Kitabı oku: «The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe: or, There's No Place Like Home», sayfa 11

Kit went nearly wild over it. Hal read it aloud; and he held his breath at the exquisite description of Charles's first concert, and the tenderness and sweetness of the Chevalier. Though part of it was rather beyond their comprehension, they enjoyed it wonderfully, nevertheless.

The little room up stairs became quite a parlor for them. The stove kept it nice and warm; and they used to love to sit there evenings, inhaling the fragrance, and watching the drowsy leaves as they nodded to each other: it seemed to Hal that he had never been so happy in the world. He ceased to long for Florence.

They did very well on their chickens this year, clearing forty dollars. Granny thought they were quite rich.

"You ought to put it in the bank, Hal! it's just a flow of good luck on every side."

And, when he received his pay for November, he actually did put fifty dollars in the bank, though there were a hundred things he wanted with it.

The latter part of December Hal's flowers began to bloom in great profusion. The alyssum and candytuft came out, and the house was sweet with tuberoses. There being more than Mr. Thomas wanted, he took a box full to Newbury one Saturday morning, and found Mr. Kirkman, to whom the flowers were quite a godsend. Eight dollars! Hal felt richer than ever.

He had set his heart upon buying some Christmas gifts. At first he thought he would break the fifty dollars; but it was so near the end of the month that he borrowed a little from Dr. Meade instead. He came home laden with budgets; but both Kit and Charlie were out, fortunately.

"Now, Granny, you will keep the secret," he implored. "Don't breathe a hint of it."

Very hard work Granny found it. She chuckled over her dish-washing; and, when Dot asked what was the matter, subsided into an awful solemnity. But Wednesday morning soon came.

They all rushed down to their stockings, which Kit and Charlie had insisted upon hanging up after the olden fashion. Stockings were empty however, as Santy Claus' gifts were rather unwieldy for so small a receptacle.

Kit started back in amazement. A mysterious black case with a brass handle on the top.

"O Hal! you are the dearest old chap in the world; a perfect darling, isn't he Granny? and I never, never can thank you. I've been thinking about it all the time, and wondering – oh, you dear, precious fiddle!"

Kit hugged it; and I am not sure but he kissed it, and capered around the room as if he had lost his senses.

Charlie's gift was a drawing-book, a set of colored pencils, and a new dress; Granny's a new dress; and Dot's a muff and tippet, a very pretty imitation of ermine. How delighted they all were! Kit could hardly eat a mouthful of breakfast.

Granny gave them a royal dinner. Altogether it was almost as good as the Christmas with "The old woman who lived in a shoe."

Yet there were only four of them now. How they missed the two absent faces!

Shortly after this they had a letter from Joe. He had actually been at Canton, seen John Chinaman on his native soil in all the glory of pigtail and chop-stick. Such hosts of funny adventures it would have been hard to find even in a book. He meant to cruise around in that part of the world until he was tired, for he was having the tallest kind of sport.

February was very pleasant indeed. Hal stirred up the soil in his cold frames, and planted some seeds. His flowers were still doing very well, the slips having come forward beautifully. On the whole, it had proved a rather pleasant winter, and they had been very happy.

Granny declared that she was quite a lady. No more weaving carpet, or going out to work, – nothing but "puttering" about the house. She was becoming accustomed to the care of the flowers, and looked after them in a manner that won Hal's entire heart.

Easter was to fall very early. Mr. Thomas had engaged all Hal's flowers, and begged him to have as many white ones as possible. So he fed the callas on warm water, with a little spirits of ammonia in it, and the five beautiful stalks grew up, with their fairy haunt of loveliness and fragrance. Dot used to look at them twenty times a day, as the soft green turned paler and paler, bleaching out at last to that wonderful creamy white with its delicate odor.

Outside he transplanted his heads of lettuce, sowed fresh seeds of various kinds, and began to set slips of geranium. On cold or stormy days they kept the glass covered, and always at night. It was marvellous, the way every thing throve and grew. It seemed to Hal that there was nothing else in the world so interesting.

Kit had begun to take lessons on his violin; but he soon found there was a wide difference between the absolute drudgery of rudiments, and the delicious dreams of melody that floated through his brain. Sometimes he cried over the difficulties, and felt tempted to throw away his violin; then he and Hal would have a good time with their beloved Charles Auchester, when he would go on with renewed courage.

