Then they were summoned to dinner. The elegant black servant waited on them, and that suggested India again. They went out on a back porch and sat in the shade. Cousin Giles found an opportunity to explain the matter to Mrs. Stevens, and after that the men went out for a while.

Quite in the afternoon there were calls from stylishly-dressed ladies, and cake and cool drinks were brought in. Then Cousin Chilian told her that he would like her to stay all night and he would come in to-morrow.

She didn't want to a bit. "Why, I would be very quiet and not disturb Cousin Elizabeth," she said, with beseeching eyes.

"Will you not do it to please me?"

She choked down a great lump. "Oh, yes," she answered in a low tone, without looking up. But it seemed very queer to her to be left this way.

There was company in the evening--quite a party playing cards. She had a pretty story book to read until Susan came to put her to bed. And what a delightful little bed it was, like her little pallet at home, so much nicer than the big bed at Salem.

She would not show that she was homesick, for so many nice things were being done for her. A note came from Chilian--Cousin Elizabeth was very ill, and he hoped she would be content. Some clothes were sent for her, some of her very best ones, and she was glad to have them.

There were so many things to see in Boston, really much more than at Salem. They were putting up some fine public buildings. And there was Bunker Hill and Copp's Hill, and, down near the bay, Fort Hill. There seemed little rivers running all about and submerged lands.

There were many other entertainments and her days were full. Mrs.

Stevens sent out some cards and seven or eight young girls came in and chatted quite like the grown-up ladies, asking her about Salem, and being not a little surprised that she had lived in India. They had a pretty sort of half tea, cakes and delicacies after the thin bread and b.u.t.ter, and a most delightful cool drink that seemed to have all flavors in it. One of the girls played on the spinet afterward. So she had her first party at Cousin Giles', instead of Salem.

Notes came from Cousin Chilian, and at last the welcome news that he was coming down for her.

She had come to like Cousin Giles very much. He was so different from Chilian--breezy and rather teasing--and, oh, what would Cousin Elizabeth have said to his fashion of getting things about, putting papers or books on chairs, mislaying his gla.s.ses and his gloves, and she would think the fine furniture, and the servants, and the little feasts awfully extravagant.

Poor Elizabeth! She had never come back to consciousness. She had shrunk intensely from the last moment when she would have to face death and the judgment, though she had been striving all her life to prepare for it.

But G.o.d had mercifully spared her that, the two worlds had touched and merged with each other and left her to G.o.d.

There had been a quiet funeral, though it was well attended, but the coffin was closed and a pall thrown over it, for the poor face had never recovered its natural look.

All this was softened to Cynthia, as she sat with Cousin Chilian's arm about her. She had the sweet remembrance of that last day, and the smile that somehow had made the wrinkled face pretty. It had been thoughtful and tender in Cousin Chilian to spare her the rest.

They went over to Cambridge and he took her through the place that was to be so much grander before she was done with life. And here was the house where he had lived through the week, going home to spend Sundays, for his father was alive then. And he told her stories about old Boston, some quaintly funny, but she was rather proud that Salem had been the first capital of the State.

"I've had such a nice time," she said with her adieu. "Every day has been full of pleasure. I thank you both very much."

She was to come again, and again, they rejoined cordially.

"What a nice child!" Cousin Giles said. "She doesn't seem to consider what an heiress she is. And she's enough like Chilian to be his own child. He always had that dainty way with him, like a woman, and everything must be fine and nice, yet he never was ostentatious. She'll make a charming young woman. I wish I could persuade Chilian to come to Boston."

Chilian had driven in with the carriage. There had been a shower in the night and the travelling was delightful. He had missed his little girl so much, yet he knew it had been better to save her the poignancy of the sad occurrence. So her father had thought in his trusting appeal.

CHAPTER XII

CHANGES IN THE OLD HOUSE

There was not as much change in household affairs as Cynthia supposed there would be. Elizabeth had been laid by so long that her place at the table had been filled by Eunice. Indeed, the former had an unfortunate habit of running out in the kitchen to see to something, then returning, pouring a cup of tea, pa.s.sing some article of food, then disappearing again. It had grown on her, the belief that she must be everywhere or something would go wrong. It did annoy Chilian. And no one hustled up the dishes when you had eaten the last crumb of cake. He liked to linger over the table.

Eunice was very glad to see her. Rachel took her wrap and her parcel upstairs, for supper had been waiting. Eunice poured the tea, Rachel pa.s.sed the eatables, and they were both eager to hear how it had fared with the little girl.

