.\n\nHis hair was a little longer, his hands a little whiter, his shoes a\nlittle thinner, his manner a trifle more polished, than that of his\nsoberer mates; indeed the only department of life in which he failed to\nshine was the making of sufficient money to live upon. Luckily he had\nno responsibilities; his father and his twin brother had died when he\nwas yet a boy, and his mother, whose only noteworthy achievement had\nbeen the naming of her twin sons Marquis de Lafayette and Lorenzo de\nMedici Randall, had supported herself and educated her child by making\ncoats up to the very day of her death. She was wont to say plaintively,\n\"I\'m afraid the faculties was too much divided up between my twins. L.\nD. M. is awful talented, but I guess M. D. L. would \'a\' ben the\npractical one if he\'d \'a\' lived.\"\n\n\"L. D. M. was practical enough to get the richest girl in the village,\"\nreplied Mrs. Robinson.\n\n\"Yes,\" sighed his mother, \"there it is again; if the twins could \'a\'\nmarried Aurelia Sawyer, \'t would \'a\' been all right. L. D. M. was\ntalented \'nough to GET Reely\'s money, but M. D. L. would \'a\' ben\npractical \'nough to have KEP\' it.\"\n\nAurelia\'s share of the modest Sawyer property had been put into one\nthing after another by the handsome and luckless Lorenzo de Medici. He\nhad a graceful and poetic way of making an investment for each new son\nand daughter that blessed their union. \"A birthday present for our\nchild, Aurelia,\" he would say,--\"a little nest-egg for the future;\" but\nAurelia once remarked in a moment of bitterness that the hen never\nlived that could sit on those eggs and hatch anything out of them.\n\nMiranda and Jane had virtually washed their hands of Aurelia when she\nmarried Lorenzo de Medici Randall. Having exhausted the resources of\nRiverboro and its immediate vicinity, the unfortunate couple had moved\non and on in a steadily decreasing scale of prosperity until they had\nreached Temperance, where they had settled down and invited fate to do\nits worst, an invitation which was promptly accepted. The maiden\nsisters at home wrote to Aurelia two or three times a year, and sent\nmodest but serviceable presents to the children at Christmas, but\nrefused to assist L. D. M. with the regular expenses of his rapidly\ngrowing family. His last investment, made shortly before the birth of\nMiranda (named in a lively hope of favors which never came), was a\nsmall farm two miles from Temperance. Aurelia managed this herself, and\nso it proved a home at least, and a place for the unsuccessful Lorenzo\nto die and to be buried from, a duty somewhat too long deferred, many\nthought, which he performed on the day of Mira\'s birth.\n\nIt was in this happy-go-lucky household that Rebecca had grown up. It\nwas just an ordinary family; two or three of the children were handsome\nand the rest plain, three of them rather clever, two industrious, and\ntwo commonplace and dull. Rebecca had her father\'s facility and had\nbeen his aptest pupil. She \"carried\" the alto by ear, danced without\nbeing taught, played the melodeon without knowing the notes. Her love\nof books she inherited chiefly from her mother, who found it hard to\nsweep or cook or sew when there was a novel in the house. Fortunately\nbooks were scarce, or the children might sometimes have gone ragged and\nhungry.\n\nBut other forces had been at work in Rebecca, and the traits of unknown\nforbears had been wrought into her fibre. Lorenzo de Medici was flabby\nand boneless; Rebecca was a thing of fire and spirit: he lacked energy\nand courage; Rebecca was plucky at two and dauntless at five. Mrs.\nRandall and Hannah had no sense of humor; Rebecca possessed and showed\nit as soon as she could walk and talk.\n\nShe had not been able, however, to borrow her parents\' virtues and\nthose of other generous ancestors and escape all the weaknesses in the\ncalendar. She had not her sister Hannah\'s patience or her brother\nJohn\'s sturdy staying power. Her will was sometimes willfulness, and\nthe ease with which she did most things led her to be impatient of hard\ntasks or long ones. But whatever else there was or was not, there was\nfreedom at Randall\'s farm. The children grew, worked, fought, ate what\nand slept where they could; loved one another and their parents pretty\nwell, but with no tropical passion; and educated themselves for nine\nmonths of the year, each one in his own way.\n\nAs a result of this method Hannah, who could only have been developed\nby forces applied from without, was painstaking, humdrum, and limited;\nwhile Rebecca, who apparently needed nothing but space to develop in,\nand a knowledge of terms in which to express herself, grew and grew and\ngrew, always from within outward. Her forces of one sort and another\nhad seemingly been set in motion when she was born; they needed no\ndaily spur, but moved of their own accord--towards what no one knew,\nleast of all Rebecca herself. The field for the exhibition of her\ncreative instinct was painfully small, and the only use she had made of\nit as yet was to leave eggs out of the corn bread one day and milk\nanother, to see how it would turn out; to part Fanny\'s hair sometimes\nin the middle, sometimes on the right, and sometimes on the left side;\nand to play all sorts of fantastic pranks with the children,\noccasionally bringing them to the table as fictitious or historical\ncharacters found in her favorite books. Rebecca amused her mother and\nher family generally, but she never was counted of serious importance,\nand though considered \"smart\" and old for her age, she was never\nthought superior in any way. Aurelia\'s experience of genius, as\nexemplified in the deceased Lorenzo de Medici led her into a greater\nadmiration of plain, every-day common sense, a quality in which\nRebecca, it must be confessed, seemed sometimes painfully deficient.\n\nHannah was her mother\'s favorite, so far as Aurelia could indulge\nherself in such recreations as partiality. The parent who is obliged to\nfeed and clothe seven children on an income of fifteen dollars a month\nseldom has time to discriminate carefully between the various members\nof her brood, but Hannah at fourteen was at once companion and partner\nin all her mother\'s problems. She it was who kept the house while\nAurelia busied herself in barn and field. Rebecca was capable of\ncertain set tasks, such as keeping the small children from killing\nthemselves and one another, feeding the poultry, picking up chips,\nhulling strawberries, wiping dishes; but she was thought irresponsible,\nand Aurelia, needing somebody to lean on (having never enjoyed that\nluxury with the gifted Lorenzo), leaned on Hannah. Hannah showed the\nresult of this attitude somewhat, being a trifle careworn in face and\nsharp in manner; but she was a self-contained, well-behaved, dependable\nchild, and that is the reason her aunts had invited her to Riverboro to\nbe a member of their family and participate in all the advantages of\ntheir loftier position in the world. It was several years since Miranda\nand Jane had seen the children, but they remembered with pleasure that\nHannah had not spoken a word during the interview, and it was for this\nreason that they had asked for the pleasure of her company. Rebecca, on\nthe other hand, had dressed up the dog in John\'s clothes, and being\nrequested to get the three younger children ready for dinner, she had\nheld them under the pump and then proceeded to \"smack\" their hair flat\nto their heads by vigorous brushing, bringing them to the table in such\na moist and hideous state of shininess that their mother was ashamed of\ntheir appearance. Rebecca\'s own black locks were commonly pushed\nsmoothly off her forehead, but on this occasion she formed what I must\nperforce call by its only name, a spit-curl, directly in the centre of\nher brow, an ornament which she was allowed to wear a very short time,\nonly in fact till Hannah was able to call her mother\'s attention to it,\nwhen she was sent into the next room to remove it and to come back\nlooking like a Christian. This command she interpreted somewhat too\nliterally perhaps, because she contrived in a space of two minutes an\nextremely pious style of hairdressing, fully as effective if not as\nstartling as the first. These antics were solely the result of nervous\nirritation, a mood born of Miss Miranda Sawyer\'s stiff, grim, and\nmartial attitude. The remembrance of Rebecca was so vivid that their\nsister Aurelia\'s letter was something of a shock to the quiet, elderly\nspinsters of the brick house; for it said that Hannah could not\npossibly be spared for a few years yet, but that Rebecca would come as\nsoon as she could be made ready; that the offer was most thankfully\nappreciated, and that the regular schooling and church privileges, as\nwell as the influence of the Sawyer home, would doubtless be \"the\nmaking of Rebecca.\"\n\n\n\nIII\n\nA DIFFERENCE IN HEARTS\n\n\"I don\' know as I cal\'lated to be the makin\' of any child,\" Miranda had\nsaid as she folded Aurelia\'s letter and laid it in the light-stand\ndrawer. \"I s\'posed, of course, Aurelia would send us the one we asked\nfor, but it\'s just like her to palm off that wild young one on somebody\nelse.\"\n\n\"You remember we said that Rebecca or even Jenny might come, in case\nHannah couldn\'t,\" interposed Jane.\n\n\"I know we did, but we hadn\'t any notion it would turn out that way,\"\ngrumbled Miranda.\n\n\"She was a mite of a thing when we saw her three years ago,\" ventured\nJane; \"she\'s had time to improve.\"\n\n\"And time to grow worse!\"\n\n\"Won\'t it be kind of a privilege to put her on the right track?\" asked\nJane timidly.\n\n\"I don\' know about the privilege part; it\'ll be considerable of a\nchore, I guess. If her mother hain\'t got her on the right track by now,\nshe won\'t take to it herself all of a sudden.\"\n\nThis depressed and depressing frame of mind had lasted until the\neventful day dawned on which Rebecca was to arrive.\n\n\"If she makes as much work after she comes as she has before, we might\nas well give up hope of ever gettin\' any rest,\" sighed Miranda as she\nhung the dish towels on the barberry bushes at the side door.\n\n\"But we should have had to clean house, Rebecca or no Rebecca,\" urged\nJane; \"and I can\'t see why you\'ve scrubbed and washed and baked as you\nhave for that one child, nor why you\'ve about bought out Watson\'s stock\nof dry goods.\"\n\n\"I know Aurelia if you don\'t,\" responded Miranda. \"I\'ve seen her house,\nand I\'ve seen that batch o\' children, wearin\' one another\'s clothes and\nnever carin\' whether they had \'em on right sid\' out or not; I know what\nthey\'ve had to live and dress on, and so do you. That child will like\nas not come here with a passel o\' things borrowed from the rest o\' the\nfamily. She\'ll have Hannah\'s shoes and John\'s undershirts and Mark\'s\nsocks most likely. I suppose she never had a thimble on her finger in\nher life, but she\'ll know the feelin\' o\' one before she\'s ben here many\ndays. I\'ve bought a piece of unbleached muslin and a piece o\' brown\ngingham for her to make up; that\'ll keep her busy. Of course she won\'t\npick up anything after herself; she probably never see a duster, and\nshe\'ll be as hard to train into our ways as if she was a heathen.\"\n\n\"She\'ll make a dif\'rence,\" acknowledged Jane, \"but she may turn out\nmore biddable \'n we think.\"\n\n\"She\'ll mind when she\'s spoken to, biddable or not,\" remarked Miranda\nwith a shake of the last towel.\n\nMiranda Sawyer had a heart, of course, but she had never used it for\nany other purpose than the pumping and circulating of blood. She was\njust, conscientious, economical, industrious; a regular attendant at\nchurch and Sunday-school, and a member of the State Missionary and\nBible societies, but in the presence of all these chilly virtues you\nlonged for one warm little fault, or lacking that, one likable failing,\nsomething to make you sure she was thoroughly alive. She had never had\nany education other than that of the neighborhood district school, for\nher desires and ambitions had all pointed to the management of the\nhouse, the farm, and the dairy. Jane, on the other hand, had gone to an\nacademy, and also to a boarding-school for young ladies; so had\nAurelia; and after all the years that had elapsed there was still a\nslight difference in language and in manner between the elder and the\ntwo younger sisters.\n\nJane, too, had had the inestimable advantage of a sorrow; not the\nnatural grief at the loss of her aged father and mother, for she had\nbeen content to let them go; but something far deeper. She was engaged\nto marry young Tom Carter, who had nothing to marry on, it is true, but\nwho was sure to have, some time or other. Then the war broke out. Tom\nenlisted at the first call. Up to that time Jane had loved him with a\nquiet, friendly sort of affection, and had given her country a mild\nemotion of the same sort. But the strife, the danger, the anxiety of\nthe time, set new currents of feeling in motion. Life became something\nother than the three meals a day, the round of cooking, washing,\nsewing, and church going. Personal gossip vanished from the village\nconversation. Big things took the place of trifling ones,--sacred\nsorrows of wives and mothers, pangs of fathers and husbands,\nself-denials, sympathies, new desire to bear one another\'s burdens. Men\nand women grew fast in those days of the nation\'s trouble and danger,\nand Jane awoke from the vague dull dream she had hitherto called life\nto new hopes, new fears, new purposes. Then after a year\'s anxiety, a\nyear when one never looked in the newspaper without dread and sickness\nof suspense, came the telegram saying that Tom was wounded; and without\nso much as asking Miranda\'s leave, she packed her trunk and started for\nthe South. She was in time to hold Tom\'s hand through hours of pain; to\nshow him for once the heart of a prim New England girl when it is\nablaze with love and grief; to put her arms about him so that he could\nhave a home to die in, and that was all;--all, but it served.\n\nIt carried her through weary months of nursing--nursing of other\nsoldiers for Tom\'s dear sake; it sent her home a better woman; and\nthough she had never left Riverboro in all the years that lay between,\nand had grown into the counterfeit presentment of her sister and of all\nother thin, spare, New England spinsters, it was something of a\ncounterfeit, and underneath was still the faint echo of that wild\nheart-beat of her girlhood. Having learned the trick of beating and\nloving and suffering, the poor faithful heart persisted, although it\nlived on memories and carried on its sentimental operations mostly in\nsecret.\n\n\"You\'re soft, Jane,\" said Miranda once; \"you allers was soft, and you\nallers will be. If \'t wa\'n\'t for me keeping you stiffened up, I b\'lieve\nyou\'d leak out o\' the house into the dooryard.\"\n\n\nIt was already past the appointed hour for Mr. Cobb and his coach to be\nlumbering down the street.\n\n\"The stage ought to be here,\" said Miranda, glancing nervously at the\ntall clock for the twentieth time. \"I guess everything \'s done. I\'ve\ntacked up two thick towels back of her washstand and put a mat under\nher slop-jar; but children are awful hard on furniture. I expect we\nsha\'n\'t know this house a year from now.\"\n\nJane\'s frame of mind was naturally depressed and timorous, having been\naffected by Miranda\'s gloomy presages of evil to come. The only\ndifference between the sisters in this matter was that while Miranda\nonly wondered how they could endure Rebecca, Jane had flashes of\ninspiration in which she wondered how Rebecca would endure them. It was\nin one of these flashes that she ran up the back stairs to put a vase\nof apple blossoms and a red tomato-pincushion on Rebecca\'s bureau.\n\nThe stage rumbled to the side door of the brick house, and Mr. Cobb\nhanded Rebecca out like a real lady passenger. She alighted with great\ncircumspection, put the bunch of faded flowers in her aunt Miranda\'s\nhand, and received her salute; it could hardly be called a kiss without\ninjuring the fair name of that commodity.\n\n\"You needn\'t \'a\' bothered to bring flowers,\" remarked that gracious and\ntactful lady; \"the garden \'s always full of \'em here when it comes\ntime.\"\n\nJane then kissed Rebecca, giving a somewhat better imitation of the\nreal thing than her sister. \"Put the trunk in the entry, Jeremiah, and\nwe\'ll get it carried upstairs this afternoon,\" she said.\n\n\"I\'ll take it up for ye now, if ye say the word, girls.\"\n\n\"No, no; don\'t leave the horses; somebody\'ll be comin\' past, and we can\ncall \'em in.\"\n\n\"Well, good-by, Rebecca; good-day, Mirandy \'n\' Jane. You\'ve got a\nlively little girl there. I guess she\'ll be a first-rate company\nkeeper.\"\n\nMiss Sawyer shuddered openly at the adjective \"lively\" as applied to a\nchild; her belief being that though children might be seen, if\nabsolutely necessary, they certainly should never be heard if she could\nhelp it. \"We\'re not much used to noise, Jane and me,\" she remarked\nacidly.\n\nMr. Cobb saw that he had taken the wrong tack, but he was too unused to\nargument to explain himself readily, so he drove away, trying to think\nby what safer word than \"lively\" he might have described his\ninteresting little passenger.\n\n\"I\'ll take you up and show you your room, Rebecca,\" Miss Miranda said.\n\"Shut the mosquito nettin\' door tight behind you, so \'s to keep the\nflies out; it ain\'t flytime yet, but I want you to start right; take\nyour passel along with ye and then you won\'t have to come down for it;\nalways make your head save your heels. Rub your feet on that braided\nrug; hang your hat and cape in the entry there as you go past.\"\n\n\"It\'s my best hat,\" said Rebecca\n\n\"Take it upstairs then and put it in the clothes-press; but I shouldn\'t\n\'a\' thought you\'d \'a\' worn your best hat on the stage.\"\n\n\"It\'s my only hat,\" explained Rebecca. \"My every-day hat wasn\'t good\nenough to bring. Fanny\'s going to finish it.\"\n\n\"Lay your parasol in the entry closet.\"\n\n\"Do you mind if I keep it in my room, please? It always seems safer.\"\n\n\"There ain\'t any thieves hereabouts, and if there was, I guess they\nwouldn\'t make for your sunshade, but come along. Remember to always go\nup the back way; we don\'t use the front stairs on account o\' the\ncarpet; take care o\' the turn and don\'t ketch your foot; look to your\nright and go in. When you\'ve washed your face and hands and brushed\nyour hair you can come down, and by and by we\'ll unpack your trunk and\nget you settled before supper. Ain\'t you got your dress on hind sid\'\nforemost?\"\n\nRebecca drew her chin down and looked at the row of smoked pearl\nbuttons running up and down the middle of her flat little chest.\n\n\"Hind side foremost? Oh, I see! No, that\'s all right. If you have seven\nchildren you can\'t keep buttonin\' and unbuttonin\' \'em all the\ntime--they have to do themselves. We\'re always buttoned up in front at\nour house. Mira\'s only three, but she\'s buttoned up in front, too.\"\n\nMiranda said nothing as she closed the door, but her looks were at once\nequivalent to and more eloquent than words.\n\nRebecca stood perfectly still in the centre of the floor and looked\nabout her. There was a square of oilcloth in front of each article of\nfurniture and a drawn-in rug beside the single four poster, which was\ncovered with a fringed white dimity counterpane.\n\nEverything was as neat as wax, but the ceilings were much higher than\nRebecca was accustomed to. It was a north room, and the window, which\nwas long and narrow, looked out on the back buildings and the barn.\n\nIt was not the room, which was far more comfortable than Rebecca\'s own\nat the farm, nor the lack of view, nor yet the long journey, for she\nwas not conscious of weariness; it was not the fear of a strange place,\nfor she loved new places and courted new sensations; it was because of\nsome curious blending of uncomprehended emotions that Rebecca stood her\nsunshade in the corner, tore off her best hat, flung it on the bureau\nwith the porcupine quills on the under side, and stripping down the\ndimity spread, precipitated herself into the middle of the bed and\npulled the counterpane over her head.\n\nIn a moment the door opened quietly. Knocking was a refinement quite\nunknown in Riverboro, and if it had been heard of would never have been\nwasted on a child.\n\nMiss Miranda entered, and as her eye wandered about the vacant room, it\nfell upon a white and tempestuous ocean of counterpane, an ocean\nbreaking into strange movements of wave and crest and billow.\n\n\"REBECCA!\"\n\nThe tone in which the word was voiced gave it all the effect of having\nbeen shouted from the housetops.\n\nA dark ruffled head and two frightened eyes appeared above the dimity\nspread.\n\n\"What are you layin\' on your good bed in the daytime for, messin\' up\nthe feathers, and dirtyin\' the pillers with your dusty boots?\"\n\nRebecca rose guiltily. There seemed no excuse to make. Her offense was\nbeyond explanation or apology.\n\n\"I\'m sorry, aunt Mirandy--something came over me; I don\'t know what.\"\n\n\"Well, if it comes over you very soon again we\'ll have to find out what\n\'t is. Spread your bed up smooth this minute, for \'Bijah Flagg \'s\nbringin\' your trunk upstairs, and I wouldn\'t let him see such a\ncluttered-up room for anything; he\'d tell it all over town.\"\n\n\nWhen Mr. Cobb had put up his horses that night he carried a kitchen\nchair to the side of his wife, who was sitting on the back porch.\n\n\"I brought a little Randall girl down on the stage from Maplewood\nto-day, mother. She\'s kin to the Sawyer girls an\' is goin\' to live with\n\'em,\" he said, as he sat down and began to whittle. \"She\'s that\nAurelia\'s child, the one that ran away with Susan Randall\'s son just\nbefore we come here to live.\"\n\n\"How old a child?\"\n\n\"\'Bout ten, or somewhere along there, an\' small for her age; but land!\nshe might be a hundred to hear her talk! She kep\' me jumpin\' tryin\' to\nanswer her! Of all the queer children I ever come across she\'s the\nqueerest. She ain\'t no beauty--her face is all eyes; but if she ever\ngrows up to them eyes an\' fills out a little she\'ll make folks stare.\nLand, mother! I wish \'t you could \'a\' heard her talk.\"\n\n\"I don\'t see what she had to talk about, a child like that, to a\nstranger,\" replied Mrs. Cobb.\n\n\"Stranger or no stranger, \'t wouldn\'t make no difference to her. She\'d\ntalk to a pump or a grind-stun; she\'d talk to herself ruther \'n keep\nstill.\"\n\n\"What did she talk about?\"\n\n\"Blamed if I can repeat any of it. She kep\' me so surprised I didn\'t\nhave my wits about me. She had a little pink sunshade--it kind o\'\nlooked like a doll\'s amberill, \'n\' she clung to it like a burr to a\nwoolen stockin\'. I advised her to open it up--the sun was so hot; but\nshe said no, \'t would fade, an\' she tucked it under her dress. \'It\'s\nthe dearest thing in life to me,\' says she, \'but it\'s a dreadful care.\'\nThem \'s the very words, an\' it\'s all the words I remember. \'It\'s the\ndearest thing in life to me, but it\'s an awful care!\' \"--here Mr. Cobb\nlaughed aloud as he tipped his chair back against the side of the\nhouse. \"There was another thing, but I can\'t get it right exactly. She\nwas talkin\' \'bout the circus parade an\' the snake charmer in a gold\nchariot, an\' says she, \'She was so beautiful beyond compare, Mr. Cobb,\nthat it made you have lumps in your throat to look at her.\' She\'ll be\ncomin\' over to see you, mother, an\' you can size her up for yourself. I\ndon\' know how she\'ll git on with Mirandy Sawyer--poor little soul!\"\n\nThis doubt was more or less openly expressed in Riverboro, which,\nhowever, had two opinions on the subject; one that it was a most\ngenerous thing in the Sawyer girls to take one of Aurelia\'s children to\neducate, the other that the education would be bought at a price wholly\nout of proportion to its intrinsic value.\n\nRebecca\'s first letters to her mother would seem to indicate that she\ncordially coincided with the latter view of the situation.\n\n\n\nIV\n\nREBECCA\'S POINT OF VIEW\n\n Dear Mother,--I am safely here. My dress was not much tumbled\n and Aunt Jane helped me press it out. I like Mr. Cobb very\n much. He chews but throws newspapers straight up to the\n doors. I rode outside a little while, but got inside before I\n got to Aunt Miranda\'s house. I did not want to, but thought\n you would like it better. Miranda is such a long word that I\n think I will say Aunt M. and Aunt J. in my Sunday letters.\n Aunt J. has given me a dictionary to look up all the hard\n words in. It takes a good deal of time and I am glad people\n can talk without stoping to spell. It is much eesier to talk\n than write and much more fun. The brick house looks just the\n same as you have told us. The parler is splendid and gives\n you creeps and chills when you look in the door. The\n furnature is ellergant too, and all the rooms but there are\n no good sitting-down places exsept in the kitchen. The same\n cat is here but they do not save kittens when she has them,\n and the cat is too old to play with. Hannah told me once you\n ran away with father and I can see it would be nice. If Aunt\n M. would run away I think I should like to live with Aunt J.\n She does not hate me as bad as Aunt M. does. Tell Mark he can\n have my paint box, but I should like him to keep the red cake\n in case I come home again. I hope Hannah and John do not get\n tired doing my chores.\n\n Your afectionate friend\n\n Rebecca.\n\n P. S. Please give the piece of poetry to John because he\n likes my poetry even when it is not very good. This piece is\n not very good but it is true but I hope you won\'t mind what\n is in it as you ran away.\n\n This house is dark and dull and dreer\n No light doth shine from far or near\n Its like the tomb.\n\n And those of us who live herein\n Are most as dead as serrafim\n Though not as good.\n\n My gardian angel is asleep\n At leest he doth no vigil keep\n\n Ah! woe is me!\n\n Then give me back my lonely farm\n Where none alive did wish me harm\n Dear home of youth!\n\n P. S. again. I made the poetry like a piece in a book but\n could not get it right at first. You see \"tomb\" and \"good\" do\n not sound well together but I wanted to say \"tomb\" dreadfully\n and as serrafim are always \"good\" I couldn\'t take that out. I\n have made it over now. It does not say my thoughts as well\n but think it is more right. Give the best one to John as he\n keeps them in a box with his birds\' eggs. This is the best\n one.\n\n\n SUNDAY THOUGHTS\n\n BY\n\n REBECCA ROWENA RANDALL\n\n This house is dark and dull and drear\n No light doth shine from far or near\n Nor ever could.\n\n And those of us who live herein\n Are most as dead as seraphim\n Though not as good.\n\n My guardian angel is asleep\n At least he doth no vigil keep\n But far doth roam.\n\n Then give me back my lonely farm\n Where none alive did wish me harm,\n Dear childhood home!\n\n\n Dear Mother,--I am thrilling with unhappyness this morning. I\n got that out of Cora The Doctor\'s Wife whose husband\'s mother\n was very cross and unfealing to her like Aunt M. to me. I\n wish Hannah had come instead of me for it was Hannah that was\n wanted and she is better than I am and does not answer back\n so quick. Are there any peaces of my buff calico. Aunt J.\n wants enough to make a new waste button behind so I wont look\n so outlandish. The stiles are quite pretty in Riverboro and\n those at Meeting quite ellergant more so than in Temperance.\n\n This town is stilish, gay and fair,\n And full of wellthy riches rare,\n But I would pillow on my arm\n The thought of my sweet Brookside Farm.\n\n School is pretty good. The Teacher can answer more questions\n than the Temperance one but not so many as I can ask. I am\n smarter than all the girls but one but not so smart as two\n boys. Emma Jane can add and subtract in her head like a\n streek of lightning and knows the speling book right through\n but has no thoughts of any kind. She is in the Third Reader\n but does not like stories in books. I am in the Sixth Reader\n but just because I cannot say the seven multiplication Table\n Miss Dearborn threttens to put me in the baby primer class\n with Elijah and Elisha Simpson little twins.\n\n Sore is my heart and bent my stubborn pride,\n With Lijah and with Lisha am I tied,\n My soul recoyles like Cora Doctor\'s Wife,\n Like her I feer I cannot bare this life.\n\n\n I am going to try for the speling prize but fear I cannot get\n it. I would not care but wrong speling looks dreadful in\n poetry. Last Sunday when I found seraphim in the dictionary I\n was ashamed I had made it serrafim but seraphim is not a word\n you can guess at like another long one outlandish in this\n letter which spells itself. Miss Dearborn says use the words\n you CAN spell and if you cant spell seraphim make angel do\n but angels are not just the same as seraphims. Seraphims are\n brighter whiter and have bigger wings and I think are older\n and longer dead than angels which are just freshly dead and\n after a long time in heaven around the great white throne\n grow to be seraphims.\n\n I sew on brown gingham dresses every afternoon when Emma Jane\n and the Simpsons are playing house or running on the Logs\n when their mothers do not know it. Their mothers are afraid\n they will drown and Aunt M. is afraid I will wet my clothes\n so will not let me either. I can play from half past four to\n supper and after supper a little bit and Saturday afternoons.\n I am glad our cow has a calf and it is spotted. It is going\n to be a good year for apples and hay so you and John will be\n glad and we can pay a little more morgage. Miss Dearborn\n asked us what is the object of edducation and I said the\n object of mine was to help pay off the morgage. She told Aunt\n M. and I had to sew extra for punishment because she says a\n morgage is disgrace like stealing or smallpox and it will be\n all over town that we have one on our farm. Emma Jane is not\n morgaged nor Richard Carter nor Dr. Winship but the Simpsons\n are.\n\n Rise my soul, strain every nerve,\n Thy morgage to remove,\n Gain thy mother\'s heartfelt thanks\n Thy family\'s grateful love.\n\n Pronounce family QUICK or it won\'t sound right\n\n Your loving little friend\n Rebecca\n\n\n Dear John,--You remember when we tide the new dog in the barn\n how he bit the rope and howled I am just like him only the\n brick house is the barn and I can not bite Aunt M. because I\n must be grateful and edducation is going to be the making of\n me and help you pay off the morgage when we grow up.\n Your loving\n\n Becky.\n\n\n\nV\n\nWISDOM\'S WAYS\n\nThe day of Rebecca\'s arrival had been Friday, and on the Monday\nfollowing she began her education at the school which was in Riverboro\nCentre, about a mile distant. Miss Sawyer borrowed a neighbor\'s horse\nand wagon and drove her to the schoolhouse, interviewing the teacher,\nMiss Dearborn, arranging for books, and generally starting the child on\nthe path that was to lead to boundless knowledge. Miss Dearborn, it may\nbe said in passing, had had no special preparation in the art of\nteaching. It came to her naturally, so her family said, and perhaps for\nthis reason she, like Tom Tulliver\'s clergyman tutor, \"set about it\nwith that uniformity of method and independence of circumstances which\ndistinguish the actions of animals understood to be under the immediate\nteaching of Nature.\" You remember the beaver which a naturalist tells\nus \"busied himself as earnestly in constructing a dam in a room up\nthree pair of stairs in London as if he had been laying his foundation\nin a lake in Upper Canada. It was his function to build, the absence of\nwater or of possible progeny was an accident for which he was not\naccountable.\" In the same manner did Miss Dearborn lay what she fondly\nimagined to be foundations in the infant mind.\n\nRebecca walked to school after the first morning. She loved this part\nof the day\'s programme. When the dew was not too heavy and the weather\nwas fair there was a short cut through the woods. She turned off the\nmain road, crept through uncle Josh Woodman\'s bars, waved away Mrs.\nCarter\'s cows, trod the short grass of the pasture, with its well-worn\npath running through gardens of buttercups and white-weed, and groves\nof ivory leaves and sweet fern. She descended a little hill, jumped\nfrom stone to stone across a woodland brook, startling the drowsy\nfrogs, who were always winking and blinking in the morning sun. Then\ncame the \"woodsy bit,\" with her feet pressing the slippery carpet of\nbrown pine needles; the \"woodsy bit\" so full of dewy morning,\nsurprises,--fungous growths of brilliant orange and crimson springing\nup around the stumps of dead trees, beautiful things born in a single\nnight; and now and then the miracle of a little clump of waxen Indian\npipes, seen just quickly enough to be saved from her careless tread.\nThen she climbed a stile, went through a grassy meadow, slid under\nanother pair of bars, and came out into the road again having gained\nnearly half a mile.\n\nHow delicious it all was! Rebecca clasped her Quackenbos\'s Grammar and\nGreenleaf\'s Arithmetic with a joyful sense of knowing her lessons. Her\ndinner pail swung from her right hand, and she had a blissful\nconsciousness of the two soda biscuits spread with butter and syrup,\nthe baked cup-custard, the doughnut, and the square of hard\ngingerbread. Sometimes she said whatever \"piece\" she was going to speak\non the next Friday afternoon.\n\n \"A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,\n There was lack of woman\'s nursing, there was dearth of\n woman\'s tears.\"\n\nHow she loved the swing and the sentiment of it! How her young voice\nquivered whenever she came to the refrain:--\n\n \"But we\'ll meet no more at Bingen, dear Bingen on the Rhine.\"\n\nIt always sounded beautiful in her ears, as she sent her tearful little\ntreble into the clear morning air. Another early favorite (for we must\nremember that Rebecca\'s only knowledge of the great world of poetry\nconsisted of the selections in vogue in school readers) was:--\n\n \"Woodman, spare that tree!\n Touch not a single bough!\n In youth it sheltered me,\n And I\'ll protect it now.\"\n\nWhen Emma Jane Perkins walked through the \"short cut\" with her, the two\nchildren used to render this with appropriate dramatic action. Emma\nJane always chose to be the woodman because she had nothing to do but\nraise on high an imaginary axe. On the one occasion when she essayed\nthe part of the tree\'s romantic protector, she represented herself as\nfeeling \"so awful foolish\" that she refused to undertake it again, much\nto the secret delight of Rebecca, who found the woodman\'s role much too\ntame for her vaulting ambition. She reveled in the impassioned appeal\nof the poet, and implored the ruthless woodman to be as brutal as\npossible with the axe, so that she might properly put greater spirit\ninto her lines. One morning, feeling more frisky than usual, she fell\nupon her knees and wept in the woodman\'s petticoat. Curiously enough,\nher sense of proportion rejected this as soon as it was done.\n\n\"That wasn\'t right, it was silly, Emma Jane; but I\'ll tell you where it\nmight come in--in Give me Three Grains of Corn. You be the mother, and\nI\'ll be the famishing Irish child. For pity\'s sake put the axe down;\nyou are not the woodman any longer!\"\n\n\"What\'ll I do with my hands, then?\" asked Emma Jane.\n\n\"Whatever you like,\" Rebecca answered wearily; \"you\'re just a\nmother--that\'s all. What does YOUR mother do with her hands? Now here\ngoes!\n\n \"\'Give me three grains of corn, mother,\n Only three grains of corn,\n \'T will keep the little life I have\n Till the coming of the morn.\'\"\n\nThis sort of thing made Emma Jane nervous and fidgety, but she was\nRebecca\'s slave and hugged her chains, no matter how uncomfortable they\nmade her.\n\nAt the last pair of bars the two girls were sometimes met by a\ndetachment of the Simpson children, who lived in a black house with a\nred door and a red barn behind, on the Blueberry Plains road. Rebecca\nfelt an interest in the Simpsons from the first, because there were so\nmany of them and they were so patched and darned, just like her own\nbrood at the home farm.\n\nThe little schoolhouse with its flagpole on top and its two doors in\nfront, one for boys and the other for girls, stood on the crest of a\nhill, with rolling fields and meadows on one side, a stretch of pine\nwoods on the other, and the river glinting and sparkling in the\ndistance. It boasted no attractions within. All was as bare and ugly\nand uncomfortable as it well could be, for the villages along the river\nexpended so much money in repairing and rebuilding bridges that they\nwere obliged to be very economical in school privileges. The teacher\'s\ndesk and chair stood on a platform in one corner; there was an uncouth\nstove, never blackened oftener than once a year, a map of the United\nStates, two black-boards, a ten-quart tin pail of water and\nlong-handled dipper on a corner shelf, and wooden desks and benches for\nthe scholars, who only numbered twenty in Rebecca\'s time. The seats\nwere higher in the back of the room, and the more advanced and\nlonger-legged pupils sat there, the position being greatly to be\nenvied, as they were at once nearer to the windows and farther from the\nteacher.\n\nThere were classes of a sort, although nobody, broadly speaking,\nstudied the same book with anybody else, or had arrived at the same\ndegree of proficiency in any one branch of learning. Rebecca in\nparticular was so difficult to classify that Miss Dearborn at the end\nof a fortnight gave up the attempt altogether. She read with Dick\nCarter and Living Perkins, who were fitting for the academy; recited\narithmetic with lisping little Thuthan Thimpthon; geography with Emma\nJane Perkins, and grammar after school hours to Miss Dearborn alone.\nFull to the brim as she was of clever thoughts and quaint fancies, she\nmade at first but a poor hand at composition. The labor of writing and\nspelling, with the added difficulties of punctuation and capitals,\ninterfered sadly with the free expression of ideas. She took history\nwith Alice Robinson\'s class, which was attacking the subject of the\nRevolution, while Rebecca was bidden to begin with the discovery of\nAmerica. In a week she had mastered the course of events up to the\nRevolution, and in ten days had arrived at Yorktown, where the class\nhad apparently established summer quarters. Then finding that extra\neffort would only result in her reciting with the oldest Simpson boy,\nshe deliberately held herself back, for wisdom\'s ways were not those of\npleasantness nor her paths those of peace if one were compelled to\ntread them in the company of Seesaw Simpson. Samuel Simpson was\ngenerally called Seesaw, because of his difficulty in making up his\nmind. Whether it were a question of fact, of spelling, or of date, of\ngoing swimming or fishing, of choosing a book in the Sunday-school\nlibrary or a stick of candy at the village store, he had no sooner\ndetermined on one plan of action than his wish fondly reverted to the\nopposite one. Seesaw was pale, flaxen haired, blue eyed, round\nshouldered, and given to stammering when nervous. Perhaps because of\nhis very weakness Rebecca\'s decision of character had a fascination for\nhim, and although she snubbed him to the verge of madness, he could\nnever keep his eyes away from her. The force with which she tied her\nshoe when the lacing came undone, the flirt over shoulder she gave her\nblack braid when she was excited or warm, her manner of studying,--book\non desk, arms folded, eyes fixed on the opposite wall,--all had an\nabiding charm for Seesaw Simpson. When, having obtained permission, she\nwalked to the water pail in the corner and drank from the dipper,\nunseen forces dragged Seesaw from his seat to go and drink after her.\nIt was not only that there was something akin to association and\nintimacy in drinking next, but there was the fearful joy of meeting her\nin transit and receiving a cold and disdainful look from her wonderful\neyes.\n\nOn a certain warm day in summer Rebecca\'s thirst exceeded the bounds of\npropriety. When she asked a third time for permission to quench it at\nthe common fountain Miss Dearborn nodded \"yes,\" but lifted her eyebrows\nunpleasantly as Rebecca neared the desk. As she replaced the dipper\nSeesaw promptly raised his hand, and Miss Dearborn indicated a weary\naffirmative.\n\n\"What is the matter with you, Rebecca?\" she asked.\n\n\"I had salt mackerel for breakfast,\" answered Rebecca.\n\nThere seemed nothing humorous about this reply, which was merely the\nstatement of a fact, but an irrepressible titter ran through the\nschool. Miss Dearborn did not enjoy jokes neither made nor understood\nby herself, and her face flushed.\n\n\"I think you had better stand by the pail for five minutes, Rebecca; it\nmay help you to control your thirst.\"\n\nRebecca\'s heart fluttered. She to stand in the corner by the water pail\nand be stared at by all the scholars! She unconsciously made a gesture\nof angry dissent and moved a step nearer her seat, but was arrested by\nMiss Dearborn\'s command in a still firmer voice.\n\n\"Stand by the pail, Rebecca! Samuel, how many times have you asked for\nwater to-day?\"\n\n\"This is the f-f-fourth.\"\n\n\"Don\'t touch the dipper, please. The school has done nothing but drink\nthis afternoon; it has had no time whatever to study. I suppose you had\nsomething salt for breakfast, Samuel?\" queried Miss Dearborn with\nsarcasm.\n\n\"I had m-m-mackerel, j-just like Reb-b-becca.\" (Irrepressible giggles\nby the school.)\n\n\"I judged so. Stand by the other side of the pail, Samuel.\"\n\nRebecca\'s head was bowed with shame and wrath. Life looked too black a\nthing to be endured. The punishment was bad enough, but to be coupled\nin correction with Seesaw Simpson was beyond human endurance.\n\nSinging was the last exercise in the afternoon, and Minnie Smellie\nchose Shall we Gather at the River? It was a baleful choice and seemed\nto hold some secret and subtle association with the situation and\ngeneral progress of events; or at any rate there was apparently some\nobscure reason for the energy and vim with which the scholars shouted\nthe choral invitation again and again:--\n\n \"Shall we gather at the river,\n The beautiful, the beautiful river?\"\n\nMiss Dearborn stole a look at Rebecca\'s bent head and was frightened.\nThe child\'s face was pale save for two red spots glowing on her cheeks.\nTears hung on her lashes; her breath came and went quickly, and the\nhand that held her pocket handkerchief trembled like a leaf.\n\n\"You may go to your seat, Rebecca,\" said Miss Dearborn at the end of\nthe first song. \"Samuel, stay where you are till the close of school.\nAnd let me tell you, scholars, that I asked Rebecca to stand by the\npail only to break up this habit of incessant drinking, which is\nnothing but empty-mindedness and desire to walk to and fro over the\nfloor. Every time Rebecca has asked for a drink to-day the whole school\nhas gone to the pail one after another. She is really thirsty, and I\ndare say I ought to have punished you for following her example, not\nher for setting it. What shall we sing now, Alice?\"\n\n\"The Old Oaken Bucket, please.\"\n\n\"Think of something dry, Alice, and change the subject. Yes, The Star\nSpangled Banner if you like, or anything else.\"\n\nRebecca sank into her seat and pulled the singing book from her desk.\nMiss Dearborn\'s public explanation had shifted some of the weight from\nher heart, and she felt a trifle raised in her self-esteem.\n\nUnder cover of the general relaxation of singing, votive offerings of\nrespectful sympathy began to make their appearance at her shrine.\nLiving Perkins, who could not sing, dropped a piece of maple sugar in\nher lap as he passed her on his way to the blackboard to draw the map\nof Maine. Alice Robinson rolled a perfectly new slate pencil over the\nfloor with her foot until it reached Rebecca\'s place, while her\nseat-mate, Emma Jane, had made up a little mound of paper balls and\nlabeled them \"Bullets for you know who.\"\n\nAltogether existence grew brighter, and when she was left alone with\nthe teacher for her grammar lesson she had nearly recovered her\nequanimity, which was more than Miss Dearborn had. The last clattering\nfoot had echoed through the hall, Seesaw\'s backward glance of penitence\nhad been met and answered defiantly by one of cold disdain.\n\n\"Rebecca, I am afraid I punished you more than I meant,\" said Miss\nDearborn, who was only eighteen herself, and in her year of teaching\ncountry schools had never encountered a child like Rebecca.\n\n\"I hadn\'t missed a question this whole day, nor whispered either,\"\nquavered the culprit; \"and I don\'t think I ought to be shamed just for\ndrinking.\"\n\n\"You started all the others, or it seemed as if you did. Whatever you\ndo they all do, whether you laugh, or miss, or write notes, or ask to\nleave the room, or drink; and it must be stopped.\"\n\n\"Sam Simpson is a copycoat!\" stormed Rebecca \"I wouldn\'t have minded\nstanding in the corner alone--that is, not so very much; but I couldn\'t\nbear standing with him.\"\n\n\"I saw that you couldn\'t, and that\'s the reason I told you to take your\nseat, and left him in the corner. Remember that you are a stranger in\nthe place, and they take more notice of what you do, so you must be\ncareful. Now let\'s have our conjugations. Give me the verb \'to be,\'\npotential mood, past perfect tense.\"\n\n \"I might have been \"We might have been\n Thou mightst have been You might have been\n He might have been They might have been.\"\n\n\"Give me an example, please.\"\n\n \"I might have been glad\n Thou mightst have been glad\n He, she, or it might have been glad.\"\n\n\"\'He\' or \'she\' might have been glad because they are masculine and\nfeminine, but could \'it\' have been glad?\" asked Miss Dearborn, who was\nvery fond of splitting hairs.\n\n\"Why not?\" asked Rebecca\n\n\"Because \'it\' is neuter gender.\"\n\n\"Couldn\'t we say, \'The kitten might have been glad if it had known it\nwas not going to be drowned\'?\"\n\n\"Ye--es,\" Miss Dearborn answered hesitatingly, never very sure of\nherself under Rebecca\'s fire; \"but though we often speak of a baby, a\nchicken, or a kitten as \'it,\' they are really masculine or feminine\ngender, not neuter.\"\n\nRebecca reflected a long moment and then asked, \"Is a hollyhock neuter?\"\n\n\"Oh yes, of course it is, Rebecca\"\n\n\"Well, couldn\'t we say, \'The hollyhock might have been glad to see the\nrain, but there was a weak little hollyhock bud growing out of its\nstalk and it was afraid that that might be hurt by the storm; so the\nbig hollyhock was kind of afraid, instead of being real glad\'?\"\n\nMiss Dearborn looked puzzled as she answered, \"Of course, Rebecca,\nhollyhocks could not be sorry, or glad, or afraid, really.\"\n\n\"We can\'t tell, I s\'pose,\" replied the child; \"but _I_ think they are,\nanyway. Now what shall I say?\"\n\n\"The subjunctive mood, past perfect tense of the verb \'to know.\'\"\n\n \"If I had known \"If we had known\n If thou hadst known If you had known\n If he had known If they had known.\n\n\"Oh, it is the saddest tense,\" sighed Rebecca with a little break in\nher voice; \"nothing but IFS, IFS, IFS! And it makes you feel that if\nthey only HAD known, things might have been better!\"\n\nMiss Dearborn had not thought of it before, but on reflection she\nbelieved the subjunctive mood was a \"sad\" one and \"if\" rather a sorry\n\"part of speech.\"\n\n\"Give me some more examples of the subjunctive, Rebecca, and that will\ndo for this afternoon,\" she said.\n\n\"If I had not loved mackerel I should not have been thirsty;\" said\nRebecca with an April smile, as she closed her grammar. \"If thou hadst\nloved me truly thou wouldst not have stood me up in the corner. If\nSamuel had not loved wickedness he would not have followed me to the\nwater pail.\"\n\n\"And if Rebecca had loved the rules of the school she would have\ncontrolled her thirst,\" finished Miss Dearborn with a kiss, and the two\nparted friends.\n\n\n\nVI\n\nSUNSHINE IN A SHADY PLACE\n\nThe little schoolhouse on the hill had its moments of triumph as well\nas its scenes of tribulation, but it was fortunate that Rebecca had her\nbooks and her new acquaintances to keep her interested and occupied, or\nlife would have gone heavily with her that first summer in Riverboro.