After Easter the flowers looked like mere wrecks. Hal cut most of the roses down, trimmed the heliotrope and fuchsias, and planted verbenas. His pansies, which had come from seed, looked very fine and thrifty, and were in bud. So he mentioned that he would have quite a number of bedding-plants for sale.

Indeed, the fame of Hal's green-house spread through Madison. It was a marvel to everybody, how he could make plants grow in such a remarkable fashion, and under not a few disadvantages. But he studied the soil and habits minutely; and then he had a "gift," – as much of a genius for this, as Kit's for music, or Charlie's for drawing.

But with these warm spring days Hal grew very pale and thin. It seemed to him sometimes as if he could not endure the peculiar wear and anxiety of the school. There were thirty-five scholars now; and, although he tried to keep respectable order, he found it very hard work. He had such a tender, indulgent heart, that he oftener excused than punished.

His head used to ache dreadfully in the afternoon, and every pulse in his body would throb until it seemed to make him absolutely sore. The gardening and the school were quite too much.

"Granny," said Charlie one evening, "I am not going to school any more."

Granny opened her eyes in surprise.

"I am going to work."

"To work?"

It was astonishing to hear Charlie declare such sentiments.

"Yes, – in the mill."

"What will you do?"

"Sarah Marshall began last fall: it's cleaning specks and imperfections out of the cloth; not very hard, either, and they give her four and a half a week."

"That's pretty good," said Granny.

"Yes. I shall have to do something. I hate housework and sewing, and – I want some money."

"I'm sure Hal's as good as an angel."

"I don't want Hal's. Goodness knows! he has enough to do, and it's high time I began to think about myself."

Granny was overwhelmed with admiration at Charlie's spirit and resolution, yet she was not quite certain of its being proper until she had asked Hal.

"I wish she wanted to learn dressmaking instead, or to teach school; but she isn't proud, like Flossy. And now she is growing so large that she wants nice clothes, and all that."

Yet Hal sighed a little. Charlie somehow appeared to be lacking in refinement. She had a great deal of energy and persistence, and was not easily daunted or laughed out of any idea.

"Though I think she will make a nice girl," said Hal, as if he had been indulging in a little treason. "We have a good deal to be thankful for, Granny."

"Yes, indeed! And dear, brave Joe such a nice boy!"

Hal made a few inquiries at the mill. They would take Charlie, and pay her two dollars a week for the first month, after that by the piece; and, if she was smart, she could earn three or four dollars.

So Charlie went to work with her usual sturdiness. If they could have looked in her heart, and beheld all her plans, and known that she hated this as bitterly as washing dishes or mending old clothes!

On the first of June, Hal took an account of stock. They had been quite fortunate in the sale of early vegetables. The lettuce, radishes, and tomato-plants had done beautifully. For cut-flowers he had received fifty-two dollars; for bedding-plants, – scarlet and other geraniums, and pansies, – the sum had amounted to over nine dollars; for vegetables and garden-plants, eleven. They had not incurred any extra expense, save the labor.

"To think of that, Granny! Almost seventy-five dollars! And on such a small scale too! I think I could make gardening pay, if I had a fair chance."

Dr. Meade admitted that it was wonderful, when he heard of it.

"I'm not sure that a hot-house would pay here in Madison, but you could send a great many things to New York. Any how, Hal, if I were rich I should build you one."

"You are very kind. I shouldn't have done as well, if it had not been for you."

"Tut, tut! That's nothing. But I don't like to see you growing so thin. I shall have to prepare you a tonic. You work too hard."

Hal smiled faintly.

"You must let gardening alone for the next six weeks. And the school isn't the best thing in the world for you."

"I've been very thankful for it, though."

"If you stay another year, the salary must be raised. Do you like it?"

"Not as well as gardening."

"Well, take matters easy," advised the good doctor.

The tonic was sent over. Hal made a strong fight against the languor; but the enemy was rather too stout for him. Every day there was a little fever; and at night he tossed from side to side, and could not sleep. Granny made him a "pitcher of tea," her great cure-all, – valerian, gentian, and wild-cherry, – in a pitcher that had lost both handle and spout; and, though he drank it to please her, it did not appear to help him any.

It seemed to him, some days, that he never could walk home from school. Now and then he caught a ride, to be sure; but the weary step after step on these warm afternoons almost used up his last remnant of strength.

"Now," said Dr. Meade when school had ended, "you really must begin to take care of yourself. You are as white as if you had not an ounce of blood in your whole body. No work of any kind, remember. It is to be a regular vacation."