"It's been just splendid! Mrs. Stevens is--well, she is grand, and, oh, you ought to see the beautiful gowns she wears; but she doesn't hold you way off. You can come up close and lean on her shoulder or her lap. They were both so good. And, look! Cousin Giles would buy me these two rings;" and she held up her hand laughingly. "And an elegant necklace. I told him there were so many things here that were my mother's, but he wouldn't mind. And slippers! There's white, and a kind of gray, and a bronze, and a red pair. The little girls wear them when they come from school and go out to companies. Oh, Cousin Chilian, doesn't any one play on the spinet? I'd like to learn."

"It's very old. It was mother's. I think we must have a new one. And you can learn."

"Oh, I shall be so glad."

Mrs. Taft was out in the kitchen. "Now you all go your ways," she began.

"'Taint nothing to clear off the supper table."

They sat out on the front porch. But through the talk Cynthia kept thinking of poor Cousin Elizabeth and feeling sorry she had not enjoyed more of the pleasures of life. Was there so much real virtue in making life hard and cold? But there were some girls in school who were very much afraid of dancing and reading story-books.

Truth to tell, as Chilian listened, he came to experience a queer feeling--he would have scouted the idea of jealousy about Cousin Giles, but that he should have devoted himself so much to her and taken her about, wanted to buy trinkets for her and all that! There was still a week of vacation left. They would go somewhere to-morrow.

He had asked Mrs. Taft to stay with them.

"Well, I can't exactly promise. You see, I like to 'wrastle' with things and fight off the worst. Though I hadn't much hope of 'Lisbeth when the doctor said her spine was hurt. That's a kind of queer hidden thing that even doctors can't see into. And the poor creature suffered a good deal.

My, but she was s.p.u.n.ky and was bound not to die, and I fought for her all I could. But the last few weeks there was a change. She liked Cynthy to come in with the posies and say something bright. And now it's all done and over, and she was a good upright woman in the old-fashioned way. So I'll stay a spell till Miss Eunice gets used to the change, and when I see another good fight somewhere, you mustn't have hard feelings if I go."

They went out the next morning and found a boat going up to Plum Island.

It was like going to sea to go around Rockport Point. Captain Green declared "he wan't much on pa.s.sengers, but he had a nice cabin and an awning on the for'ard deck, and there was a woman and some children whose husband living up there had bespoke pa.s.sage."

It was a fine day with the right sort of wind. Oh, how splendid it was as they went out oceanward. She had been on the water such a very little since her long voyage.

Mrs. Halcom had three children and a baby. She was a plain, commonplace body, who had been living up to North Salem, but her folks were Newburyport people and she should be glad to get in sight and sound of them once again. Chilian had brought a book along, Ben Johnson's Plays, and now and then he met with such a charming line or two he must read it to her. There were some new poets coming to the fore as well, but he knew most of the older ones. Oh, he must get back his youth for her sake. Cousin Giles was ever so much older.

She was interested in the ship as well and talked to Captain Green. He had so many funny nautical terms, provincialisms, that she had to inquire what some of the words meant. For most of the early people of New England had not dropped into the careless modes of speech that were to come later on and be adopted as a sort of patois. They read their Bibles a good deal and the older divines, and if their speech was a little stilted it had a certain correctness. Then Chilian Leverett was rather fastidious in this respect.

The wind filled the sails and they skimmed along merrily. Now the sea was green and so clear you could see the fish disporting themselves.

Then the sun tinted it with gold and threw up diamond, amethyst, and emeralds, taunting one with treasures.

There are new names along the coast, though a few of the old ones remain. They pa.s.sed Gloucester, Thatcher's Island, rounded Rockport, where in the inside harbor they had to unload part of their cargo. Then on to Plum Island, where the rest were set ash.o.r.e and the woman and her children. Some few things were taken on board, but they were to stop at Gloucester, going down for the return cargo.

They walked about a little and bought some ripe, luscious dewberries and fruit.

"How queer it would be to live on an island and have to take your boat when you went anywhere," and Cynthia laughed gayly.

"People do, farther up. There are a great many islands on the coast of Maine, and fishermen are living on them."

"And in Boston Harbor Cousin Giles took us out. It's funny that they don't float off. Do they go 'way down to the bottom of the sea?"

"I think they must. Sometimes one does disappear."

"Suppose you were living on it. And you saw the water coming up all around you and you couldn't get away----"

Her eyes filled with a kind of terror.

"Oh, you would have some boats."