\nShe tried to like her aunt Miranda (the idea of loving her had been\ngiven up at the moment of meeting), but failed ignominiously in the\nattempt. She was a very faulty and passionately human child, with no\naspirations towards being an angel of the house, but she had a sense of\nduty and a desire to be good,--respectably, decently good. Whenever she\nfell below this self-imposed standard she was miserable. She did not\nlike to be under her aunt\'s roof, eating bread, wearing clothes, and\nstudying books provided by her, and dislike her so heartily all the\ntime. She felt instinctively that this was wrong and mean, and whenever\nthe feeling of remorse was strong within her she made a desperate\neffort to please her grim and difficult relative. But how could she\nsucceed when she was never herself in her aunt Miranda\'s presence? The\nsearching look of the eyes, the sharp voice, the hard knotty fingers,\nthe thin straight lips, the long silences, the \"front-piece\" that\ndidn\'t match her hair, the very obvious \"parting\" that seemed sewed in\nwith linen thread on black net,--there was not a single item that\nappealed to Rebecca. There are certain narrow, unimaginative, and\nautocratic old people who seem to call out the most mischievous, and\nsometimes the worst traits in children. Miss Miranda, had she lived in\na populous neighborhood, would have had her doorbell pulled, her gate\ntied up, or \"dirt traps\" set in her garden paths. The Simpson twins\nstood in such awe of her that they could not be persuaded to come to\nthe side door even when Miss Jane held gingerbread cookies in her\noutstretched hands.\n\nIt is needless to say that Rebecca irritated her aunt with every breath\nshe drew. She continually forgot and started up the front stairs\nbecause it was the shortest route to her bedroom; she left the dipper\non the kitchen shelf instead of hanging it up over the pail; she sat in\nthe chair the cat liked best; she was willing to go on errands, but\noften forgot what she was sent for; she left the screen doors ajar, so\nthat flies came in; her tongue was ever in motion; she sang or whistled\nwhen she was picking up chips; she was always messing with flowers,\nputting them in vases, pinning them on her dress, and sticking them in\nher hat; finally she was an everlasting reminder of her foolish,\nworthless father, whose handsome face and engaging manner had so\ndeceived Aurelia, and perhaps, if the facts were known, others besides\nAurelia. The Randalls were aliens. They had not been born in Riverboro\nnor even in York County. Miranda would have allowed, on compulsion,\nthat in the nature of things a large number of persons must necessarily\nbe born outside this sacred precinct; but she had her opinion of them,\nand it was not a flattering one. Now if Hannah had come--Hannah took\nafter the other side of the house; she was \"all Sawyer.\" (Poor Hannah!\nthat was true!) Hannah spoke only when spoken to, instead of first,\nlast, and all the time; Hannah at fourteen was a member of the church;\nHannah liked to knit; Hannah was, probably, or would have been, a\npattern of all the smaller virtues; instead of which here was this\nblack-haired gypsy, with eyes as big as cartwheels, installed as a\nmember of the household.\n\nWhat sunshine in a shady place was aunt Jane to Rebecca! Aunt Jane with\nher quiet voice, her understanding eyes, her ready excuses, in these\nfirst difficult weeks, when the impulsive little stranger was trying to\nsettle down into the \"brick house ways.\" She did learn them, in part,\nand by degrees, and the constant fitting of herself to these new and\ndifficult standards of conduct seemed to make her older than ever for\nher years.\n\nThe child took her sewing and sat beside aunt Jane in the kitchen while\naunt Miranda had the post of observation at the sitting-room window.\nSometimes they would work on the side porch where the clematis and\nwoodbine shaded them from the hot sun. To Rebecca the lengths of brown\ngingham were interminable. She made hard work of sewing, broke the\nthread, dropped her thimble into the syringa bushes, pricked her\nfinger, wiped the perspiration from her forehead, could not match the\nchecks, puckered the seams. She polished her needles to nothing,\npushing them in and out of the emery strawberry, but they always\nsqueaked. Still aunt Jane\'s patience held good, and some small measure\nof skill was creeping into Rebecca\'s fingers, fingers that held pencil,\npaint brush, and pen so cleverly and were so clumsy with the dainty\nlittle needle.\n\nWhen the first brown gingham frock was completed, the child seized what\nshe thought an opportune moment and asked her aunt Miranda if she might\nhave another color for the next one.\n\n\"I bought a whole piece of the brown,\" said Miranda laconically.\n\"That\'ll give you two more dresses, with plenty for new sleeves, and to\npatch and let down with, an\' be more economical.\"\n\n\"I know. But Mr. Watson says he\'ll take back part of it, and let us\nhave pink and blue for the same price.\"\n\n\"Did you ask him?\"\n\n\"Yes\'m.\"\n\n\"It was none o\' your business.\"\n\n\"I was helping Emma Jane choose aprons, and didn\'t think you\'d mind\nwhich color I had. Pink keeps clean just as nice as brown, and Mr.\nWatson says it\'ll boil without fading.\"\n\n\"Mr. Watson \'s a splendid judge of washing, I guess. I don\'t approve of\nchildren being rigged out in fancy colors, but I\'ll see what your aunt\nJane thinks.\"\n\n\"I think it would be all right to let Rebecca have one pink and one\nblue gingham,\" said Jane. \"A child gets tired of sewing on one color.\nIt\'s only natural she should long for a change; besides she\'d look like\na charity child always wearing the same brown with a white apron. And\nit\'s dreadful unbecoming to her!\"\n\n\"\'Handsome is as handsome does,\' say I. Rebecca never\'ll come to grief\nalong of her beauty, that\'s certain, and there\'s no use in humoring her\nto think about her looks. I believe she\'s vain as a peacock now,\nwithout anything to be vain of.\"\n\n\"She\'s young and attracted to bright things--that\'s all. I remember\nwell enough how I felt at her age.\"\n\n\"You was considerable of a fool at her age, Jane.\"\n\n\"Yes, I was, thank the Lord! I only wish I\'d known how to take a little\nof my foolishness along with me, as some folks do, to brighten my\ndeclining years.\"\n\nThere finally was a pink gingham, and when it was nicely finished, aunt\nJane gave Rebecca a delightful surprise. She showed her how to make a\npretty trimming of narrow white linen tape, by folding it in pointed\nshapes and sewing it down very flat with neat little stitches.\n\n\"It\'ll be good fancy work for you, Rebecca; for your aunt Miranda won\'t\nlike to see you always reading in the long winter evenings. Now if you\nthink you can baste two rows of white tape round the bottom of your\npink skirt and keep it straight by the checks, I\'ll stitch them on for\nyou and trim the waist and sleeves with pointed tape-trimming, so the\ndress\'ll be real pretty for second best.\"\n\nRebecca\'s joy knew no bounds. \"I\'ll baste like a house afire!\" she\nexclaimed. \"It\'s a thousand yards round that skirt, as well I know,\nhaving hemmed it; but I could sew pretty trimming on if it was from\nhere to Milltown. Oh! do you think aunt Mirandy\'ll ever let me go to\nMilltown with Mr. Cobb? He\'s asked me again, you know; but one Saturday\nI had to pick strawberries, and another it rained, and I don\'t think\nshe really approves of my going. It\'s TWENTY-NINE minutes past four,\naunt Jane, and Alice Robinson has been sitting under the currant bushes\nfor a long time waiting for me. Can I go and play?\"\n\n\"Yes, you may go, and you\'d better run as far as you can out behind the\nbarn, so \'t your noise won\'t distract your aunt Mirandy. I see Susan\nSimpson and the twins and Emma Jane Perkins hiding behind the fence.\"\n\nRebecca leaped off the porch, snatched Alice Robinson from under the\ncurrant bushes, and, what was much more difficult, succeeded, by means\nof a complicated system of signals, in getting Emma Jane away from the\nSimpson party and giving them the slip altogether. They were much too\nsmall for certain pleasurable activities planned for that afternoon;\nbut they were not to be despised, for they had the most fascinating\ndooryard in the village. In it, in bewildering confusion, were old\nsleighs, pungs, horse rakes, hogsheads, settees without backs,\nbed-steads without heads, in all stages of disability, and never the\nsame on two consecutive days. Mrs. Simpson was seldom at home, and even\nwhen she was, had little concern as to what happened on the premises. A\nfavorite diversion was to make the house into a fort, gallantly held by\na handful of American soldiers against a besieging force of the British\narmy. Great care was used in apportioning the parts, for there was no\ndisposition to let anybody win but the Americans. Seesaw Simpson was\nusually made commander-in-chief of the British army, and a limp and\nuncertain one he was, capable, with his contradictory orders and his\nfondness for the extreme rear, of leading any regiment to an inglorious\ndeath. Sometimes the long-suffering house was a log hut, and the brave\nsettlers defeated a band of hostile Indians, or occasionally were\nmassacred by them; but in either case the Simpson house looked, to\nquote a Riverboro expression, \"as if the devil had been having an\nauction in it.\"\n\nNext to this uncommonly interesting playground, as a field of action,\ncame, in the children\'s opinion, the \"secret spot.\" There was a velvety\nstretch of ground in the Sawyer pasture which was full of fascinating\nhollows and hillocks, as well as verdant levels, on which to build\nhouses. A group of trees concealed it somewhat from view and flung a\ngrateful shade over the dwellings erected there. It had been hard\nthough sweet labor to take armfuls of \"stickins\" and \"cutrounds\" from\nthe mill to this secluded spot, and that it had been done mostly after\nsupper in the dusk of the evenings gave it a still greater flavor. Here\nin soap boxes hidden among the trees were stored all their treasures:\nwee baskets and plates and cups made of burdock balls, bits of broken\nchina for parties, dolls, soon to be outgrown, but serving well as\ncharacters in all sorts of romances enacted there,--deaths, funerals,\nweddings, christenings. A tall, square house of stickins was to be\nbuilt round Rebecca this afternoon, and she was to be Charlotte Corday\nleaning against the bars of her prison.\n\nIt was a wonderful experience standing inside the building with Emma\nJane\'s apron wound about her hair; wonderful to feel that when she\nleaned her head against the bars they seemed to turn to cold iron; that\nher eyes were no longer Rebecca Randall\'s but mirrored something of\nCharlotte Corday\'s hapless woe.\n\n\"Ain\'t it lovely?\" sighed the humble twain, who had done most of the\nlabor, but who generously admired the result.\n\n\"I hate to have to take it down,\" said Alice, \"it\'s been such a sight\nof work.\"\n\n\"If you think you could move up some stones and just take off the top\nrows, I could step out over,\" suggested Charlotte Corday. \"Then leave\nthe stones, and you two can step down into the prison to-morrow and be\nthe two little princes in the Tower, and I can murder you.\"\n\n\"What princes? What tower?\" asked Alice and Emma Jane in one breath.\n\"Tell us about them.\"\n\n\"Not now, it\'s my supper time.\" (Rebecca was a somewhat firm\ndisciplinarian.)\n\n\"It would be elergant being murdered by you,\" said Emma Jane loyally,\n\"though you are awful real when you murder; or we could have Elijah and\nElisha for the princes.\"\n\n\"They\'d yell when they was murdered,\" objected Alice; \"you know how\nsilly they are at plays, all except Clara Belle. Besides if we once\nshow them this secret place, they\'ll play in it all the time, and\nperhaps they\'d steal things, like their father.\"\n\n\"They needn\'t steal just because their father does,\" argued Rebecca;\n\"and don\'t you ever talk about it before them if you want to be my\nsecret, partic\'lar friends. My mother tells me never to say hard things\nabout people\'s own folks to their face. She says nobody can bear it,\nand it\'s wicked to shame them for what isn\'t their fault. Remember\nMinnie Smellie!\"\n\nWell, they had no difficulty in recalling that dramatic episode, for it\nhad occurred only a few days before; and a version of it that would\nhave melted the stoniest heart had been presented to every girl in the\nvillage by Minnie Smellie herself, who, though it was Rebecca and not\nshe who came off victorious in the bloody battle of words, nursed her\nresentment and intended to have revenge.\n\n\n\nVII\n\nRIVERBORO SECRETS\n\nMr. Simpson spent little time with his family, owing to certain awkward\nmethods of horse-trading, or the \"swapping\" of farm implements and\nvehicles of various kinds,--operations in which his customers were\nnever long suited. After every successful trade he generally passed a\nlonger or shorter term in jail; for when a poor man without goods or\nchattels has the inveterate habit of swapping, it follows naturally\nthat he must have something to swap; and having nothing of his own, it\nfollows still more naturally that he must swap something belonging to\nhis neighbors.\n\nMr. Simpson was absent from the home circle for the moment because he\nhad exchanged the Widow Rideout\'s sleigh for Joseph Goodwin\'s plough.\nGoodwin had lately moved to North Edgewood and had never before met the\nurbane and persuasive Mr. Simpson. The Goodwin plough Mr. Simpson\nspeedily bartered with a man \"over Wareham way,\" and got in exchange\nfor it an old horse which his owner did not need, as he was leaving\ntown to visit his daughter for a year, Simpson fattened the aged\nanimal, keeping him for several weeks (at early morning or after\nnightfall) in one neighbor\'s pasture after another, and then exchanged\nhim with a Milltown man for a top buggy. It was at this juncture that\nthe Widow Rideout missed her sleigh from the old carriage house. She\nhad not used it for fifteen years and might not sit in it for another\nfifteen, but it was property, and she did not intend to part with it\nwithout a struggle. Such is the suspicious nature of the village mind\nthat the moment she discovered her loss her thought at once reverted to\nAbner Simpson. So complicated, however, was the nature of this\nparticular business transaction, and so tortuous the paths of its\nprogress (partly owing to the complete disappearance of the owner of\nthe horse, who had gone to the West and left no address), that it took\nthe sheriff many weeks to prove Mr. Simpson\'s guilt to the town\'s and\nto the Widow Rideout\'s satisfaction. Abner himself avowed his complete\ninnocence, and told the neighbors how a red-haired man with a hare lip\nand a pepper-and-salt suit of clothes had called him up one morning\nabout daylight and offered to swap him a good sleigh for an old cider\npress he had layin\' out in the dooryard. The bargain was struck, and\nhe, Abner, had paid the hare-lipped stranger four dollars and\nseventy-five cents to boot; whereupon the mysterious one set down the\nsleigh, took the press on his cart, and vanished up the road, never to\nbe seen or heard from afterwards.\n\n\"If I could once ketch that consarned old thief,\" exclaimed Abner\nrighteously, \"I\'d make him dance,--workin\' off a stolen sleigh on me\nan\' takin\' away my good money an\' cider press, to say nothin\' o\' my\ncharacter!\"\n\n\"You\'ll never ketch him, Ab,\" responded the sheriff. \"He\'s cut off the\nsame piece o\' goods as that there cider press and that there character\nand that there four-seventy-five o\' yourn; nobody ever see any of \'em\nbut you, and you\'ll never see \'em again!\"\n\nMrs. Simpson, who was decidedly Abner\'s better half, took in washing\nand went out to do days\' cleaning, and the town helped in the feeding\nand clothing of the children. George, a lanky boy of fourteen, did\nchores on neighboring farms, and the others, Samuel, Clara Belle,\nSusan, Elijah, and Elisha, went to school, when sufficiently clothed\nand not otherwise more pleasantly engaged.\n\nThere were no secrets in the villages that lay along the banks of\nPleasant River. There were many hard-working people among the\ninhabitants, but life wore away so quietly and slowly that there was a\ngood deal of spare time for conversation,--under the trees at noon in\nthe hayfield; hanging over the bridge at nightfall; seated about the\nstove in the village store of an evening. These meeting-places\nfurnished ample ground for the discussion of current events as viewed\nby the masculine eye, while choir rehearsals, sewing societies, reading\ncircles, church picnics, and the like, gave opportunity for the\nexpression of feminine opinion. All this was taken very much for\ngranted, as a rule, but now and then some supersensitive person made\nviolent objections to it, as a theory of life.\n\nDelia Weeks, for example, was a maiden lady who did dressmaking in a\nsmall way; she fell ill, and although attended by all the physicians in\nthe neighborhood, was sinking slowly into a decline when her cousin\nCyrus asked her to come and keep house for him in Lewiston. She went,\nand in a year grew into a robust, hearty, cheerful woman. Returning to\nRiverboro on a brief visit, she was asked if she meant to end her days\naway from home.\n\n\"I do most certainly, if I can get any other place to stay,\" she\nresponded candidly. \"I was bein\' worn to a shadder here, tryin\' to keep\nmy little secrets to myself, an\' never succeedin\'. First they had it I\nwanted to marry the minister, and when he took a wife in Standish I was\nknown to be disappointed. Then for five or six years they suspicioned I\nwas tryin\' for a place to teach school, and when I gave up hope, an\'\ntook to dressmakin\', they pitied me and sympathized with me for that.\nWhen father died I was bound I\'d never let anybody know how I was left,\nfor that spites \'em worse than anything else; but there\'s ways o\'\nfindin\' out, an\' they found out, hard as I fought \'em! Then there was\nmy brother James that went to Arizona when he was sixteen. I gave good\nnews of him for thirty years runnin\', but aunt Achsy Tarbox had a\nferretin\' cousin that went out to Tombstone for her health, and she\nwrote to a postmaster, or to some kind of a town authority, and found\nJim and wrote back aunt Achsy all about him and just how unfortunate\nhe\'d been. They knew when I had my teeth out and a new set made; they\nknew when I put on a false front-piece; they knew when the fruit\npeddler asked me to be his third wife--I never told \'em, an\' you can be\nsure HE never did, but they don\'t NEED to be told in this village; they\nhave nothin\' to do but guess, an\' they\'ll guess right every time. I was\nall tuckered out tryin\' to mislead \'em and deceive \'em and sidetrack\n\'em; but the minute I got where I wa\'n\'t put under a microscope by day\nan\' a telescope by night and had myself TO myself without sayin\' \'By\nyour leave,\' I begun to pick up. Cousin Cyrus is an old man an\'\nconsid\'able trouble, but he thinks my teeth are handsome an\' says I\'ve\ngot a splendid suit of hair. There ain\'t a person in Lewiston that\nknows about the minister, or father\'s will, or Jim\'s doin\'s, or the\nfruit peddler; an\' if they should find out, they wouldn\'t care, an\'\nthey couldn\'t remember; for Lewiston \'s a busy place, thanks be!\"\n\nMiss Delia Weeks may have exaggerated matters somewhat, but it is easy\nto imagine that Rebecca as well as all the other Riverboro children had\nheard the particulars of the Widow Rideout\'s missing sleigh and Abner\nSimpson\'s supposed connection with it.\n\nThere is not an excess of delicacy or chivalry in the ordinary country\nschool, and several choice conundrums and bits of verse dealing with\nthe Simpson affair were bandied about among the scholars, uttered\nalways, be it said to their credit, in undertones, and when the Simpson\nchildren were not in the group.\n\nRebecca Randall was of precisely the same stock, and had had much the\nsame associations as her schoolmates, so one can hardly say why she so\nhated mean gossip and so instinctively held herself aloof from it.\n\nAmong the Riverboro girls of her own age was a certain excellently\nnamed Minnie Smellie, who was anything but a general favorite. She was\na ferret-eyed, blond-haired, spindle-legged little creature whose mind\nwas a cross between that of a parrot and a sheep. She was suspected of\ncopying answers from other girls\' slates, although she had never been\ncaught in the act. Rebecca and Emma Jane always knew when she had\nbrought a tart or a triangle of layer cake with her school luncheon,\nbecause on those days she forsook the cheerful society of her mates and\nsought a safe solitude in the woods, returning after a time with a\njocund smile on her smug face.\n\nAfter one of these private luncheons Rebecca had been tempted beyond\nher strength, and when Minnie took her seat among them asked, \"Is your\nheadache better, Minnie? Let me wipe off that strawberry jam over your\nmouth.\"\n\nThere was no jam there as a matter of fact, but the guilty Minnie\'s\nhandkerchief went to her crimson face in a flash.\n\nRebecca confessed to Emma Jane that same afternoon that she felt\nashamed of her prank. \"I do hate her ways,\" she exclaimed, \"but I\'m\nsorry I let her know we \'spected her; and so to make up, I gave her\nthat little piece of broken coral I keep in my bead purse; you know the\none?\"\n\n\"It don\'t hardly seem as if she deserved that, and her so greedy,\"\nremarked Emma Jane.\n\n\"I know it, but it makes me feel better,\" said Rebecca largely; \"and\nthen I\'ve had it two years, and it\'s broken so it wouldn\'t ever be any\nreal good, beautiful as it is to look at.\"\n\nThe coral had partly served its purpose as a reconciling bond, when one\nafternoon Rebecca, who had stayed after school for her grammar lesson\nas usual, was returning home by way of the short cut. Far ahead, beyond\nthe bars, she espied the Simpson children just entering the woodsy bit.\nSeesaw was not with them, so she hastened her steps in order to secure\ncompany on her homeward walk. They were speedily lost to view, but when\nshe had almost overtaken them she heard, in the trees beyond, Minnie\nSmellie\'s voice lifted high in song, and the sound of a child\'s\nsobbing. Clara Belle, Susan, and the twins were running along the path,\nand Minnie was dancing up and down, shrieking:--\n\n \"\'What made the sleigh love Simpson so?\'\n The eager children cried;\n \'Why Simpson loved the sleigh, you know,\'\n The teacher quick replied.\"\n\nThe last glimpse of the routed Simpson tribe, and the last futter of\ntheir tattered garments, disappeared in the dim distance. The fall of\none small stone cast by the valiant Elijah, known as \"the fighting\ntwin,\" did break the stillness of the woods for a moment, but it did\nnot come within a hundred yards of Minnie, who shouted \"Jail Birds\" at\nthe top of her lungs and then turned, with an agreeable feeling of\nexcitement, to meet Rebecca, standing perfectly still in the path, with\na day of reckoning plainly set forth in her blazing eyes.\n\nMinnie\'s face was not pleasant to see, for a coward detected at the\nmoment of wrongdoing is not an object of delight.\n\n\"Minnie Smellie, if ever--I--catch--you--singing--that--to the Simpsons\nagain--do you know what I\'ll do?\" asked Rebecca in a tone of\nconcentrated rage.\n\n\"I don\'t know and I don\'t care,\" said Minnie jauntily, though her looks\nbelied her.\n\n\"I\'ll take that piece of coral away from you, and I THINK I shall slap\nyou besides!\"\n\n\"You wouldn\'t darst,\" retorted Minnie. \"If you do, I\'ll tell my mother\nand the teacher, so there!\"\n\n\"I don\'t care if you tell your mother, my mother, and all your\nrelations, and the president,\" said Rebecca, gaining courage as the\nnoble words fell from her lips. \"I don\'t care if you tell the town, the\nwhole of York county, the state of Maine and--and the nation!\" she\nfinished grandiloquently. \"Now you run home and remember what I say. If\nyou do it again, and especially if you say \'Jail Birds,\' if I think\nit\'s right and my duty, I shall punish you somehow.\"\n\nThe next morning at recess Rebecca observed Minnie telling the tale\nwith variations to Huldah Meserve. \"She THREATENED me,\" whispered\nMinnie, \"but I never believe a word she says.\"\n\nThe latter remark was spoken with the direct intention of being\noverheard, for Minnie had spasms of bravery, when well surrounded by\nthe machinery of law and order.\n\nAs Rebecca went back to her seat she asked Miss Dearborn if she might\npass a note to Minnie Smellie and received permission. This was the\nnote:--\n\n Of all the girls that are so mean There\'s none like Minnie\n Smellie. I\'ll take away the gift I gave And pound her into\n jelly.\n\n _P. S. Now do you believe me?_\n\n R. Randall.\n\nThe effect of this piece of doggerel was entirely convincing, and for\ndays afterwards whenever Minnie met the Simpsons even a mile from the\nbrick house she shuddered and held her peace.\n\n\n\nVIII\n\nCOLOR OF ROSE\n\nOn the very next Friday after this \"dreadfullest fight that ever was\nseen,\" as Bunyan says in Pilgrim\'s Progress, there were great doings in\nthe little schoolhouse on the hill. Friday afternoon was always the\ntime chosen for dialogues, songs, and recitations, but it cannot be\nstated that it was a gala day in any true sense of the word. Most of\nthe children hated \"speaking pieces;\" hated the burden of learning\nthem, dreaded the danger of breaking down in them. Miss Dearborn\ncommonly went home with a headache, and never left her bed during the\nrest of the afternoon or evening; and the casual female parent who\nattended the exercises sat on a front bench with beads of cold sweat on\nher forehead, listening to the all-too-familiar halts and stammers.\nSometimes a bellowing infant who had clean forgotten his verse would\ncast himself bodily on the maternal bosom and be borne out into the\nopen air, where he was sometimes kissed and occasionally spanked; but\nin any case the failure added an extra dash of gloom and dread to the\noccasion. The advent of Rebecca had somehow infused a new spirit into\nthese hitherto terrible afternoons. She had taught Elijah and Elisha\nSimpson so that they recited three verses of something with such\ncomical effect that they delighted themselves, the teacher, and the\nschool; while Susan, who lisped, had been provided with a humorous poem\nin which she impersonated a lisping child. Emma Jane and Rebecca had a\ndialogue, and the sense of companionship buoyed up Emma Jane and gave\nher self-reliance. In fact, Miss Dearborn announced on this particular\nFriday morning that the exercises promised to be so interesting that\nshe had invited the doctor\'s wife, the minister\'s wife, two members of\nthe school committee, and a few mothers. Living Perkins was asked to\ndecorate one of the black-boards and Rebecca the other. Living, who was\nthe star artist of the school, chose the map of North America. Rebecca\nliked better to draw things less realistic, and speedily, before the\neyes of the enchanted multitude, there grew under her skillful fingers\nan American flag done in red, white, and blue chalk, every star in its\nright place, every stripe fluttering in the breeze. Beside this\nappeared a figure of Columbia, copied from the top of the cigar box\nthat held the crayons.\n\nMiss Dearborn was delighted. \"I propose we give Rebecca a good\nhand-clapping for such a beautiful picture--one that the whole school\nmay well be proud of!\"\n\nThe scholars clapped heartily, and Dick Carter, waving his hand, gave a\nrousing cheer.\n\nRebecca\'s heart leaped for joy, and to her confusion she felt the tears\nrising in her eyes. She could hardly see the way back to her seat, for\nin her ignorant lonely little life she had never been singled out for\napplause, never lauded, nor crowned, as in this wonderful, dazzling\nmoment. If \"nobleness enkindleth nobleness,\" so does enthusiasm beget\nenthusiasm, and so do wit and talent enkindle wit and talent. Alice\nRobinson proposed that the school should sing Three Cheers for the Red,\nWhite, and Blue! and when they came to the chorus, all point to\nRebecca\'s flag. Dick Carter suggested that Living Perkins and Rebecca\nRandall should sign their names to their pictures, so that the visitors\nwould know who drew them. Huldah Meserve asked permission to cover the\nlargest holes in the plastered walls with boughs and fill the water\npail with wild flowers. Rebecca\'s mood was above and beyond all\npractical details. She sat silent, her heart so full of grateful joy\nthat she could hardly remember the words of her dialogue. At recess she\nbore herself modestly, notwithstanding her great triumph, while in the\ngeneral atmosphere of good will the Smellie-Randall hatchet was buried\nand Minnie gathered maple boughs and covered the ugly stove with them,\nunder Rebecca\'s direction.\n\nMiss Dearborn dismissed the morning session at quarter to twelve, so\nthat those who lived near enough could go home for a change of dress.\nEmma Jane and Rebecca ran nearly every step of the way, from sheer\nexcitement, only stopping to breathe at the stiles.\n\n\"Will your aunt Mirandy let you wear your best, or only your buff\ncalico?\" asked Emma Jane.\n\n\"I think I\'ll ask aunt Jane,\" Rebecca replied. \"Oh! if my pink was only\nfinished! I left aunt Jane making the buttonholes!\"\n\n\"I\'m going to ask my mother to let me wear her garnet ring,\" said Emma\nJane. \"It would look perfectly elergant flashing in the sun when I\npoint to the flag. Good-by; don\'t wait for me going back; I may get a\nride.\"\n\nRebecca found the side door locked, but she knew that the key was under\nthe step, and so of course did everybody else in Riverboro, for they\nall did about the same thing with it. She unlocked the door and went\ninto the dining-room to find her lunch laid on the table and a note\nfrom aunt Jane saying that they had gone to Moderation with Mrs.\nRobinson in her carryall. Rebecca swallowed a piece of bread and\nbutter, and flew up the front stairs to her bedroom. On the bed lay the\npink gingham dress finished by aunt Jane\'s kind hands. Could she, dare\nshe, wear it without asking? Did the occasion justify a new costume, or\nwould her aunts think she ought to keep it for the concert?\n\n\"I\'ll wear it,\" thought Rebecca. \"They\'re not here to ask, and maybe\nthey wouldn\'t mind a bit; it\'s only gingham after all, and wouldn\'t be\nso grand if it wasn\'t new, and hadn\'t tape trimming on it, and wasn\'t\npink.\"\n\nShe unbraided her two pig-tails, combed out the waves of her hair and\ntied them back with a ribbon, changed her shoes, and then slipped on\nthe pretty frock, managing to fasten all but the three middle buttons,\nwhich she reserved for Emma Jane.\n\nThen her eye fell on her cherished pink sunshade, the exact match, and\nthe girls had never seen it. It wasn\'t quite appropriate for school,\nbut she needn\'t take it into the room; she would wrap it in a piece of\npaper, just show it, and carry it coming home. She glanced in the\nparlor looking-glass downstairs and was electrified at the vision. It\nseemed almost as if beauty of apparel could go no further than that\nheavenly pink gingham dress! The sparkle of her eyes, glow of her\ncheeks, sheen of her falling hair, passed unnoticed in the\nall-conquering charm of the rose-colored garment. Goodness! it was\ntwenty minutes to one and she would be late. She danced out the side\ndoor, pulled a pink rose from a bush at the gate, and covered the mile\nbetween the brick house and the seat of learning in an incredibly short\ntime, meeting Emma Jane, also breathless and resplendent, at the\nentrance.\n\n\"Rebecca Randall!\" exclaimed Emma Jane, \"you\'re handsome as a picture!\"\n\n\"I?\" laughed Rebecca \"Nonsense! it\'s only the pink gingham.\"\n\n\"You\'re not good looking every day,\" insisted Emma Jane; \"but you\'re\ndifferent somehow. See my garnet ring; mother scrubbed it in soap and\nwater. How on earth did your aunt Mirandy let you put on your bran\' new\ndress?\"\n\n\"They were both away and I didn\'t ask,\" Rebecca responded anxiously.\n\"Why? Do you think they\'d have said no?\"\n\n\"Miss Mirandy always says no, doesn\'t she?\" asked Emma Jane.\n\n\"Ye--es; but this afternoon is very special--almost like a\nSunday-school concert.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" assented Emma Jane, \"it is, of course; with your name on the\nboard, and our pointing to your flag, and our elergant dialogue, and\nall that.\"\n\nThe afternoon was one succession of solid triumphs for everybody\nconcerned. There were no real failures at all, no tears, no parents\nashamed of their offspring. Miss Dearborn heard many admiring remarks\npassed upon her ability, and wondered whether they belonged to her or\npartly, at least, to Rebecca. The child had no more to do than several\nothers, but she was somehow in the foreground. It transpired afterwards\nat various village entertainments that Rebecca couldn\'t be kept in the\nbackground; it positively refused to hold her. Her worst enemy could\nnot have called her pushing. She was ready and willing and never shy;\nbut she sought for no chances of display and was, indeed, remarkably\nlacking in self-consciousness, as well as eager to bring others into\nwhatever fun or entertainment there was. If wherever the MacGregor sat\nwas the head of the table, so in the same way wherever Rebecca stood\nwas the centre of the stage. Her clear high treble soared above all the\nrest in the choruses, and somehow everybody watched her, took note of\nher gestures, her whole-souled singing, her irrepressible enthusiasm.\n\nFinally it was all over, and it seemed to Rebecca as if she should\nnever be cool and calm again, as she loitered on the homeward path.\nThere would be no lessons to learn to-night, and the vision of helping\nwith the preserves on the morrow had no terrors for her--fears could\nnot draw breath in the radiance that flooded her soul. There were thick\ngathering clouds in the sky, but she took no note of them save to be\nglad that she could raise her sunshade. She did not tread the solid\nground at all, or have any sense of belonging to the common human\nfamily, until she entered the side yard of the brick house and saw her\naunt Miranda standing in the open doorway. Then with a rush she came\nback to earth.\n\n\n\nIX\n\nASHES OF ROSES\n\n\"There she is, over an hour late; a little more an\' she\'d \'a\' been\ncaught in a thunder shower, but she\'d never look ahead,\" said Miranda\nto Jane; \"and added to all her other iniquities, if she ain\'t rigged\nout in that new dress, steppin\' along with her father\'s dancin\'-school\nsteps, and swingin\' her parasol for all the world as if she was\nplay-actin\'. Now I\'m the oldest, Jane, an\' I intend to have my say out;\nif you don\'t like it you can go into the kitchen till it\'s over. Step\nright in here, Rebecca; I want to talk to you. What did you put on that\ngood new dress for, on a school day, without permission?\"\n\n\"I had intended to ask you at noontime, but you weren\'t at home, so I\ncouldn\'t,\" began Rebecca.\n\n\"You did no such a thing; you put it on because you was left alone,\nthough you knew well enough I wouldn\'t have let you.\"\n\n\"If I\'d been CERTAIN you wouldn\'t have let me I\'d never have done it,\"\nsaid Rebecca, trying to be truthful; \"but I wasn\'t CERTAIN, and it was\nworth risking. I thought perhaps you might, if you knew it was almost a\nreal exhibition at school.\"\n\n\"Exhibition!\" exclaimed Miranda scornfully; \"you are exhibition enough\nby yourself, I should say. Was you exhibitin\' your parasol?\"\n\n\"The parasol WAS silly,\" confessed Rebecca, hanging her head; \"but it\'s\nthe only time in my whole life when I had anything to match it, and it\nlooked so beautiful with the pink dress! Emma Jane and I spoke a\ndialogue about a city girl and a country girl, and it came to me just\nthe minute before I started how nice it would come in for the city\ngirl; and it did. I haven\'t hurt my dress a mite, aunt Mirandy.\"\n\n\"It\'s the craftiness and underhandedness of your actions that\'s the\nworst,\" said Miranda coldly. \"And look at the other things you\'ve done!\nIt seems as if Satan possessed you! You went up the front stairs to\nyour room, but you didn\'t hide your tracks, for you dropped your\nhandkerchief on the way up. You left the screen out of your bedroom\nwindow for the flies to come in all over the house. You never cleared\naway your lunch nor set away a dish, AND YOU LEFT THE SIDE DOOR\nUNLOCKED from half past twelve to three o\'clock, so \'t anybody could\n\'a\' come in and stolen what they liked!\"\n\nRebecca sat down heavily in her chair as she heard the list of her\ntransgressions. How could she have been so careless? The tears began to\nflow now as she attempted to explain sins that never could be explained\nor justified.\n\n\"Oh, I\'m so sorry!\" she faltered. \"I was trimming the schoolroom, and\ngot belated, and ran all the way home. It was hard getting into my\ndress alone, and I hadn\'t time to eat but a mouthful, and just at the\nlast minute, when I honestly--HONESTLY--would have thought about\nclearing away and locking up, I looked at the clock and knew I could\nhardly get back to school in time to form in the line; and I thought\nhow dreadful it would be to go in late and get my first black mark on a\nFriday afternoon, with the minister\'s wife and the doctor\'s wife and\nthe school committee all there!\"\n\n\"Don\'t wail and carry on now; it\'s no good cryin\' over spilt milk,\"\nanswered Miranda. \"An ounce of good behavior is worth a pound of\nrepentance. Instead of tryin\' to see how little trouble you can make in\na house that ain\'t your own home, it seems as if you tried to see how\nmuch you could put us out. Take that rose out o\' your dress and let me\nsee the spot it\'s made on your yoke, an\' the rusty holes where the wet\npin went in. No, it ain\'t; but it\'s more by luck than forethought. I\nain\'t got any patience with your flowers and frizzled-out hair and\nfurbelows an\' airs an\' graces, for all the world like your Miss-Nancy\nfather.\"\n\nRebecca lifted her head in a flash. \"Look here, aunt Mirandy, I\'ll be\nas good as I know how to be. I\'ll mind quick when I\'m spoken to and\nnever leave the door unlocked again, but I won\'t have my father called\nnames. He was a p-perfectly l-lovely father, that\'s what he was, and\nit\'s MEAN to call him Miss Nancy!\"\n\n\"Don\'t you dare answer me back that imperdent way, Rebecca, tellin\' me\nI\'m mean; your father was a vain, foolish, shiftless man, an\' you might\nas well hear it from me as anybody else; he spent your mother\'s money\nand left her with seven children to provide for.\"\n\n\"It\'s s-something to leave s-seven nice children,\" sobbed Rebecca.\n\n\"Not when other folks have to help feed, clothe, and educate \'em,\"\nresponded Miranda. \"Now you step upstairs, put on your nightgown, go to\nbed, and stay there till to-morrow mornin\'. You\'ll find a bowl o\'\ncrackers an\' milk on your bureau, an\' I don\'t want to hear a sound from\nyou till breakfast time. Jane, run an\' take the dish towels off the\nline and shut the shed doors; we\'re goin\' to have a turrible shower.\"\n\n\"We\'ve had it, I should think,\" said Jane quietly, as she went to do\nher sister\'s bidding. \"I don\'t often speak my mind, Mirandy; but you\nought not to have said what you did about Lorenzo. He was what he was,\nand can\'t be made any different; but he was Rebecca\'s father, and\nAurelia always says he was a good husband.\"\n\nMiranda had never heard the proverbial phrase about the only \"good\nIndian,\" but her mind worked in the conventional manner when she said\ngrimly, \"Yes, I\'ve noticed that dead husbands are usually good ones;\nbut the truth needs an airin\' now and then, and that child will never\namount to a hill o\' beans till she gets some of her father trounced out\nof her. I\'m glad I said just what I did.\"\n\n\"I daresay you are,\" remarked Jane, with what might be described as one\nof her annual bursts of courage; \"but all the same, Mirandy, it wasn\'t\ngood manners, and it wasn\'t good religion!\"\n\nThe clap of thunder that shook the house just at that moment made no\nsuch peal in Miranda Sawyer\'s ears as Jane\'s remark made when it fell\nwith a deafening roar on her conscience.\n\nPerhaps after all it is just as well to speak only once a year and then\nspeak to the purpose.\n\nRebecca mounted the back stairs wearily, closed the door of her\nbedroom, and took off the beloved pink gingham with trembling fingers.\nHer cotton handkerchief was rolled into a hard ball, and in the\nintervals of reaching the more difficult buttons that lay between her\nshoulder blades and her belt, she dabbed her wet eyes carefully, so\nthat they should not rain salt water on the finery that had been worn\nat such a price. She smoothed it out carefully, pinched up the white\nruffle at the neck, and laid it away in a drawer with an extra little\nsob at the roughness of life. The withered pink rose fell on the floor.\nRebecca looked at it and thought to herself, \"Just like my happy day!\"\nNothing could show more clearly the kind of child she was than the fact\nthat she instantly perceived the symbolism of the rose, and laid it in\nthe drawer with the dress as if she were burying the whole episode with\nall its sad memories. It was a child\'s poetic instinct with a dawning\nhint of woman\'s sentiment in it.\n\nShe braided her hair in the two accustomed pig-tails, took off her best\nshoes (which had happily escaped notice), with all the while a fixed\nresolve growing in her mind, that of leaving the brick house and going\nback to the farm. She would not be received there with open\narms,--there was no hope of that,--but she would help her mother about\nthe house and send Hannah to Riverboro in her place. \"I hope she\'ll\nlike it!\" she thought in a momentary burst of vindictiveness. She sat\nby the window trying to make some sort of plan, watching the lightning\nplay over the hilltop and the streams of rain chasing each other down\nthe lightning rod. And this was the day that had dawned so joyfully! It\nhad been a red sunrise, and she had leaned on the window sill studying\nher lesson and thinking what a lovely world it was. And what a golden\nmorning! The changing of the bare, ugly little schoolroom into a bower\nof beauty; Miss Dearborn\'s pleasure at her success with the Simpson\ntwins\' recitation; the privilege of decorating the blackboard; the\nhappy thought of drawing Columbia from the cigar box; the intoxicating\nmoment when the school clapped her! And what an afternoon! How it went\non from glory to glory, beginning with Emma Jane\'s telling her, Rebecca\nRandall, that she was as \"handsome as a picture.\"\n\nShe lived through the exercises again in memory, especially her\ndialogue with Emma Jane and her inspiration of using the bough-covered\nstove as a mossy bank where the country girl could sit and watch her\nflocks. This gave Emma Jane a feeling of such ease that she never\nrecited better; and how generous it was of her to lend the garnet ring\nto the city girl, fancying truly how it would flash as she furled her\nparasol and approached the awe-stricken shepherdess! She had thought\naunt Miranda might be pleased that the niece invited down from the farm\nhad succeeded so well at school; but no, there was no hope of pleasing\nher in that or in any other way. She would go to Maplewood on the stage\nnext day with Mr. Cobb and get home somehow from cousin Ann\'s. On\nsecond thoughts her aunts might not allow it. Very well, she would slip\naway now and see if she could stay all night with the Cobbs and be off\nnext morning before breakfast.\n\nRebecca never stopped long to think, more \'s the pity, so she put on\nher oldest dress and hat and jacket, then wrapped her nightdress, comb,\nand toothbrush in a bundle and dropped it softly out of the window. Her\nroom was in the L and her window at no very dangerous distance from the\nground, though had it been, nothing could have stopped her at that\nmoment. Somebody who had gone on the roof to clean out the gutters had\nleft a cleat nailed to the side of the house about halfway between the\nwindow and the top of the back porch. Rebecca heard the sound of the\nsewing machine in the dining-room and the chopping of meat in the\nkitchen; so knowing the whereabouts of both her aunts, she scrambled\nout of the window, caught hold of the lightning rod, slid down to the\nhelpful cleat, jumped to the porch, used the woodbine trellis for a\nladder, and was flying up the road in the storm before she had time to\narrange any details of her future movements.\n\nJeremiah Cobb sat at his lonely supper at the table by the kitchen\nwindow. \"Mother,\" as he with his old-fashioned habits was in the habit\nof calling his wife, was nursing a sick neighbor. Mrs. Cobb was mother\nonly to a little headstone in the churchyard, where reposed \"Sarah Ann,\nbeloved daughter of Jeremiah and Sarah Cobb, aged seventeen months;\"\nbut the name of mother was better than nothing, and served at any rate\nas a reminder of her woman\'s crown of blessedness.\n\nThe rain still fell, and the heavens were dark, though it was scarcely\nfive o\'clock. Looking up from his \"dish of tea,\" the old man saw at the\nopen door a very figure of woe. Rebecca\'s face was so swollen with\ntears and so sharp with misery that for a moment he scarcely recognized\nher. Then when he heard her voice asking, \"Please may I come in, Mr.\nCobb?\" he cried, \"Well I vow! It\'s my little lady passenger! Come to\ncall on old uncle Jerry and pass the time o\' day, hev ye? Why, you\'re\nwet as sops. Draw up to the stove. I made a fire, hot as it was,\nthinkin\' I wanted somethin\' warm for my supper, bein\' kind o\' lonesome\nwithout mother. She\'s settin\' up with Seth Strout to-night. There,\nwe\'ll hang your soppy hat on the nail, put your jacket over the chair\nrail, an\' then you turn your back to the stove an\' dry yourself good.\"\n\nUncle Jerry had never before said so many words at a time, but he had\ncaught sight of the child\'s red eyes and tear-stained cheeks, and his\nbig heart went out to her in her trouble, quite regardless of any\ncircumstances that might have caused it.\n\nRebecca stood still for a moment until uncle Jerry took his seat again\nat the table, and then, unable to contain herself longer, cried, \"Oh,\nMr. Cobb, I\'ve run away from the brick house, and I want to go back to\nthe farm. Will you keep me to-night and take me up to Maplewood in the\nstage? I haven\'t got any money for my fare, but I\'ll earn it somehow\nafterwards.\"\n\n\"Well, I guess we won\'t quarrel \'bout money, you and me,\" said the old\nman; \"and we\'ve never had our ride together, anyway, though we allers\nmeant to go down river, not up.\"\n\n\"I shall never see Milltown now!\" sobbed Rebecca.\n\n\"Come over here side o\' me an\' tell me all about it,\" coaxed uncle\nJerry. \"Jest set down on that there wooden cricket an\' out with the\nwhole story.\"\n\nRebecca leaned her aching head against Mr. Cobb\'s homespun knee and\nrecounted the history of her trouble. Tragic as that history seemed to\nher passionate and undisciplined mind, she told it truthfully and\nwithout exaggeration.\n\n\n\nX\n\nRAINBOW BRIDGES\n\nUncle Jerry coughed and stirred in his chair a good deal during\nRebecca\'s recital, but he carefully concealed any undue feeling of\nsympathy, just muttering, \"Poor little soul! We\'ll see what we can do\nfor her!\"\n\n\"You will take me to Maplewood, won\'t you, Mr. Cobb?\" begged Rebecca\npiteously.\n\n\"Don\'t you fret a mite,\" he answered, with a crafty little notion at\nthe back of his mind; \"I\'ll see the lady passenger through somehow. Now\ntake a bite o\' somethin\' to eat, child. Spread some o\' that tomato\npreserve on your bread; draw up to the table. How\'d you like to set in\nmother\'s place an\' pour me out another cup o\' hot tea?\"\n\nMr. Jeremiah Cobb\'s mental machinery was simple, and did not move very\nsmoothly save when propelled by his affection or sympathy. In the\npresent case these were both employed to his advantage, and mourning\nhis stupidity and praying for some flash of inspiration to light his\npath, he blundered along, trusting to Providence.\n\nRebecca, comforted by the old man\'s tone, and timidly enjoying the\ndignity of sitting in Mrs. Cobb\'s seat and lifting the blue china\nteapot, smiled faintly, smoothed her hair, and dried her eyes.\n\n\"I suppose your mother\'ll be turrible glad to see you back again?