Mr. Reed entered his own area, wiped his feet, and hung up his hat. He went out in the back area and washed his hands. Every other day a clean towel was put on the roller. The house was immaculate. The supper-table was set. Mrs. Reed was finishing a block of patchwork, catch-up work, when she had to wait two minutes. She went out in the hall taking the last st.i.tch, and called up the stairway:

"John Robert Charles!"

Meals were generally very quiet. Charles had been trained not to speak unless he was spoken to. Once or twice his father looked at him. A pinafore was rather ridiculous on such a big boy. How very large his white collar was! His hair looked too sleek. He was a regular Miss Nancy.

He helped his mother take out the dishes and wiped them for her.

"Come out on the stoop, Charles," said his father afterward, as he picked up his paper.

Mrs. Reed wondered if Charles had committed some overt act that she knew nothing about. _Could_ anything elude her sharp eyes?

Mr. Reed pretended to be busy with his paper, but he was thinking of his son. In his early years the child had been a bone of contention. His mother always knew just what to do with him, just what was proper, and would brook no interference. What with her cleanliness, her inordinate love of regularity and order, she had become a domestic tyrant. He had yielded because he loved peace. There was a good deal of comfort in his house. He went out two or three evenings in the week, to the lodge, to his whist club, and occasionally to call on a friend. Mrs. Reed never had any time to waste on such trifling matters. He had not thought much about his boy except to place him in a good school.

"Charles, couldn't you have asked me about the singing-school?" he said rather sharply.

"About--the singing-school?" Charles was dazed.

"Yes. It wasn't very manly to set a lot of little girls asking a favor for you. I'm ashamed of you!"

"Oh, father--who asked? We were talking of it over to Josie Dean's. I knew mother wouldn't let me go. I--I said so." Charles' fair face was very red.

"You put them up to ask!"

"No, I didn't. They never said a word about it. Why, I wouldn't have asked them to do it."

Mr. Reed looked suspiciously at his son.

"You don't care to go?"

"Yes, I do, very much." The boy's voice was tremulous.

"Why couldn't _you_ ask me?"

"Because you would leave it to mother, and she would say it was not worth while."

"Was that what you told them?" Mr. Reed was truly mortified. No man likes to be considered without power in his own household.

"I--I think it was," hesitated the boy. The girls had started an insurrection, sure enough. Well, the poor lad had no chance before. It was not a hope swept away, there had been no hope. But now he gave up.

"Don't be a fool nor a coward," exclaimed his father gruffly. "Here, get your hat and go straight over to the Deans'. Tell them your _father_ says you can go to singing-school next Sat.u.r.day afternoon, that he will be very glad to have you go. And next time you want anything ask me."

If the boy had only dared clasp his father's hand and thank him, but he had been repressed and snipped off and kept in leading-strings too long to dare a spontaneous impulse. So he walked over as if he had been following some imaginary chalk line. The Deans were all up in the back parlor. He did his errand and came back at once, before Josie and Tudie had recovered from their surprise.

Nothing else happened. Mrs. Reed went out presently to do the Sat.u.r.day-night marketing. She preferred to go alone. She could make better bargains. When she returned Mr. Reed lighted his cigar and took a stroll around the block. There was no smoking in the house, hardly in the back yard.

Sat.u.r.day noon Mrs. Reed said to her son:

"You are to go to singing-school this afternoon. If I hear of your loitering with any bad boys, or misbehaving in any way, that will end it."

The poor lad had not felt sure for a moment. Oh, how delightful it was!

though a boy nudged him and said, "Sissy, does your mother know you're out," and two or three others called him "Anna Maria Jemima Reed."

However, as Mr. Bradbury was trying voices by each row, the sweetness of Charles' struck him, and he asked him to remain when the others were dismissed. One other boy and several girls were in this favored cla.s.s, and next week they had the seats of honor.

The next great thing for all the children was the May walk. All the Sunday-schools joined in a grand procession and marched down Broadway to Castle Garden. There was a standard-bearer with a large banner, and several smaller ones in every school. The teachers were with the cla.s.ses, the parents and friends were to be at the Garden. Most of the little girls had their new white dresses, the boys their summer suits and caps. For May was May then, all but Quaker week, when it was sure to rain.

A pretty sight it was indeed. The bright, happy faces, the white-robed throng, and almost every girl had her hair curled for the occasion.

There was a feeling among some of the older people that curls were vain and sinful, but they forgave them this day.

The audience was ranged around the outside. The little people marched in, and up the broad aisle, singing:

"We come, we come, with loud acclaim, To sing the praise of Jesus' name; And make the vaulted temple ring With loud hosannas to our King."

The platform--they called it that on such occasions--was full of clergymen and speakers for the festival. Some of the older eminent divines, some who were to be eminent later on, some of the high dignitaries of the city; and they could hardly fail to be inspired at the sight of the sweet, happy, youthful faces.

And how they sang! The most popular thing of that day was:

"There is a happy land-- Far, far away."

It was fresh then and had not been parodied to everything. No doubt it would have shocked some of the sticklers if they had known that the words and tune were, in a measure, adapted from a pretty opera song:

"I have come from a happy land, Where care is unknown; And first in a joyous band I'll make thee mine own."

There were many other hymns that appealed to the hearts of the children of those days. "I Think When I Read that Sweet Story of Old," and "Jesus Loves Me, this I Know."

There were speeches, short and to the point, some with a glint of humor in them, and then hymns again. Perhaps we have done better since, but the grand enthusiasm of that time has not been reached in later reunions.

It seemed to the little girl that this really was the crowning glory of her life. She could not have guessed under what circ.u.mstances she was to recall it, indeed this day had no future to her. At first her mother had insisted the walk was too long, but Steve said he and Dolly would bring her home in the carriage. Margaret promised to get her new white dress done, and it was to be tucked almost up to the waist. Her mother gave in at last, and went down to see the children, being delighted herself.

Aunt Eunice was there, too. She had come to the city for the long-talked-of visit, and next week was to be Quaker Meeting. She had not been to one in years. Indeed, she could hardly call herself a Friend. She had married out of the faith and said _you_ oftener than _thee_, but she kept to the pretty, soft gray attire and plain bonnet.

Hanny and the Deans and Nora thought her "just lovely." Hanny went to the Friends' Meeting-House with her on Sunday afternoon, down in Hester Street. It was severely plain, and the men sat on one side, the women on the other, while a few seats were reserved for any of the world's people that might stray in. The men looked odd, Hanny thought, with their long hair just "banged" across the forehead and falling over their collars.

The coats were queer, too, and they kept on their hats, which shocked her a little at first.

Oh, how still it was! Hanny waited and waited for the minister, but she could not see any pulpit. There was no singing, only that solemn silence. If she had been a little Quaker girl she would have been thinking of her sins, and making new resolves. Instead she watched the faces. Some were very sweet; many old and wrinkled.

Suddenly an old gentleman arose and talked a few moments. When he sat down a tall woman laid off her hat and, standing up, began to speak in a more vigorous manner than the brother. She seemed almost scolding, Hanny thought. After her, another silence, then a lovely old lady with a soft voice told of the blessings she had found and the peace they ought all to seek.

Everybody rose and went out quietly.

"It doesn't seem a real church, Aunt Eunice," said Hanny. "And there was no minister."

"Oh, child, it isn't! It's just a meeting. It did not seem very spiritual to-day."

"If they only had some singing."

Aunt Eunice smiled, but made no reply. Hanny decided she did not want to be a Friend.