Hal acquiesced from sheer inability to do any thing else. The house was quiet; for Dot never had been a noisy child since her crying-days. She was much more like Florence, except the small vanities, and air of martyrdom, that so often spoiled the elder sister's sacrifices, – a sweet, affectionate little thing, a kind of baby, as she would always be.

Her love for Hal and Granny was perfect devotion, and held in it a strand of quaintness that made one smile. She could cook quite nicely; and sewing appeared to come natural to her. Hal called her "Small woman," as an especial term of endearment.

But they hardly knew what to make of Charlie. Instead of launching out into gayeties, as they expected (for Charlie was very fond of finery), she proved so economical, that she was almost stingy. She gave Granny a dollar a week; and they heard she was earning as much as Sarah Marshall already. In fact, Charlie was a Trojan when she worked in good earnest.

"What are you going to do with it all?" Hal would ask playfully.

"Maybe I'll put it in the bank, or buy a farm."

"Ho!" said Kit. "What would you do with a farm?"

"Hire it out on shares to Hal."

"You are a good girl, Charlie; and it's well to save a little 'gainst time o' need."

Which encomium of Granny's would always settle the matter.

Hal did not get better. Dr. Meade wanted him to go to the seaside for a few weeks.

"I cannot afford it," he said; "and I shouldn't enjoy it a bit alone. I think I shall be better when cool weather comes. These warm days seem to melt all the strength out of me."

"Well, I hope so."

Hal hoped so too. He was young; and the world looked bright; and then they all needed him. Not that he had any morbid thoughts of dying, only sometimes it crossed his mind. He had never been quite so well and strong since the accident.

For Granny's sake and for Dot's sake. He loved them both so dearly; and they seemed so peculiarly helpless, – the one in her shy childhood, the other on the opposite confine. He wanted to make Granny's life pleasant at the last, when she had worked so hard for all of them.

But God would do what was best; though Hal's lip quivered, and an unbidden tear dropped from the sad eye.

O Florence! had you forgotten them?

CHAPTER XV
HOW CHARLIE RAN AWAY

"Where is Charlie?" asked Hal as they sat down to the supper-table one evening.

"She didn't go to work this afternoon, but put on her best clothes, and said she meant to take a holiday."

"Well, the poor child needed it, I am sure. To think of our wild, heedless, tomboy Charlie settling into such a steady girl!"

"But Charlie always was good at heart. I've had six of the best and nicest grandchildren you could pick out anywhere, if I do say it myself."

Granny uttered the words with a good deal of pride.

"Yes," said Kit: "we'll be a what-is-it – crown to your old age."

Granny laughed merrily.

"Seven children!" appended Kit. "You forgot my fiddle."

"Eight children!" said Dot. "You forgot Hal's flowers."

Hal smiled at this.

"I may as well wash the dishes," exclaimed Dot presently. "I guess Charlie will stay out to tea."

After that they sat on the doorstep in the moonlight, and sang, – Dot with her head in Hal's lap, and Hal's arm around Granny's shoulder. A very sacred and solemn feeling seemed to come to them on this evening, as if it was a time which it would be important to remember.

"I do not believe Charlie means to come home to-night," Hal said when the clock struck ten.

"But she has on her best clothes. She wouldn't wear 'em to the mill."

So they waited a while longer. No Charlie. Then they kissed each other good-night, and began to disperse.

Hal looked into the deserted flower-room, which was still a kind of library and cosey place. The moonlight lay in broad white sheets on the floor, quivering like a summer sea. How strange and sweet it was! How lovely God had made the earth, and the serene heaven above it!

Something on the table caught his eye as he turned, – a piece of folded paper like a letter. He wondered what he had left there, and picked it up carelessly.

"To Granny and Hal."

Hal started in the utmost surprise. An unsealed letter in Charlie's handwriting, which had never been remarkable for its beauty. He trembled all over, and stood in the moonlight to read it, the slow tears coming into his eyes.

Should he go down and tell them? Perhaps it would be better not to alarm them to-night. Occasionally, when it had rained, Charlie spent the night with some of the girls living near the mill: so Granny would not worry about her.

O brave, daring, impulsive Charlie! If you could have seen the pain in Hal's heart!

He brought the letter down the next morning.

"How queer it is that Charlie stays!" said Dot, toasting some bread. "O Hal! what's the matter?"