\"\nqueried Mr. Cobb.\n\nA tiny fear--just a baby thing--in the bottom of Rebecca\'s heart\nstirred and grew larger the moment it was touched with a question.\n\n\"She won\'t like it that I ran away, I s\'pose, and she\'ll be sorry that\nI couldn\'t please aunt Mirandy; but I\'ll make her understand, just as I\ndid you.\"\n\n\"I s\'pose she was thinkin\' o\' your schoolin\', lettin\' you come down\nhere; but land! you can go to school in Temperance, I s\'pose?\"\n\n\"There\'s only two months\' school now in Temperance, and the farm \'s too\nfar from all the other schools.\"\n\n\"Oh well! there\'s other things in the world beside edjercation,\"\nresponded uncle Jerry, attacking a piece of apple pie.\n\n\"Ye--es; though mother thought that was going to be the making of me,\"\nreturned Rebecca sadly, giving a dry little sob as she tried to drink\nher tea.\n\n\"It\'ll be nice for you to be all together again at the farm--such a\nhouse full o\' children!\" remarked the dear old deceiver, who longed for\nnothing so much as to cuddle and comfort the poor little creature.\n\n\"It\'s too full--that\'s the trouble. But I\'ll make Hannah come to\nRiverboro in my place.\"\n\n\"S\'pose Mirandy \'n\' Jane\'ll have her? I should be \'most afraid they\nwouldn\'t. They\'ll be kind o\' mad at your goin\' home, you know, and you\ncan\'t hardly blame \'em.\"\n\nThis was quite a new thought,--that the brick house might be closed to\nHannah, since she, Rebecca, had turned her back upon its cold\nhospitality.\n\n\"How is this school down here in Riverboro--pretty good?\" inquired\nuncle Jerry, whose brain was working with an altogether unaccustomed\nrapidity,--so much so that it almost terrified him.\n\n\"Oh, it\'s a splendid school! And Miss Dearborn is a splendid teacher!\"\n\n\"You like her, do you? Well, you\'d better believe she returns the\ncompliment. Mother was down to the store this afternoon buyin\' liniment\nfor Seth Strout, an\' she met Miss Dearborn on the bridge. They got to\ntalkin\' \'bout school, for mother has summer-boarded a lot o\' the\nschoolmarms, an\' likes \'em. \'How does the little Temperance girl git\nalong?\' asks mother. \'Oh, she\'s the best scholar I have!\' says Miss\nDearborn. \'I could teach school from sun-up to sun-down if scholars was\nall like Rebecca Randall,\' says she.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Cobb, DID she say that?\" glowed Rebecca, her face sparkling\nand dimpling in an instant. \"I\'ve tried hard all the time, but I\'ll\nstudy the covers right off of the books now.\"\n\n\"You mean you would if you\'d ben goin\' to stay here,\" interposed uncle\nJerry. \"Now ain\'t it too bad you\'ve jest got to give it all up on\naccount o\' your aunt Mirandy? Well, I can\'t hardly blame ye. She\'s\ncranky an\' she\'s sour; I should think she\'d ben nussed on bonny-clabber\nan\' green apples. She needs bearin\' with; an\' I guess you ain\'t much on\npatience, be ye?\"\n\n\"Not very much,\" replied Rebecca dolefully.\n\n\"If I\'d had this talk with ye yesterday,\" pursued Mr. Cobb, \"I believe\nI\'d have advised ye different. It\'s too late now, an\' I don\'t feel to\nsay you\'ve ben all in the wrong; but if \'t was to do over again, I\'d\nsay, well, your aunt Mirandy gives you clothes and board and schoolin\'\nand is goin\' to send you to Wareham at a big expense. She\'s turrible\nhard to get along with, an\' kind o\' heaves benefits at your head, same\n\'s she would bricks; but they\'re benefits jest the same, an\' mebbe it\'s\nyour job to kind o\' pay for \'em in good behavior. Jane\'s a leetle bit\nmore easy goin\' than Mirandy, ain\'t she, or is she jest as hard to\nplease?\"\n\n\"Oh, aunt Jane and I get along splendidly,\" exclaimed Rebecca; \"she\'s\njust as good and kind as she can be, and I like her better all the\ntime. I think she kind of likes me, too; she smoothed my hair once. I\'d\nlet her scold me all day long, for she understands; but she can\'t stand\nup for me against aunt Mirandy; she\'s about as afraid of her as I am.\"\n\n\"Jane\'ll be real sorry to-morrow to find you\'ve gone away, I guess; but\nnever mind, it can\'t be helped. If she has a kind of a dull time with\nMirandy, on account o\' her bein\' so sharp, why of course she\'d set\ngreat store by your comp\'ny. Mother was talkin\' with her after prayer\nmeetin\' the other night. \'You wouldn\'t know the brick house, Sarah,\'\nsays Jane. \'I\'m keepin\' a sewin\' school, an\' my scholar has made three\ndresses. What do you think o\' that,\' says she, \'for an old maid\'s\nchild? I\'ve taken a class in Sunday-school,\' says Jane, \'an\' think o\'\nrenewin\' my youth an\' goin\' to the picnic with Rebecca,\' says she; an\'\nmother declares she never see her look so young \'n\' happy.\"\n\nThere was a silence that could be felt in the little kitchen; a silence\nonly broken by the ticking of the tall clock and the beating of\nRebecca\'s heart, which, it seemed to her, almost drowned the voice of\nthe clock. The rain ceased, a sudden rosy light filled the room, and\nthrough the window a rainbow arch could be seen spanning the heavens\nlike a radiant bridge. Bridges took one across difficult places,\nthought Rebecca, and uncle Jerry seemed to have built one over her\ntroubles and given her strength to walk.\n\n\"The shower \'s over,\" said the old man, filling his pipe; \"it\'s cleared\nthe air, washed the face o\' the airth nice an\' clean, an\' everything\nto-morrer will shine like a new pin--when you an\' I are drivin\' up\nriver.\"\n\nRebecca pushed her cup away, rose from the table, and put on her hat\nand jacket quietly. \"I\'m not going to drive up river, Mr. Cobb,\" she\nsaid. \"I\'m going to stay here and--catch bricks; catch \'em without\nthrowing \'em back, too. I don\'t know as aunt Mirandy will take me in\nafter I\'ve run away, but I\'m going back now while I have the courage.\nYou wouldn\'t be so good as to go with me, would you, Mr. Cobb?\"\n\n\"You\'d better b\'lieve your uncle Jerry don\'t propose to leave till he\ngits this thing fixed up,\" cried the old man delightedly. \"Now you\'ve\nhad all you can stan\' to-night, poor little soul, without gettin\' a fit\no\' sickness; an\' Mirandy\'ll be sore an\' cross an\' in no condition for\nargyment; so my plan is jest this: to drive you over to the brick house\nin my top buggy; to have you set back in the corner, an\' I git out an\'\ngo to the side door; an\' when I git your aunt Mirandy \'n\' aunt Jane out\nint\' the shed to plan for a load o\' wood I\'m goin\' to have hauled there\nthis week, you\'ll slip out o\' the buggy and go upstairs to bed. The\nfront door won\'t be locked, will it?\"\n\n\"Not this time of night,\" Rebecca answered; \"not till aunt Mirandy goes\nto bed; but oh! what if it should be?\"\n\n\"Well, it won\'t; an\' if \'t is, why we\'ll have to face it out; though in\nmy opinion there\'s things that won\'t bear facin\' out an\' had better be\nsettled comfortable an\' quiet. You see you ain\'t run away yet; you\'ve\nonly come over here to consult me \'bout runnin\' away, an\' we\'ve\nconcluded it ain\'t wuth the trouble. The only real sin you\'ve\ncommitted, as I figger it out, was in comin\' here by the winder when\nyou\'d ben sent to bed. That ain\'t so very black, an\' you can tell your\naunt Jane \'bout it come Sunday, when she\'s chock full o\' religion, an\'\nshe can advise you when you\'d better tell your aunt Mirandy. I don\'t\nbelieve in deceivin\' folks, but if you\'ve hed hard thoughts you ain\'t\nobleeged to own \'em up; take \'em to the Lord in prayer, as the hymn\nsays, and then don\'t go on hevin\' \'em. Now come on; I\'m all hitched up\nto go over to the post-office; don\'t forget your bundle; \'it\'s always a\njourney, mother, when you carry a nightgown;\' them \'s the first words\nyour uncle Jerry ever heard you say! He didn\'t think you\'d be bringin\'\nyour nightgown over to his house. Step in an\' curl up in the corner; we\nain\'t goin\' to let folks see little runaway gals, \'cause they\'re goin\'\nback to begin all over ag\'in!\"\n\n\nWhen Rebecca crept upstairs, and undressing in the dark finally found\nherself in her bed that night, though she was aching and throbbing in\nevery nerve, she felt a kind of peace stealing over her. She had been\nsaved from foolishness and error; kept from troubling her poor mother;\nprevented from angering and mortifying her aunts.\n\nHer heart was melted now, and she determined to win aunt Miranda\'s\napproval by some desperate means, and to try and forget the one thing\nthat rankled worst, the scornful mention of her father, of whom she\nthought with the greatest admiration, and whom she had not yet heard\ncriticised; for such sorrows and disappointments as Aurelia Randall had\nsuffered had never been communicated to her children.\n\nIt would have been some comfort to the bruised, unhappy little spirit\nto know that Miranda Sawyer was passing an uncomfortable night, and\nthat she tacitly regretted her harshness, partly because Jane had taken\nsuch a lofty and virtuous position in the matter. She could not endure\nJane\'s disapproval, although she would never have confessed to such a\nweakness.\n\nAs uncle Jerry drove homeward under the stars, well content with his\nattempts at keeping the peace, he thought wistfully of the touch of\nRebecca\'s head on his knee, and the rain of her tears on his hand; of\nthe sweet reasonableness of her mind when she had the matter put\nrightly before her; of her quick decision when she had once seen the\npath of duty; of the touching hunger for love and understanding that\nwere so characteristic in her. \"Lord A\'mighty!\" he ejaculated under his\nbreath, \"Lord A\'mighty! to hector and abuse a child like that one! \'T\nain\'t ABUSE exactly, I know, or \'t wouldn\'t be to some o\' your\nelephant-hided young ones; but to that little tender will-o\'-the-wisp a\nhard word \'s like a lash. Mirandy Sawyer would be a heap better woman\nif she had a little gravestun to remember, same\'s mother \'n\' I have.\"\n\n\n\"I never see a child improve in her work as Rebecca has to-day,\"\nremarked Miranda Sawyer to Jane on Saturday evening. \"That settin\' down\nI gave her was probably just what she needed, and I daresay it\'ll last\nfor a month.\"\n\n\"I\'m glad you\'re pleased,\" returned Jane. \"A cringing worm is what you\nwant, not a bright, smiling child. Rebecca looks to me as if she\'d been\nthrough the Seven Years\' War. When she came downstairs this morning it\nseemed to me she\'d grown old in the night. If you follow my advice,\nwhich you seldom do, you\'ll let me take her and Emma Jane down beside\nthe river to-morrow afternoon and bring Emma Jane home to a good Sunday\nsupper. Then if you\'ll let her go to Milltown with the Cobbs on\nWednesday, that\'ll hearten her up a little and coax back her appetite.\nWednesday \'s a holiday on account of Miss Dearborn\'s going home to her\nsister\'s wedding, and the Cobbs and Perkinses want to go down to the\nAgricultural Fair.\"\n\n\n\nXI\n\n\"THE STIRRING OF THE POWERS\"\n\nRebecca\'s visit to Milltown was all that her glowing fancy had painted\nit, except that recent readings about Rome and Venice disposed her to\nbelieve that those cities might have an advantage over Milltown in the\nmatter of mere pictorial beauty. So soon does the soul outgrow its\nmansions that after once seeing Milltown her fancy ran out to the\nfuture sight of Portland; for that, having islands and a harbor and two\npublic monuments, must be far more beautiful than Milltown, which\nwould, she felt, take its proud place among the cities of the earth, by\nreason of its tremendous business activity rather than by any\nirresistible appeal to the imagination.\n\nIt would be impossible for two children to see more, do more, walk\nmore, talk more, eat more, or ask more questions than Rebecca and Emma\nJane did on that eventful Wednesday.\n\n\"She\'s the best company I ever see in all my life,\" said Mrs. Cobb to\nher husband that evening. \"We ain\'t had a dull minute this day. She\'s\nwell-mannered, too; she didn\'t ask for anything, and was thankful for\nwhatever she got. Did you watch her face when we went into that tent\nwhere they was actin\' out Uncle Tom\'s Cabin? And did you take notice of\nthe way she told us about the book when we sat down to have our ice\ncream? I tell you Harriet Beecher Stowe herself couldn\'t \'a\' done it\nbetter justice.\"\n\n\"I took it all in,\" responded Mr. Cobb, who was pleased that \"mother\"\nagreed with him about Rebecca. \"I ain\'t sure but she\'s goin\' to turn\nout somethin\' remarkable,--a singer, or a writer, or a lady doctor like\nthat Miss Parks up to Cornish.\"\n\n\"Lady doctors are always home\'paths, ain\'t they?\" asked Mrs. Cobb, who,\nit is needless to say, was distinctly of the old school in medicine.\n\n\"Land, no, mother; there ain\'t no home\'path \'bout Miss Parks--she\ndrives all over the country.\"\n\n\"I can\'t see Rebecca as a lady doctor, somehow,\" mused Mrs. Cobb. \"Her\ngift o\' gab is what\'s goin\' to be the makin\' of her; mebbe she\'ll\nlecture, or recite pieces, like that Portland elocutionist that come\nout here to the harvest supper.\"\n\n\"I guess she\'ll be able to write down her own pieces,\" said Mr. Cobb\nconfidently; \"she could make \'em up faster \'n she could read \'em out of\na book.\"\n\n\"It\'s a pity she\'s so plain looking,\" remarked Mrs. Cobb, blowing out\nthe candle.\n\n\"PLAIN LOOKING, mother?\" exclaimed her husband in astonishment. \"Look\nat the eyes of her; look at the hair of her, an\' the smile, an\' that\nthere dimple! Look at Alice Robinson, that\'s called the prettiest child\non the river, an\' see how Rebecca shines her ri\' down out o\' sight! I\nhope Mirandy\'ll favor her comin\' over to see us real often, for she\'ll\nlet off some of her steam here, an\' the brick house\'ll be consid\'able\nsafer for everybody concerned. We\'ve known what it was to hev children,\neven if \'t was more \'n thirty years ago, an\' we can make allowances.\"\n\nNotwithstanding the encomiums of Mr. and Mrs. Cobb, Rebecca made a poor\nhand at composition writing at this time. Miss Dearborn gave her every\nsort of subject that she had ever been given herself: Cloud Pictures;\nAbraham Lincoln; Nature; Philanthropy; Slavery; Intemperance; Joy and\nDuty; Solitude; but with none of them did Rebecca seem to grapple\nsatisfactorily.\n\n\"Write as you talk, Rebecca,\" insisted poor Miss Dearborn, who secretly\nknew that she could never manage a good composition herself.\n\n\"But gracious me, Miss Dearborn! I don\'t talk about nature and slavery.\nI can\'t write unless I have something to say, can I?\"\n\n\"That is what compositions are for,\" returned Miss Dearborn doubtfully;\n\"to make you have things to say. Now in your last one, on solitude, you\nhaven\'t said anything very interesting, and you\'ve made it too common\nand every-day to sound well. There are too many \'yous\' and \'yours\' in\nit; you ought to say \'one\' now and then, to make it seem more like good\nwriting. \'One opens a favorite book;\' \'One\'s thoughts are a great\ncomfort in solitude,\' and so on.\"\n\n\"I don\'t know any more about solitude this week than I did about joy\nand duty last week,\" grumbled Rebecca.\n\n\"You tried to be funny about joy and duty,\" said Miss Dearborn\nreprovingly; \"so of course you didn\'t succeed.\"\n\n\"I didn\'t know you were going to make us read the things out loud,\"\nsaid Rebecca with an embarrassed smile of recollection.\n\n\"Joy and Duty\" had been the inspiring subject given to the older\nchildren for a theme to be written in five minutes.\n\nRebecca had wrestled, struggled, perspired in vain. When her turn came\nto read she was obliged to confess she had written nothing.\n\n\"You have at least two lines, Rebecca,\" insisted the teacher, \"for I\nsee them on your slate.\"\n\n\"I\'d rather not read them, please; they are not good,\" pleaded Rebecca.\n\n\"Read what you have, good or bad, little or much; I am excusing nobody.\"\n\nRebecca rose, overcome with secret laughter dread, and mortification;\nthen in a low voice she read the couplet:--\n\n When Joy and Duty clash\n Let Duty go to smash.\n\nDick Carter\'s head disappeared under the desk, while Living Perkins\nchoked with laughter.\n\nMiss Dearborn laughed too; she was little more than a girl, and the\ntraining of the young idea seldom appealed to the sense of humor.\n\n\"You must stay after school and try again, Rebecca,\" she said, but she\nsaid it smilingly. \"Your poetry hasn\'t a very nice idea in it for a\ngood little girl who ought to love duty.\"\n\n\"It wasn\'t MY idea,\" said Rebecca apologetically. \"I had only made the\nfirst line when I saw you were going to ring the bell and say the time\nwas up. I had \'clash\' written, and I couldn\'t think of anything then\nbut \'hash\' or \'rash\' or \'smash.\' I\'ll change it to this:--\n\n When Joy and Duty clash,\n \'T is Joy must go to smash.\"\n\n\"That is better,\" Miss Dearborn answered, \"though I cannot think \'going\nto smash\' is a pretty expression for poetry.\"\n\nHaving been instructed in the use of the indefinite pronoun \"one\" as\ngiving a refined and elegant touch to literary efforts, Rebecca\npainstakingly rewrote her composition on solitude, giving it all the\nbenefit of Miss Dearborn\'s suggestion. It then appeared in the\nfollowing form, which hardly satisfied either teacher or pupil:--\n\nSOLITUDE\n\nIt would be false to say that one could ever be alone when one has\none\'s lovely thoughts to comfort one. One sits by one\'s self, it is\ntrue, but one thinks; one opens one\'s favorite book and reads one\'s\nfavorite story; one speaks to one\'s aunt or one\'s brother, fondles\none\'s cat, or looks at one\'s photograph album. There is one\'s work\nalso: what a joy it is to one, if one happens to like work. All one\'s\nlittle household tasks keep one from being lonely. Does one ever feel\nbereft when one picks up one\'s chips to light one\'s fire for one\'s\nevening meal? Or when one washes one\'s milk pail before milking one\'s\ncow? One would fancy not.\n\nR. R. R.\n\n\"It is perfectly dreadful,\" sighed Rebecca when she read it aloud after\nschool. \"Putting in \'one\' all the time doesn\'t make it sound any more\nlike a book, and it looks silly besides.\"\n\n\"You say such queer things,\" objected Miss Dearborn. \"I don\'t see what\nmakes you do it. Why did you put in anything so common as picking up\nchips?\"\n\n\"Because I was talking about \'household tasks\' in the sentence before,\nand it IS one of my household tasks. Don\'t you think calling supper\n\'one\'s evening meal\' is pretty? and isn\'t \'bereft\' a nice word?\"\n\n\"Yes, that part of it does very well. It is the cat, the chips, and the\nmilk pail that I don\'t like.\"\n\n\"All right!\" sighed Rebecca. \"Out they go; Does the cow go too?\"\n\n\"Yes, I don\'t like a cow in a composition,\" said the difficult Miss\nDearborn.\n\n\nThe Milltown trip had not been without its tragic consequences of a\nsmall sort; for the next week Minnie Smellie\'s mother told Miranda\nSawyer that she\'d better look after Rebecca, for she was given to\n\"swearing and profane language;\" that she had been heard saying\nsomething dreadful that very afternoon, saying it before Emma Jane and\nLiving Perkins, who only laughed and got down on all fours and chased\nher.\n\nRebecca, on being confronted and charged with the crime, denied it\nindignantly, and aunt Jane believed her.\n\n\"Search your memory, Rebecca, and try to think what Minnie overheard\nyou say,\" she pleaded. \"Don\'t be ugly and obstinate, but think real\nhard. When did they chase you up the road, and what were you doing?\"\n\nA sudden light broke upon Rebecca\'s darkness.\n\n\"Oh! I see it now,\" she exclaimed. \"It had rained hard all the morning,\nyou know, and the road was full of puddles. Emma Jane, Living, and I\nwere walking along, and I was ahead. I saw the water streaming over the\nroad towards the ditch, and it reminded me of Uncle Tom\'s Cabin at\nMilltown, when Eliza took her baby and ran across the Mississippi on\nthe ice blocks, pursued by the bloodhounds. We couldn\'t keep from\nlaughing after we came out of the tent because they were acting on such\na small platform that Eliza had to run round and round, and part of the\ntime the one dog they had pursued her, and part of the time she had to\npursue the dog. I knew Living would remember, too, so I took off my\nwaterproof and wrapped it round my books for a baby; then I shouted,\n\'MY GOD! THE RIVER!\' just like that--the same as Eliza did in the play;\nthen I leaped from puddle to puddle, and Living and Emma Jane pursued\nme like the bloodhounds. It\'s just like that stupid Minnie Smellie who\ndoesn\'t know a game when she sees one. And Eliza wasn\'t swearing when\nshe said \'My God! the river!\' It was more like praying.\"\n\n\"Well, you\'ve got no call to be prayin\', any more than swearin\', in the\nmiddle of the road,\" said Miranda; \"but I\'m thankful it\'s no worse.\nYou\'re born to trouble as the sparks fly upward, an\' I\'m afraid you\nallers will be till you learn to bridle your unruly tongue.\"\n\n\"I wish sometimes that I could bridle Minnie\'s,\" murmured Rebecca, as\nshe went to set the table for supper.\n\n\"I declare she IS the beatin\'est child!\" said Miranda, taking off her\nspectacles and laying down her mending. \"You don\'t think she\'s a leetle\nmite crazy, do you, Jane?\"\n\n\"I don\'t think she\'s like the rest of us,\" responded Jane thoughtfully\nand with some anxiety in her pleasant face; \"but whether it\'s for the\nbetter or the worse I can\'t hardly tell till she grows up. She\'s got\nthe making of \'most anything in her, Rebecca has; but I feel sometimes\nas if we were not fitted to cope with her.\"\n\n\"Stuff an\' nonsense!\" said Miranda \"Speak for yourself. I feel fitted\nto cope with any child that ever was born int\' the world!\"\n\n\"I know you do, Mirandy; but that don\'t MAKE you so,\" returned Jane\nwith a smile.\n\nThe habit of speaking her mind freely was certainly growing on Jane to\nan altogether terrifying extent.\n\n\n\nXII\n\n\"SEE THE PALE MARTYR\"\n\nIt was about this time that Rebecca, who had been reading about the\nSpartan boy, conceived the idea of some mild form of self-punishment to\nbe applied on occasions when she was fully convinced in her own mind\nthat it would be salutary. The immediate cause of the decision was a\nsomewhat sadder accident than was common, even in a career prolific in\nsuch things.\n\nClad in her best, Rebecca had gone to take tea with the Cobbs; but\nwhile crossing the bridge she was suddenly overcome by the beauty of\nthe river and leaned over the newly painted rail to feast her eyes on\nthe dashing torrent of the fall. Resting her elbows on the topmost\nboard, and inclining her little figure forward in delicious ease, she\nstood there dreaming.\n\nThe river above the dam was a glassy lake with all the loveliness of\nblue heaven and green shore reflected in its surface; the fall was a\nswirling wonder of water, ever pouring itself over and over\ninexhaustibly in luminous golden gushes that lost themselves in snowy\ndepths of foam. Sparkling in the sunshine, gleaming under the summer\nmoon, cold and gray beneath a November sky, trickling over the dam in\nsome burning July drought, swollen with turbulent power in some April\nfreshet, how many young eyes gazed into the mystery and majesty of the\nfalls along that river, and how many young hearts dreamed out their\nfutures leaning over the bridge rail, seeing \"the vision splendid\"\nreflected there and often, too, watching it fade into \"the light of\ncommon day.\"\n\nRebecca never went across the bridge without bending over the rail to\nwonder and to ponder, and at this special moment she was putting the\nfinishing touches on a poem.\n\n Two maidens by a river strayed\n Down in the state of Maine.\n The one was called Rebecca,\n The other Emma Jane.\n \"I would my life were like the stream,\"\n Said her named Emma Jane,\n \"So quiet and so very smooth,\n So free from every pain.\"\n\n \"I\'d rather be a little drop\n In the great rushing fall!\n I would not choose the glassy lake,\n \'T would not suit me at all!\"\n (It was the darker maiden spoke\n The words I just have stated,\n The maidens twain were simply friends\n And not at all related.)\n\n But O! alas I we may not have\n The things we hope to gain;\n The quiet life may come to me,\n The rush to Emma Jane!\n\n\"I don\'t like \'the rush to Emma Jane,\' and I can\'t think of anything\nelse. Oh! what a smell of paint! Oh! it is ON me! Oh! it\'s all over my\nbest dress! Oh I what WILL aunt Miranda say!\"\n\nWith tears of self-reproach streaming from her eyes, Rebecca flew up\nthe hill, sure of sympathy, and hoping against hope for help of some\nsort.\n\nMrs. Cobb took in the situation at a glance, and professed herself able\nto remove almost any stain from almost any fabric; and in this she was\ncorroborated by uncle Jerry, who vowed that mother could git anything\nout. Sometimes she took the cloth right along with the spot, but she\nhad a sure hand, mother had!\n\nThe damaged garment was removed and partially immersed in turpentine,\nwhile Rebecca graced the festal board clad in a blue calico wrapper of\nMrs. Cobb\'s.\n\n\"Don\'t let it take your appetite away,\" crooned Mrs. Cobb. \"I\'ve got\ncream biscuit and honey for you. If the turpentine don\'t work, I\'ll try\nFrench chalk, magneshy, and warm suds. If they fail, father shall run\nover to Strout\'s and borry some of the stuff Marthy got in Milltown to\ntake the currant pie out of her weddin\' dress.\"\n\n\"I ain\'t got to understandin\' this paintin\' accident yet,\" said uncle\nJerry jocosely, as he handed Rebecca the honey. \"Bein\' as how there\'s\n\'Fresh Paint\' signs hung all over the breedge, so \'t a blind asylum\ncouldn\'t miss \'em, I can\'t hardly account for your gettin\' int\' the\npesky stuff.\"\n\n\"I didn\'t notice the signs,\" Rebecca said dolefully. \"I suppose I was\nlooking at the falls.\"\n\n\"The falls has been there sence the beginnin\' o\' time, an\' I cal\'late\nthey\'ll be there till the end on \'t; so you needn\'t \'a\' been in sech a\nbrash to git a sight of \'em. Children comes turrible high, mother, but\nI s\'pose we must have \'em!\" he said, winking at Mrs. Cobb.\n\nWhen supper was cleared away Rebecca insisted on washing and wiping the\ndishes, while Mrs. Cobb worked on the dress with an energy that plainly\nshowed the gravity of the task. Rebecca kept leaving her post at the\nsink to bend anxiously over the basin and watch her progress, while\nuncle Jerry offered advice from time to time.\n\n\"You must \'a\' laid all over the breedge, deary,\" said Mrs. Cobb; \"for\nthe paint \'s not only on your elbows and yoke and waist, but it about\ncovers your front breadth.\"\n\nAs the garment began to look a little better Rebecca\'s spirits took an\nupward turn, and at length she left it to dry in the fresh air, and\nwent into the sitting-room.\n\n\"Have you a piece of paper, please?\" asked Rebecca. \"I\'ll copy out the\npoetry I was making while I was lying in the paint.\"\n\nMrs. Cobb sat by her mending basket, and uncle Jerry took down a\ngingham bag of strings and occupied himself in taking the snarls out of\nthem,--a favorite evening amusement with him.\n\nRebecca soon had the lines copied in her round school-girl hand, making\nsuch improvements as occurred to her on sober second thought.\n\n THE TWO WISHES\n BY\n REBECCA RANDALL\n\n Two maidens by a river strayed,\n \'T was in the state of Maine.\n Rebecca was the darker one,\n The fairer, Emma Jane.\n The fairer maiden said, \"I would\n My life were as the stream;\n So peaceful, and so smooth and still,\n So pleasant and serene.\"\n\n \"I\'d rather be a little drop\n In the great rushing fall;\n I\'d never choose the quiet lake;\n \'T would not please me at all.\"\n (It was the darker maiden spoke\n The words we just have stated;\n The maidens twain were simply friends,\n Not sisters, or related.)\n\n But O! alas! we may not have\n The things we hope to gain.\n The quiet life may come to me,\n The rush to Emma Jane!\n\nShe read it aloud, and the Cobbs thought it not only surpassingly\nbeautiful, but a marvelous production.\n\n\"I guess if that writer that lived on Congress Street in Portland could\n\'a\' heard your poetry he\'d \'a\' been astonished,\" said Mrs. Cobb. \"If\nyou ask me, I say this piece is as good as that one o\' his, \'Tell me\nnot in mournful numbers;\' and consid\'able clearer.\"\n\n\"I never could fairly make out what \'mournful numbers\' was,\" remarked\nMr. Cobb critically.\n\n\"Then I guess you never studied fractions!\" flashed Rebecca. \"See here,\nuncle Jerry and aunt Sarah, would you write another verse, especially\nfor a last one, as they usually do--one with \'thoughts\' in it--to make\na better ending?\"\n\n\"If you can grind \'em out jest by turnin\' the crank, why I should say\nthe more the merrier; but I don\'t hardly see how you could have a\nbetter endin\',\" observed Mr. Cobb.\n\n\"It is horrid!\" grumbled Rebecca. \"I ought not to have put that \'me\'\nin. I\'m writing the poetry. Nobody ought to know it IS me standing by\nthe river; it ought to be \'Rebecca,\' or \'the darker maiden;\' and \'the\nrush to Emma Jane\' is simply dreadful. Sometimes I think I never will\ntry poetry, it\'s so hard to make it come right; and other times it just\nsays itself. I wonder if this would be better?\n\n But O! alas! we may not gain\n The good for which we pray\n The quiet life may come to one\n Who likes it rather gay,\n\nI don\'t know whether that is worse or not. Now for a new last verse!\"\n\nIn a few minutes the poetess looked up, flushed and triumphant. \"It was\nas easy as nothing. Just hear!\" And she read slowly, with her pretty,\npathetic voice:--\n\n Then if our lot be bright or sad,\n Be full of smiles, or tears,\n The thought that God has planned it so\n Should help us bear the years.\n\nMr. and Mrs. Cobb exchanged dumb glances of admiration; indeed uncle\nJerry was obliged to turn his face to the window and wipe his eyes\nfurtively with the string-bag.\n\n\"How in the world did you do it?\" Mrs. Cobb exclaimed.\n\n\"Oh, it\'s easy,\" answered Rebecca; \"the hymns at meeting are all like\nthat. You see there\'s a school newspaper printed at Wareham Academy\nonce a month. Dick Carter says the editor is always a boy, of course;\nbut he allows girls to try and write for it, and then chooses the best.\nDick thinks I can be in it.\"\n\n\"IN it!\" exclaimed uncle Jerry. \"I shouldn\'t be a bit surprised if you\nhad to write the whole paper; an\' as for any boy editor, you could lick\nhim writin\', I bate ye, with one hand tied behind ye.\"\n\n\"Can we have a copy of the poetry to keep in the family Bible?\"\ninquired Mrs. Cobb respectfully.\n\n\"Oh! would you like it?\" asked Rebecca. \"Yes indeed! I\'ll do a clean,\nnice one with violet ink and a fine pen. But I must go and look at my\npoor dress.\"\n\nThe old couple followed Rebecca into the kitchen. The frock was quite\ndry, and in truth it had been helped a little by aunt Sarah\'s\nministrations; but the colors had run in the rubbing, the pattern was\nblurred, and there were muddy streaks here and there. As a last resort,\nit was carefully smoothed with a warm iron, and Rebecca was urged to\nattire herself, that they might see if the spots showed as much when it\nwas on.\n\nThey did, most uncompromisingly, and to the dullest eye. Rebecca gave\none searching look, and then said, as she took her hat from a nail in\nthe entry, \"I think I\'ll be going. Good-night! If I\'ve got to have a\nscolding, I want it quick, and get it over.\"\n\n\"Poor little onlucky misfortunate thing!\" sighed uncle Jerry, as his\neyes followed her down the hill. \"I wish she could pay some attention\nto the ground under her feet; but I vow, if she was ourn I\'d let her\nslop paint all over the house before I could scold her. Here\'s her\npoetry she\'s left behind. Read it out ag\'in, mother. Land!\" he\ncontinued, chuckling, as he lighted his cob pipe; \"I can just see the\nlast flap o\' that boy-editor\'s shirt tail as he legs it for the woods,\nwhile Rebecky settles down in his revolvin\' cheer! I\'m puzzled as to\nwhat kind of a job editin\' is, exactly; but she\'ll find out, Rebecky\nwill. An\' she\'ll just edit for all she\'s worth!\n\n \"\'The thought that God has planned it so\n Should help us bear the years.\'\n\nLand, mother! that takes right holt, kind o\' like the gospel. How do\nyou suppose she thought that out?\"\n\n\"She couldn\'t have thought it out at her age,\" said Mrs. Cobb; \"she\nmust have just guessed it was that way. We know some things without\nbein\' told, Jeremiah.\"\n\n\nRebecca took her scolding (which she richly deserved) like a soldier.\nThere was considerable of it, and Miss Miranda remarked, among other\nthings, that so absent-minded a child was sure to grow up into a\ndriveling idiot. She was bidden to stay away from Alice Robinson\'s\nbirthday party, and doomed to wear her dress, stained and streaked as\nit was, until it was worn out. Aunt Jane six months later mitigated\nthis martyrdom by making her a ruffled dimity pinafore, artfully shaped\nto conceal all the spots. She was blessedly ready with these mediations\nbetween the poor little sinner and the full consequences of her sin.\n\nWhen Rebecca had heard her sentence and gone to the north chamber she\nbegan to think. If there was anything she did not wish to grow into, it\nwas an idiot of any sort, particularly a driveling one; and she\nresolved to punish herself every time she incurred what she considered\nto be the righteous displeasure of her virtuous relative. She didn\'t\nmind staying away from Alice Robinson\'s. She had told Emma Jane it\nwould be like a picnic in a graveyard, the Robinson house being as near\nan approach to a tomb as a house can manage to be. Children were\ncommonly brought in at the back door, and requested to stand on\nnewspapers while making their call, so that Alice was begged by her\nfriends to \"receive\" in the shed or barn whenever possible. Mrs.\nRobinson was not only \"turrible neat,\" but \"turrible close,\" so that\nthe refreshments were likely to be peppermint lozenges and glasses of\nwell water.\n\nAfter considering the relative values, as penances, of a piece of\nhaircloth worn next the skin, and a pebble in the shoe, she dismissed\nthem both. The haircloth could not be found, and the pebble would\nattract the notice of the Argus-eyed aunt, besides being a foolish bar\nto the activity of a person who had to do housework and walk a mile and\na half to school.\n\nHer first experimental attempt at martyrdom had not been a\ndistinguished success. She had stayed at home from the Sunday-school\nconcert, a function of which, in ignorance of more alluring ones, she\nwas extremely fond. As a result of her desertion, two infants who\nrelied upon her to prompt them (she knew the verses of all the children\nbetter than they did themselves) broke down ignominiously. The class to\nwhich she belonged had to read a difficult chapter of Scripture in\nrotation, and the various members spent an arduous Sabbath afternoon\ncounting out verses according to their seats in the pew, and practicing\nthe ones that would inevitably fall to them. They were too ignorant to\nrealize, when they were called upon, that Rebecca\'s absence would make\neverything come wrong, and the blow descended with crushing force when\nthe Jebusites and Amorites, the Girgashites, Hivites, and Perizzites\nhad to be pronounced by the persons of all others least capable of\ngrappling with them.\n\nSelf-punishment, then, to be adequate and proper, must begin, like\ncharity, at home, and unlike charity should end there too. Rebecca\nlooked about the room vaguely as she sat by the window. She must give\nup something, and truth to tell she possessed little to give, hardly\nanything but--yes, that would do, the beloved pink parasol. She could\nnot hide it in the attic, for in some moment of weakness she would be\nsure to take it out again. She feared she had not the moral energy to\nbreak it into bits. Her eyes moved from the parasol to the apple-trees\nin the side yard, and then fell to the well curb. That would do; she\nwould fling her dearest possession into the depths of the water. Action\nfollowed quickly upon decision, as usual. She slipped down in the\ndarkness, stole out the front door, approached the place of sacrifice,\nlifted the cover of the well, gave one unresigned shudder, and flung\nthe parasol downward with all her force. At the crucial instant of\nrenunciation she was greatly helped by the reflection that she closely\nresembled the heathen mothers who cast their babes to the crocodiles in\nthe Ganges.\n\nShe slept well and arose refreshed, as a consecrated spirit always\nshould and sometimes does. But there was great difficulty in drawing\nwater after breakfast. Rebecca, chastened and uplifted, had gone to\nschool. Abijah Flagg was summoned, lifted the well cover, explored,\nfound the inciting cause of trouble, and with the help of Yankee wit\nsucceeded in removing it. The fact was that the ivory hook of the\nparasol had caught in the chain gear, and when the first attempt at\ndrawing water was made, the little offering of a contrite heart was\njerked up, bent, its strong ribs jammed into the well side, and\nentangled with a twig root. It is needless to say that no\nsleight-of-hand performer, however expert, unless aided by the powers\nof darkness, could have accomplished this feat; but a luckless child in\nthe pursuit of virtue had done it with a turn of the wrist.\n\nWe will draw a veil over the scene that occurred after Rebecca\'s return\nfrom school. You who read may be well advanced in years, you may be\ngifted in rhetoric, ingenious in argument; but even you might quail at\nthe thought of explaining the tortuous mental processes that led you\ninto throwing your beloved pink parasol into Miranda Sawyer\'s well.\nPerhaps you feel equal to discussing the efficacy of spiritual\nself-chastisement with a person who closes her lips into a thin line\nand looks at you out of blank, uncomprehending eyes! Common sense,\nright, and logic were all arrayed on Miranda\'s side. When poor Rebecca,\ndriven to the wall, had to avow the reasons lying behind the sacrifice\nof the sunshade, her aunt said, \"Now see here, Rebecca, you\'re too big\nto be whipped, and I shall never whip you; but when you think you ain\'t\npunished enough, just tell me, and I\'ll make out to invent a little\nsomething more. I ain\'t so smart as some folks, but I can do that much;\nand whatever it is, it\'ll be something that won\'t punish the whole\nfamily, and make \'em drink ivory dust, wood chips, and pink silk rags\nwith their water.\"\n\n\n\nXIII\n\nSNOW-WHITE; ROSE-RED\n\nJust before Thanksgiving the affairs of the Simpsons reached what might\nhave been called a crisis, even in their family, which had been born\nand reared in a state of adventurous poverty and perilous uncertainty.\n\nRiverboro was doing its best to return the entire tribe of Simpsons to\nthe land of its fathers, so to speak, thinking rightly that the town\nwhich had given them birth, rather than the town of their adoption,\nshould feed them and keep a roof over their heads until the children\nwere of an age for self-support. There was little to eat in the\nhousehold and less to wear, though Mrs. Simpson did, as always, her\npoor best. The children managed to satisfy their appetites by sitting\nmodestly outside their neighbors\' kitchen doors when meals were about\nto be served. They were not exactly popular favorites, but they did\nreceive certain undesirable morsels from the more charitable housewives.\n\nLife was rather dull and dreary, however, and in the chill and gloom of\nNovember weather, with the vision of other people\'s turkeys bursting\nwith fat, and other people\'s golden pumpkins and squashes and corn\nbeing garnered into barns, the young Simpsons groped about for some\ninexpensive form of excitement, and settled upon the selling of soap\nfor a premium. They had sold enough to their immediate neighbors during\nthe earlier autumn to secure a child\'s handcart, which, though very\nweak on its pins, could be trundled over the country roads. With large\nbusiness sagacity and an executive capacity which must have been\ninherited from their father, they now proposed to extend their\noperations to a larger area and distribute soap to contiguous villages,\nif these villages could be induced to buy. The Excelsior Soap Company\npaid a very small return of any kind to its infantile agents, who were\nscattered through the state, but it inflamed their imaginations by the\nissue of circulars with highly colored pictures of the premiums to be\nawarded for the sale of a certain number of cakes. It was at this\njuncture that Clara Belle and Susan Simpson consulted Rebecca, who\nthrew herself solidly and wholeheartedly into the enterprise, promising\nher help and that of Emma Jane Perkins. The premiums within their\npossible grasp were three: a bookcase, a plush reclining chair, and a\nbanquet lamp. Of course the Simpsons had no books, and casting aside,\nwithout thought or pang, the plush chair, which might have been of some\nuse in a family of seven persons (not counting Mr. Simpson, who\nordinarily sat elsewhere at the town\'s expense), they warmed themselves\nrapturously in the vision of the banquet lamp, which speedily became to\nthem more desirable than food, drink, or clothing. Neither Emma Jane\nnor Rebecca perceived anything incongruous in the idea of the Simpsons\nstriving for a banquet lamp. They looked at the picture daily and knew\nthat if they themselves were free agents they would toil, suffer, ay\nsweat, for the happy privilege of occupying the same room with that\nlamp through the coming winter evenings. It looked to be about eight\nfeet tall in the catalogue, and Emma Jane advised Clara Belle to\nmeasure the height of the Simpson ceilings; but a note in the margin of\nthe circular informed them that it stood two and a half feet high when\nset up in all its dignity and splendor on a proper table, three dollars\nextra. It was only of polished brass, continued the circular, though it\nwas invariably mistaken for solid gold, and the shade that accompanied\nit (at least it accompanied it if the agent sold a hundred extra cakes)\nwas of crinkled crepe paper printed in a dozen delicious hues, from\nwhich the joy-dazzled agent might take his choice.\n\nSeesaw Simpson was not in the syndicate. Clara Belle was rather a\nsuccessful agent, but Susan, who could only say \"thoap,\" never made\nlarge returns, and the twins, who were somewhat young to be thoroughly\ntrustworthy, could be given only a half dozen cakes at a time, and were\nobliged to carry with them on their business trips a brief document\nstating the price per cake, dozen, and box. Rebecca and Emma Jane\noffered to go two or three miles in some one direction and see what\nthey could do in the way of stirring up a popular demand for the\nSnow-White and Rose-Red brands, the former being devoted to laundry\npurposes and the latter being intended for the toilet.\n\nThere was a great amount of hilarity in the preparation for this event,\nand a long council in Emma Jane\'s attic. They had the soap company\'s\ncircular from which to arrange a proper speech, and they had, what was\nstill better, the remembrance of a certain patent-medicine vender\'s\ndiscourse at the Milltown Fair. His method, when once observed, could\nnever be forgotten; nor his manner, nor his vocabulary. Emma Jane\npracticed it on Rebecca, and Rebecca on Emma Jane.\n\n\"Can I sell you a little soap this afternoon? It is called the\nSnow-White and Rose-Red Soap, six cakes in an ornamental box, only\ntwenty cents for the white, twenty-five cents for the red. It is made\nfrom the purest ingredients, and if desired could be eaten by an\ninvalid with relish and profit.\"\n\n\"Oh, Rebecca, don\'t let\'s say that!\" interposed Emma Jane hysterically.\n\"It makes me feel like a fool.\"\n\n\"It takes so little to make you feel like a fool, Emma Jane,\" rebuked\nRebecca, \"that sometimes I think that you must BE one I don\'t get to\nfeeling like a fool so awfully easy; now leave out that eating part if\nyou don\'t like it, and go on.\"\n\n\"The Snow-White is probably the most remarkable laundry soap ever\nmanufactured. Immerse the garments in a tub, lightly rubbing the more\nsoiled portions with the soap; leave them submerged in water from\nsunset to sunrise, and then the youngest baby can wash them without the\nslightest effort.\"\n\n\"BABE, not baby,\" corrected Rebecca from the circular.\n\n\"It\'s just the same thing,\" argued Emma Jane.\n\n\"Of course it\'s just the same THING; but a baby has got to be called\nbabe or infant in a circular, the same as it is in poetry! Would you\nrather say infant?\"\n\n\"No,\" grumbled Emma Jane; \"infant is worse even than babe. Rebecca, do\nyou think we\'d better do as the circular says, and let Elijah or Elisha\ntry the soap before we begin selling?\"\n\n\"I can\'t imagine a babe doing a family wash with ANY soap,\" answered\nRebecca; \"but it must be true or they would never dare to print it, so\ndon\'t let\'s bother. Oh! won\'t it be the greatest fun, Emma Jane? At\nsome of the houses--where they can\'t possibly know me--I shan\'t be\nfrightened, and I shall reel off the whole rigmarole, invalid, babe,\nand all. Perhaps I shall say even the last sentence, if I can remember\nit: \'We sound every chord in the great mac-ro-cosm of satisfaction.\"\n\nThis conversation took place on a Friday afternoon at Emma Jane\'s\nhouse, where Rebecca, to her unbounded joy, was to stay over Sunday,\nher aunts having gone to Portland to the funeral of an old friend.\nSaturday being a holiday, they were going to have the old white horse,\ndrive to North Riverboro three miles away, eat a twelve o\'clock dinner\nwith Emma Jane\'s cousins, and be back at four o\'clock punctually.\n\nWhen the children asked Mrs. Perkins if they could call at just a few\nhouses coming and going, and sell a little soap for the Simpsons, she\nat first replied decidedly in the negative. She was an indulgent\nparent, however, and really had little objection to Emma Jane amusing\nherself in this unusual way; it was only for Rebecca, as the niece of\nthe difficult Miranda Sawyer, that she raised scruples; but when fully\npersuaded that the enterprise was a charitable one, she acquiesced.\n\nThe girls called at Mr. Watson\'s store, and arranged for several large\nboxes of soap to be charged to Clara Belle Simpson\'s account. These\nwere lifted into the back of the wagon, and a happier couple never\ndrove along the country road than Rebecca and her companion. It was a\nglorious Indian summer day, which suggested nothing of Thanksgiving,\nnear at hand as it was. It was a rustly day, a scarlet and buff, yellow\nand carmine, bronze and crimson day. There were still many leaves on\nthe oaks and maples, making a goodly show of red and brown and gold.\nThe air was like sparkling cider, and every field had its heaps of\nyellow and russet good things to eat, all ready for the barns, the\nmills, and the markets. The horse forgot his twenty years, sniffed the\nsweet bright air, and trotted like a colt; Nokomis Mountain looked blue\nand clear in the distance; Rebecca stood in the wagon, and\napostrophized the landscape with sudden joy of living:--\n\n \"Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,\n With the wonderful water round you curled,\n And the wonderful grass upon your breast,\n World, you are beautifully drest!\"\n\nDull Emma Jane had never seemed to Rebecca so near, so dear, so tried\nand true; and Rebecca, to Emma Jane\'s faithful heart, had never been so\nbrilliant, so bewildering, so fascinating, as in this visit together,\nwith its intimacy, its freedom, and the added delights of an exciting\nbusiness enterprise.\n\nA gorgeous leaf blew into the wagon.\n\n\"Does color make you sort of dizzy?\" asked Rebecca.\n\n\"No,\" answered Emma Jane after a long pause; \"no, it don\'t; not a mite.\"\n\n\"Perhaps dizzy isn\'t just the right word, but it\'s nearest. I\'d like to\neat color, and drink it, and sleep in it. If you could be a tree, which\none would you choose?\"\n\nEmma Jane had enjoyed considerable experience of this kind, and Rebecca\nhad succeeded in unstopping her ears, ungluing her eyes, and loosening\nher tongue, so that she could \"play the game\" after a fashion.\n\n\"I\'d rather be an apple-tree in blossom,--that one that blooms pink, by\nour pig-pen.