"How dare you act so, you spiteful creature?" she cried, shaking her violently.

"I saw something come from under the lounge," gasped the child convulsively.

"It is a falsehood, a wicked falsehood!" and going to the lounge she raised the ruffle. "You see there is nothing under there! You are only acting this way to keep me from going out again."

"I did see something!" screamed Hilda, stamping her foot in her excitement; "they were two black fingers."

"Two black fingers!" echoed Miss Flint, derisively; "where are they now?

They must have been alive if they moved."

"They did move; I saw them come out and go back!"

"You little vixen!" cried Jerusha, grasping her; "if you don't hush I will-"

A voice at the door silenced her and caused Hilda to cower in her chair.

"I was coming from Dorton," said Perry, "and heard somebody crying, so stopped to see what was up."

"I was out for a little while," said Jerusha, turning scarlet, "and Hilda got frightened. She thought she saw two black fingers come from under the lounge."

"When people are scared they see lots of things. I have, myself. You won't see them now that Miss Jerusha is here. Good-night to you both,"

and Perry went on to "Fair Meadow" and they were again by themselves.

"Now you see what your wicked story-telling has done," exclaimed Miss Flint when Perry was out of hearing. "You see he did not believe you.

Two black fingers, indeed!"

"I did see them!" screamed Hilda, flushed with excitement and pa.s.sion.

"Now look here," cried Miss Flint, pale with anger and her eyes glowing as she grasped the child's arm, "if you say that again I will give you such a whipping as will last you a lifetime. I have a mind to do it as it is."

Hilda cowered in her chair. She was a match for her tormentor in spirit but not in strength; she was vanquished and sat trembling with vague terror.

No more words were spoken until supper was upon the table, then Hilda was bidden to come, or not, if that suited her better, and she accepted and took her usual place, though too disturbed to do justice to the simple but well served meal.

As soon as it was finished Miss Flint put the room in order for the night, while Hilda returned to her chair and watched her quick, impatient movements.

"Come, you must go to bed now," was the command. "I must sit down to my sewing and want you out of my way."

"Please let the door be open; I am afraid in the dark," pleaded the child.

"What, of the two black fingers?"

Hilda drew back shuddering and tears rushed to her eyes.

"Come along, I have no time to waste upon you. Can't you unhook your dress?"

"Diana did it after Aunt Janette got sick. I cannot reach the hooks."

"You are old enough to wait upon yourself and will soon find that I am not a waiting-maid for you," and, giving an angry jerk to a refractory hook, the dress was loosened and other garments removed, and the little girl crept into the cot, which Miss Flint designated as her resting place.

"Won't you hear me say my prayers?" she asked timidly as her care-taker was leaving the room.

"You have great need to say them. I wonder you are not afraid to go to sleep after telling such a wicked story," and, taking the lamp, she went out, shutting the door after her.

Miss Flint sat down to her sewing in the clean and pleasant room, but she was not happy. She at last had a home of her own, but considered the inc.u.mbrance that went with it overbalanced the benefit.

She had not thought that her patrons would object to her taking Hilda to their homes in her dressmaking visits, but realized that she was mistaken, as she saw with her sister-in-law's eyes that there would come rainy days when Hilda could not go; and if clear the child could not stand the walks she would be compelled to take if she accompanied Jerusha, nor could she be left alone in the cottage.

Weary and sad, she leaned back in her chair and reflected; and her glance happening to rest upon the curtain of the lounge, she saw it move. Jerusha was not frightened, although she was wise enough to know that there could not be an effect without a cause.

The motion was repeated; the head of a mouse peeped out and was quickly withdrawn, and she recognized one of the black fingers that had alarmed Hilda.

"Enjoy yourself all you can to-night, my lively friend," she said to herself. "If a trap can catch you this will be the last chance you will have to frighten anybody."

She took care, however, not to enlighten Hilda as to her discovery and for many days the child avoided the lounge, fearing the "black fingers."

CHAPTER VI-HILDA A LITERAL FOLLOWER OF BUNYAN

"Fair Meadow," the home of the Merryman family for generations, was a large old-time farmhouse, built of gray stone, with dormer windows in the roof, broad window and door sills, and within and without gave the a.s.surance of genuine home comfort, peace and good-will.

It lay between "My Lady's Manor" and "Friedenheim," within a short distance of each, and save for a wide lane and a meadow, would have been opposite the cottage of Jerusha Flint, on the other side of the road. It was a true Christian home, and its influence, like that of the Courtneys, was felt throughout the neighborhood.

The Merrymans were generous, genial people, and entertained city and country friends with cordial hospitality, but it was seldom that the farmhouse wore such a festive appearance as upon one evening the middle of the February following the summer and autumn that Jerusha Flint held possession of the cottage.

The occasion was a reception in honor of a bride and groom, the bride being Mr. Merryman's sister, married at her father's residence in Baltimore and returning that evening from a southern tour.

Snow had fallen the day before, which necessitated sending sleighs instead of carriages to Dorton Station for the bridal party, and Mrs.

Merryman, seeing her husband drive down the lane in the lead of three other sleighs, realized that time had pa.s.sed too rapidly; the guests would soon be there, and she was not dressed to receive them.

With a satisfied glance at the supper table-brilliant with silver, china and gla.s.s-she was hurrying up the stair-way to her dressing-room when she heard a feeble knock upon the hall door, and, retracing her steps, she opened it.

A poor wanderer stood with hat in hand waiting there; the wind was toying with his gray locks, his thin garments protected him but poorly from the cold, and through his broken shoes could be seen his stockingless feet.

"They are all busy preparing supper; you need not wait," she answered hurriedly in response to his humble appeal for a cup of hot coffee.

"No, Archie won't wait," said the wanderer, turning meekly away. "Archie is hungry and tired, and the snow is cold, but Archie won't wait."

Closing the door quickly, Mrs. Merryman went to her room, dressed as speedily as possible and descended in time to receive Mrs. Courtney, who pa.s.sed on up to the guest chamber to remove her wraps and be in readiness to help receive.

Mrs. Merryman had no anxiety for the successful serving of the supper, and later the refreshments, for in addition to her own efficient maid, Norah, Diana Strong had the management, and through the kindness of Mrs.

Courtney, Kitty was her helper, while Mose, in white ap.r.o.n and gloves, was proud to have been loaned to wait upon the door and afterward the table.

Notwithstanding these helps to contentment, Mrs. Merryman carried a heavy heart under her silken attire. The words of the half-frozen wanderer kept up a refrain in her memory: "Archie is hungry and tired and the snow is cold, but Archie won't wait."

Oh, to look about her in that comfortable home; the whole place glowing with light and heat, the kitchen redolent with roasting poultry; and she had refused the cup of coffee that might have kept hope and even life in the stranger!