"Nothing – only – You'll have to hear it sometime; and maybe it will all end right. Charlie's gone away."

"Gone away!" echoed Granny.

"Yes. She left a letter. I found it last night in the flower-room. Let me read it to you."

Hal cleared his throat. The others stood absolutely awe-stricken.

"Dear Granny and Hal, – You know I always had my heart set on running away; and I'm going to do it now, because, if I told you all my plans, you would say they were quite wild. Perhaps they are. Only I shall try to make them work; and, somehow, I think I can. I have sights of courage and hope. But, O Granny! I couldn't stay in the mill: it was like putting me in prison. I hated the coarse work, the dirt, the noise, and the smells of grease, and everybody there. Some days I felt as if I must scream and scream, until God came and took me out of it. But I wanted to earn some money; and there wasn't any other way in Madison that I should have liked any better. I've had this in my mind ever since I went to work.

"I can't tell you all my plans, – I don't even know them myself, – only I am going to try; and, if I cannot succeed, I shall come back. I have twenty-five dollars that I've saved. And, if I have good luck, you'll hear that too. Please don't worry about me. I shall find friends, and not get into any trouble, I know.

"I am very sorry to leave you all; but then I kissed you good-by, – Hal and Kit this morning, when I said it softly in my heart; and Dot and you, dear Granny, when I went away. I had it all planned so nicely, and you never suspected a word. I shall come back some time, of course. And now you must be happy without me, and just say a tiny bit of prayer every night, as I shall for you, and never fret a word. Somehow I feel as if I were a little like Joe; and you know he is doing beautifully.

"Good-by with a thousand kisses. Don't try to find me; for you can't, I know. I'll write some time again. Your own queer, loving.

"Charlie."

"Well, that's too good!" said Kit, breaking the silence of tears. "Charlie has the spunk – and a girl too!"

"Oh!" sobbed Granny, "she don't know nothing; and she'll get lost, and get into trouble."

"No, she won't, either! I'll bet on Charlie. And she was saving up her money for that, and never said a word!"

Kit's admiration was intense.

"It's about the drawing; and she has gone to New York, I am almost sure," said Hal. "Don't cry, Granny; for somehow I think Charlie will be safe. She is good and honest and truthful."

"But in New York! And she don't know anybody there" —

"Maybe she has gone to Mrs. Burton's. I might write and see. Or there is Clara Pennington – they moved last spring, you remember. I'm pretty sure we shall find her."

Hal's voice was strong with hope. Now that he had to comfort Granny, he could see a bright side himself.

"And she has some money too."

"She'll do," said Kit decisively. "And if that isn't great! She coaxed me to run away once and live in the woods; but I think this is better."

"Did you do it?" asked Dot.

"Yes. We came near setting the woods on fire; and didn't we get a jolly scolding! Charlie's a trump."

So they settled themselves to the fact quite calmly. Charlie had taken the best of her clothes, and would be prepared for present emergencies.

Before the day was over, they had another event to startle them.

Dr. Meade tied his old horse to the gate-post, and came in. Granny was taking a little rest in the other room; and Dot was up stairs, reading.

"Better to-day, eh?" said the doctor.

"I believe I do feel a little better. I have not had any headache or fever for several days."

"You'll come out bright as a blue-bird next spring."

"Before that, I hope. School commences next week."

"Then you have heard – nothing?"

"Was there any thing for me to hear?"

Hal looked up anxiously; and the soft brown eyes, in their wistfulness, touched the doctor's heart.

"They've served you and me a mean trick, Hal," began the doctor rather warmly. "Some of it was my fault. I told the committee that you would not take it next year under five hundred dollars."

"It's worth that," said Hal quietly.

"Yes, if it is worth a cent. Well, Squire Haines has had a niece staying with him who has taught school in Brooklyn for eight or ten years, – a great, tall sharp kind of a woman; and she was willing to come for the old salary. She's setting her cap for Mrs. Haines's brother, I can see that fast enough. The squire, he's favored her; and they've pushed the matter through."

"Then Miss Perkins has it!" Hal exclaimed with a gasp, feeling as if he were stranded on the lee-shore.

"Exactly. And I don't know but it is best. To tell the truth, Hal, you are not strong, and you did work too hard last year. You want rest; but you'll never be able to go into the battle rough and tumble. I may as well tell you this."

"Do you think I shall never" – Hal's lip quivered.