\"\n\nRebecca laughed. There was always something unexpected in Emma Jane\'s\nreplies. \"I\'d choose to be that scarlet maple just on the edge of the\npond there,\"--and she pointed with the whip. \"Then I could see so much\nmore than your pink apple-tree by the pig-pen. I could look at all the\nrest of the woods, see my scarlet dress in my beautiful looking-glass,\nand watch all the yellow and brown trees growing upside down in the\nwater. When I\'m old enough to earn money, I\'m going to have a dress\nlike this leaf, all ruby color--thin, you know, with a sweeping train\nand ruffly, curly edges; then I think I\'ll have a brown sash like the\ntrunk of the tree, and where could I be green? Do they have green\npetticoats, I wonder? I\'d like a green petticoat coming out now and\nthen underneath to show what my leaves were like before I was a scarlet\nmaple.\"\n\n\"I think it would be awful homely,\" said Emma Jane. \"I\'m going to have\na white satin with a pink sash, pink stockings, bronze slippers, and a\nspangled fan.\"\n\n\n\nXIV\n\nMR. ALADDIN\n\nA single hour\'s experience of the vicissitudes incident to a business\ncareer clouded the children\'s spirits just the least bit. They did not\naccompany each other to the doors of their chosen victims, feeling sure\nthat together they could not approach the subject seriously; but they\nparted at the gate of each house, the one holding the horse while the\nother took the soap samples and interviewed any one who seemed of a\ncoming-on disposition. Emma Jane had disposed of three single cakes,\nRebecca of three small boxes; for a difference in their ability to\npersuade the public was clearly defined at the start, though neither of\nthem ascribed either success or defeat to anything but the imperious\nforce of circumstances. Housewives looked at Emma Jane and desired no\nsoap; listened to her description of its merits, and still desired\nnone. Other stars in their courses governed Rebecca\'s doings. The\npeople whom she interviewed either remembered their present need of\nsoap, or reminded themselves that they would need it in the future; the\nnotable point in the case being that lucky Rebecca accomplished, with\nalmost no effort, results that poor little Emma Jane failed to attain\nby hard and conscientious labor.\n\n\"It\'s your turn, Rebecca, and I\'m glad, too,\" said Emma Jane, drawing\nup to a gateway and indicating a house that was set a considerable\ndistance from the road. \"I haven\'t got over trembling from the last\nplace yet.\" (A lady had put her head out of an upstairs window and\ncalled, \"Go away, little girl; whatever you have in your box we don\'t\nwant any.\") \"I don\'t know who lives here, and the blinds are all shut\nin front. If there\'s nobody at home you mustn\'t count it, but take the\nnext house as yours.\"\n\nRebecca walked up the lane and went to the side door. There was a porch\nthere, and seated in a rocking-chair, husking corn, was a good-looking\nyoung man, or was he middle aged? Rebecca could not make up her mind.\nAt all events he had an air of the city about him,--well-shaven face,\nwell-trimmed mustache, well-fitting clothes. Rebecca was a trifle shy\nat this unexpected encounter, but there was nothing to be done but\nexplain her presence, so she asked, \"Is the lady of the house at home?\"\n\n\"I am the lady of the house at present,\" said the stranger, with a\nwhimsical smile. \"What can I do for you?\"\n\n\"Have you ever heard of the--would you like, or I mean--do you need any\nsoap?\" queried Rebecca.\n\n\"Do I look as if I did?\" he responded unexpectedly.\n\nRebecca dimpled. \"I didn\'t mean THAT; I have some soap to sell; I mean\nI would like to introduce to you a very remarkable soap, the best now\non the market. It is called the\"--\n\n\"Oh! I must know that soap,\" said the gentleman genially. \"Made out of\npure vegetable fats, isn\'t it?\"\n\n\"The very purest,\" corroborated Rebecca.\n\n\"No acid in it?\"\n\n\"Not a trace.\"\n\n\"And yet a child could do the Monday washing with it and use no force.\"\n\n\"A babe,\" corrected Rebecca\n\n\"Oh! a babe, eh? That child grows younger every year, instead of\nolder--wise child!\"\n\nThis was great good fortune, to find a customer who knew all the\nvirtues of the article in advance. Rebecca dimpled more and more, and\nat her new friend\'s invitation sat down on a stool at his side near the\nedge of the porch. The beauties of the ornamental box which held the\nRose-Red were disclosed, and the prices of both that and the Snow-White\nwere unfolded. Presently she forgot all about her silent partner at the\ngate and was talking as if she had known this grand personage all her\nlife.\n\n\"I\'m keeping house to-day, but I don\'t live here,\" explained the\ndelightful gentleman. \"I\'m just on a visit to my aunt, who has gone to\nPortland. I used to be here as a boy and I am very fond of the spot.\"\n\n\"I don\'t think anything takes the place of the farm where one lived\nwhen one was a child,\" observed Rebecca, nearly bursting with pride at\nhaving at last successfully used the indefinite pronoun in general\nconversation.\n\nThe man darted a look at her and put down his ear of corn. \"So you\nconsider your childhood a thing of the past, do you, young lady?\"\n\n\"I can still remember it,\" answered Rebecca gravely, \"though it seems a\nlong time ago.\"\n\n\"I can remember mine well enough, and a particularly unpleasant one it\nwas,\" said the stranger.\n\n\"So was mine,\" sighed Rebecca. \"What was your worst trouble?\"\n\n\"Lack of food and clothes principally.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" exclaimed Rebecca sympathetically,--\"mine was no shoes and too\nmany babies and not enough books. But you\'re all right and happy now,\naren\'t you?\" she asked doubtfully, for though he looked handsome,\nwell-fed, and prosperous, any child could see that his eyes were tired\nand his mouth was sad when he was not speaking.\n\n\"I\'m doing pretty well, thank you,\" said the man, with a delightful\nsmile. \"Now tell me, how much soap ought I to buy to-day?\"\n\n\"How much has your aunt on hand now?\" suggested the very modest and\ninexperienced agent; \"and how much would she need?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don\'t know about that; soap keeps, doesn\'t it?\"\n\n\"I\'m not certain,\" said Rebecca conscientiously, \"but I\'ll look in the\ncircular--it\'s sure to tell;\" and she drew the document from her pocket.\n\n\"What are you going to do with the magnificent profits you get from\nthis business?\"\n\n\"We are not selling for our own benefit,\" said Rebecca confidentially.\n\"My friend who is holding the horse at the gate is the daughter of a\nvery rich blacksmith, and doesn\'t need any money. I am poor, but I live\nwith my aunts in a brick house, and of course they wouldn\'t like me to\nbe a peddler. We are trying to get a premium for some friends of ours.\"\n\nRebecca had never thought of alluding to the circumstances with her\nprevious customers, but unexpectedly she found herself describing Mr.\nSimpson, Mrs. Simpson, and the Simpson family; their poverty, their\njoyless life, and their abject need of a banquet lamp to brighten their\nexistence.\n\n\"You needn\'t argue that point,\" laughed the man, as he stood up to get\na glimpse of the \"rich blacksmith\'s daughter\" at the gate. \"I can see\nthat they ought to have it if they want it, and especially if you want\nthem to have it. I\'ve known what it was myself to do without a banquet\nlamp. Now give me the circular, and let\'s do some figuring. How much do\nthe Simpsons lack at this moment?\"\n\n\"If they sell two hundred more cakes this month and next, they can have\nthe lamp by Christmas,\" Rebecca answered, \"and they can get a shade by\nsummer time; but I\'m afraid I can\'t help very much after to-day,\nbecause my aunt Miranda may not like to have me.\"\n\n\"I see. Well, that\'s all right. I\'ll take three hundred cakes, and that\nwill give them shade and all.\"\n\nRebecca had been seated on a stool very near to the edge of the porch,\nand at this remark she made a sudden movement, tipped over, and\ndisappeared into a clump of lilac bushes. It was a very short distance,\nfortunately, and the amused capitalist picked her up, set her on her\nfeet, and brushed her off. \"You should never seem surprised when you\nhave taken a large order,\" said he; \"you ought to have replied \'Can\'t\nyou make it three hundred and fifty?\' instead of capsizing in that\nunbusinesslike way.\"\n\n\"Oh, I could never say anything like that!\" exclaimed Rebecca, who was\nblushing crimson at her awkward fall. \"But it doesn\'t seem right for\nyou to buy so much. Are you sure you can afford it?\"\n\n\"If I can\'t, I\'ll save on something else,\" returned the jocose\nphilanthropist.\n\n\"What if your aunt shouldn\'t like the kind of soap?\" queried Rebecca\nnervously.\n\n\"My aunt always likes what I like,\" he returned\n\n\"Mine doesn\'t!\" exclaimed Rebecca\n\n\"Then there\'s something wrong with your aunt!\"\n\n\"Or with me,\" laughed Rebecca.\n\n\"What is your name, young lady?\"\n\n\"Rebecca Rowena Randall, sir.\"\n\n\"What?\" with an amused smile. \"BOTH? Your mother was generous.\"\n\n\"She couldn\'t bear to give up either of the names she says.\"\n\n\"Do you want to hear my name?\"\n\n\"I think I know already,\" answered Rebecca, with a bright glance. \"I\'m\nsure you must be Mr. Aladdin in the Arabian Nights. Oh, please, can I\nrun down and tell Emma Jane? She must be so tired waiting, and she will\nbe so glad!\"\n\nAt the man\'s nod of assent Rebecca sped down the lane, crying\nirrepressibly as she neared the wagon, \"Oh, Emma Jane! Emma Jane! we\nare sold out!\"\n\nMr. Aladdin followed smilingly to corroborate this astonishing,\nunbelievable statement; lifted all their boxes from the back of the\nwagon, and taking the circular, promised to write to the Excelsior\nCompany that night concerning the premium.\n\n\"If you could contrive to keep a secret,--you two little girls,--it\nwould be rather a nice surprise to have the lamp arrive at the\nSimpsons\' on Thanksgiving Day, wouldn\'t it?\" he asked, as he tucked the\nold lap robe cosily over their feet.\n\nThey gladly assented, and broke into a chorus of excited thanks during\nwhich tears of joy stood in Rebecca\'s eyes.\n\n\"Oh, don\'t mention it!\" laughed Mr. Aladdin, lifting his hat. \"I was a\nsort of commercial traveler myself once,--years ago,--and I like to see\nthe thing well done. Good-by Miss Rebecca Rowena! Just let me know\nwhenever you have anything to sell, for I\'m certain beforehand I shall\nwant it.\"\n\n\"Good-by, Mr. Aladdin! I surely will!\" cried Rebecca, tossing back her\ndark braids delightedly and waving her hand.\n\n\"Oh, Rebecca!\" said Emma Jane in an awe-struck whisper. \"He raised his\nhat to us, and we not thirteen! It\'ll be five years before we\'re\nladies.\"\n\n\"Never mind,\" answered Rebecca; \"we are the BEGINNINGS of ladies, even\nnow.\"\n\n\"He tucked the lap robe round us, too,\" continued Emma Jane, in an\necstasy of reminiscence. \"Oh! isn\'t he perfectly elergant? And wasn\'t\nit lovely of him to buy us out? And just think of having both the lamp\nand the shade for one day\'s work! Aren\'t you glad you wore your pink\ngingham now, even if mother did make you put on flannel underneath? You\ndo look so pretty in pink and red, Rebecca, and so homely in drab and\nbrown!\"\n\n\"I know it,\" sighed Rebecca \"I wish I was like you--pretty in all\ncolors!\" And Rebecca looked longingly at Emma Jane\'s fat, rosy cheeks;\nat her blue eyes, which said nothing; at her neat nose, which had no\ncharacter; at her red lips, from between which no word worth listening\nto had ever issued.\n\n\"Never mind!\" said Emma Jane comfortingly. \"Everybody says you\'re awful\nbright and smart, and mother thinks you\'ll be better looking all the\ntime as you grow older. You wouldn\'t believe it, but I was a dreadful\nhomely baby, and homely right along till just a year or two ago, when\nmy red hair began to grow dark. What was the nice man\'s name?\"\n\n\"I never thought to ask!\" ejaculated Rebecca. \"Aunt Miranda would say\nthat was just like me, and it is. But I called him Mr. Aladdin because\nhe gave us a lamp. You know the story of Aladdin and the wonderful\nlamp?\"\n\n\"Oh, Rebecca! how could you call him a nickname the very first time you\never saw him?\"\n\n\"Aladdin isn\'t a nickname exactly; anyway, he laughed and seemed to\nlike it.\"\n\nBy dint of superhuman effort, and putting such a seal upon their lips\nas never mortals put before, the two girls succeeded in keeping their\nwonderful news to themselves; although it was obvious to all beholders\nthat they were in an extraordinary and abnormal state of mind.\n\nOn Thanksgiving the lamp arrived in a large packing box, and was taken\nout and set up by Seesaw Simpson, who suddenly began to admire and\nrespect the business ability of his sisters. Rebecca had heard the news\nof its arrival, but waited until nearly dark before asking permission\nto go to the Simpsons\', so that she might see the gorgeous trophy\nlighted and sending a blaze of crimson glory through its red crepe\npaper shade.\n\n\n\nXV\n\nTHE BANQUET LAMP\n\nThere had been company at the brick house to the bountiful Thanksgiving\ndinner which had been provided at one o\'clock,--the Burnham sisters,\nwho lived between North Riverboro and Shaker Village, and who for more\nthan a quarter of a century had come to pass the holiday with the\nSawyers every year. Rebecca sat silent with a book after the dinner\ndishes were washed, and when it was nearly five asked if she might go\nto the Simpsons\'.\n\n\"What do you want to run after those Simpson children for on a\nThanksgiving Day?\" queried Miss Miranda. \"Can\'t you set still for once\nand listen to the improvin\' conversation of your elders? You never can\nlet well enough alone, but want to be forever on the move.\"\n\n\"The Simpsons have a new lamp, and Emma Jane and I promised to go up\nand see it lighted, and make it a kind of a party.\"\n\n\"What under the canopy did they want of a lamp, and where did they get\nthe money to pay for it? If Abner was at home, I should think he\'d been\nswappin\' again,\" said Miss Miranda.\n\n\"The children got it as a prize for selling soap,\" replied Rebecca;\n\"they\'ve been working for a year, and you know I told you that Emma\nJane and I helped them the Saturday afternoon you were in Portland.\"\n\n\"I didn\'t take notice, I s\'pose, for it\'s the first time I ever heard\nthe lamp mentioned. Well, you can go for an hour, and no more. Remember\nit\'s as dark at six as it is at midnight Would you like to take along\nsome Baldwin apples? What have you got in the pocket of that new dress\nthat makes it sag down so?\"\n\n\"It\'s my nuts and raisins from dinner,\" replied Rebecca, who never\nsucceeded in keeping the most innocent action a secret from her aunt\nMiranda; \"they\'re just what you gave me on my plate.\"\n\n\"Why didn\'t you eat them?\"\n\n\"Because I\'d had enough dinner, and I thought if I saved these, it\nwould make the Simpsons\' party better,\" stammered Rebecca, who hated to\nbe scolded and examined before company.\n\n\"They were your own, Rebecca,\" interposed aunt Jane, \"and if you chose\nto save them to give away, it is all right. We ought never to let this\nday pass without giving our neighbors something to be thankful for,\ninstead of taking all the time to think of our own mercies.\"\n\nThe Burnham sisters nodded approvingly as Rebecca went out, and\nremarked that they had never seen a child grow and improve so fast in\nso short a time.\n\n\"There\'s plenty of room left for more improvement, as you\'d know if she\nlived in the same house with you,\" answered Miranda. \"She\'s into every\nnamable thing in the neighborhood, an\' not only into it, but generally\nat the head an\' front of it, especially when it\'s mischief. Of all the\nfoolishness I ever heard of, that lamp beats everything; it\'s just like\nthose Simpsons, but I didn\'t suppose the children had brains enough to\nsell anything.\"\n\n\"One of them must have,\" said Miss Ellen Burnham, \"for the girl that\nwas selling soap at the Ladds\' in North Riverboro was described by Adam\nLadd as the most remarkable and winning child he ever saw.\"\n\n\"It must have been Clara Belle, and I should never call her\nremarkable,\" answered Miss Miranda. \"Has Adam been home again?\"\n\n\"Yes, he\'s been staying a few days with his aunt. There\'s no limit to\nthe money he\'s making, they say; and he always brings presents for all\nthe neighbors. This time it was a full set of furs for Mrs. Ladd; and\nto think we can remember the time he was a barefoot boy without two\nshirts to his back! It is strange he hasn\'t married, with all his\nmoney, and him so fond of children that he always has a pack of them at\nhis heels.\"\n\n\"There\'s hope for him still, though,\" said Miss Jane smilingly; \"for I\ndon\'t s\'pose he\'s more than thirty.\"\n\n\"He could get a wife in Riverboro if he was a hundred and thirty,\"\nremarked Miss Miranda.\n\n\"Adam\'s aunt says he was so taken with the little girl that sold the\nsoap (Clara Belle, did you say her name was?), that he declared he was\ngoing to bring her a Christmas present,\" continued Miss Ellen.\n\n\"Well, there\'s no accountin\' for tastes,\" exclaimed Miss Miranda.\n\"Clara Belle\'s got cross-eyes and red hair, but I\'d be the last one to\ngrudge her a Christmas present; the more Adam Ladd gives to her the\nless the town\'ll have to.\"\n\n\"Isn\'t there another Simpson girl?\" asked Miss Lydia Burnham; \"for this\none couldn\'t have been cross-eyed; I remember Mrs. Ladd saying Adam\nremarked about this child\'s handsome eyes. He said it was her eyes that\nmade him buy the three hundred cakes. Mrs. Ladd has it stacked up in\nthe shed chamber.\"\n\n\"Three hundred cakes!\" ejaculated Miranda. \"Well, there\'s one crop that\nnever fails in Riverboro!\"\n\n\"What\'s that?\" asked Miss Lydia politely.\n\n\"The fool crop,\" responded Miranda tersely, and changed the subject,\nmuch to Jane\'s gratitude, for she had been nervous and ill at ease for\nthe last fifteen minutes. What child in Riverboro could be described as\nremarkable and winning, save Rebecca? What child had wonderful eyes,\nexcept the same Rebecca? and finally, was there ever a child in the\nworld who could make a man buy soap by the hundred cakes, save Rebecca?\n\nMeantime the \"remarkable\" child had flown up the road in the deepening\ndusk, but she had not gone far before she heard the sound of hurrying\nfootsteps, and saw a well-known figure coming in her direction. In a\nmoment she and Emma Jane met and exchanged a breathless embrace.\n\n\"Something awful has happened,\" panted Emma Jane.\n\n\"Don\'t tell me it\'s broken,\" exclaimed Rebecca.\n\n\"No! oh, no! not that! It was packed in straw, and every piece came out\nall right; and I was there, and I never said a single thing about your\nselling the three hundred cakes that got the lamp, so that we could be\ntogether when you told.\"\n\n\"OUR selling the three hundred cakes,\" corrected Rebecca; \"you did as\nmuch as I.\"\n\n\"No, I didn\'t, Rebecca Randall. I just sat at the gate and held the\nhorse.\"\n\n\"Yes, but WHOSE horse was it that took us to North Riverboro? And\nbesides, it just happened to be my turn. If you had gone in and found\nMr. Aladdin you would have had the wonderful lamp given to you; but\nwhat\'s the trouble?\"\n\n\"The Simpsons have no kerosene and no wicks. I guess they thought a\nbanquet lamp was something that lighted itself, and burned without any\nhelp. Seesaw has gone to the doctor\'s to try if he can borrow a wick,\nand mother let me have a pint of oil, but she says she won\'t give me\nany more. We never thought of the expense of keeping up the lamp,\nRebecca.\"\n\n\"No, we didn\'t, but let\'s not worry about that till after the party. I\nhave a handful of nuts and raisins and some apples.\"\n\n\"I have peppermints and maple sugar,\" said Emma Jane. \"They had a real\nThanksgiving dinner; the doctor gave them sweet potatoes and\ncranberries and turnips; father sent a spare-rib, and Mrs. Cobb a\nchicken and a jar of mince-meat.\"\n\nAt half past five one might have looked in at the Simpsons\' windows,\nand seen the party at its height. Mrs. Simpson had let the kitchen fire\ndie out, and had brought the baby to grace the festal scene. The lamp\nseemed to be having the party, and receiving the guests. The children\nhad taken the one small table in the house, and it was placed in the\nfar corner of the room to serve as a pedestal. On it stood the sacred,\nthe adored, the long-desired object; almost as beautiful, and nearly\nhalf as large as the advertisement. The brass glistened like gold, and\nthe crimson paper shade glowed like a giant ruby. In the wide splash of\nlight that it flung upon the floor sat the Simpsons, in reverent and\nsolemn silence, Emma Jane standing behind them, hand in hand with\nRebecca. There seemed to be no desire for conversation; the occasion\nwas too thrilling and serious for that. The lamp, it was tacitly felt\nby everybody, was dignifying the party, and providing sufficient\nentertainment simply by its presence; being fully as satisfactory in\nits way as a pianola or a string band.\n\n\"I wish father could see it,\" said Clara Belle loyally.\n\n\"If he onth thaw it he\'d want to thwap it,\" murmured Susan sagaciously.\n\nAt the appointed hour Rebecca dragged herself reluctantly away from the\nenchanting scene.\n\n\"I\'ll turn the lamp out the minute I think you and Emma Jane are home,\"\nsaid Clara Belle. \"And, oh! I\'m so glad you both live where you can see\nit shine from our windows. I wonder how long it will burn without bein\'\nfilled if I only keep it lit one hour every night?\"\n\n\"You needn\'t put it out for want o\' karosene,\" said Seesaw, coming in\nfrom the shed, \"for there\'s a great kag of it settin\' out there. Mr.\nTubbs brought it over from North Riverboro and said somebody sent an\norder by mail for it.\"\n\nRebecca squeezed Emma Jane\'s arm, and Emma Jane gave a rapturous return\nsqueeze. \"It was Mr. Aladdin,\" whispered Rebecca, as they ran down the\npath to the gate. Seesaw followed them and handsomely offered to see\nthem \"apiece\" down the road, but Rebecca declined his escort with such\ndecision that he did not press the matter, but went to bed to dream of\nher instead. In his dreams flashes of lightning proceeded from both her\neyes, and she held a flaming sword in either hand.\n\nRebecca entered the home dining-room joyously. The Burnham sisters had\ngone and the two aunts were knitting.\n\n\"It was a heavenly party,\" she cried, taking off her hat and cape.\n\n\"Go back and see if you have shut the door tight, and then lock it,\"\nsaid Miss Miranda, in her usual austere manner.\n\n\"It was a heavenly party,\" reiterated Rebecca, coming in again, much\ntoo excited to be easily crushed, \"and oh! aunt Jane, aunt Miranda, if\nyou\'ll only come into the kitchen and look out of the sink window, you\ncan see the banquet lamp shining all red, just as if the Simpsons\'\nhouse was on fire.\"\n\n\"And probably it will be before long,\" observed Miranda. \"I\'ve got no\npatience with such foolish goin\'s-on.\"\n\nJane accompanied Rebecca into the kitchen. Although the feeble glimmer\nwhich she was able to see from that distance did not seem to her a\ndazzling exhibition, she tried to be as enthusiastic as possible.\n\n\"Rebecca, who was it that sold the three hundred cakes of soap to Mr.\nLadd in North Riverboro?\"\n\n\"Mr. WHO?\" exclaimed Rebecca.\n\n\"Mr. Ladd, in North Riverboro.\"\n\n\"Is that his real name?\" queried Rebecca in astonishment. \"I didn\'t\nmake a bad guess;\" and she laughed softly to herself.\n\n\"I asked you who sold the soap to Adam Ladd?\" resumed Miss Jane.\n\n\"Adam Ladd! then he\'s A. Ladd, too; what fun!\"\n\n\"Answer me, Rebecca.\"\n\n\"Oh! excuse me, aunt Jane, I was so busy thinking. Emma Jane and I sold\nthe soap to Mr. Ladd.\"\n\n\"Did you tease him, or make him buy it?\"\n\n\"Now, aunt Jane, how could I make a big grown-up man buy anything if he\ndidn\'t want to? He needed the soap dreadfully as a present for his\naunt.\"\n\nMiss Jane still looked a little unconvinced, though she only said, \"I\nhope your aunt Miranda won\'t mind, but you know how particular she is,\nRebecca, and I really wish you wouldn\'t do anything out of the ordinary\nwithout asking her first, for your actions are very queer.\"\n\n\"There can\'t be anything wrong this time,\" Rebecca answered\nconfidently. \"Emma Jane sold her cakes to her own relations and to\nuncle Jerry Cobb, and I went first to those new tenements near the\nlumber mill, and then to the Ladds\'. Mr. Ladd bought all we had and\nmade us promise to keep the secret until the premium came, and I\'ve\nbeen going about ever since as if the banquet lamp was inside of me all\nlighted up and burning, for everybody to see.\"\n\nRebecca\'s hair was loosened and falling over her forehead in ruffled\nwaves; her eyes were brilliant, her cheeks crimson; there was a hint of\neverything in the girl\'s face,--of sensitiveness and delicacy as well\nas of ardor; there was the sweetness of the mayflower and the strength\nof the young oak, but one could easily divine that she was one of\n\n \"The souls by nature pitched too high,\n By suffering plunged too low.\"\n\n\n\"That\'s just the way you look, for all the world as if you did have a\nlamp burning inside of you,\" sighed aunt Jane. \"Rebecca! Rebecca! I\nwish you could take things easier, child; I am fearful for you\nsometimes.\"\n\n\n\nXVI\n\nSEASONS OF GROWTH\n\nThe days flew by; as summer had melted into autumn so autumn had given\nplace to winter. Life in the brick house had gone on more placidly of\nlate, for Rebecca was honestly trying to be more careful in the\nperformance of her tasks and duties as well as more quiet in her plays,\nand she was slowly learning the power of the soft answer in turning\naway wrath.\n\nMiranda had not had, perhaps, quite as many opportunities in which to\nlose her temper, but it is only just to say that she had not fully\navailed herself of all that had offered themselves.\n\nThere had been one outburst of righteous wrath occasioned by Rebecca\'s\nover-hospitable habits, which were later shown in a still more dramatic\nand unexpected fashion.\n\nOn a certain Friday afternoon she asked her aunt Miranda if she might\ntake half her bread and milk upstairs to a friend.\n\n\"What friend have you got up there, for pity\'s sake?\" demanded aunt\nMiranda.\n\n\"The Simpson baby, come to stay over Sunday; that is, if you\'re\nwilling, Mrs. Simpson says she is. Shall I bring her down and show her?\nShe\'s dressed in an old dress of Emma Jane\'s and she looks sweet.\"\n\n\"You can bring her down, but you can\'t show her to me! You can smuggle\nher out the way you smuggled her in and take her back to her mother.\nWhere on earth do you get your notions, borrowing a baby for Sunday!\"\n\n\"You\'re so used to a house without a baby you don\'t know how dull it\nis,\" sighed Rebecca resignedly, as she moved towards the door; \"but at\nthe farm there was always a nice fresh one to play with and cuddle.\nThere were too many, but that\'s not half as bad as none at all. Well,\nI\'ll take her back. She\'ll be dreadfully disappointed and so will Mrs.\nSimpson. She was planning to go to Milltown.\"\n\n\"She can un-plan then,\" observed Miss Miranda.\n\n\"Perhaps I can go up there and take care of the baby?\" suggested\nRebecca. \"I brought her home so \'t I could do my Saturday work just the\nsame.\"\n\n\"You\'ve got enough to do right here, without any borrowed babies to\nmake more steps. Now, no answering back, just give the child some\nsupper and carry it home where it belongs.\"\n\n\"You don\'t want me to go down the front way, hadn\'t I better just come\nthrough this room and let you look at her? She has yellow hair and big\nblue eyes! Mrs. Simpson says she takes after her father.\"\n\nMiss Miranda smiled acidly as she said she couldn\'t take after her\nfather, for he\'d take any thing there was before she got there!\n\nAunt Jane was in the linen closet upstairs, sorting out the clean\nsheets and pillow cases for Saturday, and Rebecca sought comfort from\nher.\n\n\"I brought the Simpson baby home, aunt Jane, thinking it would help us\nover a dull Sunday, but aunt Miranda won\'t let her stay. Emma Jane has\nthe promise of her next Sunday and Alice Robinson the next. Mrs.\nSimpson wanted I should have her first because I\'ve had so much\nexperience in babies. Come in and look at her sitting up in my bed,\naunt Jane! Isn\'t she lovely? She\'s the fat, gurgly kind, not thin and\nfussy like some babies, and I thought I was going to have her to\nundress and dress twice each day. Oh dear! I wish I could have a\nprinted book with everything set down in it that I COULD do, and then I\nwouldn\'t get disappointed so often.\"\n\n\"No book could be printed that would fit you, Rebecca,\" answered aunt\nJane, \"for nobody could imagine beforehand the things you\'d want to do.\nAre you going to carry that heavy child home in your arms?\"\n\n\"No, I\'m going to drag her in the little soap-wagon. Come, baby! Take\nyour thumb out of your mouth and come to ride with Becky in your\ngo-cart.\" She stretched out her strong young arms to the crowing baby,\nsat down in a chair with the child, turned her upside down\nunceremoniously, took from her waistband and scornfully flung away a\ncrooked pin, walked with her (still in a highly reversed position) to\nthe bureau, selected a large safety pin, and proceeded to attach her\nbrief red flannel petticoat to a sort of shirt that she wore. Whether\nflat on her stomach, or head down, heels in the air, the Simpson baby\nknew she was in the hands of an expert, and continued gurgling placidly\nwhile aunt Jane regarded the pantomime with a kind of dazed awe.\n\n\"Bless my soul, Rebecca,\" she ejaculated, \"it beats all how handy you\nare with babies!\"\n\n\"I ought to be; I\'ve brought up three and a half of \'em,\" Rebecca\nresponded cheerfully, pulling up the infant Simpson\'s stockings.\n\n\"I should think you\'d be fonder of dolls than you are,\" said Jane.\n\n\"I do like them, but there\'s never any change in a doll; it\'s always\nthe same everlasting old doll, and you have to make believe it\'s cross\nor sick, or it loves you, or can\'t bear you. Babies are more trouble,\nbut nicer.\"\n\nMiss Jane stretched out a thin hand with a slender, worn band of gold\non the finger, and the baby curled her dimpled fingers round it and\nheld it fast.\n\n\"You wear a ring on your engagement finger, don\'t you, aunt Jane? Did\nyou ever think about getting married?\"\n\n\"Yes, dear, long ago.\"\n\n\"What happened, aunt Jane?\"\n\n\"He died--just before.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" And Rebecca\'s eyes grew misty.\n\n\"He was a soldier and he died of a gunshot wound, in a hospital, down\nSouth.\"\n\n\"Oh! aunt Jane!\" softly. \"Away from you?\"\n\n\"No, I was with him.\"\n\n\"Was he young?\"\n\n\"Yes; young and brave and handsome, Rebecca; he was Mr. Carter\'s\nbrother Tom.\"\n\n\"Oh! I\'m so glad you were with him! Wasn\'t he glad, aunt Jane?\"\n\nJane looked back across the half-forgotten years, and the vision of\nTom\'s gladness flashed upon her: his haggard smile, the tears in his\ntired eyes, his outstretched arms, his weak voice saying, \"Oh, Jenny!\nDear Jenny! I\'ve wanted you so, Jenny!\" It was too much! She had never\nbreathed a word of it before to a human creature, for there was no one\nwho would have understood. Now, in a shamefaced way, to hide her\nbrimming eyes, she put her head down on the young shoulder beside her,\nsaying, \"It was hard, Rebecca!\"\n\nThe Simpson baby had cuddled down sleepily in Rebecca\'s lap, leaning\nher head back and sucking her thumb contentedly. Rebecca put her cheek\ndown until it touched her aunt\'s gray hair and softly patted her, as\nshe said, \"I\'m sorry, aunt Jane!\"\n\nThe girl\'s eyes were soft and tender and the heart within her stretched\na little and grew; grew in sweetness and intuition and depth of\nfeeling. It had looked into another heart, felt it beat, and heard it\nsigh; and that is how all hearts grow.\n\nEpisodes like these enlivened the quiet course of every-day existence,\nmade more quiet by the departure of Dick Carter, Living Perkins, and\nHuldah Meserve for Wareham, and the small attendance at the winter\nschool, from which the younger children of the place stayed away during\nthe cold weather.\n\nLife, however, could never be thoroughly dull or lacking in adventure\nto a child of Rebecca\'s temperament. Her nature was full of\nadaptability, fluidity, receptivity. She made friends everywhere she\nwent, and snatched up acquaintances in every corner.\n\nIt was she who ran to the shed door to take the dish to the \"meat man\"\nor \"fish man;\" she who knew the family histories of the itinerant fruit\nvenders and tin peddlers; she who was asked to take supper or pass the\nnight with children in neighboring villages--children of whose parents\nher aunts had never so much as heard. As to the nature of these\nfriendships, which seemed so many to the eye of the superficial\nobserver, they were of various kinds, and while the girl pursued them\nwith enthusiasm and ardor, they left her unsatisfied and heart-hungry;\nthey were never intimacies such as are so readily made by shallow\nnatures. She loved Emma Jane, but it was a friendship born of\npropinquity and circumstance, not of true affinity. It was her\nneighbor\'s amiability, constancy, and devotion that she loved, and\nalthough she rated these qualities at their true value, she was always\nsearching beyond them for intellectual treasures; searching and never\nfinding, for although Emma Jane had the advantage in years she was\nstill immature. Huldah Meserve had an instinctive love of fun which\nappealed to Rebecca; she also had a fascinating knowledge of the world,\nfrom having visited her married sisters in Milltown and Portland; but\non the other hand there was a certain sharpness and lack of sympathy in\nHuldah which repelled rather than attracted. With Dick Carter she could\nat least talk intelligently about lessons. He was a very ambitious boy,\nfull of plans for his future, which he discussed quite freely with\nRebecca, but when she broached the subject of her future his interest\nsensibly lessened. Into the world of the ideal Emma Jane, Huldah, and\nDick alike never seemed to have peeped, and the consciousness of this\nwas always a fixed gulf between them and Rebecca.\n\n\"Uncle Jerry\" and \"aunt Sarah\" Cobb were dear friends of quite another\nsort, a very satisfying and perhaps a somewhat dangerous one. A visit\nfrom Rebecca always sent them into a twitter of delight. Her merry\nconversation and quaint comments on life in general fairly dazzled the\nold couple, who hung on her lightest word as if it had been a prophet\'s\nutterance; and Rebecca, though she had had no previous experience,\nowned to herself a perilous pleasure in being dazzling, even to a\ncouple of dear humdrum old people like Mr. and Mrs. Cobb. Aunt Sarah\nflew to the pantry or cellar whenever Rebecca\'s slim little shape first\nappeared on the crest of the hill, and a jelly tart or a frosted cake\nwas sure to be forthcoming. The sight of old uncle Jerry\'s spare figure\nin its clean white shirt sleeves, whatever the weather, always made\nRebecca\'s heart warm when she saw him peer longingly from the kitchen\nwindow. Before the snow came, many was the time he had come out to sit\non a pile of boards at the gate, to see if by any chance she was\nmounting the hill that led to their house. In the autumn Rebecca was\noften the old man\'s companion while he was digging potatoes or shelling\nbeans, and now in the winter, when a younger man was driving the stage,\nshe sometimes stayed with him while he did his evening milking. It is\nsafe to say that he was the only creature in Riverboro who possessed\nRebecca\'s entire confidence; the only being to whom she poured out her\nwhole heart, with its wealth of hopes, and dreams, and vague ambitions.\nAt the brick house she practiced scales and exercises, but at the\nCobbs\' cabinet organ she sang like a bird, improvising simple\naccompaniments that seemed to her ignorant auditors nothing short of\nmarvelous. Here she was happy, here she was loved, here she was drawn\nout of herself and admired and made much of. But, she thought, if there\nwere somebody who not only loved but understood; who spoke her\nlanguage, comprehended her desires, and responded to her mysterious\nlongings! Perhaps in the big world of Wareham there would be people who\nthought and dreamed and wondered as she did.\n\nIn reality Jane did not understand her niece very much better than\nMiranda; the difference between the sisters was, that while Jane was\npuzzled, she was also attracted, and when she was quite in the dark for\nan explanation of some quaint or unusual action she was sympathetic as\nto its possible motive and believed the best. A greater change had come\nover Jane than over any other person in the brick house, but it had\nbeen wrought so secretly, and concealed so religiously, that it\nscarcely appeared to the ordinary observer. Life had now a motive\nutterly lacking before. Breakfast was not eaten in the kitchen, because\nit seemed worth while, now that there were three persons, to lay the\ncloth in the dining-room; it was also a more bountiful meal than of\nyore, when there was no child to consider. The morning was made\ncheerful by Rebecca\'s start for school, the packing of the luncheon\nbasket, the final word about umbrella, waterproof, or rubbers; the\nparting admonition and the unconscious waiting at the window for the\nlast wave of the hand. She found herself taking pride in Rebecca\'s\nimproved appearance, her rounder throat and cheeks, and her better\ncolor; she was wont to mention the length of Rebecca\'s hair and add a\nword as to its remarkable evenness and lustre, at times when Mrs.\nPerkins grew too diffuse about Emma Jane\'s complexion. She threw\nherself wholeheartedly on her niece\'s side when it became a question\nbetween a crimson or a brown linsey-woolsey dress, and went through a\nmemorable struggle with her sister concerning the purchase of a red\nbird for Rebecca\'s black felt hat. No one guessed the quiet pleasure\nthat lay hidden in her heart when she watched the girl\'s dark head bent\nover her lessons at night, nor dreamed of her joy it, certain quiet\nevenings when Miranda went to prayer meeting; evenings when Rebecca\nwould read aloud Hiawatha or Barbara Frietchie, The Bugle Song, or The\nBrook. Her narrow, humdrum existence bloomed under the dews that fell\nfrom this fresh spirit; her dullness brightened under the kindling\ntouch of the younger mind, took fire from the \"vital spark of heavenly\nflame\" that seemed always to radiate from Rebecca\'s presence.\n\nRebecca\'s idea of being a painter like her friend Miss Ross was\ngradually receding, owing to the apparently insuperable difficulties in\nsecuring any instruction. Her aunt Miranda saw no wisdom in cultivating\nsuch a talent, and could not conceive that any money could ever be\nearned by its exercise, \"Hand painted pictures\" were held in little\nesteem in Riverboro, where the cheerful chromo or the dignified steel\nengraving were respected and valued. There was a slight, a very slight\nhope, that Rebecca might be allowed a few music lessons from Miss\nMorton, who played the church cabinet organ, but this depended entirely\nupon whether Mrs. Morton would decide to accept a hayrack in return for\na year\'s instruction from her daughter. She had the matter under\nadvisement, but a doubt as to whether or not she would sell or rent her\nhayfields kept her from coming to a conclusion. Music, in common with\nall other accomplishments, was viewed by Miss Miranda as a trivial,\nuseless, and foolish amusement, but she allowed Rebecca an hour a day\nfor practice on the old piano, and a little extra time for lessons, if\nJane could secure them without payment of actual cash.\n\nThe news from Sunnybrook Farm was hopeful rather than otherwise. Cousin\nAnn\'s husband had died, and John, Rebecca\'s favorite brother, had gone\nto be the man of the house to the widowed cousin. He was to have good\nschooling in return for his care of the horse and cow and barn, and\nwhat was still more dazzling, the use of the old doctor\'s medical\nlibrary of two or three dozen volumes. John\'s whole heart was set on\nbecoming a country doctor, with Rebecca to keep house for him, and the\nvision seemed now so true, so near, that he could almost imagine his\nhorse ploughing through snowdrifts on errands of mercy, or, less\ndramatic but none the less attractive, could see a physician\'s neat\nturncut trundling along the shady country roads, a medicine case\nbetween his, Dr. Randall\'s, feet, and Miss Rebecca Randall sitting in a\nblack silk dress by his side.\n\nHannah now wore her hair in a coil and her dresses a trifle below her\nankles, these concessions being due to her extreme height. Mark had\nbroken his collar bone, but it was healing well. Little Mira was\ngrowing very pretty. There was even a rumor that the projected railroad\nfrom Temperance to Plumville might go near the Randall farm, in which\ncase land would rise in value from nothing-at-all an acre to something\nat least resembling a price. Mrs. Randall refused to consider any\nimprovement in their financial condition as a possibility. Content to\nwork from sunrise to sunset to gain a mere subsistence for her\nchildren, she lived in their future, not in her own present, as a\nmother is wont to do when her own lot seems hard and cheerless.\n\n\n\nXVII\n\nGRAY DAYS AND GOLD\n\nWhen Rebecca looked back upon the year or two that followed the\nSimpsons\' Thanksgiving party, she could see only certain milestones\nrising in the quiet pathway of the months.\n\nThe first milestone was Christmas Day. It was a fresh, crystal morning,\nwith icicles hanging like dazzling pendants from the trees and a glaze\nof pale blue on the surface of the snow. The Simpsons\' red barn stood\nout, a glowing mass of color in the white landscape. Rebecca had been\nbusy for weeks before, trying to make a present for each of the seven\npersons at Sunnybrook Farm, a somewhat difficult proceeding on an\nexpenditure of fifty cents, hoarded by incredible exertion. Success had\nbeen achieved, however, and the precious packet had been sent by post\ntwo days previous. Miss Sawyer had bought her niece a nice gray\nsquirrel muff and tippet, which was even more unbecoming if possible,\nthan Rebecca\'s other articles of wearing apparel; but aunt Jane had\nmade her the loveliest dress of green cashmere, a soft, soft green like\nthat of a young leaf. It was very simply made, but the color delighted\nthe eye. Then there was a beautiful \"tatting\" collar from her mother,\nsome scarlet mittens from Mrs. Cobb, and a handkerchief from Emma Jane.\n\nRebecca herself had fashioned an elaborate tea-cosy with a letter \"M\"\nin outline stitch, and a pretty frilled pincushion marked with a \"J,\"\nfor her two aunts, so that taken all together the day would have been\nan unequivocal success had nothing else happened; but something else\ndid.\n\nThere was a knock at the door at breakfast time, and Rebecca, answering\nit, was asked by a boy if Miss Rebecca Randall lived there. On being\ntold that she did, he handed her a parcel bearing her name, a parcel\nwhich she took like one in a dream and bore into the dining-room.\n\n\"It\'s a present; it must be,\" she said, looking at it in a dazed sort\nof way; \"but I can\'t think who it could be from.\"\n\n\"A good way to find out would be to open it,\" remarked Miss Miranda.\n\nThe parcel being untied proved to have two smaller packages within, and\nRebecca opened with trembling fingers the one addressed to her.\nAnybody\'s fingers would have trembled. There was a case which, when the\ncover was lifted, disclosed a long chain of delicate pink coral\nbeads,--a chain ending in a cross made of coral rosebuds. A card with\n\"Merry Christmas from Mr. Aladdin\" lay under the cross.\n\n\"Of all things!\" exclaimed the two old ladies, rising in their seats.\n\"Who sent it?\"\n\n\"Mr. Ladd,\" said Rebecca under her breath.\n\n\"Adam Ladd! Well I never! Don\'t you remember Ellen Burnham said he was\ngoing to send Rebecca a Christmas present? But I never supposed he\'d\nthink of it again,\" said Jane. \"What\'s the other package?\"\n\nIt proved to be a silver chain with a blue enamel locket on it, marked\nfor Emma Jane. That added the last touch--to have him remember them\nboth! There was a letter also, which ran:--\n\n Dear Miss Rebecca Rowena,--My idea of a Christmas present is\n something entirely unnecessary and useless. I have always\n noticed when I give this sort of thing that people love it,\n so I hope I have not chosen wrong for you and your friend.\n You must wear your chain this afternoon, please, and let me\n see it on your neck, for I am coming over in my new sleigh to\n take you both to drive. My aunt is delighted with the soap.\n\n Sincerely your friend,\n\n Adam Ladd.\n\n\"Well, well!\" cried Miss Jane, \"isn\'t that kind of him? He\'s very fond\nof children, Lyddy Burnham says. Now eat your breakfast, Rebecca, and\nafter we\'ve done the dishes you can run over to Emma\'s and give her her\nchain--What\'s the matter, child?\"\n\nRebecca\'s emotions seemed always to be stored, as it were, in adjoining\ncompartments, and to be continually getting mixed. At this moment,\nthough her joy was too deep for words, her bread and butter almost\nchoked her, and at intervals a tear stole furtively down her cheek.\n\nMr. Ladd called as he promised, and made the acquaintance of the aunts,\nunderstanding them both in five minutes as well as if he had known them\nfor years. On a footstool near the open fire sat Rebecca, silent and\nshy, so conscious of her fine apparel and the presence of aunt Miranda\nthat she could not utter a word. It was one of her \"beauty days.\"\nHappiness, excitement, the color of the green dress, and the touch of\nlovely pink in the coral necklace had transformed the little brown wren\nfor the time into a bird of plumage, and Adam Ladd watched her with\nevident satisfaction. Then there was the sleigh ride, during which she\nfound her tongue and chattered like any magpie, and so ended that\nglorious Christmas Day; and many and many a night thereafter did\nRebecca go to sleep with the precious coral chain under her pillow, one\nhand always upon it to be certain that it was safe.\n\nAnother milestone was the departure of the Simpsons from Riverboro, bag\nand baggage, the banquet lamp being their most conspicuous possession.\nIt was delightful to be rid of Seesaw\'s hateful presence; but otherwise\nthe loss of several playmates at one fell swoop made rather a gap in\nRiverboro\'s \"younger set,\" and Rebecca was obliged to make friends with\nthe Robinson baby, he being the only long-clothes child in the village\nthat winter. The faithful Seesaw had called at the side door of the\nbrick house on the evening before his departure, and when Rebecca\nanswered his knock, stammered solemnly, \"Can I k-keep comp\'ny with you\nwhen you g-g-row up?\" \"Certainly NOT,\" replied Rebecca, closing the\ndoor somewhat too speedily upon her precocious swain.\n\nMr. Simpson had come home in time to move his wife and children back to\nthe town that had given them birth, a town by no means waiting with\nopen arms to receive them. The Simpsons\' moving was presided over by\nthe village authorities and somewhat anxiously watched by the entire\nneighborhood, but in spite of all precautions a pulpit chair, several\nkerosene lamps, and a small stove disappeared from the church and were\nsuccessfully swapped in the course of Mr. Simpson\'s driving tour from\nthe old home to the new. It gave Rebecca and Emma Jane some hours of\nsorrow to learn that a certain village in the wake of Abner Simpson\'s\nline of progress had acquired, through the medium of an ambitious young\nminister, a magnificent lamp for its new church parlors. No money\nchanged hands in the operation; for the minister succeeded in getting\nthe lamp in return for an old bicycle. The only pleasant feature of the\nwhole affair was that Mr. Simpson, wholly unable to console his\noffspring for the loss of the beloved object, mounted the bicycle and\nrode away on it, not to be seen or heard of again for many a long day.\n\nThe year was notable also as being the one in which Rebecca shot up\nlike a young tree. She had seemingly never grown an inch since she was\nten years old, but once started she attended to growing precisely as\nshe did other things,--with such energy, that Miss Jane did nothing for\nmonths but lengthen skirts, sleeves, and waists. In spite of all the\narts known to a thrifty New England woman, the limit of letting down\nand piecing down was reached at last, and the dresses were sent to\nSunnybrook Farm to be made over for Jenny.\n\nThere was another milestone, a sad one, marking a little grave under a\nwillow tree at Sunnybrook Farm. Mira, the baby of the Randall family,\ndied, and Rebecca went home for a fortnight\'s visit. The sight of the\nsmall still shape that had been Mira, the baby who had been her special\ncharge ever since her birth, woke into being a host of new thoughts and\nwonderments; for it is sometimes the mystery of death that brings one\nto a consciousness of the still greater mystery of life.\n\nIt was a sorrowful home-coming for Rebecca. The death of Mira, the\nabsence of John, who had been her special comrade, the sadness of her\nmother, the isolation of the little house, and the pinching economies\nthat went on within it, all conspired to depress a child who was so\nsensitive to beauty and harmony as Rebecca.\n\nHannah seemed to have grown into a woman during Rebecca\'s absence.\nThere had always been a strange unchildlike air about Hannah, but in\ncertain ways she now appeared older than aunt Jane--soberer, and more\nsettled. She was pretty, though in a colorless fashion; pretty and\ncapable.\n\nRebecca walked through all the old playgrounds and favorite haunts of\nher early childhood; all her familiar, her secret places; some of them\nknown to John, some to herself alone. There was the spot where the\nIndian pipes grew; the particular bit of marshy ground where the\nfringed gentians used to be largest and bluest; the rock maple where\nshe found the oriole\'s nest; the hedge where the field mice lived; the\nmoss-covered stump where the white toadstools were wont to spring up as\nif by magic; the hole at the root of the old pine where an ancient and\nhonorable toad made his home; these were the landmarks of her\nchildhood, and she looked at them as across an immeasurable distance.\nThe dear little sunny brook, her chief companion after John, was sorry\ncompany at this season. There was no laughing water sparkling in the\nsunshine. In summer the merry stream had danced over white pebbles on\nits way to deep pools where it could be still and think. Now, like\nMira, it was cold and quiet, wrapped in its shroud of snow; but Rebecca\nknelt by the brink, and putting her ear to the glaze of ice, fancied,\nwhere it used to be deepest, she could hear a faint, tinkling sound. It\nwas all right! Sunnybrook would sing again in the spring; perhaps Mira\ntoo would have her singing time somewhere--she wondered where and how.\nIn the course of these lonely rambles she was ever thinking, thinking,\nof one subject. Hannah had never had a chance; never been freed from\nthe daily care and work of the farm. She, Rebecca, had enjoyed all the\nprivileges thus far. Life at the brick house had not been by any means\na path of roses, but there had been comfort and the companionship of\nother children, as well as chances for study and reading. Riverboro had\nnot been the world itself, but it had been a glimpse of it through a\ntiny peephole that was infinitely better than nothing. Rebecca shed\nmore than one quiet tear before she could trust herself to offer up as\na sacrifice that which she so much desired for herself. Then one\nmorning as her visit neared its end she plunged into the subject boldly\nand said, \"Hannah, after this term I\'m going to stay at home and let\nyou go away. Aunt Miranda has always wanted you, and it\'s only fair you\nshould have your turn.\"\n\nHannah was darning stockings, and she threaded her needle and snipped\noff the yarn before she answered, \"No, thank you, Becky. Mother\ncouldn\'t do without me, and I hate going to school. I can read and\nwrite and cipher as well as anybody now, and that\'s enough for me. I\'d\ndie rather than teach school for a living. The winter\'ll go fast, for\nWill Melville is going to lend me his mother\'s sewing machine, and I\'m\ngoing to make white petticoats out of the piece of muslin aunt Jane\nsent, and have \'em just solid with tucks. Then there\'s going to be a\nsinging-school and a social circle in Temperance after New Year\'s, and\nI shall have a real good time now I\'m grown up. I\'m not one to be\nlonesome, Becky,\" Hannah ended with a blush; \"I love this place.\"\n\nRebecca saw that she was speaking the truth, but she did not understand\nthe blush till a year or two later.\n\n\n\nXVIII\n\nREBECCA REPRESENTS THE FAMILY\n\nThere was another milestone; it was more than that, it was an \"event;\"\nan event that made a deep impression in several quarters and left a\nwake of smaller events in its train. This was the coming to Riverboro\nof the Reverend Amos Burch and wife, returned missionaries from Syria.\n\nThe Aid Society had called its meeting for a certain Wednesday in March\nof the year in which Rebecca ended her Riverboro school days and began\nher studies at Wareham. It was a raw, blustering day, snow on the\nground and a look in the sky of more to follow. Both Miranda and Jane\nhad taken cold and decided that they could not leave the house in such\nweather, and this deflection from the path of duty worried Miranda,\nsince she was an officer of the society. After making the breakfast\ntable sufficiently uncomfortable and wishing plaintively that Jane\nwouldn\'t always insist on being sick at the same time she was, she\ndecided that Rebecca must go to the meeting in their stead. \"You\'ll be\nbetter than nobody, Rebecca,\" she said flatteringly; \"your aunt Jane\nshall write an excuse from afternoon school for you; you can wear your\nrubber boots and come home by the way of the meetin\' house. This Mr.\nBurch, if I remember right, used to know your grandfather Sawyer, and\nstayed here once when he was candidatin\'. He\'ll mebbe look for us\nthere, and you must just go and represent the family, an\' give him our\nrespects. Be careful how you behave. Bow your head in prayer; sing all\nthe hymns, but not too loud and bold; ask after Mis\' Strout\'s boy; tell\neverybody what awful colds we\'ve got; if you see a good chance, take\nyour pocket handkerchief and wipe the dust off the melodeon before the\nmeetin\' begins, and get twenty-five cents out of the sittin\' room\nmatch-box in case there should be a collection.\"\n\nRebecca willingly assented. Anything interested her, even a village\nmissionary meeting, and the idea of representing the family was rather\nintoxicating.\n\nThe service was held in the Sunday-school room, and although the Rev.\nMr. Burch was on the platform when Rebecca entered, there were only a\ndozen persons present. Feeling a little shy and considerably too young\nfor this assemblage, Rebecca sought the shelter of a friendly face, and\nseeing Mrs. Robinson in one of the side seats near the front, she\nwalked up the aisle and sat beside her.\n\n\"Both my aunts had bad colds,\" she said softly, \"and sent me to\nrepresent the family.\"\n\n\"That\'s Mrs. Burch on the platform with her husband,\" whispered Mrs.\nRobinson. \"She\'s awful tanned up, ain\'t she? If you\'re goin\' to save\nsouls seems like you hev\' to part with your complexion. Eudoxy Morton\nain\'t come yet; I hope to the land she will, or Mis\' Deacon Milliken\'ll\npitch the tunes where we can\'t reach \'em with a ladder; can\'t you\npitch, afore she gits her breath and clears her throat?\"\n\nMrs. Burch was a slim, frail little woman with dark hair, a broad low\nforehead, and patient mouth. She was dressed in a well-worn black silk,\nand looked so tired that Rebecca\'s heart went out to her.\n\n\"They\'re poor as Job\'s turkey,\" whispered Mrs. Robinson; \"but if you\ngive \'em anything they\'d turn right round and give it to the heathen.\nHis congregation up to Parsonsfield clubbed together and give him that\ngold watch he carries; I s\'pose he\'d \'a\' handed that over too, only\nheathens always tell time by the sun \'n\' don\'t need watches. Eudoxy\nain\'t comin\'; now for massy\'s sake, Rebecca, do git ahead of Mis\'\nDeacon Milliken and pitch real low.\"\n\nThe meeting began with prayer and then the Rev. Mr. Burch announced, to\nthe tune of Mendon:--\n\n \"Church of our God I arise and shine,\n Bright with the beams of truth divine:\n Then shall thy radiance stream afar,\n Wide as the heathen nations are.\n\n \"Gentiles and kings thy light shall view,\n And shall admire and love thee too;\n They come, like clouds across the sky,\n As doves that to their windows fly.\"\n\n\"Is there any one present who will assist us at the instrument?\" he\nasked unexpectedly.\n\nEverybody looked at everybody else, and nobody moved; then there came a\nvoice out of a far corner saying informally, \"Rebecca, why don\'t you?\"\nIt was Mrs. Cobb. Rebecca could have played Mendon in the dark, so she\nwent to the melodeon and did so without any ado, no member of her\nfamily being present to give her self-consciousness.\n\nThe talk that ensued was much the usual sort of thing. Mr. Burch made\nimpassioned appeals for the spreading of the gospel, and added his\nentreaties that all who were prevented from visiting in person the\npeoples who sat in darkness should contribute liberally to the support\nof others who could. But he did more than this. He was a pleasant,\nearnest speaker, and he interwove his discourse with stories of life in\na foreign land,--of the manners, the customs, the speech, the point of\nview; even giving glimpses of the daily round, the common task, of his\nown household, the work of his devoted helpmate and their little group\nof children, all born under Syrian skies.\n\nRebecca sat entranced, having been given the key of another world.\nRiverboro had faded; the Sunday-school room, with Mrs. Robinson\'s red\nplaid shawl, and Deacon Milliken\'s wig, on crooked, the bare benches\nand torn hymn-books, the hanging texts and maps, were no longer\nvisible, and she saw blue skies and burning stars, white turbans and\ngay colors; Mr. Burch had not said so, but perhaps there were mosques\nand temples and minarets and date-palms. What stories they must know,\nthose children born under Syrian skies! Then she was called upon to\nplay \"Jesus shall reign where\'er the sun.\"\n\nThe contribution box was passed and Mr. Burch prayed. As he opened his\neyes and gave out the last hymn he looked at the handful of people, at\nthe scattered pennies and dimes in the contribution box, and reflected\nthat his mission was not only to gather funds for the building of his\nchurch, but to keep alive, in all these remote and lonely\nneighborhoods, that love for the cause which was its only hope in the\nyears to come.\n\n\"If any of the sisters will provide entertainment,\" he said, \"Mrs.\nBurch and I will remain among you to-night and to-morrow. In that event\nwe could hold a parlor meeting. My wife and one of my children would\nwear the native costume, we would display some specimens of Syrian\nhandiwork, and give an account of our educational methods with the\nchildren. These informal parlor meetings, admitting of questions or\nconversation, are often the means of interesting those not commonly\nfound at church services so I repeat, if any member of the congregation\ndesires it and offers her hospitality, we will gladly stay and tell you\nmore of the Lord\'s work.\"\n\nA pall of silence settled over the little assembly. There was some\ncogent reason why every \"sister\" there was disinclined for company.\nSome had no spare room, some had a larder less well stocked than usual,\nsome had sickness in the family, some were \"unequally yoked together\nwith unbelievers\" who disliked strange ministers. Mrs. Burch\'s thin\nhands fingered her black silk nervously. \"Would no one speak!\" thought\nRebecca, her heart fluttering with sympathy. Mrs. Robinson leaned over\nand whispered significantly, \"The missionaries always used to be\nentertained at the brick house; your grandfather never would let \'em\nsleep anywheres else when he was alive.\" She meant this for a stab at\nMiss Miranda\'s parsimony, remembering the four spare chambers, closed\nfrom January to December; but Rebecca thought it was intended as a\nsuggestion. If it had been a former custom, perhaps her aunts would\nwant her to do the right thing; for what else was she representing the\nfamily? So, delighted that duty lay in so pleasant a direction, she\nrose from her seat and said in the pretty voice and with the quaint\nmanner that so separated her from all the other young people in the\nvillage, \"My aunts, Miss Miranda and Miss Jane Sawyer, would be very\nhappy to have you visit them at the brick house, as the ministers\nalways used to do when their father was alive. They sent their respects\nby me.\" The \"respects\" might have been the freedom of the city, or an\nequestrian statue, when presented in this way, and the aunts would have\nshuddered could they have foreseen the manner of delivery; but it was\nvastly impressive to the audience, who concluded that Mirandy Sawyer\nmust be making her way uncommonly fast to mansions in the skies, else\nwhat meant this abrupt change of heart?\n\nMr. Burch bowed courteously, accepted the invitation \"in the same\nspirit in which it was offered,\" and asked Brother Milliken to lead in\nprayer.\n\nIf the Eternal Ear could ever tire it would have ceased long ere this\nto listen to Deacon Milliken, who had wafted to the throne of grace the\nsame prayer, with very slight variations, for forty years. Mrs. Perkins\nfollowed; she had several petitions at her command, good sincere ones\ntoo, but a little cut and dried, made of scripture texts laboriously\nwoven together. Rebecca wondered why she always ended, at the most\npeaceful seasons, with the form, \"Do Thou be with us, God of Battles,\nwhile we strive onward like Christian soldiers marching as to war;\" but\neverything sounded real to her to-day, she was in a devout mood, and\nmany things Mr. Burch had said had moved her strangely. As she lifted\nher head the minister looked directly at her and said, \"Will our young\nsister close the service by leading us in prayer?\"\n\nEvery drop of blood in Rebecca\'s body seemed to stand still, and her\nheart almost stopped beating. Mrs. Cobb\'s excited breathing could be\nheard distinctly in the silence. There was nothing extraordinary in Mr.\nBurch\'s request. In his journeyings among country congregations he was\nconstantly in the habit of meeting young members who had \"experienced\nreligion\" and joined the church when nine or ten years old. Rebecca was\nnow thirteen; she had played the melodeon, led the singing, delivered\nher aunts\' invitation with an air of great worldly wisdom, and he,\nconcluding that she must be a youthful pillar of the church, called\nupon her with the utmost simplicity.\n\nRebecca\'s plight was pathetic. How could she refuse; how could she\nexplain she was not a \"member;\" how could she pray before all those\nelderly women! John Rogers at the stake hardly suffered more than this\npoor child for the moment as she rose to her feet, forgetting that\nladies prayed sitting, while deacons stood in prayer. Her mind was a\nmaze of pictures that the Rev. Mr. Burch had flung on the screen. She\nknew the conventional phraseology, of course; what New England child,\naccustomed to Wednesday evening meetings, does not? But her own secret\nprayers were different. However, she began slowly and tremulously:--\n\n \"Our Father who art in Heaven, ... Thou art God in Syria\n just the same as in Maine; ...over there to-day are blue\n skies and yellow stars and burning suns . . . the great trees\n are waving in the warm air, while here the snow lies thick\n under our feet, ... but no distance is too far for God to\n travel and so He is with us here as He is with them there, ...\n and our thoughts rise to Him \'as doves that to their\n windows fly.\' ...\n\n \"We cannot all be missionaries, teaching people to be good, ...\n some of us have not learned yet how to be good ourselves,\n but if thy kingdom is to come and thy will is to be done on\n earth as it is in heaven, everybody must try and everybody\n must help, ... those who are old and tired and those who\n are young and strong.... The little children of whom we\n have heard, those born under Syrian skies, have strange and\n interesting work to do for Thee, and some of us would like to\n travel in far lands and do wonderful brave things for the\n heathen and gently take away their idols of wood and stone.\n But perhaps we have to stay at home and do what is given us\n to do ... sometimes even things we dislike, ... but that\n must be what it means in the hymn we sang, when it talked\n about the sweet perfume that rises with every morning\n sacrifice.... This is the way that God teaches us to be\n meek and patient, and the thought that He has willed it so\n should rob us of our fears and help us bear the years. Amen.\"\n\nPoor little ignorant, fantastic child! Her petition was simply a\nsuccession of lines from the various hymns, and images the minister had\nused in his sermon, but she had her own way of recombining and applying\nthese things, even of using them in a new connection, so that they had\na curious effect of belonging to her. The words of some people might\ngenerally be written with a minus sign after them, the minus meaning\nthat the personality of the speaker subtracted from, rather than added\nto, their weight; but Rebecca\'s words might always have borne the plus\nsign.\n\nThe \"Amen\" said, she sat down, or presumed she sat down, on what she\nbelieved to be a bench, and there was a benediction. In a moment or\ntwo, when the room ceased spinning, she went up to Mrs. Burch, who\nkissed her affectionately and said, \"My dear, how glad I am that we are\ngoing to stay with you. Will half past five be too late for us to come?\nIt is three now, and we have to go to the station for our valise and\nfor our children. We left them there, being uncertain whether we should\ngo back or stop here.\"\n\nRebecca said that half past five was their supper hour, and then\naccepted an invitation to drive home with Mrs. Cobb. Her face was\nflushed and her lip quivered in a way that aunt Sarah had learned to\nknow, so the homeward drive was taken almost in silence. The bleak wind\nand aunt Sarah\'s quieting presence brought her back to herself,\nhowever, and she entered the brick house cheerily. Being too full of\nnews to wait in the side entry to take off her rubber boots, she\ncarefully lifted a braided rug into the sitting-room and stood on that\nwhile she opened her budget.\n\n\"There are your shoes warming by the fire,\" said aunt Jane. \"Slip them\nright on while you talk.\"\n\n\n\nXIX\n\nDEACON ISRAEL\'S SUCCESSOR\n\n\"It was a very small meeting, aunt Miranda,\" began Rebecca, \"and the\nmissionary and his wife are lovely people, and they are coming here to\nstay all night and to-morrow with you. I hope you won\'t mind.\"\n\n\"Coming here!\" exclaimed Miranda, letting her knitting fall in her lap,\nand taking her spectacles off, as she always did in moments of extreme\nexcitement. \"Did they invite themselves?\"\n\n\"No,\" Rebecca answered. \"I had to invite them for you; but I thought\nyou\'d like to have such interesting company. It was this way\"--\n\n\"Stop your explainin\', and tell me first when they\'ll be here. Right\naway?\"\n\n\"No, not for two hours--about half past five.\"\n\n\"Then you can explain, if you can, who gave you any authority to invite\na passel of strangers to stop here over night, when you know we ain\'t\nhad any company for twenty years, and don\'t intend to have any for\nanother twenty,--or at any rate while I\'m the head of the house.\"\n\n\"Don\'t blame her, Miranda, till you\'ve heard her story,\" said Jane. \"It\nwas in my mind right along, if we went to the meeting, some such thing\nmight happen, on account of Mr. Burch knowing father.\"\n\n\"The meeting was a small one,\" began Rebecca \"I gave all your messages,\nand everybody was disappointed you couldn\'t come, for the president\nwasn\'t there, and Mrs. Matthews took the chair, which was a pity, for\nthe seat wasn\'t nearly big enough for her, and she reminded me of a\nline in a hymn we sang, \'Wide as the heathen nations are,\' and she wore\nthat kind of a beaver garden-hat that always gets on one side. And Mr.\nBurch talked beautifully about the Syrian heathen, and the singing went\nreal well, and there looked to be about forty cents in the basket that\nwas passed on our side. And that wouldn\'t save even a heathen baby,\nwould it? Then Mr. Burch said, if any sister would offer entertainment,\nthey would pass the night, and have a parlor meeting in Riverboro\nto-morrow, with Mrs. Burch in Syrian costume, and lovely foreign things\nto show. Then he waited and waited, and nobody said a word. I was so\nmortified I didn\'t know what to do. And then he repeated what he said,\nan explained why he wanted to stay, and you could see he thought it was\nhis duty. Just then Mrs. Robinson whispered to me and said the\nmissionaries always used to go to the brick house when grandfather was\nalive, and that he never would let them sleep anywhere else. I didn\'t\nknow you had stopped having them because no traveling ministers have\nbeen here, except just for a Sunday morning, since I came to Riverboro.\nSo I thought I ought to invite them, as you weren\'t there to do it for\nyourself, and you told me to represent the family.\"\n\n\"What did you do--go up and introduce yourself as folks was goin\' out?\"\n\n\"No; I stood right up in meeting. I had to, for Mr. Burch\'s feelings\nwere getting hurt at nobody\'s speaking. So I said, \'My aunts, Miss\nMiranda and Miss Jane Sawyer would be happy to have you visit at the\nbrick house, just as the missionaries always did when their father was\nalive, and they sent their respects by me.\' Then I sat down; and Mr.\nBurch prayed for grandfather, and called him a man of God, and thanked\nour Heavenly Father that his spirit was still alive in his descendants\n(that was you), and that the good old house where so many of the\nbrethren had been cheered and helped, and from which so many had gone\nout strengthened for the fight, was still hospitably open for the\nstranger and wayfarer.\"\n\nSometimes, when the heavenly bodies are in just the right conjunction,\nnature seems to be the most perfect art. The word or the deed coming\nstraight from the heart, without any thought of effect, seems inspired.\n\nA certain gateway in Miranda Sawyer\'s soul had been closed for years;\nnot all at once had it been done, but gradually, and without her full\nknowledge. If Rebecca had plotted for days, and with the utmost\ncunning, she could not have effected an entrance into that forbidden\ncountry, and now, unknown to both of them, the gate swung on its stiff\nand rusty hinges, and the favoring wind of opportunity opened it wider\nand wider as time went on. All things had worked together amazingly for\ngood. The memory of old days had been evoked, and the daily life of a\npious and venerated father called to mind; the Sawyer name had been\npublicly dignified and praised; Rebecca had comported herself as the\ngranddaughter of Deacon Israel Sawyer should, and showed conclusively\nthat she was not \"all Randall,\" as had been supposed. Miranda was\nrather mollified by and pleased with the turn of events, although she\ndid not intend to show it, or give anybody any reason to expect that\nthis expression of hospitality was to serve for a precedent on any\nsubsequent occasion.\n\n\"Well, I see you did only what you was obliged to do, Rebecca,\" she\nsaid, \"and you worded your invitation as nice as anybody could have\ndone. I wish your aunt Jane and me wasn\'t both so worthless with these\ncolds; but it only shows the good of havin\' a clean house, with every\nroom in order, whether open or shut, and enough victuals cooked so \'t\nyou can\'t be surprised and belittled by anybody, whatever happens.\nThere was half a dozen there that might have entertained the Burches as\neasy as not, if they hadn\'t \'a\' been too mean or lazy. Why didn\'t your\nmissionaries come right along with you?\"\n\n\"They had to go to the station for their valise and their children.\"\n\n\"Are there children?\" groaned Miranda.\n\n\"Yes, aunt Miranda, all born under Syrian skies.\"\n\n\"Syrian grandmother!\" ejaculated Miranda (and it was not a fact). \"How\nmany?\"\n\n\"I didn\'t think to ask; but I will get two rooms ready, and if there\nare any over I\'ll take \'em into my bed,\" said Rebecca, secretly hoping\nthat this would be the case. \"Now, as you\'re both half sick, couldn\'t\nyou trust me just once to get ready for the company? You can come up\nwhen I call. Will you?\"\n\n\"I believe I will,\" sighed Miranda reluctantly. \"I\'ll lay down side o\'\nJane in our bedroom and see if I can get strength to cook supper. It\'s\nhalf past three--don\'t you let me lay a minute past five. I kep\' a good\nfire in the kitchen stove. I don\'t know, I\'m sure, why I should have\nbaked a pot o\' beans in the middle of the week, but they\'ll come in\nhandy. Father used to say there was nothing that went right to the spot\nwith returned missionaries like pork \'n\' beans \'n\' brown bread. Fix up\nthe two south chambers, Rebecca.\"\n\nRebecca, given a free hand for the only time in her life, dashed\nupstairs like a whirlwind. Every room in the brick house was as neat as\nwax, and she had only to pull up the shades, go over the floors with a\nwhisk broom, and dust the furniture. The aunts could hear her scurrying\nto and fro, beating up pillows and feather beds, flapping towels,\njingling crockery, singing meanwhile in her clear voice:--\n\n \"In vain with lavish kindness\n The gifts of God are strown;\n The heathen in his blindness\n Bows down to wood and stone.\"\n\nShe had grown to be a handy little creature, and tasks she was capable\nof doing at all she did like a flash, so that when she called her aunts\nat five o\'clock to pass judgment, she had accomplished wonders. There\nwere fresh towels on bureaus and washstands, the beds were fair and\nsmooth, the pitchers were filled, and soap and matches were laid out;\nnewspaper, kindling, and wood were in the boxes, and a large stick\nburned slowly in each air-tight stove. \"I thought I\'d better just take\nthe chill off,\" she explained, \"as they\'re right from Syria; and that\nreminds me, I must look it up in the geography before they get here.\"\n\nThere was nothing to disapprove, so the two sisters went downstairs to\nmake some slight changes in their dress. As they passed the parlor door\nMiranda thought she heard a crackle and looked in. The shades were up,\nthere was a cheerful blaze in the open stove in the front parlor, and a\nfire laid on the hearth in the back room. Rebecca\'s own lamp, her\nsecond Christmas present from Mr. Aladdin, stood on a marble-topped\ntable in the corner, the light that came softly through its\nrose-colored shade transforming the stiff and gloomy ugliness of the\nroom into a place where one could sit and love one\'s neighbor.\n\n\"For massy\'s sake, Rebecca,\" called Miss Miranda up the stairs, \"did\nyou think we\'d better open the parlor?\"\n\nRebecca came out on the landing braiding her hair.\n\n\"We did on Thanksgiving and Christmas, and I thought this was about as\ngreat an occasion,\" she said. \"I moved the wax flowers off the\nmantelpiece so they wouldn\'t melt, and put the shells, the coral, and\nthe green stuffed bird on top of the what-not, so the children wouldn\'t\nask to play with them. Brother Milliken\'s coming over to see Mr. Burch\nabout business, and I shouldn\'t wonder if Brother and Sister Cobb\nhappened in. Don\'t go down cellar, I\'ll be there in a minute to do the\nrunning.\"\n\nMiranda and Jane exchanged glances.\n\n\"Ain\'t she the beatin\'est creetur that ever was born int\' the world!\"\nexclaimed Miranda; \"but she can turn off work when she\'s got a mind to!\"\n\nAt quarter past five everything was ready, and the neighbors, those at\nleast who were within sight of the brick house (a prominent object in\nthe landscape when there were no leaves on the trees), were curious\nalmost to desperation. Shades up in both parlors! Shades up in the two\nsouth bedrooms! And fires--if human vision was to be relied on--fires\nin about every room. If it had not been for the kind offices of a lady\nwho had been at the meeting, and who charitably called in at one or two\nhouses and explained the reason of all this preparation, there would\nhave been no sleep in many families.\n\nThe missionary party arrived promptly, and there were but two children,\nseven or eight having been left with the brethren in Portland, to\ndiminish traveling expenses. Jane escorted them all upstairs, while\nMiranda watched the cooking of the supper; but Rebecca promptly took\nthe two little girls away from their mother, divested them of their\nwraps, smoothed their hair, and brought them down to the kitchen to\nsmell the beans.\n\nThere was a bountiful supper, and the presence of the young people\nrobbed it of all possible stiffness. Aunt Jane helped clear the table\nand put away the food, while Miranda entertained in the parlor; but\nRebecca and the infant Burches washed the dishes and held high carnival\nin the kitchen, doing only trifling damage--breaking a cup and plate\nthat had been cracked before, emptying a silver spoon with some\ndishwater out of the back door (an act never permitted at the brick\nhouse), and putting coffee grounds in the sink. All evidences of crime\nhaving been removed by Rebecca, and damages repaired in all possible\ncases, the three entered the parlor, where Mr. and Mrs. Cobb and Deacon\nand Mrs. Milliken had already appeared.\n\nIt was such a pleasant evening! Occasionally they left the heathen in\nhis blindness bowing down to wood and stone, not for long, but just to\ngive themselves (and him) time enough to breathe, and then the Burches\ntold strange, beautiful, marvelous things. The two smaller children\nsang together, and Rebecca, at the urgent request of Mrs. Burch, seated\nherself at the tinkling old piano and gave \"Wild roved an Indian girl,\nbright Alfarata\" with considerable spirit and style.\n\nAt eight o\'clock she crossed the room, handed a palm-leaf fan to her\naunt Miranda, ostensibly that she might shade her eyes from the\nlamplight; but it was a piece of strategy that gave her an opportunity\nto whisper, \"How about cookies?\"\n\n\"Do you think it\'s worth while?\" sibilated Miss Miranda in answer.\n\n\"The Perkinses always do.\"\n\n\"All right. You know where they be.\"\n\nRebecca moved quietly towards the door, and the young Burches\ncataracted after her as if they could not bear a second\'s separation.\nIn five minutes they returned, the little ones bearing plates of thin\ncaraway wafers,--hearts, diamonds, and circles daintily sugared, and\nflecked with caraway seed raised in the garden behind the house. These\nwere a specialty of Miss Jane\'s, and Rebecca carried a tray with six\ntiny crystal glasses filled with dandelion wine, for which Miss Miranda\nhad been famous in years gone by. Old Deacon Israel had always had it\npassed, and he had bought the glasses himself in Boston. Miranda\nadmired them greatly, not only for their beauty but because they held\nso little. Before their advent the dandelion wine had been served in\nsherry glasses.\n\nAs soon as these refreshments--commonly called a \"colation\" in\nRiverboro--had been genteelly partaken of, Rebecca looked at the clock,\nrose from her chair in the children\'s corner, and said cheerfully,\n\"Come! time for little missionaries to be in bed!\"\n\nEverybody laughed at this, the big missionaries most of all, as the\nyoung people shook hands and disappeared with Rebecca.\n\n\n\nXX\n\nA CHANGE OF HEART\n\n\"That niece of yours is the most remarkable girl I have seen in years,\"\nsaid Mr. Burch when the door closed.\n\n\"She seems to be turnin\' out smart enough lately, but she\'s consid\'able\nheedless,\" answered Miranda, \"an\' most too lively.\"\n\n\"We must remember that it is deficient, not excessive vitality, that\nmakes the greatest trouble in this world,\" returned Mr. Burch.\n\n\"She\'d make a wonderful missionary,\" said Mrs. Burch; \"with her voice,\nand her magnetism, and her gift of language.\"\n\n\"If I was to say which of the two she was best adapted for, I\'d say\nshe\'d make a better heathen,\" remarked Miranda curtly.\n\n\"My sister don\'t believe in flattering children,\" hastily interpolated\nJane, glancing toward Mrs. Burch, who seemed somewhat shocked, and was\nabout to open her lips to ask if Rebecca was not a \"professor.\"\n\nMrs. Cobb had been looking for this question all the evening and\ndreading some allusion to her favorite as gifted in prayer. She had\ntaken an instantaneous and illogical dislike to the Rev. Mr. Burch in\nthe afternoon because he called upon Rebecca to \"lead.\" She had seen\nthe pallor creep into the girl\'s face, the hunted look in her eyes, and\nthe trembling of the lashes on her cheeks, and realized the ordeal\nthrough which she was passing. Her prejudice against the minister had\nrelaxed under his genial talk and presence, but feeling that Mrs. Burch\nwas about to tread on dangerous ground, she hastily asked her if one\nhad to change cars many times going from Riverboro to Syria. She felt\nthat it was not a particularly appropriate question, but it served her\nturn.\n\nDeacon Milliken, meantime, said to Miss Sawyer, \"Mirandy, do you know\nwho Rebecky reminds me of?\"\n\n\"I can guess pretty well,\" she replied.\n\n\"Then you\'ve noticed it too! I thought at first, seein\' she favored her\nfather so on the outside, that she was the same all through; but she\nain\'t, she\'s like your father, Israel Sawyer.\"\n\n\"I don\'t see how you make that out,\" said Miranda, thoroughly\nastonished.\n\n\"It struck me this afternoon when she got up to give your invitation in\nmeetin\'. It was kind o\' cur\'ous, but she set in the same seat he used\nto when he was leader o\' the Sabbath-school. You know his old way of\nholdin\' his chin up and throwin\' his head back a leetle when he got up\nto say anything? Well, she done the very same thing; there was more\'n\none spoke of it.\"\n\nThe callers left before nine, and at that hour (an impossibly\ndissipated one for the brick house) the family retired for the night.\nAs Rebecca carried Mrs. Burch\'s candle upstairs and found herself thus\nalone with her for a minute, she said shyly, \"Will you please tell Mr.\nBurch that I\'m not a member of the church? I didn\'t know what to do\nwhen he asked me to pray this afternoon. I hadn\'t the courage to say I\nhad never done it out loud and didn\'t know how. I couldn\'t think; and I\nwas so frightened I wanted to sink into the floor. It seemed bold and\nwicked for me to pray before all those old church members and make\nbelieve I was better than I really was; but then again, wouldn\'t God\nthink I was wicked not to be willing to pray when a minister asked me\nto?\"\n\nThe candle light fell on Rebecca\'s flushed, sensitive face. Mrs. Burch\nbent and kissed her good-night. \"Don\'t be troubled,\" she said. \"I\'ll\ntell Mr. Burch, and I guess God will understand.\"\n\nRebecca waked before six the next morning, so full of household cares\nthat sleep was impossible. She went to the window and looked out; it\nwas still dark, and a blustering, boisterous day.\n\n\"Aunt Jane told me she should get up at half past six and have\nbreakfast at half past seven,\" she thought; \"but I daresay they are\nboth sick with their colds, and aunt Miranda will be fidgety with so\nmany in the house. I believe I\'ll creep down and start things for a\nsurprise.\"\n\nShe put on a wadded wrapper and slippers and stole quietly down the\ntabooed front stairs, carefully closed the kitchen door behind her so\nthat no noise should waken the rest of the household, busied herself\nfor a half hour with the early morning routine she knew so well, and\nthen went back to her room to dress before calling the children.\n\nContrary to expectation, Miss Jane, who the evening before felt better\nthan Miranda, grew worse in the night, and was wholly unable to leave\nher bed in the morning. Miranda grumbled without ceasing during the\nprogress of her hasty toilet, blaming everybody in the universe for the\nafflictions she had borne and was to bear during the day; she even\ncastigated the Missionary Board that had sent the Burches to Syria, and\ngave it as her unbiased opinion that those who went to foreign lands\nfor the purpose of saving heathen should stay there and save \'em, and\nnot go gallivantin\' all over the earth with a passel o\' children,\nvisitin\' folks that didn\'t want \'em and never asked \'em.\n\nJane lay anxiously and restlessly in bed with a feverish headache,\nwondering how her sister could manage without her.\n\nMiranda walked stiffly through the dining-room, tying a shawl over her\nhead to keep the draughts away, intending to start the breakfast fire\nand then call Rebecca down, set her to work, and tell her, meanwhile, a\nfew plain facts concerning the proper way of representing the family at\na missionary meeting.\n\nShe opened the kitchen door and stared vaguely about her, wondering\nwhether she had strayed into the wrong house by mistake.\n\nThe shades were up, and there was a roaring fire in the stove; the\nteakettle was singing and bubbling as it sent out a cloud of steam, and\npushed over its capacious nose was a half sheet of note paper with\n\"Compliments of Rebecca\" scrawled on it. The coffee pot was scalding,\nthe coffee was measured out in a bowl, and broken eggshells for the\nsettling process were standing near. The cold potatoes and corned beef\nwere in the wooden tray, and \"Regards of Rebecca\" stuck on the chopping\nknife. The brown loaf was out, the white loaf was out, the toast rack\nwas out, the doughnuts were out, the milk was skimmed, the butter had\nbeen brought from the dairy.\n\nMiranda removed the shawl from her head and sank into the kitchen\nrocker, ejaculating under her breath, \"She is the beatin\'est child! I\ndeclare she\'s all Sawyer!\"\n\nThe day and the evening passed off with credit and honor to everybody\nconcerned, even to Jane, who had the discretion to recover instead of\ngrowing worse and acting as a damper to the general enjoyment. The\nBurches left with lively regrets, and the little missionaries, bathed\nin tears, swore eternal friendship with Rebecca, who pressed into their\nhands at parting a poem composed before breakfast.\n\nTO MARY AND MARTHA BURCH\n\n Born under Syrian skies,\n \'Neath hotter suns than ours;\n The children grew and bloomed,\n Like little tropic flowers.\n\n When they first saw the light,\n \'T was in a heathen land.\n Not Greenland\'s icy mountains,\n Nor India\'s coral strand,\n\n But some mysterious country\n Where men are nearly black\n And where of true religion,\n There is a painful lack.\n\n Then let us haste in helping\n The Missionary Board,\n Seek dark-skinned unbelievers,\n And teach them of their Lord.\n Rebecca Rowena Randall.\n\nIt can readily be seen that this visit of the returned missionaries to\nRiverboro was not without somewhat far-reaching results. Mr. and Mrs.\nBurch themselves looked back upon it as one of the rarest pleasures of\ntheir half year at home. The neighborhood extracted considerable eager\nconversation from it; argument, rebuttal, suspicion, certainty,\nretrospect, and prophecy. Deacon Milliken gave ten dollars towards the\nconversion of Syria to Congregationalism, and Mrs. Milliken had a spell\nof sickness over her husband\'s rash generosity.\n\nIt would be pleasant to state that Miranda Sawyer was an entirely\nchanged woman afterwards, but that is not the fact. The tree that has\nbeen getting a twist for twenty years cannot be straightened in the\ntwinkling of an eye. It is certain, however, that although the\ndifference to the outward eye was very small, it nevertheless existed,\nand she was less censorious in her treatment of Rebecca, less harsh in\nher judgments, more hopeful of final salvation for her. This had come\nabout largely from her sudden vision that Rebecca, after all, inherited\nsomething from the Sawyer side of the house instead of belonging, mind,\nbody, and soul, to the despised Randall stock. Everything that was\ninteresting in Rebecca, and every evidence of power, capability, or\ntalent afterwards displayed by her, Miranda ascribed to the brick house\ntraining, and this gave her a feeling of honest pride, the pride of a\nmaster workman who has built success out of the most unpromising\nmaterial; but never, to the very end, even when the waning of her\nbodily strength relaxed her iron grip and weakened her power of\nrepression, never once did she show that pride or make a single\ndemonstration of affection.\n\nPoor misplaced, belittled Lorenzo de Medici Randall, thought ridiculous\nand good-for-naught by his associates, because he resembled them in\nnothing! If Riverboro could have been suddenly emptied into a larger\ncommunity, with different and more flexible opinions, he was, perhaps,\nthe only personage in the entire population who would have attracted\nthe smallest attention. It was fortunate for his daughter that she had\nbeen dowered with a little practical ability from her mother\'s family,\nbut if Lorenzo had never done anything else in the world, he might have\nglorified himself that he had prevented Rebecca from being all Sawyer.\nFailure as he was, complete and entire, he had generously handed down\nto her all that was best in himself, and prudently retained all that\nwas unworthy. Few fathers are capable of such delicate discrimination.\n\nThe brick house did not speedily become a sort of wayside inn, a place\nof innocent revelry and joyous welcome; but the missionary company was\nan entering wedge, and Miranda allowed one spare bed to be made up \"in\ncase anything should happen,\" while the crystal glasses were kept on\nthe second from the top, instead of the top shelf, in the china closet.\nRebecca had had to stand on a chair to reach them; now she could do it\nby stretching; and this is symbolic of the way in which she\nunconsciously scaled the walls of Miss Miranda\'s dogmatism and\nprejudice.\n\nMiranda went so far as to say that she wouldn\'t mind if the Burches\ncame every once in a while, but she was afraid he\'d spread abroad the\nfact of his visit, and missionaries\' families would be underfoot the\nwhole continual time. As a case in point, she gracefully cited the fact\nthat if a tramp got a good meal at anybody\'s back door, \'t was said\nthat he\'d leave some kind of a sign so that all other tramps would know\nwhere they were likely to receive the same treatment.\n\nIt is to be feared that there is some truth in this homely\nillustration, and Miss Miranda\'s dread as to her future\nresponsibilities had some foundation, though not of the precise sort\nshe had in mind. The soul grows into lovely habits as easily as into\nugly ones, and the moment a life begins to blossom into beautiful words\nand deeds, that moment a new standard of conduct is established, and\nyour eager neighbors look to you for a continuous manifestation of the\ngood cheer, the sympathy, the ready wit, the comradeship, or the\ninspiration, you once showed yourself capable of. Bear figs for a\nseason or two, and the world outside the orchard is very unwilling you\nshould bear thistles.\n\nThe effect of the Burches\' visit on Rebecca is not easily described.\nNevertheless, as she looked back upon it from the vantage ground of\nafter years, she felt that the moment when Mr. Burch asked her to \"lead\nin prayer\" marked an epoch in her life.\n\nIf you have ever observed how courteous and gracious and mannerly you\nfeel when you don a beautiful new frock; if you have ever noticed the\nfeeling of reverence stealing over you when you close your eyes, clasp\nyour hands, and bow your head; if you have ever watched your sense of\nrepulsion toward a fellow creature melt a little under the exercise of\ndaily politeness, you may understand how the adoption of the outward\nand visible sign has some strange influence in developing the inward\nand spiritual state of which it is the expression.\n\nIt is only when one has grown old and dull that the soul is heavy and\nrefuses to rise. The young soul is ever winged; a breath stirs it to an\nupward flight. Rebecca was asked to bear witness to a state of mind or\nfeeling of whose existence she had only the vaguest consciousness. She\nobeyed, and as she uttered words they became true in the uttering; as\nshe voiced aspirations they settled into realities.\n\nAs \"dove that to its window flies,\" her spirit soared towards a great\nlight, dimly discovered at first, but brighter as she came closer to\nit. To become sensible of oneness with the Divine heart before any\nsense of separation has been felt, this is surely the most beautiful\nway for the child to find God.\n\n\n\nXXI\n\nTHE SKY LINE WIDENS\n\nThe time so long and eagerly waited for had come, and Rebecca was a\nstudent at Wareham. Persons who had enjoyed the social bewilderments\nand advantages of foreign courts, or had mingled freely in the\nintellectual circles of great universities, might not have looked upon\nWareham as an extraordinary experience; but it was as much of an\nadvance upon Riverboro as that village had been upon Sunnybrook Farm.\nRebecca\'s intention was to complete the four years\' course in three, as\nit was felt by all the parties concerned that when she had attained the\nripe age of seventeen she must be ready to earn her own living and help\nin the education of the younger children. While she was wondering how\nthis could be successfully accomplished, some of the other girls were\ncogitating as to how they could meander through the four years and come\nout at the end knowing no more than at the beginning. This would seem a\ndifficult, well-nigh an impossible task, but it can be achieved, and\nhas been, at other seats of learning than modest little Wareham.\n\nRebecca was to go to and fro on the cars daily from September to\nChristmas, and then board in Wareham during the three coldest months.\nEmma Jane\'s parents had always thought that a year or two in the\nEdgewood high school (three miles from Riverboro) would serve every\npurpose for their daughter and send her into the world with as fine an\nintellectual polish as she could well sustain. Emma Jane had hitherto\nheartily concurred in this opinion, for if there was any one thing that\nshe detested it was the learning of lessons. One book was as bad as\nanother in her eyes, and she could have seen the libraries of the world\nsinking into ocean depths and have eaten her dinner cheerfully the\nwhile; but matters assumed a different complexion when she was sent to\nEdgewood and Rebecca to Wareham. She bore it for a week--seven endless\ndays of absence from the beloved object, whom she could see only in the\nevenings when both were busy with their lessons. Sunday offered an\nopportunity to put the matter before her father, who proved obdurate.\nHe didn\'t believe in education and thought she had full enough already.\nHe never intended to keep up \"blacksmithing\" for good when he leased\nhis farm and came into Riverboro, but proposed to go back to it\npresently, and by that time Emma Jane would have finished school and\nwould be ready to help her mother with the dairy work.\n\nAnother week passed. Emma Jane pined visibly and audibly. Her color\nfaded, and her appetite (at table) dwindled almost to nothing.\n\nHer mother alluded plaintively to the fact that the Perkinses had a\nhabit of going into declines; that she\'d always feared that Emma Jane\'s\ncomplexion was too beautiful to be healthy; that some men would be\nproud of having an ambitious daughter, and be glad to give her the best\nadvantages; that she feared the daily journeys to Edgewood were going\nto be too much for her own health, and Mr. Perkins would have to hire a\nboy to drive Emma Jane; and finally that when a girl had such a passion\nfor learning as Emma Jane, it seemed almost like wickedness to cross\nher will.\n\nMr. Perkins bore this for several days until his temper, digestion, and\nappetite were all sensibly affected; then he bowed his head to the\ninevitable, and Emma Jane flew, like a captive set free, to the loved\none\'s bower. Neither did her courage flag, although it was put to\nterrific tests when she entered the academic groves of Wareham. She\npassed in only two subjects, but went cheerfully into the preparatory\ndepartment with her five \"conditions,\" intending to let the stream of\neducation play gently over her mental surfaces and not get any wetter\nthan she could help. It is not possible to blink the truth that Emma\nJane was dull; but a dogged, unswerving loyalty, and the gift of\ndevoted, unselfish loving, these, after all, are talents of a sort, and\nmay possibly be of as much value in the world as a sense of numbers or\na faculty for languages.\n\nWareham was a pretty village with a broad main street shaded by great\nmaples and elms. It had an apothecary, a blacksmith, a plumber, several\nshops of one sort and another, two churches, and many boarding-houses;\nbut all its interests gathered about its seminary and its academy.