"The fall gave you a great shock, you see; and then the confinement in school was altogether wrong. You want quiet and ease; and I do think this flower-business will be the very thing for you. I've been casting it over in my mind; and I have a fancy that another spring I'll be able to do something for you. Keep heart, my boy. It's darkest just before the dawn, you know."

"You are so kind!" and the brown eyes filled with tears.

"It will all come out right, I'm pretty sure. This winter's rest will be just the thing for you. Now, don't fret yourself back to the old point again; for you have improved a little. And, if you want any thing, come to me. We all get in tight places sometimes."

Hal repeated this to Dot and Granny; and when Kit came home he heard the "bad news," over which he looked very sober.

"But then it might be worse," said Hal cheerily; for he was never sad long at a time. "We have almost a hundred dollars, and I shall try to make my flowers more profitable this winter."

And the best of all was, Hal did begin to feel better. The terrible weakness seemed to yield at last to some of the good doctor's tonics, his appetite improved, and he could sleep quite well once more.

At this juncture Kit found an opening.

"They'll take me in the melodeon-factory over at Salem," he announced breathlessly one evening. "Mr. Briggs told me of it, and I went to see. I can board with Mr. Halsey, the foreman; and oh, can't he play on the violin! He will go on teaching me, and I can have my board and four dollars a month."

"Well, I declare!" ejaculated Granny. "What next?"

"Then you won't have me to take care of this winter. I'm about tired of going to school, and that's nice business. I can come home every Saturday night."

"Yes," said Hal thoughtfully.

"I do believe Mr. Halsey's taken a great liking to me. He wants you to come over, Hal, and have a talk."

So Hal went over. The prospect appeared very fair. Kit had some mechanical genius; but building melodeons would be much more to his taste than building houses.

"It has a suggestion of music in it," laughed Hal.

So the bargain was concluded. About the middle of September, Kit started for Salem and business.

But oh, how lonely the old house was! All the mirth and mischief gone! It seemed to Granny that she would be quite willing to go out washing, and weave carpets, if she could have them all children once more.

There was plenty of room in the Old Shoe now. One bed in the parlor held Dot and Granny. No cradle with a baby face in it, no fair girl with golden curls sewing at the window. Tabby sat unmolested in the chimney-corner. No one turned back her ears, or put walnut-shells over her claws; no one made her dance a jig on her hind-legs, or bundled her in shawls until she was smothered, and had to give a pathetic m-i-a-o-u in self-defence.

Oh, the gay, laughing, tormenting children! Always clothes to mend, cut fingers and stubbed toes to doctor, quarrels to settle, noises to quell, to tumble over one here and another there, to have them cross with the measles and forlorn with the mumps, but coming back to fun again in a day or two, – the dear, troublesome, vanished children!

Many a time Granny cried alone by herself. It was right that they should grow into men and women; but oh, the ache and emptiness it left in her poor old heart! And it seemed as if Tabby missed them; for now and then she would put her paws on the old window-seat, stretching out her full length, and look up and down the street, uttering a mournful cry.

One day Dot brought home a letter from the store directed to Hal.

"Why, it's Charlie!" he said with a great cry of joy and confusion of person. "Dear old Charlie!"

He tore it open with hasty, trembling fingers.

"Dear Hal and Granny, – I'm like Joe, happy as a big sunflower! I can't tell you half nor quarter; so I shall not try, but save it all against the time I come home; for I am coming. Every thing is just splendid! It wasn't so nice at first, and one day I felt almost homesick; but it came out right. Oh, dear! I want to see you so, and tell you all the wonderful things that have happened to me, – just like a story-book. I think of you all, – Hal in his school, Granny busy about the house, Dot, the little darling, sweet as ever, and a whole roomful of flowers up-stairs, and Kit playing on his violin. Did you miss me much? I missed the dear old home, the sweet kisses, and tender voices; but some day I shall have them again. I never forget you a moment; but oh, oh, oh! That's all I can say. There are not words enough to express all the rest. Don't forget me; but love me just the same. A thousand kisses to all you children left in the old shoe, and another thousand to Granny.

"Your own dear

Charlie."

Hal's eyes were full of tears. To tell the truth, they had a good crying-time before any of them could speak a word.

"Dear, brave Charlie! She and Joe are alike. Granny, I don't know but they are the children to be proud of, after all."

"Where is she?" asked Granny, wiping her nose violently.

"Why, there isn't a bit of – address – to it; and the post-mark – begins with an N – but all the rest is blurred. She means to wait until she comes home, and tell us the whole story; and she will not give us an opportunity to write, for fear we will ask some questions. She means to keep up her running away."