\nThese seats of learning were neither better nor worse than others of\ntheir kind, but differed much in efficiency, according as the principal\nwho chanced to be at the head was a man of power and inspiration or the\nreverse. There were boys and girls gathered from all parts of the\ncounty and state, and they were of every kind and degree as to birth,\nposition in the world, wealth or poverty. There was an opportunity for\na deal of foolish and imprudent behavior, but on the whole surprisingly\nlittle advantage was taken of it. Among the third and fourth year\nstudents there was a certain amount of going to and from the trains in\ncouples; some carrying of heavy books up the hill by the sterner sex\nfor their feminine schoolmates, and occasional bursts of silliness on\nthe part of heedless and precocious girls, among whom was Huldah\nMeserve. She was friendly enough with Emma Jane and Rebecca, but grew\nless and less intimate as time went on. She was extremely pretty, with\na profusion of auburn hair, and a few very tiny freckles, to which she\nconstantly alluded, as no one could possibly detect them without noting\nher porcelain skin and her curling lashes. She had merry eyes, a\nsomewhat too plump figure for her years, and was popularly supposed to\nhave a fascinating way with her. Riverboro being poorly furnished with\nbeaux, she intended to have as good a time during her four years at\nWareham as circumstances would permit. Her idea of pleasure was an\never-changing circle of admirers to fetch and carry for her, the more\npublicly the better; incessant chaff and laughter and vivacious\nconversation, made eloquent and effective by arch looks and telling\nglances. She had a habit of confiding her conquests to less fortunate\ngirls and bewailing the incessant havoc and damage she was doing; a\ndamage she avowed herself as innocent of, in intention, as any new-born\nlamb. It does not take much of this sort of thing to wreck an ordinary\nfriendship, so before long Rebecca and Emma Jane sat in one end of the\nrailway train in going to and from Riverboro, and Huldah occupied the\nother with her court. Sometimes this was brilliant beyond words,\nincluding a certain youthful Monte Cristo, who on Fridays expended\nthirty cents on a round trip ticket and traveled from Wareham to\nRiverboro merely to be near Huldah; sometimes, too, the circle was\nreduced to the popcorn-and-peanut boy of the train, who seemed to serve\nevery purpose in default of better game.\n\nRebecca was in the normally unconscious state that belonged to her\nyears; boys were good comrades, but no more; she liked reciting in the\nsame class with them, everything seemed to move better; but from vulgar\nand precocious flirtations she was protected by her ideals. There was\nlittle in the lads she had met thus far to awaken her fancy, for it\nhabitually fed on better meat. Huldah\'s school-girl romances, with\ntheir wealth of commonplace detail, were not the stuff her dreams were\nmade of, when dreams did flutter across the sensitive plate of her mind.\n\nAmong the teachers at Wareham was one who influenced Rebecca\nprofoundly, Miss Emily Maxwell, with whom she studied English\nliterature and composition. Miss Maxwell, as the niece of one of\nMaine\'s ex-governors and the daughter of one of Bowdoin\'s professors,\nwas the most remarkable personality in Wareham, and that her few years\nof teaching happened to be in Rebecca\'s time was the happiest of all\nchances. There was no indecision or delay in the establishment of their\nrelations; Rebecca\'s heart flew like an arrow to its mark, and her\nmind, meeting its superior, settled at once into an abiding attitude of\nrespectful homage.\n\nIt was rumored that Miss Maxwell \"wrote,\" which word, when uttered in a\ncertain tone, was understood to mean not that a person had command of\npenmanship, Spencerian or otherwise, but that she had appeared in print.\n\n\"You\'ll like her; she writes,\" whispered Huldah to Rebecca the first\nmorning at prayers, where the faculty sat in an imposing row on the\nfront seats. \"She writes; and I call her stuck up.\"\n\nNobody seemed possessed of exact information with which to satisfy the\nhungry mind, but there was believed to be at least one person in\nexistence who had seen, with his own eyes, an essay by Miss Maxwell in\na magazine. This height of achievement made Rebecca somewhat shy of\nher, but she looked her admiration; something that most of the class\ncould never do with the unsatisfactory organs of vision given them by\nMother Nature. Miss Maxwell\'s glance was always meeting a pair of eager\ndark eyes; when she said anything particularly good, she looked for\napproval to the corner of the second bench, where every shade of\nfeeling she wished to evoke was reflected on a certain sensitive young\nface.\n\nOne day, when the first essay of the class was under discussion, she\nasked each new pupil to bring her some composition written during the\nyear before, that she might judge the work, and know precisely with\nwhat material she had to deal. Rebecca lingered after the others, and\napproached the desk shyly.\n\n\"I haven\'t any compositions here, Miss Maxwell, but I can find one when\nI go home on Friday. They are packed away in a box in the attic.\"\n\n\"Carefully tied with pink and blue ribbons?\" asked Miss Maxwell, with a\nwhimsical smile.\n\n\"No,\" answered Rebecca, shaking her head decidedly; \"I wanted to use\nribbons, because all the other girls did, and they looked so pretty,\nbut I used to tie my essays with twine strings on purpose; and the one\non solitude I fastened with an old shoelacing just to show it what I\nthought of it!\"\n\n\"Solitude!\" laughed Miss Maxwell, raising her eyebrows. \"Did you choose\nyour own subject?\"\n\n\"No; Miss Dearborn thought we were not old enough to find good ones.\"\n\n\"What were some of the others?\"\n\n\"Fireside Reveries, Grant as a Soldier, Reflections on the Life of P.\nT. Barnum, Buried Cities; I can\'t remember any more now. They were all\nbad, and I can\'t bear to show them; I can write poetry easier and\nbetter, Miss Maxwell.\"\n\n\"Poetry!\" she exclaimed. \"Did Miss Dearborn require you to do it?\"\n\n\"Oh, no; I always did it even at the farm. Shall I bring all I have? It\nisn\'t much.\"\n\nRebecca took the blank-book in which she kept copies of her effusions\nand left it at Miss Maxwell\'s door, hoping that she might be asked in\nand thus obtain a private interview; but a servant answered her ring,\nand she could only walk away, disappointed.\n\nA few days afterward she saw the black-covered book on Miss Maxwell\'s\ndesk and knew that the dreaded moment of criticism had come, so she was\nnot surprised to be asked to remain after class.\n\nThe room was quiet; the red leaves rustled in the breeze and flew in at\nthe open window, bearing the first compliments of the season. Miss\nMaxwell came and sat by Rebecca\'s side on the bench.\n\n\"Did you think these were good?\" she asked, giving her the verses.\n\n\"Not so very,\" confessed Rebecca; \"but it\'s hard to tell all by\nyourself. The Perkinses and the Cobbs always said they were wonderful,\nbut when Mrs. Cobb told me she thought they were better than Mr.\nLongfellow\'s I was worried, because I knew that couldn\'t be true.\"\n\nThis ingenuous remark confirmed Miss Maxwell\'s opinion of Rebecca as a\ngirl who could hear the truth and profit by it.\n\n\"Well, my child,\" she said smilingly, \"your friends were wrong and you\nwere right; judged by the proper tests, they are pretty bad.\"\n\n\"Then I must give up all hope of ever being a writer!\" sighed Rebecca,\nwho was tasting the bitterness of hemlock and wondering if she could\nkeep the tears back until the interview was over.\n\n\"Don\'t go so fast,\" interrupted Miss Maxwell. \"Though they don\'t amount\nto anything as poetry, they show a good deal of promise in certain\ndirections. You almost never make a mistake in rhyme or metre, and this\nshows you have a natural sense of what is right; a \'sense of form,\'\npoets would call it. When you grow older, have a little more\nexperience,--in fact, when you have something to say, I think you may\nwrite very good verses. Poetry needs knowledge and vision, experience\nand imagination, Rebecca. You have not the first three yet, but I\nrather think you have a touch of the last.\"\n\n\"Must I never try any more poetry, not even to amuse myself?\"\n\n\"Certainly you may; it will only help you to write better prose. Now\nfor the first composition. I am going to ask all the new students to\nwrite a letter giving some description of the town and a hint of the\nschool life.\"\n\n\"Shall I have to be myself?\" asked Rebecca.\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"A letter from Rebecca Randall to her sister Hannah at Sunnybrook Farm,\nor to her aunt Jane at the brick house, Riverboro, is so dull and\nstupid, if it is a real letter; but if I could make believe I was a\ndifferent girl altogether, and write to somebody who would be sure to\nunderstand everything I said, I could make it nicer.\"\n\n\"Very well; I think that\'s a delightful plan,\" said Miss Maxwell; \"and\nwhom will you suppose yourself to be?\"\n\n\"I like heiresses very much,\" replied Rebecca contemplatively. \"Of\ncourse I never saw one, but interesting things are always happening to\nheiresses, especially to the golden-haired kind. My heiress wouldn\'t be\nvain and haughty like the wicked sisters in Cinderella; she would be\nnoble and generous. She would give up a grand school in Boston because\nshe wanted to come here where her father lived when he was a boy, long\nbefore he made his fortune. The father is dead now, and she has a\nguardian, the best and kindest man in the world; he is rather old of\ncourse, and sometimes very quiet and grave, but sometimes when he is\nhappy, he is full of fun, and then Evelyn is not afraid of him. Yes,\nthe girl shall be called Evelyn Abercrombie, and her guardian\'s name\nshall be Mr. Adam Ladd.\"\n\n\"Do you know Mr. Ladd?\" asked Miss Maxwell in surprise.\n\n\"Yes, he\'s my very best friend,\" cried Rebecca delightedly. \"Do you\nknow him too?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes; he is a trustee of these schools, you know, and often comes\nhere. But if I let you \'suppose\' any more, you will tell me your whole\nletter and then I shall lose a pleasant surprise.\"\n\n\nWhat Rebecca thought of Miss Maxwell we already know; how the teacher\nregarded the pupil may be gathered from the following letter written\ntwo or three months later.\n\n Wareham, December 1st\n\n My Dear Father,--As you well know, I have not always been an\n enthusiast on the subject of teaching. The task of cramming\n knowledge into these self-sufficient, inefficient youngsters\n of both sexes discourages me at times. The more stupid they\n are, the less they are aware of it. If my department were\n geography or mathematics, I believe I should feel that I was\n accomplishing something, for in those branches application\n and industry work wonders; but in English literature and\n composition one yearns for brains, for appreciation, for\n imagination! Month after month I toil on, opening oyster\n after oyster, but seldom finding a pearl. Fancy my joy this\n term when, without any violent effort at shell-splitting, I\n came upon a rare pearl; a black one, but of satin skin and\n beautiful lustre! Her name is Rebecca, and she looks not\n unlike Rebekah at the Well in our family Bible; her hair and\n eyes being so dark as to suggest a strain of Italian or\n Spanish blood. She is nobody in particular. Man has done\n nothing for her; she has no family to speak of, no money, no\n education worthy the name, has had no advantages of any sort;\n but Dame Nature flung herself into the breach and said:--\n\n \"This child I to myself will take;\n She shall be mine and I will make\n A Lady of my own.\"\n\n Blessed Wordsworth! How he makes us understand! And the pearl\n never heard of him until now! Think of reading Lucy to a\n class, and when you finish, seeing a fourteen-year-old pair\n of lips quivering with delight, and a pair of eyes brimming\n with comprehending tears!\n\n You poor darling! You, too, know the discouragement of sowing\n lovely seed in rocky earth, in sand, in water, and (it almost\n seems sometimes) in mud; knowing that if anything comes up at\n all it will be some poor starveling plant. Fancy the joy of\n finding a real mind; of dropping seed in a soil so warm, so\n fertile, that one knows there are sure to be foliage,\n blossoms, and fruit all in good time! I wish I were not so\n impatient and so greedy of results! I am not fit to be a\n teacher; no one is who is so scornful of stupidity as I am. .\n . . The pearl writes quaint countrified little verses,\n doggerel they are; but somehow or other she always contrives\n to put in one line, one thought, one image, that shows you\n she is, quite unconsciously to herself, in possession of the\n secret. . . . Good-by; I\'ll bring Rebecca home with me some\n Friday, and let you and mother see her for yourselves.\n\n Your affectionate daughter,\n\n Emily.\n\n\n\nXXII\n\nCLOVER BLOSSOMS AND SUNFLOWERS\n\n\"How d\' ye do, girls?\" said Huldah Meserve, peeping in at the door.\n\"Can you stop studying a minute and show me your room? Say, I\'ve just\nbeen down to the store and bought me these gloves, for I was bound I\nwouldn\'t wear mittens this winter; they\'re simply too countrified. It\'s\nyour first year here, and you\'re younger than I am, so I s\'pose you\ndon\'t mind, but I simply suffer if I don\'t keep up some kind of style.\nSay, your room is simply too cute for words! I don\'t believe any of the\nothers can begin to compare with it! I don\'t know what gives it that\nsimply gorgeous look, whether it\'s the full curtains, or that elegant\nscreen, or Rebecca\'s lamp; but you certainly do have a faculty for\nfixing up. I like a pretty room too, but I never have a minute to\nattend to mine; I\'m always so busy on my clothes that half the time I\ndon\'t get my bed made up till noon; and after all, having no callers\nbut the girls, it don\'t make much difference. When I graduate, I\'m\ngoing to fix up our parlor at home so it\'ll be simply regal. I\'ve\nlearned decalcomania, and after I take up lustre painting I shall have\nit simply stiff with drapes and tidies and placques and sofa pillows,\nand make mother let me have a fire, and receive my friends there\nevenings. May I dry my feet at your register? I can\'t bear to wear\nrubbers unless the mud or the slush is simply knee-deep, they make your\nfeet look so awfully big. I had such a fuss getting this pair of\nFrench-heeled boots that I don\'t intend to spoil the looks of them with\nrubbers any oftener than I can help. I believe boys notice feet quicker\nthan anything. Elmer Webster stepped on one of mine yesterday when I\naccidentally had it out in the aisle, and when he apologized after\nclass, he said he wasn\'t so much to blame, for the foot was so little\nhe really couldn\'t see it! Isn\'t he perfectly great? Of course that\'s\nonly his way of talking, for after all I only wear a number two, but\nthese French heels and pointed toes do certainly make your foot look\nsmaller, and it\'s always said a high instep helps, too. I used to think\nmine was almost a deformity, but they say it\'s a great beauty. Just put\nyour feet beside mine, girls, and look at the difference; not that I\ncare much, but just for fun.\"\n\n\"My feet are very comfortable where they are,\" responded Rebecca dryly.\n\"I can\'t stop to measure insteps on algebra days; I\'ve noticed your\nhabit of keeping a foot in the aisle ever since you had those new\nshoes, so I don\'t wonder it was stepped on.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I am a little mite conscious of them, because they\'re not so\nvery comfortable at first, till you get them broken in. Say, haven\'t\nyou got a lot of new things?\"\n\n\"Our Christmas presents, you mean,\" said Emma Jane. \"The pillow-cases\nare from Mrs. Cobb, the rug from cousin Mary in North Riverboro, the\nscrap-basket from Living and Dick. We gave each other the bureau and\ncushion covers, and the screen is mine from Mr. Ladd.\"\n\n\"Well, you were lucky when you met him! Gracious! I wish I could meet\nsomebody like that. The way he keeps it up, too! It just hides your\nbed, doesn\'t it, and I always say that a bed takes the style off any\nroom--specially when it\'s not made up; though you have an alcove, and\nit\'s the only one in the whole building. I don\'t see how you managed to\nget this good room when you\'re such new scholars,\" she finished\ndiscontentedly.\n\n\"We shouldn\'t have, except that Ruth Berry had to go away suddenly on\naccount of her father\'s death. This room was empty, and Miss Maxwell\nasked if we might have it,\" returned Emma Jane.\n\n\"The great and only Max is more stiff and standoffish than ever this\nyear,\" said Huldah. \"I\'ve simply given up trying to please her, for\nthere\'s no justice in her; she is good to her favorites, but she\ndoesn\'t pay the least attention to anybody else, except to make\nsarcastic speeches about things that are none of her business. I wanted\nto tell her yesterday it was her place to teach me Latin, not manners.\"\n\n\"I wish you wouldn\'t talk against Miss Maxwell to me,\" said Rebecca\nhotly. \"You know how I feel.\"\n\n\"I know; but I can\'t understand how you can abide her.\"\n\n\"I not only abide, I love her!\" exclaimed Rebecca. \"I wouldn\'t let the\nsun shine too hot on her, or the wind blow too cold. I\'d like to put a\nmarble platform in her class-room and have her sit in a velvet chair\nbehind a golden table!\"\n\n\"Well, don\'t have a fit!--because she can sit where she likes for all\nof me; I\'ve got something better to think of,\" and Huldah tossed her\nhead.\n\n\"Isn\'t this your study hour?\" asked Emma Jane, to stop possible\ndiscussion.\n\n\"Yes, but I lost my Latin grammar yesterday; I left it in the hall half\nan hour while I was having a regular scene with Herbert Dunn. I haven\'t\nspoken to him for a week and gave him back his class pin. He was simply\nfurious. Then when I came back to the hall, the book was gone. I had to\ngo down town for my gloves and to the principal\'s office to see if the\ngrammar had been handed in, and that\'s the reason I\'m so fine.\"\n\nHuldah was wearing a woolen dress that had once been gray, but had been\ndyed a brilliant blue. She had added three rows of white braid and\nlarge white pearl buttons to her gray jacket, in order to make it a\nlittle more \"dressy.\" Her gray felt hat had a white feather on it, and\na white tissue veil with large black dots made her delicate skin look\nbrilliant. Rebecca thought how lovely the knot of red hair looked under\nthe hat behind, and how the color of the front had been dulled by\nincessant frizzing with curling irons. Her open jacket disclosed a\ngalaxy of souvenirs pinned to the background of bright blue,--a small\nAmerican flag, a button of the Wareham Rowing Club, and one or two\nsociety pins. These decorations proved her popularity in very much the\nsame way as do the cotillion favors hanging on the bedroom walls of the\nfashionable belle. She had been pinning and unpinning, arranging and\ndisarranging her veil ever since she entered the room, in the hope that\nthe girls would ask her whose ring she was wearing this week; but\nalthough both had noticed the new ornament instantly, wild horses could\nnot have drawn the question from them; her desire to be asked was too\nobvious. With her gay plumage, her \"nods and becks and wreathed\nsmiles,\" and her cheerful cackle, Huldah closely resembled the parrot\nin Wordsworth\'s poem:--\n\n \"Arch, volatile, a sportive bird,\n By social glee inspired;\n Ambitious to be seen or heard,\n And pleased to be admired!\"\n\n\"Mr. Morrison thinks the grammar will be returned, and lent me\nanother,\" Huldah continued.\n\n\"He was rather snippy about my leaving a book in the hall. There was a\nperfectly elegant gentleman in the office, a stranger to me. I wish he\nwas a new teacher, but there\'s no such luck. He was too young to be the\nfather of any of the girls, and too old to be a brother, but he was\nhandsome as a picture and had on an awful stylish suit of clothes. He\nlooked at me about every minute I was in the room. It made me so\nembarrassed I couldn\'t hardly answer Mr. Morrison\'s questions straight.\"\n\n\"You\'ll have to wear a mask pretty soon, if you\'re going to have any\ncomfort, Huldah,\" said Rebecca. \"Did he offer to lend you his class\npin, or has it been so long since he graduated that he\'s left off\nwearing it? And tell us now whether the principal asked for a lock of\nyour hair to put in his watch?\"\n\nThis was all said merrily and laughingly, but there were times when\nHuldah could scarcely make up her mind whether Rebecca was trying to be\nwitty, or whether she was jealous; but she generally decided it was\nmerely the latter feeling, rather natural in a girl who had little\nattention.\n\n\"He wore no jewelry but a cameo scarf pin and a perfectly gorgeous\nring,--a queer kind of one that wound round and round his finger. Oh\ndear, I must run! Where has the hour gone? There\'s the study bell!\"\n\nRebecca had pricked up her ears at Huldah\'s speech. She remembered a\ncertain strange ring, and it belonged to the only person in the world\n(save Miss Maxwell) who appealed to her imagination,--Mr. Aladdin. Her\nfeeling for him, and that of Emma Jane, was a mixture of romantic and\nreverent admiration for the man himself and the liveliest gratitude for\nhis beautiful gifts. Since they first met him not a Christmas had gone\nby without some remembrance for them both; remembrances chosen with the\nrarest taste and forethought. Emma Jane had seen him only twice, but he\nhad called several times at the brick house, and Rebecca had learned to\nknow him better. It was she, too, who always wrote the notes of\nacknowledgment and thanks, taking infinite pains to make Emma Jane\'s\nquite different from her own. Sometimes he had written from Boston and\nasked her the news of Riverboro, and she had sent him pages of quaint\nand childlike gossip, interspersed, on two occasions, with poetry,\nwhich he read and reread with infinite relish. If Huldah\'s stranger\nshould be Mr. Aladdin, would he come to see her, and could she and Emma\nJane show him their beautiful room with so many of his gifts in\nevidence?\n\nWhen the girls had established themselves in Wareham as real boarding\npupils, it seemed to them existence was as full of joy as it well could\nhold. This first winter was, in fact, the most tranquilly happy of\nRebecca\'s school life,--a winter long to be looked back upon. She and\nEmma Jane were room-mates, and had put their modest possessions\ntogether to make their surroundings pretty and homelike. The room had,\nto begin with, a cheerful red ingrain carpet and a set of maple\nfurniture. As to the rest, Rebecca had furnished the ideas and Emma\nJane the materials and labor, a method of dividing responsibilities\nthat seemed to suit the circumstances admirably. Mrs. Perkins\'s father\nhad been a storekeeper, and on his death had left the goods of which he\nwas possessed to his married daughter. The molasses, vinegar, and\nkerosene had lasted the family for five years, and the Perkins attic\nwas still a treasure-house of ginghams, cottons, and \"Yankee notions.\"\nSo at Rebecca\'s instigation Mrs. Perkins had made full curtains and\nlambrequins of unbleached muslin, which she had trimmed and looped back\nwith bands of Turkey red cotton. There were two table covers to match,\nand each of the girls had her study corner. Rebecca, after much\ncoaxing, had been allowed to bring over her precious lamp, which would\nhave given a luxurious air to any apartment, and when Mr. Aladdin\'s\nlast Christmas presents were added,--the Japanese screen for Emma Jane\nand the little shelf of English Poets for Rebecca,--they declared that\nit was all quite as much fun as being married and going to housekeeping.\n\nThe day of Huldah\'s call was Friday, and on Fridays from three to half\npast four Rebecca was free to take a pleasure to which she looked\nforward the entire week. She always ran down the snowy path through the\npine woods at the back of the seminary, and coming out on a quiet\nvillage street, went directly to the large white house where Miss\nMaxwell lived. The maid-of-all-work answered her knock; she took off\nher hat and cape and hung them in the hall, put her rubber shoes and\numbrella carefully in the corner, and then opened the door of paradise.\nMiss Maxwell\'s sitting-room was lined on two sides with bookshelves,\nand Rebecca was allowed to sit before the fire and browse among the\nbooks to her heart\'s delight for an hour or more. Then Miss Maxwell\nwould come back from her class, and there would be a precious half hour\nof chat before Rebecca had to meet Emma Jane at the station and take\nthe train for Riverboro, where her Saturdays and Sundays were spent,\nand where she was washed, ironed, mended, and examined, approved and\nreproved, warned and advised in quite sufficient quantity to last her\nthe succeeding week.\n\nOn this Friday she buried her face in the blooming geraniums on Miss\nMaxwell\'s plant-stand, selected Romola from one of the bookcases, and\nsank into a seat by the window with a sigh of infinite content, She\nglanced at the clock now and then, remembering the day on which she had\nbeen so immersed in David Copperfield that the Riverboro train had no\nplace in her mind. The distracted Emma Jane had refused to leave\nwithout her, and had run from the station to look for her at Miss\nMaxwell\'s. There was but one later train, and that went only to a place\nthree miles the other side of Riverboro, so that the two girls appeared\nat their respective homes long after dark, having had a weary walk in\nthe snow.\n\nWhen she had read for half an hour she glanced out of the window and\nsaw two figures issuing from the path through the woods. The knot of\nbright hair and the coquettish hat could belong to but one person; and\nher companion, as the couple approached, proved to be none other than\nMr. Aladdin. Huldah was lifting her skirts daintily and picking safe\nstepping-places for the high-heeled shoes, her cheeks glowing, her eyes\nsparkling under the black and white veil.\n\nRebecca slipped from her post by the window to the rug before the\nbright fire and leaned her head on the seat of the great easy-chair.\nShe was frightened at the storm in her heart; at the suddenness with\nwhich it had come on, as well as at the strangeness of an entirely new\nsensation. She felt all at once as if she could not bear to give up her\nshare of Mr. Aladdin\'s friendship to Huldah: Huldah so bright, saucy,\nand pretty; so gay and ready, and such good company! She had always\njoyfully admitted Emma Jane into the precious partnership, but perhaps\nunconsciously to herself she had realized that Emma Jane had never held\nanything but a secondary place in Mr. Aladdin\'s regard; yet who was she\nherself, after all, that she could hope to be first?\n\nSuddenly the door opened softly and somebody looked in, somebody who\nsaid: \"Miss Maxwell told me I should find Miss Rebecca Randall here.\"\n\nRebecca started at the sound and sprang to her feet, saying joyfully,\n\"Mr. Aladdin! Oh! I knew you were in Wareham, and I was afraid you\nwouldn\'t have time to come and see us.\"\n\n\"Who is \'us\'? The aunts are not here, are they? Oh, you mean the rich\nblacksmith\'s daughter, whose name I can never remember. Is she here?\"\n\n\"Yes, and my room-mate,\" answered Rebecca, who thought her own knell of\ndoom had sounded, if he had forgotten Emma Jane\'s name.\n\nThe light in the room grew softer, the fire crackled cheerily, and they\ntalked of many things, until the old sweet sense of friendliness and\nfamiliarity crept back into Rebecca\'s heart. Adam had not seen her for\nseveral months, and there was much to be learned about school matters\nas viewed from her own standpoint; he had already inquired concerning\nher progress from Mr. Morrison.\n\n\"Well, little Miss Rebecca,\" he said, rousing himself at length, \"I\nmust be thinking of my drive to Portland. There is a meeting of railway\ndirectors there to-morrow, and I always take this opportunity of\nvisiting the school and giving my valuable advice concerning its\naffairs, educational and financial.\"\n\n\"It seems funny for you to be a school trustee,\" said Rebecca\ncontemplatively. \"I can\'t seem to make it fit.\"\n\n\"You are a remarkably wise young person and I quite agree with you,\" he\nanswered; \"the fact is,\" he added soberly, \"I accepted the trusteeship\nin memory of my poor little mother, whose last happy years were spent\nhere.\"\n\n\"That was a long time ago!\"\n\n\"Let me see, I am thirty-two; only thirty-two, despite an occasional\ngray hair. My mother was married a month after she graduated, and she\nlived only until I was ten; yes, it is a long way back to my mother\'s\ntime here, though the school was fifteen or twenty years old then, I\nbelieve. Would you like to see my mother, Miss Rebecca?\"\n\nThe girl took the leather case gently and opened it to find an\ninnocent, pink-and-white daisy of a face, so confiding, so sensitive,\nthat it went straight to the heart. It made Rebecca feel old,\nexperienced, and maternal. She longed on the instant to comfort and\nstrengthen such a tender young thing.\n\n\"Oh, what a sweet, sweet, flowery face!\" she whispered softly.\n\n\"The flower had to bear all sorts of storms,\" said Adam gravely. \"The\nbitter weather of the world bent its slender stalk, bowed its head, and\ndragged it to the earth. I was only a child and could do nothing to\nprotect and nourish it, and there was no one else to stand between it\nand trouble. Now I have success and money and power, all that would\nhave kept her alive and happy, and it is too late. She died for lack of\nlove and care, nursing and cherishing, and I can never forget it. All\nthat has come to me seems now and then so useless, since I cannot share\nit with her!\"\n\nThis was a new Mr. Aladdin, and Rebecca\'s heart gave a throb of\nsympathy and comprehension. This explained the tired look in his eyes,\nthe look that peeped out now and then, under all his gay speech and\nlaughter.\n\n\"I\'m so glad I know,\" she said, \"and so glad I could see her just as\nshe was when she tied that white muslin hat under her chin and saw her\nyellow curls and her sky-blue eyes in the glass. Mustn\'t she have been\nhappy! I wish she could have been kept so, and had lived to see you\ngrow up strong and good. My mother is always sad and busy, but once\nwhen she looked at John I heard her say, \'He makes up for everything.\'\nThat\'s what your mother would have thought about you if she had lived,\nand perhaps she does as it is.\"\n\n\"You are a comforting little person, Rebecca,\" said Adam, rising from\nhis chair.\n\nAs Rebecca rose, the tears still trembling on her lashes, he looked at\nher suddenly as with new vision.\n\n\"Good-by!\" he said, taking her slim brown hands in his, adding, as if\nhe saw her for the first time, \"Why, little Rose-Red-Snow-White is\nmaking way for a new girl! Burning the midnight oil and doing four\nyears\' work in three is supposed to dull the eye and blanch the cheek,\nyet Rebecca\'s eyes are bright and she has a rosy color! Her long braids\nare looped one on the other so that they make a black letter U behind,\nand they are tied with grand bows at the top! She is so tall that she\nreaches almost to my shoulder. This will never do in the world! How\nwill Mr. Aladdin get on without his comforting little friend! He\ndoesn\'t like grown-up young ladies in long trains and wonderful fine\nclothes; they frighten and bore him!\"\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Aladdin!\" cried Rebecca eagerly, taking his jest quite\nseriously; \"I am not fifteen yet, and it will be three years before I\'m\na young lady; please don\'t give me up until you have to!\"\n\n\"I won\'t; I promise you that,\" said Adam. \"Rebecca,\" he continued,\nafter a moment\'s pause, \"who is that young girl with a lot of pretty\nred hair and very citified manners? She escorted me down the hill; do\nyou know whom I mean?\"\n\n\"It must be Huldah Meserve; she is from Riverboro.\"\n\nAdam put a finger under Rebecca\'s chin and looked into her eyes; eyes\nas soft, as clear, as unconscious, and childlike as they had been when\nshe was ten. He remembered the other pair of challenging blue ones that\nhad darted coquettish glances through half-dropped lids, shot arrowy\nbeams from under archly lifted brows, and said gravely, \"Don\'t form\nyourself on her, Rebecca; clover blossoms that grow in the fields\nbeside Sunnybrook mustn\'t be tied in the same bouquet with gaudy\nsunflowers; they are too sweet and fragrant and wholesome.\"\n\n\n\nXXIII\n\nTHE HILL DIFFICULTY\n\nThe first happy year at Wareham, with its widened sky-line, its larger\nvision, its greater opportunity, was over and gone. Rebecca had studied\nduring the summer vacation, and had passed, on her return in the\nautumn, certain examinations which would enable her, if she carried out\nthe same programme the next season, to complete the course in three\ninstead of four years. She came off with no flying colors,--that would\nhave been impossible in consideration of her inadequate training; but\nshe did wonderfully well in some of the required subjects, and so\nbrilliantly in others that the average was respectable. She would never\nhave been a remarkable scholar under any circumstances, perhaps, and\nshe was easily out-stripped in mathematics and the natural sciences by\na dozen girls, but in some inexplicable way she became, as the months\nwent on, the foremost figure in the school. When she had entirely\nforgotten the facts which would enable her to answer a question fully\nand conclusively, she commonly had some original theory to expound; it\nwas not always correct, but it was generally unique and sometimes\namusing. She was only fair in Latin or French grammar, but when it came\nto translation, her freedom, her choice of words, and her sympathetic\nunderstanding of the spirit of the text made her the delight of her\nteachers and the despair of her rivals.\n\n\"She can be perfectly ignorant of a subject,\" said Miss Maxwell to Adam\nLadd, \"but entirely intelligent the moment she has a clue. Most of the\nother girls are full of information and as stupid as sheep.\"\n\nRebecca\'s gifts had not been discovered save by the few, during the\nfirst year, when she was adjusting herself quietly to the situation.\nShe was distinctly one of the poorer girls; she had no fine dresses to\nattract attention, no visitors, no friends in the town. She had more\nstudy hours, and less time, therefore, for the companionship of other\ngirls, gladly as she would have welcomed the gayety of that side of\nschool life. Still, water will find its own level in some way, and by\nthe spring of the second year she had naturally settled into the same\nsort of leadership which had been hers in the smaller community of\nRiverboro. She was unanimously elected assistant editor of the Wareham\nSchool Pilot, being the first girl to assume that enviable, though\nsomewhat arduous and thankless position, and when her maiden number\nwent to the Cobbs, uncle Jerry and aunt Sarah could hardly eat or sleep\nfor pride.\n\n\"She\'ll always get votes,\" said Huldah Meserve, when discussing the\nelection, \"for whether she knows anything or not, she looks as if she\ndid, and whether she\'s capable of filling an office or not, she looks\nas if she was. I only wish I was tall and dark and had the gift of\nmaking people believe I was great things, like Rebecca Randall. There\'s\none thing: though the boys call her handsome, you notice they don\'t\ntrouble her with much attention.\"\n\nIt was a fact that Rebecca\'s attitude towards the opposite sex was\nstill somewhat indifferent and oblivious, even for fifteen and a half!\nNo one could look at her and doubt that she had potentialities of\nattraction latent within her somewhere, but that side of her nature was\nhappily biding its time. A human being is capable only of a certain\namount of activity at a given moment, and it will inevitably satisfy\nfirst its most pressing needs, its most ardent desires, its chief\nambitions. Rebecca was full of small anxieties and fears, for matters\nwere not going well at the brick house and were anything but hopeful at\nthe home farm. She was overbusy and overtaxed, and her thoughts were\nnaturally drawn towards the difficult problems of daily living.\n\nIt had seemed to her during the autumn and winter of that year as if\nher aunt Miranda had never been, save at the very first, so censorious\nand so fault-finding. One Saturday Rebecca ran upstairs and, bursting\ninto a flood of tears, exclaimed, \"Aunt Jane, it seems as if I never\ncould stand her continual scoldings. Nothing I can do suits aunt\nMiranda; she\'s just said it will take me my whole life to get the\nRandall out of me, and I\'m not convinced that I want it all out, so\nthere we are!\"\n\nAunt Jane, never demonstrative, cried with Rebecca as she attempted to\nsoothe her.\n\n\"You must be patient,\" she said, wiping first her own eyes and then\nRebecca\'s. \"I haven\'t told you, for it isn\'t fair you should be\ntroubled when you\'re studying so hard, but your aunt Miranda isn\'t\nwell. One Monday morning about a month ago, she had a kind of faint\nspell; it wasn\'t bad, but the doctor is afraid it was a shock, and if\nso, it\'s the beginning of the end. Seems to me she\'s failing right\nalong, and that\'s what makes her so fretful and easy vexed. She has\nother troubles too, that you don\'t know anything about, and if you\'re\nnot kind to your aunt Miranda now, child, you\'ll be dreadful sorry some\ntime.\"\n\nAll the temper faded from Rebecca\'s face, and she stopped crying to say\npenitently, \"Oh! the poor dear thing! I won\'t mind a bit what she says\nnow. She\'s just asked me for some milk toast and I was dreading to take\nit to her, but this will make everything different. Don\'t worry yet,\naunt Jane, for perhaps it won\'t be as bad as you think.\"\n\nSo when she carried the toast to her aunt a little later, it was in the\nbest gilt-edged china bowl, with a fringed napkin on the tray and a\nsprig of geranium lying across the salt cellar.\n\n\"Now, aunt Miranda,\" she said cheerily, \"I expect you to smack your\nlips and say this is good; it\'s not Randall, but Sawyer milk toast.\"\n\n\"You\'ve tried all kinds on me, one time an\' another,\" Miranda answered.\n\"This tastes real kind o\' good; but I wish you hadn\'t wasted that nice\ngeranium.\"\n\n\"You can\'t tell what\'s wasted,\" said Rebecca philosophically; \"perhaps\nthat geranium has been hoping this long time it could brighten\nsomebody\'s supper, so don\'t disappoint it by making believe you don\'t\nlike it. I\'ve seen geraniums cry,--in the very early morning!\"\n\nThe mysterious trouble to which Jane had alluded was a very real one,\nbut it was held in profound secrecy. Twenty-five hundred dollars of the\nsmall Sawyer property had been invested in the business of a friend of\ntheir father\'s, and had returned them a regular annual income of a\nhundred dollars. The family friend had been dead for some five years,\nbut his son had succeeded to his interests and all went on as formerly.\nSuddenly there came a letter saying that the firm had gone into\nbankruptcy, that the business had been completely wrecked, and that the\nSawyer money had been swept away with everything else.\n\nThe loss of one hundred dollars a year is a very trifling matter, but\nit made all the difference between comfort and self-denial to the two\nold spinsters Their manner of life had been so rigid and careful that\nit was difficult to economize any further, and the blow had fallen just\nwhen it was most inconvenient, for Rebecca\'s school and boarding\nexpenses, small as they were, had to be paid promptly and in cash.\n\n\"Can we possibly go on doing it? Shan\'t we have to give up and tell her\nwhy?\" asked Jane tearfully of the elder sister.\n\n\"We have put our hand to the plough, and we can\'t turn back,\" answered\nMiranda in her grimmest tone; \"we\'ve taken her away from her mother and\noffered her an education, and we\'ve got to keep our word. She\'s\nAurelia\'s only hope for years to come, to my way o\' thinkin\'. Hannah\'s\nbeau takes all her time \'n\' thought, and when she gits a husband her\nmother\'ll be out o\' sight and out o\' mind. John, instead of farmin\',\nthinks he must be a doctor,--as if folks wasn\'t gettin\' unhealthy\nenough these days, without turnin\' out more young doctors to help \'em\ninto their graves. No, Jane; we\'ll skimp \'n\' do without, \'n\' plan to\ngit along on our interest money somehow, but we won\'t break into our\nprincipal, whatever happens.\"\n\n\"Breaking into the principal\" was, in the minds of most thrifty New\nEngland women, a sin only second to arson, theft, or murder; and,\nthough the rule was occasionally carried too far for common sense,--as\nin this case, where two elderly women of sixty might reasonably have\ndrawn something from their little hoard in time of special need,--it\ndoubtless wrought more of good than evil in the community.\n\nRebecca, who knew nothing of their business affairs, merely saw her\naunts grow more and more saving, pinching here and there, cutting off\nthis and that relentlessly. Less meat and fish were bought; the woman\nwho had lately been coming two days a week for washing, ironing, and\nscrubbing was dismissed; the old bonnets of the season before were\nbrushed up and retrimmed; there were no drives to Moderation or trips\nto Portland. Economy was carried to its very extreme; but though\nMiranda was well-nigh as gloomy and uncompromising in her manner and\nconversation as a woman could well be, she at least never twitted her\nniece of being a burden; so Rebecca\'s share of the Sawyers\' misfortunes\nconsisted only in wearing her old dresses, hats, and jackets, without\nany apparent hope of a change.\n\nThere was, however, no concealing the state of things at Sunnybrook,\nwhere chapters of accidents had unfolded themselves in a sort of serial\nstory that had run through the year. The potato crop had failed; there\nwere no apples to speak of; the hay had been poor; Aurelia had turns of\ndizziness in her head; Mark had broken his ankle. As this was his\nfourth offense, Miranda inquired how many bones there were in the human\nbody, \"so \'t they\'d know when Mark got through breakin\' \'em.\" The time\nfor paying the interest on the mortgage, that incubus that had crushed\nall the joy out of the Randall household, had come and gone, and there\nwas no possibility, for the first time in fourteen years, of paying the\nrequired forty-eight dollars. The only bright spot in the horizon was\nHannah\'s engagement to Will Melville,--a young farmer whose land joined\nSunnybrook, who had a good house, was alone in the world, and his own\nmaster. Hannah was so satisfied with her own unexpectedly radiant\nprospects that she hardly realized her mother\'s anxieties; for there\nare natures which flourish, in adversity, and deteriorate when exposed\nto sudden prosperity. She had made a visit of a week at the brick\nhouse; and Miranda\'s impression, conveyed in privacy to Jane, was that\nHannah was close as the bark of a tree, and consid\'able selfish too;\nthat when she\'d clim\' as fur as she could in the world, she\'d kick the\nladder out from under her, everlastin\' quick; that, on being sounded as\nto her ability to be of use to the younger children in the future, she\nsaid she guessed she\'d done her share a\'ready, and she wan\'t goin\' to\nburden Will with her poor relations. \"She\'s Susan Randall through and\nthrough!\" ejaculated Miranda. \"I was glad to see her face turned\ntowards Temperance. If that mortgage is ever cleared from the farm, \'t\nwon\'t be Hannah that\'ll do it; it\'ll be Rebecca or me!\"\n\n\n\nXXIV\n\nALADDIN RUBS HIS LAMP\n\n\"Your esteemed contribution entitled Wareham Wildflowers has been\naccepted for The Pilot, Miss Perkins,\" said Rebecca, entering the room\nwhere Emma Jane was darning the firm\'s stockings. \"I stayed to tea with\nMiss Maxwell, but came home early to tell you.\"\n\n\"You are joking, Becky!\" faltered Emma Jane, looking up from her work.\n\n\"Not a bit; the senior editor read it and thought it highly\ninstructive; it appears in the next issue.\"\n\n\"Not in the same number with your poem about the golden gates that\nclose behind us when we leave school?\"--and Emma Jane held her breath\nas she awaited the reply.\n\n\"Even so, Miss Perkins.\"\n\n\"Rebecca,\" said Emma Jane, with the nearest approach to tragedy that\nher nature would permit, \"I don\'t know as I shall be able to bear it,\nand if anything happens to me, I ask you solemnly to bury that number\nof The Pilot with me.\"\n\nRebecca did not seem to think this the expression of an exaggerated\nstate of feeling, inasmuch as she replied, \"I know; that\'s just the way\nit seemed to me at first, and even now, whenever I\'m alone and take out\nthe Pilot back numbers to read over my contributions, I almost burst\nwith pleasure; and it\'s not that they are good either, for they look\nworse to me every time I read them.\"\n\n\"If you would only live with me in some little house when we get\nolder,\" mused Emma Jane, as with her darning needle poised in air she\nregarded the opposite wall dreamily, \"I would do the housework and\ncooking, and copy all your poems and stories, and take them to the\npost-office, and you needn\'t do anything but write. It would be\nperfectly elergant!\"\n\n\"I\'d like nothing better, if I hadn\'t promised to keep house for John,\"\nreplied Rebecca.\n\n\"He won\'t have a house for a good many years, will he?\"\n\n\"No,\" sighed Rebecca ruefully, flinging herself down by the table and\nresting her head on her hand. \"Not unless we can contrive to pay off\nthat detestable mortgage. The day grows farther off instead of nearer\nnow that we haven\'t paid the interest this year.\"\n\nShe pulled a piece of paper towards her, and scribbling idly on it read\naloud in a moment or two:--\n\n \"Will you pay a little faster?\" said the mortgage to the farm;\n \"I confess I\'m very tired of this place.\"\n \"The weariness is mutual,\" Rebecca Randall cried;\n \"I would I\'d never gazed upon your face!\"\n\n\"A note has a \'face,\'\" observed Emma Jane, who was gifted in\narithmetic. \"I didn\'t know that a mortgage had.\"\n\n\"Our mortgage has,\" said Rebecca revengefully. \"I should know him if I\nmet him in the dark. Wait and I\'ll draw him for you. It will be good\nfor you to know how he looks, and then when you have a husband and\nseven children, you won\'t allow him to come anywhere within a mile of\nyour farm.\"\n\nThe sketch when completed was of a sort to be shunned by a timid person\non the verge of slumber. There was a tiny house on the right, and a\nweeping family gathered in front of it. The mortgage was depicted as a\ncross between a fiend and an ogre, and held an axe uplifted in his red\nright hand. A figure with streaming black locks was staying the blow,\nand this, Rebecca explained complacently, was intended as a likeness of\nherself, though she was rather vague as to the method she should use in\nattaining her end.\n\n\"He\'s terrible,\" said Emma Jane, \"but awfully wizened and small.\"\n\n\"It\'s only a twelve hundred dollar mortgage,\" said Rebecca, \"and that\'s\ncalled a small one. John saw a man once that was mortgaged for twelve\nthousand.\"\n\n\"Shall you be a writer or an editor?\" asked Emma Jane presently, as if\none had only to choose and the thing were done.\n\n\"I shall have to do what turns up first, I suppose.\"\n\n\"Why not go out as a missionary to Syria, as the Burches are always\ncoaxing you to? The Board would pay your expenses.\"\n\n\"I can\'t make up my mind to be a missionary,\" Rebecca answered. \"I\'m\nnot good enough in the first place, and I don\'t \'feel a call,\' as Mr.\nBurch says you must. I would like to do something for somebody and make\nthings move, somewhere, but I don\'t want to go thousands of miles away\nteaching people how to live when I haven\'t learned myself. It isn\'t as\nif the heathen really needed me; I\'m sure they\'ll come out all right in\nthe end.\"\n\n\"I can\'t see how; if all the people who ought to go out to save them\nstay at home as we do,\" argued Emma Jane.\n\n\"Why, whatever God is, and wherever He is, He must always be there,\nready and waiting. He can\'t move about and miss people. It may take the\nheathen a little longer to find Him, but God will make allowances, of\ncourse. He knows if they live in such hot climates it must make them\nlazy and slow; and the parrots and tigers and snakes and bread-fruit\ntrees distract their minds; and having no books, they can\'t think as\nwell; but they\'ll find God somehow, some time.\"\n\n\"What if they die first?\" asked Emma Jane.\n\n\"Oh, well, they can\'t be blamed for that; they don\'t die on purpose,\"\nsaid Rebecca, with a comfortable theology.\n\n\nIn these days Adam Ladd sometimes went to Temperance on business\nconnected with the proposed branch of the railroad familiarly known as\nthe \"York and Yank \'em,\" and while there he gained an inkling of\nSunnybrook affairs. The building of the new road was not yet a\ncertainty, and there was a difference of opinion as to the best route\nfrom Temperance to Plumville. In one event the way would lead directly\nthrough Sunnybrook, from corner to corner, and Mrs. Randall would be\ncompensated; in the other, her interests would not be affected either\nfor good or ill, save as all land in the immediate neighborhood might\nrise a little in value.\n\nComing from Temperance to Wareham one day, Adam had a long walk and\ntalk with Rebecca, whom he thought looking pale and thin, though she\nwas holding bravely to her self-imposed hours of work. She was wearing\na black cashmere dress that had been her aunt Jane\'s second best. We\nare familiar with the heroine of romance whose foot is so exquisitely\nshaped that the coarsest shoe cannot conceal its perfections, and one\nalways cherishes a doubt of the statement; yet it is true that\nRebecca\'s peculiar and individual charm seemed wholly independent of\naccessories. The lines of her figure, the rare coloring of skin and\nhair and eyes, triumphed over shabby clothing, though, had the\nadvantage of artistic apparel been given her, the little world of\nWareham would probably at once have dubbed her a beauty. The long black\nbraids were now disposed after a quaint fashion of her own. They were\ncrossed behind, carried up to the front, and crossed again, the\ntapering ends finally brought down and hidden in the thicker part at\nthe neck. Then a purely feminine touch was given to the hair that waved\nback from the face,--a touch that rescued little crests and wavelets\nfrom bondage and set them free to take a new color in the sun.\n\nAdam Ladd looked at her in a way that made her put her hands over her\nface and laugh through them shyly as she said: \"I know what you are\nthinking, Mr. Aladdin,--that my dress is an inch longer than last year,\nand my hair different; but I\'m not nearly a young lady yet; truly I\'m\nnot. Sixteen is a month off still, and you promised not to give me up\ntill my dress trails. If you don\'t like me to grow old, why don\'t you\ngrow young? Then we can meet in the halfway house and have nice times.\nNow that I think about it,\" she continued, \"that\'s just what you\'ve\nbeen doing all along. When you bought the soap, I thought you were\ngrandfather Sawyer\'s age; when you danced with me at the flag-raising,\nyou seemed like my father; but when you showed me your mother\'s\npicture, I felt as if you were my John, because I was so sorry for you.\"\n\n\"That will do very well,\" smiled Adam; \"unless you go so swiftly that\nyou become my grandmother before I really need one. You are studying\ntoo hard, Miss Rebecca Rowena!\"\n\n\"Just a little,\" she confessed. \"But vacation comes soon, you know.\"\n\n\"And are you going to have a good rest and try to recover your dimples?\nThey are really worth preserving.\"\n\nA shadow crept over Rebecca\'s face and her eyes suffused. \"Don\'t be\nkind, Mr. Aladdin, I can\'t bear it;--it\'s--it\'s not one of my dimply\ndays!\" and she ran in at the seminary gate, and disappeared with a\nfarewell wave of her hand.\n\nAdam Ladd wended his way to the principal\'s office in a thoughtful\nmood. He had come to Wareham to unfold a plan that he had been\nconsidering for several days. This year was the fiftieth anniversary of\nthe founding of the Wareham schools, and he meant to tell Mr. Morrison\nthat in addition to his gift of a hundred volumes to the reference\nlibrary, he intended to celebrate it by offering prizes in English\ncomposition, a subject in which he was much interested. He wished the\nboys and girls of the two upper classes to compete; the award to be\nmade to the writers of the two best essays. As to the nature of the\nprizes he had not quite made up his mind, but they would be substantial\nones, either of money or of books.\n\nThis interview accomplished, he called upon Miss Maxwell, thinking as\nhe took the path through the woods, \"Rose-Red-Snow-White needs the\nhelp, and since there is no way of my giving it to her without causing\nremark, she must earn it, poor little soul! I wonder if my money is\nalways to be useless where most I wish to spend it!\"\n\nHe had scarcely greeted his hostess when he said: \"Miss Maxwell,\ndoesn\'t it strike you that our friend Rebecca looks wretchedly tired?\"\n\n\"She does indeed, and I am considering whether I can take her away with\nme. I always go South for the spring vacation, traveling by sea to Old\nPoint Comfort, and rusticating in some quiet spot near by. I should\nlike nothing better than to have Rebecca for a companion.\"\n\n\"The very thing!\" assented Adam heartily; \"but why should you take the\nwhole responsibility? Why not let me help? I am greatly interested in\nthe child, and have been for some years.\"\n\n\"You needn\'t pretend you discovered her,\" interrupted Miss Maxwell\nwarmly, \"for I did that myself.\"\n\n\"She was an intimate friend of mine long before you ever came to\nWareham,\" laughed Adam, and he told Miss Maxwell the circumstances of\nhis first meeting with Rebecca. \"From the beginning I\'ve tried to think\nof a way I could be useful in her development, but no reasonable\nsolution seemed to offer itself.\"\n\n\"Luckily she attends to her own development,\" answered Miss Maxwell.\n\"In a sense she is independent of everything and everybody; she follows\nher saint without being conscious of it. But she needs a hundred\npractical things that money would buy for her, and alas! I have a\nslender purse.\"\n\n\"Take mine, I beg, and let me act through you,\" pleaded Adam. \"I could\nnot bear to see even a young tree trying its best to grow without light\nor air,--how much less a gifted child! I interviewed her aunts a year\nago, hoping I might be permitted to give her a musical education. I\nassured them it was a most ordinary occurrence, and that I was willing\nto be repaid later on if they insisted, but it was no use. The elder\nMiss Sawyer remarked that no member of her family ever had lived on\ncharity, and she guessed they wouldn\'t begin at this late day.\"\n\n\"I rather like that uncompromising New England grit,\" exclaimed Miss\nMaxwell, \"and so far, I don\'t regret one burden that Rebecca has borne\nor one sorrow that she has shared. Necessity has only made her brave;\npoverty has only made her daring and self-reliant. As to her present\nneeds, there are certain things only a woman ought to do for a girl,\nand I should not like to have you do them for Rebecca; I should feel\nthat I was wounding her pride and self-respect, even though she were\nignorant; but there is no reason why I may not do them if necessary and\nlet you pay her traveling expenses. I would accept those for her\nwithout the slightest embarrassment, but I agree that the matter would\nbetter be kept private between us.\"\n\n\"You are a real fairy godmother!\" exclaimed Adam, shaking her hand\nwarmly. \"Would it be less trouble for you to invite her room-mate\ntoo,--the pink-and-white inseparable?\"\n\n\"No, thank you, I prefer to have Rebecca all to myself,\" said Miss\nMaxwell.\n\n\"I can understand that,\" replied Adam absent-mindedly; \"I mean, of\ncourse, that one child is less trouble than two. There she is now.\"\n\nHere Rebecca appeared in sight, walking down the quiet street with a\nlad of sixteen. They were in animated conversation, and were apparently\nreading something aloud to each other, for the black head and the curly\nbrown one were both bent over a sheet of letter paper. Rebecca kept\nglancing up at her companion, her eyes sparkling with appreciation.\n\n\"Miss Maxwell,\" said Adam, \"I am a trustee of this institution, but\nupon my word I don\'t believe in coeducation!\"\n\n\"I have my own occasional hours of doubt,\" she answered, \"but surely\nits disadvantages are reduced to a minimum with--children! That is a\nvery impressive sight which you are privileged to witness, Mr. Ladd.\nThe folk in Cambridge often gloated on the spectacle of Longfellow and\nLowell arm in arm. The little school world of Wareham palpitates with\nexcitement when it sees the senior and the junior editors of The Pilot\nwalking together!\"\n\n\n\nXXV\n\nROSES OF JOY\n\nThe day before Rebecca started for the South with Miss Maxwell she was\nin the library with Emma Jane and Huldah, consulting dictionaries and\nencyclopaedias. As they were leaving they passed the locked cases\ncontaining the library of fiction, open to the teachers and\ntownspeople, but forbidden to the students.\n\nThey looked longingly through the glass, getting some little comfort\nfrom the titles of the volumes, as hungry children imbibe emotional\nnourishment from the pies and tarts inside a confectioner\'s window.\nRebecca\'s eyes fell upon a new book in the corner, and she read the\nname aloud with delight: \"_The Rose of Joy_. Listen, girls; isn\'t that\nlovely? _The Rose of Joy_. It looks beautiful, and it sounds beautiful.\nWhat does it mean, I wonder?\"\n\n\"I guess everybody has a different rose,\" said Huldah shrewdly. \"I know\nwhat mine would be, and I\'m not ashamed to own it. I\'d like a year in a\ncity, with just as much money as I wanted to spend, horses and splendid\nclothes and amusements every minute of the day; and I\'d like above\neverything to live with people that wear low necks.\" (Poor Huldah never\ntook off her dress without bewailing the fact that her lot was cast in\nRiverboro, where her pretty white shoulders could never be seen.)\n\n\"That would be fun, for a while anyway,\" Emma Jane remarked. \"But\nwouldn\'t that be pleasure more than joy? Oh, I\'ve got an idea!\"\n\n\"Don\'t shriek so!\" said the startled Huldah. \"I thought it was a mouse.\"\n\n\"I don\'t have them very often,\" apologized Emma Jane,--\"ideas, I mean;\nthis one shook me like a stroke of lightning. Rebecca, couldn\'t it be\nsuccess?\"\n\n\"That\'s good,\" mused Rebecca; \"I can see that success would be a joy,\nbut it doesn\'t seem to me like a rose, somehow. I was wondering if it\ncould be love?\"\n\n\"I wish we could have a peep at the book! It must be perfectly\nelergant!\" said Emma Jane. \"But now you say it is love, I think that\'s\nthe best guess yet.\"\n\nAll day long the four words haunted and possessed Rebecca; she said\nthem over to herself continually. Even the prosaic Emma Jane was\naffected by them, for in the evening she said, \"I don\'t expect you to\nbelieve it, but I have another idea,--that\'s two in one day; I had it\nwhile I was putting cologne on your head. The rose of joy might be\nhelpfulness.\"\n\n\"If it is, then it is always blooming in your dear little heart, you\ndarlingest, kind Emmie, taking such good care of your troublesome\nBecky!\"\n\n\"Don\'t dare to call yourself troublesome! You\'re--you\'re--you\'re my\nrose of joy, that\'s what you are!\" And the two girls hugged each other\naffectionately.\n\nIn the middle of the night Rebecca touched Emma Jane on the shoulder\nsoftly. \"Are you very fast asleep, Emmie?\" she whispered.\n\n\"Not so very,\" answered Emma Jane drowsily.\n\n\"I\'ve thought of something new. If you sang or painted or wrote,--not a\nlittle, but beautifully, you know,--wouldn\'t the doing of it, just as\nmuch as you wanted, give you the rose of joy?\"\n\n\"It might if it was a real talent,\" answered Emma Jane, \"though I don\'t\nlike it so well as love. If you have another thought, Becky, keep it\ntill morning.\"\n\n\"I did have one more inspiration,\" said Rebecca when they were dressing\nnext morning, \"but I didn\'t wake you. I wondered if the rose of joy\ncould be sacrifice? But I think sacrifice would be a lily, not a rose;\ndon\'t you?\"\n\n\nThe journey southward, the first glimpse of the ocean, the strange new\nscenes, the ease and delicious freedom, the intimacy with Miss Maxwell,\nalmost intoxicated Rebecca. In three days she was not only herself\nagain, she was another self, thrilling with delight, anticipation, and\nrealization. She had always had such eager hunger for knowledge, such\nthirst for love, such passionate longing for the music, the beauty, the\npoetry of existence! She had always been straining to make the outward\nworld conform to her inward dreams, and now life had grown all at once\nrich and sweet, wide and full. She was using all her natural, God-given\noutlets; and Emily Maxwell marveled daily at the inexhaustible way in\nwhich the girl poured out and gathered in the treasures of thought and\nexperience that belonged to her. She was a lifegiver, altering the\nwhole scheme of any picture she made a part of, by contributing new\nvalues. Have you never seen the dull blues and greens of a room\nchanged, transfigured by a burst of sunshine? That seemed to Miss\nMaxwell the effect of Rebecca on the groups of people with whom they\nnow and then mingled; but they were commonly alone, reading to each\nother and having quiet talks. The prize essay was very much on\nRebecca\'s mind. Secretly she thought she could never be happy unless\nshe won it. She cared nothing for the value of it, and in this case\nalmost nothing for the honor; she wanted to please Mr. Aladdin and\njustify his belief in her.\n\n\"If I ever succeed in choosing a subject, I must ask if you think I can\nwrite well on it; and then I suppose I must work in silence and secret,\nnever even reading the essay to you, nor talking about it.\"\n\nMiss Maxwell and Rebecca were sitting by a little brook on a sunny\nspring day. They had been in a stretch of wood by the sea since\nbreakfast, going every now and then for a bask on the warm white sand,\nand returning to their shady solitude when tired of the sun\'s glare.\n\n\"The subject is very important,\" said Miss Maxwell, \"but I do not dare\nchoose for you. Have you decided on anything yet?\"\n\n\"No,\" Rebecca answered; \"I plan a new essay every night. I\'ve begun one\non What is Failure? and another on He and She. That would be a dialogue\nbetween a boy and girl just as they were leaving school, and would tell\ntheir ideals of life. Then do you remember you said to me one day,\n\'Follow your Saint\'? I\'d love to write about that. I didn\'t have a\nsingle thought in Wareham, and now I have a new one every minute, so I\nmust try and write the essay here; think it out, at any rate, while I\nam so happy and free and rested. Look at the pebbles in the bottom of\nthe pool, Miss Emily, so round and smooth and shining.\"\n\n\"Yes, but where did they get that beautiful polish, that satin skin,\nthat lovely shape, Rebecca? Not in the still pool lying on the sands.\nIt was never there that their angles were rubbed off and their rough\nsurfaces polished, but in the strife and warfare of running waters.\nThey have jostled against other pebbles, dashed against sharp rocks,\nand now we look at them and call them beautiful.\"\n\n \"If Fate had not made somebody a teacher,\n She might have been, oh! such a splendid preacher!\"\n\nrhymed Rebecca. \"Oh! if I could only think and speak as you do!\" she\nsighed. \"I am so afraid I shall never get education enough to make a\ngood writer.\"\n\n\"You could worry about plenty of other things to better advantage,\"\nsaid Miss Maxwell, a little scornfully. \"Be afraid, for instance, that\nyou won\'t understand human nature; that you won\'t realize the beauty of\nthe outer world; that you may lack sympathy, and thus never be able to\nread a heart; that your faculty of expression may not keep pace with\nyour ideas,--a thousand things, every one of them more important to the\nwriter than the knowledge that is found in books. AEsop was a Greek\nslave who could not even write down his wonderful fables; yet all the\nworld reads them.\"\n\n\"I didn\'t know that,\" said Rebecca, with a half sob. \"I didn\'t know\nanything until I met you!\"\n\n\"You will only have had a high school course, but the most famous\nuniversities do not always succeed in making men and women. When I long\nto go abroad and study, I always remember that there were three great\nschools in Athens and two in Jerusalem, but the Teacher of all teachers\ncame out of Nazareth, a little village hidden away from the bigger,\nbusier world.\"\n\n\"Mr. Ladd says that you are almost wasted on Wareham,\" said Rebecca\nthoughtfully.\n\n\"He is wrong; my talent is not a great one, but no talent is wholly\nwasted unless its owner chooses to hide it in a napkin. Remember that\nof your own gifts, Rebecca; they may not be praised of men, but they\nmay cheer, console, inspire, perhaps, when and where you least expect.\nThe brimming glass that overflows its own rim moistens the earth about\nit.\"\n\n\"Did you ever hear of The Rose of Joy?\" asked Rebecca, after a long\nsilence.\n\n\"Yes, of course; where did you see it?\"\n\n\"On the outside of a book in the library.\"\n\n\"I saw it on the inside of a book in the library,\" smiled Miss Maxwell.\n\"It is from Emerson, but I\'m afraid you haven\'t quite grown up to it,\nRebecca, and it is one of the things impossible to explain.\"\n\n\"Oh, try me, dear Miss Maxwell!\" pleaded Rebecca. \"Perhaps by thinking\nhard I can guess a little bit what it means.\"\n\n\"\'In the actual--this painful kingdom of time and chance--are Care,\nCanker, and Sorrow; with thought, with the Ideal, is immortal\nhilarity--the rose of Joy; round it all the Muses sing,\'\" quoted Miss\nMaxwell.\n\nRebecca repeated it over and over again until she had learned it by\nheart; then she said, \"I don\'t want to be conceited, but I almost\nbelieve I do understand it, Miss Maxwell. Not altogether, perhaps,\nbecause it is puzzling and difficult; but a little, enough to go on\nwith. It\'s as if a splendid shape galloped past you on horseback; you\nare so surprised and your eyes move so slowly you cannot half see it,\nbut you just catch a glimpse as it whisks by, and you know it is\nbeautiful. It\'s all settled. My essay is going to be called The Rose of\nJoy. I\'ve just decided. It hasn\'t any beginning, nor any middle, but\nthere will be a thrilling ending, something like this: let me see; joy,\nboy, toy, ahoy, decoy, alloy:--\n\n Then come what will of weal or woe\n (Since all gold hath alloy),\n Thou \'lt bloom unwithered in this heart,\n My Rose of Joy!\n\nNow I\'m going to tuck you up in the shawl and give you the fir pillow,\nand while you sleep I am going down on the shore and write a fairy\nstory for you. It\'s one of our \'supposing\' kind; it flies far, far into\nthe future, and makes beautiful things happen that may never really all\ncome to pass; but some of them will,--you\'ll see! and then you\'ll take\nout the little fairy story from your desk and remember Rebecca.\"\n\n\"I wonder why these young things always choose subjects that would tax\nthe powers of a great essayist!\" thought Miss Maxwell, as she tried to\nsleep. \"Are they dazzled, captivated, taken possession of, by the\nsplendor of the theme, and do they fancy they can write up to it? Poor\nlittle innocents, hitching their toy wagons to the stars! How pretty\nthis particular innocent looks under her new sunshade!\"\n\nAdam Ladd had been driving through Boston streets on a cold spring day\nwhen nature and the fashion-mongers were holding out promises which\nseemed far from performance. Suddenly his vision was assailed by the\nsight of a rose-colored parasol gayly unfurled in a shop window,\nsignaling the passer-by and setting him to dream of summer sunshine. It\nreminded Adam of a New England apple-tree in full bloom, the outer\ncovering of deep pink shining through the thin white lining, and a\nfluffy, fringe-like edge of mingled rose and cream dropping over the\ngreen handle. All at once he remembered one of Rebecca\'s early\nconfidences,--the little pink sunshade that had given her the only peep\ninto the gay world of fashion that her childhood had ever known; her\nadoration of the flimsy bit of finery and its tragic and sacrificial\nend. He entered the shop, bought the extravagant bauble, and expressed\nit to Wareham at once, not a single doubt of its appropriateness\ncrossing the darkness of his masculine mind. He thought only of the joy\nin Rebecca\'s eyes; of the poise of her head under the apple-blossom\ncanopy. It was a trifle embarrassing to return an hour later and buy a\nblue parasol for Emma Jane Perkins, but it seemed increasingly\ndifficult, as the years went on, to remember her existence at all the\nproper times and seasons.\n\nThis is Rebecca\'s fairy story, copied the next day and given to Emily\nMaxwell just as she was going to her room for the night. She read it\nwith tears in her eyes and then sent it to Adam Ladd, thinking he had\nearned a share in it, and that he deserved a glimpse of the girl\'s\nbudding imagination, as well as of her grateful young heart.\n\nA FAIRY STORY\n\nThere was once a tired and rather poverty-stricken Princess who dwelt\nin a cottage on the great highway between two cities. She was not as\nunhappy as thousands of others; indeed, she had much to be grateful\nfor, but the life she lived and the work she did were full hard for one\nwho was fashioned slenderly.\n\nNow the cottage stood by the edge of a great green forest where the\nwind was always singing in the branches and the sunshine filtering\nthrough the leaves.\n\nAnd one day when the Princess was sitting by the wayside quite spent by\nher labor in the fields, she saw a golden chariot rolling down the\nKing\'s Highway, and in it a person who could be none other than\nsomebody\'s Fairy Godmother on her way to the Court. The chariot halted\nat her door, and though the Princess had read of such beneficent\npersonages, she never dreamed for an instant that one of them could\never alight at her cottage.\n\n\"If you are tired, poor little Princess, why do you not go into the\ncool green forest and rest?\" asked the Fairy Godmother.\n\n\"Because I have no time,\" she answered. \"I must go back to my plough.\"\n\n\"Is that your plough leaning by the tree, and is it not too heavy?\"\n\n\"It is heavy,\" answered the Princess, \"but I love to turn the hard\nearth into soft furrows and know that I am making good soil wherein my\nseeds may grow. When I feel the weight too much, I try to think of the\nharvest.\"\n\nThe golden chariot passed on, and the two talked no more together that\nday; nevertheless the King\'s messengers were busy, for they whispered\none word into the ear of the Fairy Godmother and another into the ear\nof the Princess, though so faintly that neither of them realized that\nthe King had spoken.\n\nThe next morning a strong man knocked at the cottage door, and doffing\nhis hat to the Princess said: \"A golden chariot passed me yesterday,\nand one within it flung me a purse of ducats, saying: \'Go out into the\nKing\'s Highway and search until you find a cottage and a heavy plough\nleaning against a tree near by. Enter and say to the Princess whom you\nwill find there: \"I will guide the plough and you must go and rest, or\nwalk in the cool green forest; for this is the command of your Fairy\nGodmother.\"\'\"\n\nAnd the same thing happened every day, and every day the tired Princess\nwalked in the green wood. Many times she caught the glitter of the\nchariot and ran into the Highway to give thanks to the Fairy Godmother;\nbut she was never fleet enough to reach the spot. She could only stand\nwith eager eyes and longing heart as the chariot passed by. Yet she\nnever failed to catch a smile, and sometimes a word or two floated back\nto her, words that sounded like: \"I would not be thanked. We are all\nchildren of the same King, and I am only his messenger.\"\n\nNow as the Princess walked daily in the green forest, hearing the wind\nsinging in the branches and seeing the sunlight filter through the\nlattice-work of green leaves, there came unto her thoughts that had\nlain asleep in the stifling air of the cottage and the weariness of\nguiding the plough. And by and by she took a needle from her girdle and\npricked the thoughts on the leaves of the trees and sent them into the\nair to float hither and thither. And it came to pass that people began\nto pick them up, and holding them against the sun, to read what was\nwritten on them, and this was because the simple little words on the\nleaves were only, after all, a part of one of the King\'s messages, such\nas the Fairy Godmother dropped continually from her golden chariot.\n\nBut the miracle of the story lies deeper than all this.\n\nWhenever the Princess pricked the words upon the leaves she added a\nthought of her Fairy Godmother, and folding it close within, sent the\nleaf out on the breeze to float hither and thither and fall where it\nwould. And many other little Princesses felt the same impulse and did\nthe same thing. And as nothing is ever lost in the King\'s Dominion, so\nthese thoughts and wishes and hopes, being full of love and gratitude,\nhad no power to die, but took unto themselves other shapes and lived on\nforever. They cannot be seen, our vision is too weak; nor heard, our\nhearing is too dull; but they can sometimes be felt, and we know not\nwhat force is stirring our hearts to nobler aims.\n\nThe end of the story is not come, but it may be that some day when the\nFairy Godmother has a message to deliver in person straight to the\nKing, he will say: \"Your face I know; your voice, your thoughts, and\nyour heart. I have heard the rumble of your chariot wheels on the great\nHighway, and I knew that you were on the King\'s business. Here in my\nhand is a sheaf of messages from every quarter of my kingdom. They were\ndelivered by weary and footsore travelers, who said that they could\nnever have reached the gate in safety had it not been for your help and\ninspiration. Read them, that you may know when and where and how you\nsped the King\'s service.\"\n\nAnd when the Fairy Godmother reads them, it may be that sweet odors\nwill rise from the pages, and half-forgotten memories will stir the\nair; but in the gladness of the moment nothing will be half so lovely\nas the voice of the King when he said: \"Read, and know how you sped the\nKing\'s service.\"\n\nRebecca Rowena Randall\n\n\n\nXXVI\n\n\"OVER THE TEACUPS\"\n\nThe summer term at Wareham had ended, and Huldah Meserve, Dick Carter,\nand Living Perkins had finished school, leaving Rebecca and Emma Jane\nto represent Riverboro in the year to come. Delia Weeks was at home\nfrom Lewiston on a brief visit, and Mrs. Robinson was celebrating the\noccasion by a small and select party, the particular day having been\nset because strawberries were ripe and there was a rooster that wanted\nkilling. Mrs. Robinson explained this to her husband, and requested\nthat he eat his dinner on the carpenter\'s bench in the shed, as the\nparty was to be a ladies\' affair.\n\n\"All right; it won\'t be any loss to me,\" said Mr. Robinson. \"Give me\nbeans, that\'s all I ask. When a rooster wants to be killed, I want\nsomebody else to eat him, not me!\"\n\nMrs. Robinson had company only once or twice a year, and was generally\nmuch prostrated for several days afterward, the struggle between pride\nand parsimony being quite too great a strain upon her. It was\nnecessary, in order to maintain her standing in the community, to\nfurnish a good \"set out,\" yet the extravagance of the proceeding goaded\nher from the first moment she began to stir the marble cake to the\nmoment when the feast appeared upon the table.\n\nThe rooster had been boiling steadily over a slow fire since morning,\nbut such was his power of resistance that his shape was as firm and\nhandsome in the pot as on the first moment when he was lowered into it.\n\n\"He ain\'t goin\' to give up!\" said Alice, peering nervously under the\ncover, \"and he looks like a scarecrow.\"\n\n\"We\'ll see whether he gives up or not when I take a sharp knife to\nhim,\" her mother answered; \"and as to his looks, a platter full o\'\ngravy makes a sight o\' difference with old roosters, and I\'ll put\ndumplings round the aidge; they\'re turrible fillin\', though they don\'t\nbelong with boiled chicken.\"\n\nThe rooster did indeed make an impressive showing, lying in his border\nof dumplings, and the dish was much complimented when it was borne in\nby Alice. This was fortunate, as the chorus of admiration ceased\nabruptly when the ladies began to eat the fowl.\n\n\"I was glad you could git over to Huldy\'s graduation, Delia,\" said Mrs.\nMeserve, who sat at the foot of the table and helped the chicken while\nMrs. Robinson poured coffee at the other end. She was a fit mother for\nHuldah, being much the most stylish person in Riverboro; ill health and\ndress were, indeed, her two chief enjoyments in life. It was rumored\nthat her elaborately curled \"front piece\" had cost five dollars, and\nthat it was sent into Portland twice a year to be dressed and frizzed;\nbut it is extremely difficult to discover the precise facts in such\ncases, and a conscientious historian always prefers to warn a too\ncredulous reader against imbibing as gospel truth something that might\nbe the basest perversion of it. As to Mrs. Meserve\'s appearance, have\nyou ever, in earlier years, sought the comforting society of the cook\nand hung over the kitchen table while she rolled out sugar gingerbread?\nPerhaps then, in some unaccustomed moment of amiability, she made you a\ndough lady, cutting the outline deftly with her pastry knife, and then,\nat last, placing the human stamp upon it by sticking in two black\ncurrants for eyes. Just call to mind the face of that sugar gingerbread\nlady and you will have an exact portrait of Huldah\'s mother,--Mis\'\nPeter Meserve, she was generally called, there being several others.\n\n\"How\'d you like Huldy\'s dress, Delia?\" she asked, snapping the elastic\nin her black jet bracelets after an irritating fashion she had.\n\n\"I thought it was about the handsomest of any,\" answered Delia; \"and\nher composition was first rate. It was the only real amusin\' one there\nwas, and she read it so loud and clear we didn\'t miss any of it; most\no\' the girls spoke as if they had hasty pudtin\' in their mouths.\"\n\n\"That was the composition she wrote for Adam Ladd\'s prize,\" explained\nMrs. Meserve, \"and they do say she\'d \'a\' come out first, \'stead o\'\nfourth, if her subject had been dif\'rent. There was three ministers and\nthree deacons on the committee, and it was only natural they should\nchoose a serious piece; hers was too lively to suit \'em.\"\n\nHuldah\'s inspiring theme had been Boys, and she certainly had a fund of\nknowledge and experience that fitted her to write most intelligently\nupon it. It was vastly popular with the audience, who enjoyed the\nrather cheap jokes and allusions with which it coruscated; but judged\nfrom a purely literary standpoint, it left much to be desired.\n\n\"Rebecca\'s piece wan\'t read out loud, but the one that took the boy\'s\nprize was; why was that?\" asked Mrs. Robinson.\n\n\"Because she wan\'t graduatin\',\" explained Mrs. Cobb, \"and couldn\'t take\npart in the exercises; it\'ll be printed, with Herbert Dunn\'s, in the\nschool paper.\"\n\n\"I\'m glad o\' that, for I\'ll never believe it was better \'n Huldy\'s till\nI read it with my own eyes; it seems as if the prize ought to \'a\' gone\nto one of the seniors.\"\n\n\"Well, no, Marthy, not if Ladd offered it to any of the two upper\nclasses that wanted to try for it,\" argued Mrs. Robinson. \"They say\nthey asked him to give out the prizes, and he refused, up and down. It\nseems odd, his bein\' so rich and travelin\' about all over the country,\nthat he was too modest to git up on that platform.\"\n\n\"My Huldy could \'a\' done it, and not winked an eyelash,\" observed Mrs.\nMeserve complacently; a remark which there seemed no disposition on the\npart of any of the company to controvert.\n\n\"It was complete, though, the governor happening to be there to see his\nniece graduate,\" said Delia Weeks. \"Land! he looked elegant! They say\nhe\'s only six feet, but he might \'a\' been sixteen, and he certainly did\nmake a fine speech.\"\n\n\"Did you notice Rebecca, how white she was, and how she trembled when\nshe and Herbert Dunn stood there while the governor was praisin\' \'em?\nHe\'d read her composition, too, for he wrote the Sawyer girls a letter\nabout it.\" This remark was from the sympathetic Mrs. Cobb.\n\n\"I thought \'t was kind o\' foolish, his makin\' so much of her when it\nwan\'t her graduation,\" objected Mrs. Meserve; \"layin\' his hand on her\nhead \'n\' all that, as if he was a Pope pronouncin\' benediction. But\nthere! I\'m glad the prize come to Riverboro \'t any rate, and a\nhan\'somer one never was give out from the Wareham platform. I guess\nthere ain\'t no end to Adam Ladd\'s money. The fifty dollars would \'a\'\nbeen good enough, but he must needs go and put it into those elegant\npurses.\"\n\n\"I set so fur back I couldn\'t see \'em fairly,\" complained Delia, \"and\nnow Rebecca has taken hers home to show her mother.\"\n\n\"It was kind of a gold net bag with a chain,\" said Mrs. Perkins, \"and\nthere was five ten-dollar gold pieces in it. Herbert Dunn\'s was put in\na fine leather wallet.\"\n\n\"How long is Rebecca goin\' to stay at the farm?\" asked Delia.\n\n\"Till they get over Hannah\'s bein\' married, and get the house to\nrunnin\' without her,\" answered Mrs. Perkins. \"It seems as if Hannah\nmight \'a\' waited a little longer. Aurelia was set against her goin\'\naway while Rebecca was at school, but she\'s obstinate as a mule, Hannah\nis, and she just took her own way in spite of her mother. She\'s been\ndoin\' her sewin\' for a year; the awfullest coarse cotton cloth she had,\nbut she\'s nearly blinded herself with fine stitchin\' and rufflin\' and\ntuckin\'. Did you hear about the quilt she made? It\'s white, and has a\nbig bunch o\' grapes in the centre, quilted by a thimble top. Then\nthere\'s a row of circle-borderin\' round the grapes, and she done them\nthe size of a spool. The next border was done with a sherry glass, and\nthe last with a port glass, an\' all outside o\' that was solid stitchin\'\ndone in straight rows; she\'s goin\' to exhibit it at the county fair.\"\n\n\"She\'d better \'a\' been takin\' in sewin\' and earnin\' money, \'stead o\'\nblindin\' her eyes on such foolishness as quilted counterpanes,\" said\nMrs. Cobb. \"The next thing you know that mortgage will be foreclosed on\nMis\' Randall, and she and the children won\'t have a roof over their\nheads.\"\n\n\"Don\'t they say there\'s a good chance of the railroad goin\' through her\nplace?\" asked Mrs. Robinson. \"If it does, she\'ll git as much as the\nfarm is worth and more. Adam Ladd \'s one of the stockholders, and\neverything is a success he takes holt of. They\'re fightin\' it in\nAugusty, but I\'d back Ladd agin any o\' them legislaters if he thought\nhe was in the right.\"\n\n\"Rebecca\'ll have some new clothes now,\" said Delia, \"and the land knows\nshe needs \'em. Seems to me the Sawyer girls are gittin\' turrible near!\"\n\n\"Rebecca won\'t have any new clothes out o\' the prize money,\" remarked\nMrs. Perkins, \"for she sent it away the next day to pay the interest on\nthat mortgage.\"\n\n\"Poor little girl!\" exclaimed Delia Weeks.\n\n\"She might as well help along her folks as spend it on foolishness,\"\naffirmed Mrs. Robinson. \"I think she was mighty lucky to git it to pay\nthe interest with, but she\'s probably like all the Randalls; it was\neasy come, easy go, with them.\"\n\n\"That\'s more than could be said of the Sawyer stock,\" retorted Mrs.\nPerkins; \"seems like they enjoyed savin\' more\'n anything in the world,\nand it\'s gainin\' on Mirandy sence her shock.\"\n\n\"I don\'t believe it was a shock; it stands to reason she\'d never \'a\'\ngot up after it and been so smart as she is now; we had three o\' the\nworst shocks in our family that there ever was on this river, and I\nknow every symptom of \'em better\'n the doctors.\" And Mrs. Peter Meserve\nshook her head wisely.\n\n\"Mirandy \'s smart enough,\" said Mrs. Cobb, \"but you notice she stays\nright to home, and she\'s more close-mouthed than ever she was; never\ntook a mite o\' pride in the prize, as I could see, though it pretty\nnigh drove Jeremiah out o\' his senses. I thought I should \'a\' died o\'\nshame when he cried \'Hooray!\' and swung his straw hat when the governor\nshook hands with Rebecca. It\'s lucky he couldn\'t get fur into the\nchurch and had to stand back by the door, for as it was, he made a\nspectacle of himself. My suspicion is\"--and here every lady stopped\neating and sat up straight--\"that the Sawyer girls have lost money.\nThey don\'t know a thing about business \'n\' never did, and Mirandy\'s too\nsecretive and contrairy to ask advice.\"\n\n\"The most o\' what they\'ve got is in gov\'ment bonds, I always heard, and\nyou can\'t lose money on them. Jane had the timber land left her, an\'\nMirandy had the brick house. She probably took it awful hard that\nRebecca\'s fifty dollars had to be swallowed up in a mortgage, \'stead of\ngoin\' towards school expenses. The more I think of it, the more I think\nAdam Ladd intended Rebecca should have that prize when he gave it.\" The\nmind of Huldah\'s mother ran towards the idea that her daughter\'s rights\nhad been assailed.\n\n\"Land, Marthy, what foolishness you talk!\" exclaimed Mrs. Perkins; \"you\ndon\'t suppose he could tell what composition the committee was going to\nchoose; and why should he offer another fifty dollars for a boy\'s\nprize, if he wan\'t interested in helpin\' along the school? He\'s give\nEmma Jane about the same present as Rebecca every Christmas for five\nyears; that\'s the way he does.\"\n\n\"Some time he\'ll forget one of \'em and give to the other, or drop \'em\nboth and give to some new girl!\" said Delia Weeks, with an experience\nborn of fifty years of spinsterhood.\n\n\"Like as not,\" assented Mrs. Peter Meserve, \"though it\'s easy to see he\nain\'t the marryin\' kind. There\'s men that would marry once a year if\ntheir wives would die fast enough, and there\'s men that seems to want\nto live alone.\"\n\n\"If Ladd was a Mormon, I guess he could have every woman in North\nRiverboro that\'s a suitable age, accordin\' to what my cousins say,\"\nremarked Mrs. Perkins.\n\n\"\'T ain\'t likely he could be ketched by any North Riverboro girl,\"\ndemurred Mrs. Robinson; \"not when he prob\'bly has had the pick o\'\nBoston. I guess Marthy hit it when she said there\'s men that ain\'t the\nmarryin\' kind.\"\n\n\"I wouldn\'t trust any of \'em when Miss Right comes along!\" laughed Mrs.\nCobb genially. \"You never can tell what \'n\' who \'s goin\' to please \'em.\nYou know Jeremiah\'s contrairy horse, Buster? He won\'t let anybody put\nthe bit into his mouth if he can help it. He\'ll fight Jerry, and fight\nme, till he has to give in. Rebecca didn\'t know nothin\' about his\ntricks, and the other day she went int\' the barn to hitch up. I\nfollowed right along, knowing she\'d have trouble with the headstall,\nand I declare if she wan\'t pattin\' Buster\'s nose and talkin\' to him,\nand when she put her little fingers into his mouth he opened it so fur\nI thought he\'d swaller her, for sure. He jest smacked his lips over the\nbit as if \'t was a lump o\' sugar. \'Land, Rebecca,\' I says, \'how\'d you\npersuade him to take the bit?\' \'I didn\'t,\' she says, \'he seemed to want\nit; perhaps he\'s tired of his stall and wants to get out in the fresh\nair.\'\"\n\n\n\nXXVII\n\n\"THE VISION SPLENDID\"\n\nA year had elapsed since Adam Ladd\'s prize had been discussed over the\nteacups in Riverboro. The months had come and gone, and at length the\ngreat day had dawned for Rebecca,--the day to which she had been\nlooking forward for five years, as the first goal to be reached on her\nlittle journey through the world. School-days were ended, and the\nmystic function known to the initiated as \"graduation\" was about to be\ncelebrated; it was even now heralded by the sun dawning in the eastern\nsky. Rebecca stole softly out of bed, crept to the window, threw open\nthe blinds, and welcomed the rosy light that meant a cloudless morning.\nEven the sun looked different somehow,--larger, redder, more important\nthan usual; and if it were really so, there was no member of the\ngraduating class who would have thought it strange or unbecoming, in\nview of all the circumstances. Emma Jane stirred on her pillow, woke,\nand seeing Rebecca at the window, came and knelt on the floor beside\nher. \"It\'s going to be pleasant!\" she sighed gratefully. \"If it wasn\'t\nwicked, I could thank the Lord, I\'m so relieved in mind! Did you sleep?\"\n\n\"Not much; the words of my class poem kept running through my head, and\nthe accompaniments of the songs; and worse than anything, Mary Queen of\nScots\' prayer in Latin; it seemed as if\n\n \"\'Adoro, imploro,\n Ut liberes me!\'\n\nwere burned into my brain.\"\n\nNo one who is unfamiliar with life in rural neighborhoods can imagine\nthe gravity, the importance, the solemnity of this last day of school.\nIn the matter of preparation, wealth of detail, and general excitement\nit far surpasses a wedding; for that is commonly a simple affair in the\ncountry, sometimes even beginning and ending in a visit to the\nparsonage. Nothing quite equals graduation in the minds of the\ngraduates themselves, their families, and the younger students, unless\nit be the inauguration of a governor at the State Capitol. Wareham,\nthen, was shaken to its very centre on this day of days. Mothers and\nfathers of the scholars, as well as relatives to the remotest\ngeneration, had been coming on the train and driving into the town\nsince breakfast time; old pupils, both married and single, with and\nwithout families, streamed back to the dear old village. The two livery\nstables were crowded with vehicles of all sorts, and lines of buggies\nand wagons were drawn up along the sides of the shady roads, the horses\nswitching their tails in luxurious idleness. The streets were filled\nwith people wearing their best clothes, and the fashions included not\nonly \"the latest thing,\" but the well preserved relic of a bygone day.\nThere were all sorts and conditions of men and women, for there were\nsons and daughters of storekeepers, lawyers, butchers, doctors,\nshoemakers, professors, ministers, and farmers at the Wareham schools,\neither as boarders or day scholars. In the seminary building there was\nan excitement so deep and profound that it expressed itself in a kind\nof hushed silence, a transient suspension of life, as those most\ninterested approached the crucial moment. The feminine graduates-to-be\nwere seated in their own bedrooms, dressed with a completeness of\ndetail to which all their past lives seemed to have been but a prelude.\nAt least, this was the case with their bodies; but their heads, owing\nto the extreme heat of the day, were one and all ornamented with leads,\nor papers, or dozens of little braids, to issue later in every sort of\ncurl known to the girl of that period. Rolling the hair on leads or\npapers was a favorite method of attaining the desired result, and\nthough it often entailed a sleepless night, there were those who gladly\npaid the price. Others, in whose veins the blood of martyrs did not\nflow, substituted rags for leads and pretended that they made a more\nnatural and less woolly curl. Heat, however, will melt the proudest\nhead and reduce to fiddling strings the finest product of the\nwaving-pin; so anxious mothers were stationed over their offspring,\nwaving palm-leaf fans, it having been decided that the supreme instant\nwhen the town clock struck ten should be the one chosen for releasing\nthe prisoners from their self-imposed tortures.\n\nDotted or plain Swiss muslin was the favorite garb, though there were\nthose who were steaming in white cashmere or alpaca, because in some\ncases such frocks were thought more useful afterwards. Blue and pink\nwaist ribbons were lying over the backs of chairs, and the girl who had\na Roman sash was praying that she might be kept from vanity and pride.\n\nThe way to any graduating dress at all had not seemed clear to Rebecca\nuntil a month before. Then, in company with Emma Jane, she visited the\nPerkins attic, found piece after piece of white butter-muslin or\ncheesecloth, and decided that, at a pinch, it would do. The \"rich\nblacksmith\'s daughter\" cast the thought of dotted Swiss behind her, and\nelected to follow Rebecca in cheesecloth as she had in higher matters;\nstraightway devising costumes that included such drawing of threads,\nsuch hemstitching and pin-tucking, such insertions of fine thread\ntatting that, in order to be finished, Rebecca\'s dress was given out in\nsections,--the sash to Hannah, waist and sleeves to Mrs. Cobb, and\nskirt to aunt Jane. The stitches that went into the despised material,\nworth only three or four pennies a yard, made the dresses altogether\nlovely, and as for the folds and lines into which they fell, they could\nhave given points to satins and brocades.\n\nThe two girls were waiting in their room alone, Emma Jane in rather a\ntearful state of mind. She kept thinking that it was the last day that\nthey would be together in this altogether sweet and close intimacy. The\nbeginning of the end seemed to have dawned, for two positions had been\noffered Rebecca by Mr. Morrison the day before: one in which she would\nplay for singing and calisthenics, and superintend the piano practice\nof the younger girls in a boarding-school; the other an assistant\'s\nplace in the Edgewood High School. Both were very modest as to salary,\nbut the former included educational advantages that Miss Maxwell\nthought might be valuable.\n\nRebecca\'s mood had passed from that of excitement into a sort of\nexaltation, and when the first bell rang through the corridors\nannouncing that in five minutes the class would proceed in a body to\nthe church for the exercises, she stood motionless and speechless at\nthe window with her hand on her heart.\n\n\"It is coming, Emmie,\" she said presently; \"do you remember in The Mill\non the Floss, when Maggie Tulliver closed the golden gates of childhood\nbehind her? I can almost see them swing; almost hear them clang; and I\ncan\'t tell whether I am glad or sorry.\"\n\n\"I shouldn\'t care how they swung or clanged,\" said Emma Jane, \"if only\nyou and I were on the same side of the gate; but we shan\'t be, I know\nwe shan\'t!\"\n\n\"Emmie, don\'t dare to cry, for I\'m just on the brink myself! If only\nyou were graduating with me; that\'s my only sorrow! There! I hear the\nrumble of the wheels! People will be seeing our grand surprise now! Hug\nme once for luck, dear Emmie; a careful hug, remembering our\nbutter-muslin frailty!\"\n\nTen minutes later, Adam Ladd, who had just arrived from Portland and\nwas wending his way to the church, came suddenly into the main street\nand stopped short under a tree by the wayside, riveted to the spot by a\nscene of picturesque loveliness such as his eyes had seldom witnessed\nbefore. The class of which Rebecca was president was not likely to\nfollow accepted customs. Instead of marching two by two from the\nseminary to the church, they had elected to proceed thither by royal\nchariot. A haycart had been decked with green vines and bunches of\nlong-stemmed field daisies, those gay darlings of New England meadows.\nEvery inch of the rail, the body, even the spokes, all were twined with\nyellow and green and white. There were two white horses, flower-trimmed\nreins, and in the floral bower, seated on maple boughs, were the twelve\ngirls of the class, while the ten boys marched on either side of the\nvehicle, wearing buttonhole bouquets of daisies, the class flower.\n\nRebecca drove, seated on a green-covered bench that looked not unlike a\nthrone. No girl clad in white muslin, no happy girl of seventeen, is\nplain; and the twelve little country maids, from the vantage ground of\ntheir setting, looked beautiful, as the June sunlight filtered down on\ntheir uncovered heads, showing their bright eyes, their fresh cheeks,\ntheir smiles, and their dimples.