They were all delighted, and had to read the letter over and over again.

"She must be in New York somewhere, and studying drawing. I've a great mind to write at a venture."

"And she will come home," crooned Granny softly.

"I'm glad she thinks us all so happy and prosperous," said Hal.

I shall have to tell you how it fared with Charlie and not keep you waiting until they heard the story.

She had indeed followed out her old plan. Child as she was, when she went to work in the mill she crowded all her wild dreams down in the depths of her heart. No one ever knew what heroic sacrifices Charlie Kenneth made. She was fond of dress, and just of an age when a bright ribbon, a pretty hat, and a dozen other dainty trifles, seem to add so much to one's happiness.

But she resolutely eschewed them all. Week by week her little hoard gained slowly, every day bringing her nearer the hour of freedom. She planned, too, more practically than any one would have supposed. And one evening she smuggled a black travelling-bag into the house, hiding it in a rubbish-closet until she could pack it.

She seized her opportunity at noon, to get it out unobserved; and, putting it in an out-of-the-way corner, dragged some pea-brush over it, that gave it the look of a pile of rubbish. Then she dressed herself, and said her good-bys gayly, but with a trembling heart, and went off to take her holiday.

Charlie tugged her bag to the depot, and bought a ticket for Newbury. Then she seated herself in great state, and really began to enjoy the adventure. She wondered how people could spend all their lives in a little humdrum place like Madison.

At Newbury she bought a ticket for New York. Then she sat thinking what she should do. A family by the name of Wilcox had left Madison two years before, and gone to New York. The mother was a clever, ignorant, good-hearted sort of woman, of whom Charlie Kenneth had been rather fond in her childish days. Mary Jane, the daughter, had paid a flying visit to Madison that spring, and Charlie had heard her describe the route to her house in Fourteenth Street. This was where she purposed to go.

The cars stopped. The passengers left in a crowd, Charlie following. If they were going to New York, she would not get lost. So the ferry was crossed in safety. Then she asked a policeman to direct her to City Hall. A little ragged urchin pestered her about carrying her bag, but it was too precious to be trusted to strangers.

She saw the Third-avenue cars; but how was she to get to them? The street seemed blocked up continually. By and by a policeman piloted her across, and saw her safely deposited in the car.

Charlie paid her fare, and told the conductor to stop at Fourteenth Street; but, after riding a while, she began to look out for herself. What an endless way it was! and where did all the people come from? Could it be possible that there were houses enough for them to live in? Ah! here was her corner.

She turned easterly, watching for the number. There was Mrs. Wilcox's frowsy head at the front basement window; and Charlie felt almost afraid to ring at the front-door, so she tried that lowly entrance.

"Come in," said a voice in response to her knock.

It was evident she had grown out of Mrs. Wilcox's remembrance, so she rather awkwardly introduced herself.

"Charlie Kenneth! The land sakes! How you have growed! Why, I'm right glad to see you. How is Granny and all the children, and all the folks at Madison?"

Charlie "lumped" them, and answered, "Pretty well."

"Did you come down all alone? And how did you find us? Mary Jane'll be powerful glad to see you. Ain't you most tired to death luggin' that heavy bag? Do take off your things, and get rested."

Charlie complied. Mrs. Wilcox went on with her endless string of questions, even after she rose to set the supper-table.

"And so Florence is married. Strange you've never heard about her. She's so rich and grand that I s'pose she don't want to remember poor relations. And Hal's been a teachin' school! Why, you're quite gettin' up in the world."

Mary Jane soon made her appearance. A flirting, flippant girl of sixteen, rather good-looking, and trimmed up with ribbons and cheap furbelows. She appeared glad to see Charlie, and all the questions were asked over again. Then Mr. Wilcox came in, washed his hands and face, and they sat down to supper. Before they were half through, Tom and Ed came tumbling in, full of fun and nonsense.

"Boys, be still!" said their father; which admonition they heeded for about the space of ten seconds.

Mary Jane rose from the table as soon as she had finished her supper.

"Charlie'll sleep with me, of course," she said. "Bring your bag and your things up stairs, Charlie."

Charlie followed her to the third story, – a very fair-sized room, but with an appearance of general untidiness visible everywhere.

"You can hang up your clothes in that closet," indicating it with her head. "Did you go to work in the mill, Charlie?"