\n\nRebecca, Adam thought, as he took off his hat and saluted the pretty\npanorama,--Rebecca, with her tall slenderness, her thoughtful brow, the\nfire of young joy in her face, her fillet of dark braided hair, might\nhave been a young Muse or Sibyl; and the flowery hayrack, with its\nfreight of blooming girlhood, might have been painted as an allegorical\npicture of The Morning of Life. It all passed him, as he stood under\nthe elms in the old village street where his mother had walked half a\ncentury ago, and he was turning with the crowd towards the church when\nhe heard a little sob. Behind a hedge in the garden near where he was\nstanding was a forlorn person in white, whose neat nose, chestnut hair,\nand blue eyes he seemed to know. He stepped inside the gate and said,\n\"What\'s wrong, Miss Emma?\"\n\n\"Oh, is it you, Mr. Ladd? Rebecca wouldn\'t let me cry for fear of\nspoiling my looks, but I must have just one chance before I go in. I\ncan be as homely as I like, after all, for I only have to sing with the\nschool; I\'m not graduating, I\'m just leaving! Not that I mind that;\nit\'s only being separated from Rebecca that I never can stand!\"\n\nThe two walked along together, Adam comforting the disconsolate Emma\nJane, until they reached the old meeting-house where the Commencement\nexercises were always held. The interior, with its decorations of\nyellow, green, and white, was crowded, the air hot and breathless, the\nessays and songs and recitations precisely like all others that have\nbeen since the world began. One always fears that the platform may sink\nunder the weight of youthful platitudes uttered on such occasions; yet\none can never be properly critical, because the sight of the boys and\ngirls themselves, those young and hopeful makers of to-morrow, disarms\none\'s scorn. We yawn desperately at the essays, but our hearts go out\nto the essayists, all the same, for \"the vision splendid\" is shining in\ntheir eyes, and there is no fear of \"th\' inevitable yoke\" that the\nyears are so surely bringing them.\n\nRebecca saw Hannah and her husband in the audience; dear old John and\ncousin Ann also, and felt a pang at the absence of her mother, though\nshe had known there was no possibility of seeing her; for poor Aurelia\nwas kept at Sunnybrook by cares of children and farm, and lack of money\neither for the journey or for suitable dress. The Cobbs she saw too. No\none, indeed, could fail to see uncle Jerry; for he shed tears more than\nonce, and in the intervals between the essays descanted to his\nneighbors concerning the marvelous gifts of one of the graduating class\nwhom he had known ever since she was a child; in fact, had driven her\nfrom Maplewood to Riverboro when she left her home, and he had told\nmother that same night that there wan\'t nary rung on the ladder o\' fame\nthat that child wouldn\'t mount before she got through with it.\n\nThe Cobbs, then, had come, and there were other Riverboro faces, but\nwhere was aunt Jane, in her black silk made over especially for this\noccasion? Aunt Miranda had not intended to come, she knew, but where,\non this day of days, was her beloved aunt Jane? However, this thought,\nlike all others, came and went in a flash, for the whole morning was\nlike a series of magic lantern pictures, crossing and recrossing her\nfield of vision. She played, she sang, she recited Queen Mary\'s Latin\nprayer, like one in a dream, only brought to consciousness by meeting\nMr. Aladdin\'s eyes as she spoke the last line. Then at the end of the\nprogramme came her class poem, Makers of To-morrow; and there, as on\nmany a former occasion, her personality played so great a part that she\nseemed to be uttering Miltonic sentiments instead of school-girl verse.\nHer voice, her eyes, her body breathed conviction, earnestness,\nemotion; and when she left the platform the audience felt that they had\nlistened to a masterpiece. Most of her hearers knew little of Carlyle\nor Emerson, or they might have remembered that the one said, \"We are\nall poets when we read a poem well,\" and the other, \"\'T is the good\nreader makes the good book.\"\n\nIt was over! The diplomas had been presented, and each girl, after\ngiving furtive touches to her hair, sly tweaks to her muslin skirts,\nand caressing pats to her sash, had gone forward to receive the roll of\nparchment with a bow that had been the subject of anxious thought for\nweeks. Rounds of applause greeted each graduate at this thrilling\nmoment, and Jeremiah Cobb\'s behavior, when Rebecca came forward, was\nthe talk of Wareham and Riverboro for days. Old Mrs. Webb avowed that\nhe, in the space of two hours, had worn out her pew more--the carpet,\nthe cushions, and woodwork--than she had by sitting in it forty years.\nYes, it was over, and after the crowd had thinned a little, Adam Ladd\nmade his way to the platform. Rebecca turned from speaking to some\nstrangers and met him in the aisle. \"Oh, Mr. Aladdin, I am so glad you\ncould come! Tell me\"--and she looked at him half shyly, for his\napproval was dearer to her, and more difficult to win, than that of the\nothers--\"tell me, Mr. Aladdin,--were you satisfied?\"\n\n\"More than satisfied!\" he said; \"glad I met the child, proud I know the\ngirl, longing to meet the woman!\"\n\n\n\nXXVIII\n\n\"TH\' INEVITABLE YOKE\"\n\nRebecca\'s heart beat high at this sweet praise from her hero\'s lips,\nbut before she had found words to thank him, Mr. and Mrs. Cobb, who had\nbeen modestly biding their time in a corner, approached her and she\nintroduced them to Mr. Ladd.\n\n\"Where, where is aunt Jane?\" she cried, holding aunt Sarah\'s hand on\none side and uncle Jerry\'s on the other.\n\n\"I\'m sorry, lovey, but we\'ve got bad news for you.\"\n\n\"Is aunt Miranda worse? She is; I can see it by your looks;\" and\nRebecca\'s color faded.\n\n\"She had a second stroke yesterday morning jest when she was helpin\'\nJane lay out her things to come here to-day. Jane said you wan\'t to\nknow anything about it till the exercises was all over, and we promised\nto keep it secret till then.\"\n\n\"I will go right home with you, aunt Sarah. I must just run to tell\nMiss Maxwell, for after I had packed up to-morrow I was going to\nBrunswick with her. Poor aunt Miranda! And I have been so gay and happy\nall day, except that I was longing for mother and aunt Jane.\"\n\n\"There ain\'t no harm in bein\' gay, lovey; that\'s what Jane wanted you\nto be. And Miranda\'s got her speech back, for your aunt has just sent a\nletter sayin\' she\'s better; and I\'m goin\' to set up to-night, so you\ncan stay here and have a good sleep, and get your things together\ncomfortably to-morrow.\"\n\n\"I\'ll pack your trunk for you, Becky dear, and attend to all our room\nthings,\" said Emma Jane, who had come towards the group and heard the\nsorrowful news from the brick house.\n\nThey moved into one of the quiet side pews, where Hannah and her\nhusband and John joined them. From time to time some straggling\nacquaintance or old schoolmate would come up to congratulate Rebecca\nand ask why she had hidden herself in a corner. Then some member of the\nclass would call to her excitedly, reminding her not to be late at the\npicnic luncheon, or begging her to be early at the class party in the\nevening. All this had an air of unreality to Rebecca. In the midst of\nthe happy excitement of the last two days, when \"blushing honors\" had\nbeen falling thick upon her, and behind the delicious exaltation of the\nmorning, had been the feeling that the condition was a transient one,\nand that the burden, the struggle, the anxiety, would soon loom again\non the horizon. She longed to steal away into the woods with dear old\nJohn, grown so manly and handsome, and get some comfort from him.\n\nMeantime Adam Ladd and Mr. Cobb had been having an animated\nconversation.\n\n\"I s\'pose up to Boston, girls like that one are as thick as\nblackb\'ries?\" uncle Jerry said, jerking his head interrogatively in\nRebecca\'s direction.\n\n\"They may be,\" smiled Adam, taking in the old man\'s mood; \"only I don\'t\nhappen to know one.\"\n\n\"My eyesight bein\' poor \'s the reason she looked han\'somest of any girl\non the platform, I s\'pose?\"\n\n\"There\'s no failure in my eyes,\" responded Adam, \"but that was how the\nthing seemed to me!\"\n\n\"What did you think of her voice? Anything extry about it?\"\n\n\"Made the others sound poor and thin, I thought.\"\n\n\"Well, I\'m glad to hear your opinion, you bein\' a traveled man, for\nmother says I\'m foolish \'bout Rebecky and hev been sence the fust.\nMother scolds me for spoilin\' her, but I notice mother ain\'t fur behind\nwhen it comes to spoilin\'. Land! it made me sick, thinkin\' o\' them\nparents travelin\' miles to see their young ones graduate, and then when\nthey got here hevin\' to compare \'em with Rebecky. Good-by, Mr. Ladd,\ndrop in some day when you come to Riverboro.\"\n\n\"I will,\" said Adam, shaking the old man\'s hand cordially; \"perhaps\nto-morrow if I drive Rebecca home, as I shall offer to do. Do you think\nMiss Sawyer\'s condition is serious?\"\n\n\"Well, the doctor don\'t seem to know; but anyhow she\'s paralyzed, and\nshe\'ll never walk fur again, poor soul! She ain\'t lost her speech;\nthat\'ll be a comfort to her.\"\n\nAdam left the church, and in crossing the common came upon Miss Maxwell\ndoing the honors of the institution, as she passed from group to group\nof strangers and guests. Knowing that she was deeply interested in all\nRebecca\'s plans, he told her, as he drew her aside, that the girl would\nhave to leave Wareham for Riverboro the next day.\n\n\"That is almost more than I can bear!\" exclaimed Miss Maxwell, sitting\ndown on a bench and stabbing the greensward with her parasol. \"It seems\nto me Rebecca never has any respite. I had so many plans for her this\nnext month in fitting her for her position, and now she will settle\ndown to housework again, and to the nursing of that poor, sick, cross\nold aunt.\"\n\n\"If it had not been for the cross old aunt, Rebecca would still have\nbeen at Sunnybrook; and from the standpoint of educational advantages,\nor indeed advantages of any sort, she might as well have been in the\nbackwoods,\" returned Adam.\n\n\"That is true; I was vexed when I spoke, for I thought an easier and\nhappier day was dawning for my prodigy and pearl.\"\n\n\"OUR prodigy and pearl,\" corrected Adam.\n\n\"Oh, yes!\" she laughed. \"I always forget that it pleases you to pretend\nyou discovered Rebecca.\"\n\n\"I believe, though, that happier days are dawning for her,\" continued\nAdam. \"It must be a secret for the present, but Mrs. Randall\'s farm\nwill be bought by the new railroad. We must have right of way through\nthe land, and the station will be built on her property. She will\nreceive six thousand dollars, which, though not a fortune, will yield\nher three or four hundred dollars a year, if she will allow me to\ninvest it for her. There is a mortgage on the land; that paid, and\nRebecca self-supporting, the mother ought to push the education of the\noldest boy, who is a fine, ambitious fellow. He should be taken away\nfrom farm work and settled at his studies.\"\n\n\"We might form ourselves into a Randall Protective Agency, Limited,\"\nmused Miss Maxwell. \"I confess I want Rebecca to have a career.\"\n\n\"I don\'t,\" said Adam promptly.\n\n\"Of course you don\'t. Men have no interest in the careers of women! But\nI know Rebecca better than you.\"\n\n\"You understand her mind better, but not necessarily her heart. You are\nconsidering her for the moment as prodigy; I am thinking of her more as\npearl.\"\n\n\"Well,\" sighed Miss Maxwell whimsically, \"prodigy or pearl, the Randall\nProtective Agency may pull Rebecca in opposite directions, but\nnevertheless she will follow her saint.\"\n\n\"That will content me,\" said Adam gravely.\n\n\"Particularly if the saint beckons your way.\" And Miss Maxwell looked\nup and smiled provokingly.\n\n\nRebecca did not see her aunt Miranda till she had been at the brick\nhouse for several days. Miranda steadily refused to have any one but\nJane in the room until her face had regained its natural look, but her\ndoor was always ajar, and Jane fancied she liked to hear Rebecca\'s\nquick, light step. Her mind was perfectly clear now, and, save that she\ncould not move, she was most of the time quite free from pain, and\nalert in every nerve to all that was going on within or without the\nhouse. \"Were the windfall apples being picked up for sauce; were the\npotatoes thick in the hills; was the corn tosselin\' out; were they\ncuttin\' the upper field; were they keepin\' fly-paper laid out\neverywheres; were there any ants in the dairy; was the kindlin\' wood\nholdin\' out; had the bank sent the cowpons?\"\n\nPoor Miranda Sawyer! Hovering on the verge of the great beyond,--her\nbody \"struck\" and no longer under control of her iron will,--no divine\nvisions floated across her tired brain; nothing but petty cares and\nsordid anxieties. Not all at once can the soul talk with God, be He\never so near. If the heavenly language never has been learned, quick as\nis the spiritual sense in seizing the facts it needs, then the poor\nsoul must use the words and phrases it has lived on and grown into day\nby day. Poor Miss Miranda!--held fast within the prison walls of her\nown nature, blind in the presence of revelation because she had never\nused the spiritual eye, deaf to angelic voices because she had not used\nthe spiritual ear.\n\nThere came a morning when she asked for Rebecca. The door was opened\ninto the dim sick-room, and Rebecca stood there with the sunlight\nbehind her, her hands full of sweet peas. Miranda\'s pale, sharp face,\nframed in its nightcap, looked haggard on the pillow, and her body was\npitifully still under the counterpane.\n\n\"Come in,\" she said; \"I ain\'t dead yet. Don\'t mess up the bed with them\nflowers, will ye?\"\n\n\"Oh, no! They\'re going in a glass pitcher,\" said Rebecca, turning to\nthe washstand as she tried to control her voice and stop the tears that\nsprang to her eyes.\n\n\"Let me look at ye; come closer. What dress are ye wearin\'?\" said the\nold aunt in her cracked, weak voice.\n\n\"My blue calico.\"\n\n\"Is your cashmere holdin\' its color?\"\n\n\"Yes, aunt Miranda.\"\n\n\"Do you keep it in a dark closet hung on the wrong side, as I told ye?\"\n\n\"Always.\"\n\n\"Has your mother made her jelly?\"\n\n\"She hasn\'t said.\"\n\n\"She always had the knack o\' writin\' letters with nothin\' in \'em.\nWhat\'s Mark broke sence I\'ve been sick?\"\n\n\"Nothing at all, aunt Miranda.\"\n\n\"Why, what\'s the matter with him? Gittin\' lazy, ain\'t he? How \'s John\nturnin\' out?\"\n\n\"He\'s going to be the best of us all.\"\n\n\"I hope you don\'t slight things in the kitchen because I ain\'t there.\nDo you scald the coffee-pot and turn it upside down on the winder-sill?\"\n\n\"Yes, aunt Miranda.\"\n\n\"It\'s always \'yes\' with you, and \'yes\' with Jane,\" groaned Miranda,\ntrying to move her stiffened body; \"but all the time I lay here knowin\'\nthere\'s things done the way I don\'t like \'em.\"\n\nThere was a long pause, during which Rebecca sat down by the bedside\nand timidly touched her aunt\'s hand, her heart swelling with tender\npity at the gaunt face and closed eyes.\n\n\"I was dreadful ashamed to have you graduate in cheesecloth, Rebecca,\nbut I couldn\'t help it no-how. You\'ll hear the reason some time, and\nknow I tried to make it up to ye. I\'m afraid you was a laughin\'-stock!\"\n\n\"No,\" Rebecca answered. \"Ever so many people said our dresses were the\nvery prettiest; they looked like soft lace. You\'re not to be anxious\nabout anything. Here I am all grown up and graduated,--number three in\na class of twenty-two, aunt Miranda,--and good positions offered me\nalready. Look at me, big and strong and young, all ready to go into the\nworld and show what you and aunt Jane have done for me. If you want me\nnear, I\'ll take the Edgewood school, so that I can be here nights and\nSundays to help; and if you get better, then I\'ll go to Augusta,--for\nthat\'s a hundred dollars more, with music lessons and other things\nbeside.\"\n\n\"You listen to me,\" said Miranda quaveringly. \"Take the best place,\nregardless o\' my sickness. I\'d like to live long enough to know you\'d\npaid off that mortgage, but I guess I shan\'t.\"\n\nHere she ceased abruptly, having talked more than she had for weeks;\nand Rebecca stole out of the room, to cry by herself and wonder if old\nage must be so grim, so hard, so unchastened and unsweetened, as it\nslipped into the valley of the shadow.\n\nThe days went on, and Miranda grew stronger and stronger; her will\nseemed unassailable, and before long she could be moved into a chair by\nthe window, her dominant thought being to arrive at such a condition of\nimprovement that the doctor need not call more than once a week,\ninstead of daily; thereby diminishing the bill, that was mounting to\nsuch a terrifying sum that it haunted her thoughts by day and dreams by\nnight.\n\nLittle by little hope stole back into Rebecca\'s young heart. Aunt Jane\nbegan to \"clear starch\" her handkerchiefs and collars and purple muslin\ndress, so that she might be ready to go to Brunswick at any moment when\nthe doctor pronounced Miranda well on the road to recovery. Everything\nbeautiful was to happen in Brunswick if she could be there by\nAugust,--everything that heart could wish or imagination conceive, for\nshe was to be Miss Emily\'s very own visitor, and sit at table with\ncollege professors and other great men.\n\nAt length the day dawned when the few clean, simple dresses were packed\nin the hair trunk, together with her beloved coral necklace, her\ncheesecloth graduating dress, her class pin, aunt Jane\'s lace cape, and\nthe one new hat, which she tried on every night before going to bed. It\nwas of white chip with a wreath of cheap white roses and green leaves,\nand cost between two and three dollars, an unprecedented sum in\nRebecca\'s experience. The effect of its glories when worn with her\nnightdress was dazzling enough, but if ever it appeared in conjunction\nwith the cheesecloth gown, Rebecca felt that even reverend professors\nmight regard it with respect. It is probable indeed that any\nprofessorial gaze lucky enough to meet a pair of dark eyes shining\nunder that white rose garland would never have stopped at respect!\n\nThen, when all was ready and Abijah Flagg at the door, came a telegram\nfrom Hannah: \"Come at once. Mother has had bad accident.\"\n\nIn less than an hour Rebecca was started on her way to Sunnybrook, her\nheart palpitating with fear as to what might be awaiting her at her\njourney\'s end.\n\nDeath, at all events, was not there to meet her; but something that\nlooked at first only too much like it. Her mother had been standing on\nthe haymow superintending some changes in the barn, had been seized\nwith giddiness, they thought, and slipped. The right knee was fractured\nand the back strained and hurt, but she was conscious and in no\nimmediate danger, so Rebecca wrote, when she had a moment to send aunt\nJane the particulars.\n\n\"I don\' know how \'tis,\" grumbled Miranda, who was not able to sit up\nthat day; \"but from a child I could never lay abed without Aurelia\'s\ngettin\' sick too. I don\' know \'s she could help fallin\', though it\nain\'t anyplace for a woman,--a haymow; but if it hadn\'t been that, \'t\nwould \'a\' been somethin\' else. Aurelia was born unfortunate. Now she\'ll\nprobably be a cripple, and Rebecca\'ll have to nurse her instead of\nearning a good income somewheres else.\"\n\n\"Her first duty \'s to her mother,\" said aunt Jane; \"I hope she\'ll\nalways remember that.\"\n\n\"Nobody remembers anything they\'d ought to,--at seventeen,\" responded\nMiranda. \"Now that I\'m strong again, there\'s things I want to consider\nwith you, Jane, things that are on my mind night and day. We\'ve talked\n\'em over before; now we\'ll settle \'em. When I\'m laid away, do you want\nto take Aurelia and the children down here to the brick house? There\'s\nan awful passel of \'em,--Aurelia, Jenny, and Fanny; but I won\'t have\nMark. Hannah can take him; I won\'t have a great boy stompin\' out the\ncarpets and ruinin\' the furniture, though I know when I\'m dead I can\'t\nhinder ye, if you make up your mind to do anything.\"\n\n\"I shouldn\'t like to go against your feelings, especially in laying out\nyour money, Miranda,\" said Jane.\n\n\"Don\'t tell Rebecca I\'ve willed her the brick house. She won\'t git it\ntill I\'m gone, and I want to take my time \'bout dyin\' and not be\nhurried off by them that\'s goin\' to profit by it; nor I don\'t want to\nbe thanked, neither. I s\'pose she\'ll use the front stairs as common as\nthe back and like as not have water brought into the kitchen, but mebbe\nwhen I\'ve been dead a few years I shan\'t mind. She sets such store by\nyou, she\'ll want you to have your home here as long\'s you live, but\nanyway I\'ve wrote it down that way; though Lawyer Burns\'s wills don\'t\nhold more\'n half the time. He\'s cheaper, but I guess it comes out jest\nthe same in the end. I wan\'t goin\' to have the fust man Rebecca picks\nup for a husband turnin\' you ou\'doors.\"\n\nThere was a long pause, during which Jane knit silently, wiping the\ntears from her eyes from time to time, as she looked at the pitiful\nfigure lying weakly on the pillows. Suddenly Miranda said slowly and\nfeebly:--\n\n\"I don\' know after all but you might as well take Mark; I s\'pose\nthere\'s tame boys as well as wild ones. There ain\'t a mite o\' sense in\nhavin\' so many children, but it\'s a turrible risk splittin\' up families\nand farmin\' \'em out here \'n\' there; they\'d never come to no good, an\'\neverybody would keep rememberin\' their mother was a Sawyer. Now if\nyou\'ll draw down the curtin, I\'ll try to sleep.\"\n\n\n\nXXIX\n\nMOTHER AND DAUGHTER\n\nTwo months had gone by,--two months of steady, fagging work; of\ncooking, washing, ironing; of mending and caring for the three\nchildren, although Jenny was fast becoming a notable little housewife,\nquick, ready, and capable. They were months in which there had been\nmany a weary night of watching by Aurelia\'s bedside; of soothing and\nbandaging and rubbing; of reading and nursing, even of feeding and\nbathing. The ceaseless care was growing less now, and the family\nbreathed more freely, for the mother\'s sigh of pain no longer came from\nthe stifling bedroom, where, during a hot and humid August, Aurelia had\nlain, suffering with every breath she drew. There would be no question\nof walking for many a month to come, but blessings seemed to multiply\nwhen the blinds could be opened and the bed drawn near the window; when\nmother, with pillows behind her, could at least sit and watch the work\ngoing on, could smile at the past agony and forget the weary hours that\nhad led to her present comparative ease and comfort.\n\nNo girl of seventeen can pass through such an ordeal and come out\nunchanged; no girl of Rebecca\'s temperament could go through it without\nsome inward repining and rebellion. She was doing tasks in which she\ncould not be fully happy,--heavy and trying tasks, which perhaps she\ncould never do with complete success or satisfaction; and like promise\nof nectar to thirsty lips was the vision of joys she had had to put\naside for the performance of dull daily duty. How brief, how fleeting,\nhad been those splendid visions when the universe seemed open for her\nyoung strength to battle and triumph in! How soon they had faded into\nthe light of common day! At first, sympathy and grief were so keen she\nthought of nothing but her mother\'s pain. No consciousness of self\ninterposed between her and her filial service; then, as the weeks\npassed, little blighted hopes began to stir and ache in her breast;\ndefeated ambitions raised their heads as if to sting her; unattainable\ndelights teased her by their very nearness; by the narrow line of\nseparation that lay between her and their realization. It is easy, for\nthe moment, to tread the narrow way, looking neither to the right nor\nleft, upborne by the sense of right doing; but that first joy of\nself-denial, the joy that is like fire in the blood, dies away; the\npath seems drearier and the footsteps falter. Such a time came to\nRebecca, and her bright spirit flagged when the letter was received\nsaying that her position in Augusta had been filled. There was a\nmutinous leap of the heart then, a beating of wings against the door of\nthe cage, a longing for the freedom of the big world outside. It was\nthe stirring of the powers within her, though she called it by no such\ngrand name. She felt as if the wind of destiny were blowing her flame\nhither and thither, burning, consuming her, but kindling nothing. All\nthis meant one stormy night in her little room at Sunnybrook, but the\nclouds blew over, the sun shone again, a rainbow stretched across the\nsky, while \"hope clad in April green\" smiled into her upturned face and\nbeckoned her on, saying:--\n\n \"Grow old along with me,\n The best is yet to be.\"\n\nThreads of joy ran in and out of the gray tangled web of daily living.\nThere was the attempt at odd moments to make the bare little house less\nbare by bringing in out-of-doors, taking a leaf from Nature\'s book and\nnoting how she conceals ugliness wherever she finds it. Then there was\nthe satisfaction of being mistress of the poor domain; of planning,\ngoverning, deciding; of bringing order out of chaos; of implanting\ngayety in the place of inert resignation to the inevitable. Another\nelement of comfort was the children\'s love, for they turned to her as\nflowers to the sun, drawing confidently on her fund of stories, serene\nin the conviction that there was no limit to Rebecca\'s power of\nmake-believe. In this, and in yet greater things, little as she\nrealized it, the law of compensation was working in her behalf, for in\nthose anxious days mother and daughter found and knew each other as\nnever before. A new sense was born in Rebecca as she hung over her\nmother\'s bed of pain and unrest,--a sense that comes only of\nministering, a sense that grows only when the strong bend toward the\nweak. As for Aurelia, words could never have expressed her dumb\nhappiness when the real revelation of motherhood was vouchsafed her. In\nall the earlier years when her babies were young, carking cares and\nanxieties darkened the fireside with their brooding wings. Then Rebecca\nhad gone away, and in the long months of absence her mind and soul had\ngrown out of her mother\'s knowledge, so that now, when Aurelia had time\nand strength to study her child, she was like some enchanting\nchangeling. Aurelia and Hannah had gone on in the dull round and the\ncommon task, growing duller and duller; but now, on a certain stage of\nlife\'s journey, who should appear but this bewildering being, who gave\nwings to thoughts that had only crept before; who brought color and\ngrace and harmony into the dun brown texture of existence.\n\nYou might harness Rebecca to the heaviest plough, and while she had\nyouth on her side, she would always remember the green earth under her\nfeet and the blue sky over her head. Her physical eye saw the cake she\nwas stirring and the loaf she was kneading; her physical ear heard the\nkitchen fire crackling and the teakettle singing, but ever and anon her\nfancy mounted on pinions, rested itself, renewed its strength in the\nupper air. The bare little farmhouse was a fixed fact, but she had many\na palace into which she now and then withdrew; palaces peopled with\nstirring and gallant figures belonging to the world of romance; palaces\nnot without their heavenly apparitions too, breathing celestial\ncounsel. Every time she retired to her citadel of dreams she came forth\nradiant and refreshed, as one who has seen the evening star, or heard\nsweet music, or smelled the rose of joy.\n\nAurelia could have understood the feeling of a narrow-minded and\nconventional hen who has brought a strange, intrepid duckling into the\nworld; but her situation was still more wonderful, for she could only\ncompare her sensations to those of some quiet brown Dorking who has\nbrooded an ordinary egg and hatched a bird of paradise. Such an idea\nhad crossed her mind more than once during the past fortnight, and it\nflashed to and fro this mellow October morning when Rebecca came into\nthe room with her arms full of goldenrod and flaming autumn leaves.\n\n\"Just a hint of the fall styles, mother,\" she said, slipping the stem\nof a gorgeous red and yellow sapling between the mattress and the foot\nof the bed. \"This was leaning over the pool, and I was afraid it would\nbe vain if I left it there too long looking at its beautiful\nreflection, so I took it away from danger; isn\'t it wonderful? How I\nwish I could carry one to poor aunt Miranda to-day! There\'s never a\nflower in the brick house when I\'m away.\"\n\nIt was a marvelous morning. The sun had climbed into a world that held\nin remembrance only a succession of golden days and starlit nights. The\nair was fragrant with ripening fruit, and there was a mad little bird\non a tree outside the door nearly bursting his throat with joy of\nliving. He had forgotten that summer was over, that winter must ever\ncome; and who could think of cold winds, bare boughs, or frozen streams\non such a day? A painted moth came in at the open window and settled on\nthe tuft of brilliant leaves. Aurelia heard the bird and looked from\nthe beauty of the glowing bush to her tall, splendid daughter, standing\nlike young Spring with golden Autumn in her arms.\n\nThen suddenly she covered her eyes and cried, \"I can\'t bear it! Here I\nlie chained to this bed, interfering with everything you want to do.\nIt\'s all wasted! All my saving and doing without; all your hard study;\nall Mirandy\'s outlay; everything that we thought was going to be the\nmaking of you!\"\n\n\"Mother, mother, don\'t talk so, don\'t think so!\" exclaimed Rebecca,\nsitting down impetuously on the floor by the bed and dropping the\ngoldenrod by her side. \"Why, mother, I\'m only a little past seventeen!\nThis person in a purple calico apron with flour on her nose is only the\nbeginnings of me! Do you remember the young tree that John\ntransplanted? We had a dry summer and a cold winter and it didn\'t grow\na bit, nor show anything of all we did for it; then there was a good\nyear and it made up for lost time. This is just my little \'rooting\nseason,\' mother, but don\'t go and believe my day is over, because it\nhasn\'t begun! The old maple by the well that\'s in its hundredth year\nhad new leaves this summer, so there must be hope for me at seventeen!\"\n\n\"You can put a brave face on it,\" sobbed Aurelia, \"but you can\'t\ndeceive me. You\'ve lost your place; you\'ll never see your friends here,\nand you\'re nothing but a drudge!\"\n\n\"I look like a drudge,\" said Rebecca mysteriously, with laughing eyes,\n\"but I really am a princess; you mustn\'t tell, but this is only a\ndisguise; I wear it for reasons of state. The king and queen who are at\npresent occupying my throne are very old and tottering, and are going\nto abdicate shortly in my favor. It\'s rather a small kingdom, I\nsuppose, as kingdoms go, so there isn\'t much struggle for it in royal\ncircles, and you mustn\'t expect to see a golden throne set with jewels.\nIt will probably be only of ivory with a nice screen of peacock\nfeathers for a background; but you shall have a comfortable chair very\nnear it, with quantities of slaves to do what they call in novels your\n\'lightest bidding.\'\"\n\nAurelia smiled in spite of herself, and though not perhaps wholly\ndeceived, she was comforted.\n\n\"I only hope you won\'t have to wait too long for your thrones and your\nkingdoms, Rebecca,\" she said, \"and that I shall have a sight of them\nbefore I die; but life looks very hard and rough to me, what with your\naunt Miranda a cripple at the brick house, me another here at the farm,\nyou tied hand and foot, first with one and then with the other, to say\nnothing of Jenny and Fanny and Mark! You\'ve got something of your\nfather\'s happy disposition, or it would weigh on you as it does on me.\"\n\n\"Why, mother!\" cried Rebecca, clasping her knees with her hands; \"why,\nmother, it\'s enough joy just to be here in the world on a day like\nthis; to have the chance of seeing, feeling, doing, becoming! When you\nwere seventeen, mother, wasn\'t it good just to be alive? You haven\'t\nforgotten?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Aurelia, \"but I wasn\'t so much alive as you are, never in\nthe world.\"\n\n\"I often think,\" Rebecca continued, walking to the window and looking\nout at the trees,--\"I often think how dreadful it would be if I were\nnot here at all. If Hannah had come, and then, instead of me, John;\nJohn and Jenny and Fanny and the others, but no Rebecca; never any\nRebecca! To be alive makes up for everything; there ought to be fears\nin my heart, but there aren\'t; something stronger sweeps them out,\nsomething like a wind. Oh, see! There is Will driving up the lane,\nmother, and he ought to have a letter from the brick house.\"\n\n\n\nXXX\n\nGOOD-BY, SUNNYBROOK\n\nWill Melville drove up to the window and, tossing a letter into\nRebecca\'s lap, went off to the barn on an errand.\n\n\"Sister \'s no worse, then,\" sighed Aurelia gratefully, \"or Jane would\nhave telegraphed. See what she says.\"\n\nRebecca opened the envelope and read in one flash of an eye the whole\nbrief page:--\n\n Your aunt Miranda passed away an hour ago. Come at once, if\n your mother is out of danger. I shall not have the funeral\n till you are here. She died very suddenly and without any\n pain. Oh, Rebecca! I long for you so!\n\n Aunt Jane.\n\nThe force of habit was too strong, and even in the hour of death Jane\nhad remembered that a telegram was twenty-five cents, and that Aurelia\nwould have to pay half a dollar for its delivery.\n\nRebecca burst into a passion of tears as she cried, \"Poor, poor aunt\nMiranda! She is gone without taking a bit of comfort in life, and I\ncouldn\'t say good-by to her! Poor lonely aunt Jane! What can I do,\nmother? I feel torn in two, between you and the brick house.\"\n\n\"You must go this very instant,\" said Aurelia; starting from her\npillows. \"If I was to die while you were away, I would say the very\nsame thing. Your aunts have done everything in the world for you,--more\nthan I\'ve ever been able to do,--and it is your turn to pay back some\no\' their kindness and show your gratitude. The doctor says I\'ve turned\nthe corner and I feel I have. Jenny can make out somehow, if Hannah\'ll\ncome over once a day.\"\n\n\"But, mother, I CAN\'T go! Who\'ll turn you in bed?\" exclaimed Rebecca,\nwalking the floor and wringing her hands distractedly.\n\n\"It don\'t make any difference if I don\'t get turned,\" replied Aurelia\nstoically. \"If a woman of my age and the mother of a family hasn\'t got\nsense enough not to slip off haymows, she\'d ought to suffer. Go put on\nyour black dress and pack your bag. I\'d give a good deal if I was able\nto go to my sister\'s funeral and prove that I\'ve forgotten and forgiven\nall she said when I was married. Her acts were softer \'n her words,\nMirandy\'s were, and she\'s made up to you for all she ever sinned\nagainst me \'n\' your father! And oh, Rebecca,\" she continued with\nquivering voice, \"I remember so well when we were little girls together\nand she took such pride in curling my hair; and another time, when we\nwere grown up, she lent me her best blue muslin: it was when your\nfather had asked me to lead the grand march with him at the Christmas\ndance, and I found out afterwards she thought he\'d intended to ask her!\"\n\nHere Aurelia broke down and wept bitterly; for the recollection of the\npast had softened her heart and brought the comforting tears even more\neffectually than the news of her sister\'s death.\n\nThere was only an hour for preparation. Will would drive Rebecca to\nTemperance and send Jenny back from school. He volunteered also to\nengage a woman to sleep at the farm in case Mrs. Randall should be\nworse at any time in the night.\n\nRebecca flew down over the hill to get a last pail of spring water, and\nas she lifted the bucket from the crystal depths and looked out over\nthe glowing beauty of the autumn landscape, she saw a company of\nsurveyors with their instruments making calculations and laying lines\nthat apparently crossed Sunnybrook at the favorite spot where Mirror\nPool lay clear and placid, the yellow leaves on its surface no yellower\nthan its sparkling sands.\n\nShe caught her breath. \"The time has come!\" she thought. \"I am saying\ngood-by to Sunnybrook, and the golden gates that almost swung together\nthat last day in Wareham will close forever now. Good-by, dear brook\nand hills and meadows; you are going to see life too, so we must be\nhopeful and say to one another:--\n\n \"\'Grow old along with me,\n The best is yet to be.\'\"\n\nWill Melville had seen the surveyors too, and had heard in the\nTemperance post-office that morning the probable sum that Mrs. Randall\nwould receive from the railway company. He was in good spirits at his\nown improved prospects, for his farm was so placed that its value could\nbe only increased by the new road; he was also relieved in mind that\nhis wife\'s family would no longer be in dire poverty directly at his\ndoorstep, so to speak. John could now be hurried forward and forced\ninto the position of head of the family several years sooner than had\nbeen anticipated, so Hannah\'s husband was obliged to exercise great\nself-control or he would have whistled while he was driving Rebecca to\nthe Temperance station. He could not understand her sad face or the\ntears that rolled silently down her cheeks from time to time; for\nHannah had always represented her aunt Miranda as an irascible,\nparsimonious old woman, who would be no loss to the world whenever she\nshould elect to disappear from it.\n\n\"Cheer up, Becky!\" he said, as he left her at the depot. \"You\'ll find\nyour mother sitting up when you come back, and the next thing you know\nthe whole family\'ll be moving to some nice little house wherever your\nwork is. Things will never be so bad again as they have been this last\nyear; that\'s what Hannah and I think;\" and he drove away to tell his\nwife the news.\n\nAdam Ladd was in the station and came up to Rebecca instantly, as she\nentered the door looking very unlike her bright self.\n\n\"The Princess is sad this morning,\" he said, taking her hand. \"Aladdin\nmust rub the magic lamp; then the slave will appear, and these tears be\ndried in a trice.\"\n\nHe spoke lightly, for he thought her trouble was something connected\nwith affairs at Sunnybrook, and that he could soon bring the smiles by\ntelling her that the farm was sold and that her mother was to receive a\nhandsome price in return. He meant to remind her, too, that though she\nmust leave the home of her youth, it was too remote a place to be a\nproper dwelling either for herself or for her lonely mother and the\nthree younger children. He could hear her say as plainly as if it were\nyesterday, \"I don\'t think one ever forgets the spot where one lived as\na child.\" He could see the quaint little figure sitting on the piazza\nat North Riverboro and watch it disappear in the lilac bushes when he\ngave the memorable order for three hundred cakes of Rose-Red and\nSnow-White soap.\n\nA word or two soon told him that her grief was of another sort, and her\nmood was so absent, so sensitive and tearful, that he could only assure\nher of his sympathy and beg that he might come soon to the brick house\nto see with his own eyes how she was faring.\n\nAdam thought, when he had put her on the train and taken his leave,\nthat Rebecca was, in her sad dignity and gravity, more beautiful than\nhe had ever seen her,--all-beautiful and all-womanly. But in that\nmoment\'s speech with her he had looked into her eyes and they were\nstill those of a child; there was no knowledge of the world in their\nshining depths, no experience of men or women, no passion, nor\ncomprehension of it. He turned from the little country station to walk\nin the woods by the wayside until his own train should be leaving, and\nfrom time to time he threw himself under a tree to think and dream and\nlook at the glory of the foliage. He had brought a new copy of The\nArabian Nights for Rebecca, wishing to replace the well-worn old one\nthat had been the delight of her girlhood; but meeting her at such an\ninauspicious time, he had absently carried it away with him. He turned\nthe pages idly until he came to the story of Aladdin and the Wonderful\nLamp, and presently, in spite of his thirty-four years, the old tale\nheld him spellbound as it did in the days when he first read it as a\nboy. But there were certain paragraphs that especially caught his eye\nand arrested his attention,--paragraphs that he read and reread,\nfinding in them he knew not what secret delight and significance. These\nwere the quaintly turned phrases describing the effect on the once poor\nAladdin of his wonderful riches, and those descanting upon the beauty\nand charm of the Sultan\'s daughter, the Princess Badroulboudour:--\n\n_Not only those who knew Aladdin when he played in the streets like a\nvagabond did not know him again; those who had seen him but a little\nwhile before hardly knew him, so much were his features altered; such\nwere the effects of the lamp, as to procure by degrees to those who\npossessed it, perfections agreeable to the rank the right use of it\nadvanced them to._\n\n_The Princess was the most beautiful brunette in the world; her eyes\nwere large, lively, and sparkling; her looks sweet and modest; her nose\nwas of a just proportion and without a fault; her mouth small, her lips\nof a vermilion red, and charmingly agreeable symmetry; in a word, all\nthe features of her face were perfectly regular. It is not therefore\nsurprising that Aladdin, who had never seen, and was a stranger to, so\nmany charms, was dazzled. With all these perfections the Princess had\nso delicate a shape, so majestic an air, that the sight of her was\nsufficient to inspire respect._\n\n\"_Adorable Princess,\" said Aladdin to her, accosting her, and saluting\nher respectfully, \"if I have the misfortune to have displeased you by\nmy boldness in aspiring to the possession of so lovely a creature, I\nmust tell you that you ought to blame your bright eyes and charms, not\nme._\"\n\n_\"Prince,\" answered the Princess, \"it is enough for me to have seen\nyou, to tell you that I obey without reluctance.\"_\n\n\n\nXXXI\n\nAUNT MIRANDA\'S APOLOGY\n\nWhen Rebecca alighted from the train at Maplewood and hurried to the\npost-office where the stage was standing, what was her joy to see uncle\nJerry Cobb holding the horses\' heads.\n\n\"The reg\'lar driver \'s sick,\" he explained, \"and when they sent for me,\nthinks I to myself, my drivin\' days is over, but Rebecky won\'t let the\ngrass grow under her feet when she gits her aunt Jane\'s letter, and\nlike as not I\'ll ketch her to-day; or, if she gits delayed, to-morrow\nfor certain. So here I be jest as I was more \'n six year ago. Will you\nbe a real lady passenger, or will ye sit up in front with me?\"\n\nEmotions of various sorts were all struggling together in the old man\'s\nface, and the two or three bystanders were astounded when they saw the\nhandsome, stately girl fling herself on Mr. Cobb\'s dusty shoulder\ncrying like a child. \"Oh, uncle Jerry!\" she sobbed; \"dear uncle Jerry!\nIt\'s all so long ago, and so much has happened, and we\'ve grown so old,\nand so much is going to happen that I\'m fairly frightened.\"\n\n\"There, there, lovey,\" the old man whispered comfortingly, \"we\'ll be\nall alone on the stage, and we\'ll talk things over \'s we go along the\nroad an\' mebbe they won\'t look so bad.\"\n\nEvery mile of the way was as familiar to Rebecca as to uncle Jerry;\nevery watering-trough, grindstone, red barn, weather-vane, duck-pond,\nand sandy brook. And all the time she was looking backward to the day,\nseemingly so long ago, when she sat on the box seat for the first time,\nher legs dangling in the air, too short to reach the footboard. She\ncould smell the big bouquet of lilacs, see the pink-flounced parasol,\nfeel the stiffness of the starched buff calico and the hated prick of\nthe black and yellow porcupine quills. The drive was taken almost in\nsilence, but it was a sweet, comforting silence both to uncle Jerry and\nthe girl.\n\nThen came the sight of Abijah Flagg shelling beans in the barn, and\nthen the Perkins attic windows with a white cloth fluttering from them.\nShe could spell Emma Jane\'s loving thought and welcome in that little\nwaving flag; a word and a message sent to her just at the first moment\nwhen Riverboro chimneys rose into view; something to warm her heart\ntill they could meet.\n\nThe brick house came next, looking just as of yore; though it seemed to\nRebecca as if death should have cast some mysterious spell over it.\nThere were the rolling meadows, the stately elms, all yellow and brown\nnow; the glowing maples, the garden-beds bright with asters, and the\nhollyhocks, rising tall against the parlor windows; only in place of\nthe cheerful pinks and reds of the nodding stalks, with their gay\nrosettes of bloom, was a crape scarf holding the blinds together, and\nanother on the sitting-room side, and another on the brass knocker of\nthe brown-painted door.\n\n\"Stop, uncle Jerry! Don\'t turn in at the side; hand me my satchel,\nplease; drop me in the road and let me run up the path by myself. Then\ndrive away quickly.\"\n\nAt the noise and rumble of the approaching stage the house door opened\nfrom within, just as Rebecca closed the gate behind her. Aunt Jane came\ndown the stone steps, a changed woman, frail and broken and white.\nRebecca held out her arms and the old aunt crept into them feebly, as\nshe did on that day when she opened the grave of her buried love and\nshowed the dead face, just for an instant, to a child. Warmth and\nstrength and life flowed into the aged frame from the young one.\n\n\"Rebecca,\" she said, raising her head, \"before you go in to look at\nher, do you feel any bitterness over anything she ever said to you?\"\n\nRebecca\'s eyes blazed reproach, almost anger, as she said chokingly:\n\"Oh, aunt Jane! Could you believe it of me? I am going in with a heart\nbrimful of gratitude!\"\n\n\"She was a good woman, Rebecca; she had a quick temper and a sharp\ntongue, but she wanted to do right, and she did it as near as she\ncould. She never said so, but I\'m sure she was sorry for every hard\nword she spoke to you; she didn\'t take \'em back in life, but she acted\nso \'t you\'d know her feeling when she was gone.\"\n\n\"I told her before I left that she\'d been the making of me, just as\nmother says,\" sobbed Rebecca.\n\n\"She wasn\'t that,\" said Jane. \"God made you in the first place, and\nyou\'ve done considerable yourself to help Him along; but she gave you\nthe wherewithal to work with, and that ain\'t to be despised; specially\nwhen anybody gives up her own luxuries and pleasures to do it. Now let\nme tell you something, Rebecca. Your aunt Mirandy \'s willed all this to\nyou,--the brick house and buildings and furniture, and the land all\nround the house, as far \'s you can see.\"\n\nRebecca threw off her hat and put her hand to her heart, as she always\ndid in moments of intense excitement. After a moment\'s silence she\nsaid: \"Let me go in alone; I want to talk to her; I want to thank her;\nI feel as if I could make her hear and feel and understand!\"\n\nJane went back into the kitchen to the inexorable tasks that death has\nno power, even for a day, to blot from existence. He can stalk through\ndwelling after dwelling, leaving despair and desolation behind him, but\nthe table must be laid, the dishes washed, the beds made, by somebody.\n\nTen minutes later Rebecca came out from the Great Presence looking\nwhite and spent, but chastened and glorified. She sat in the quiet\ndoorway, shaded from the little Riverboro world by the overhanging\nelms. A wide sense of thankfulness and peace possessed her, as she\nlooked at the autumn landscape, listened to the rumble of a wagon on\nthe bridge, and heard the call of the river as it dashed to the sea.\nShe put up her hand softly and touched first the shining brass knocker\nand then the red bricks, glowing in the October sun.\n\nIt was home; her roof, her garden, her green acres, her dear trees; it\nwas shelter for the little family at Sunnybrook; her mother would have\nonce more the companionship of her sister and the friends of her\ngirlhood; the children would have teachers and playmates.\n\nAnd she? Her own future was close-folded still; folded and hidden in\nbeautiful mists; but she leaned her head against the sun-warmed door,\nand closing her eyes, whispered, just as if she had been a child saying\nher prayers: \"God bless aunt Miranda; God bless the brick house that\nwas; God bless the brick house that is to be!\"'"