Miss 'Rill sighed and shook her head, looking at Janice with a little nod of understanding. She changed the subject of talk quickly. The old lady began at once on Janice, "pumping" her as to her interests in Poketown, how she liked her relatives, and all. Then Mrs. Beasely, a very tall, angular figure in severe black, appeared at the sitting-room door and invited them in to supper.

Mrs. Beasely was a famous cook and housekeeper. She was a very grim lady, it seemed to Janice, and the enlarged crayon portrait of Mr.

Beasely, its frame draped with c.r.a.pe, which glared down upon the groaning table in the dining-room, almost took the girl's appet.i.te away.

Fortunately, however, the widow insisted upon facing the portrait of her departed husband, and Janice was back to him, so she recovered her appet.i.te. And Mrs. Beasely's "tea", or "supper" as old-fashioned folks called the meal, was worthy of a hearty appet.i.te.

Among old-fashioned New England housekeepers a "skimpy"

table--especially when a visitor is present--is an unpardonable sin.

There was hot bread and cold bread, sour-milk griddle cakes, each of a delicious golden brown with crisp edges, b.u.t.tered, sugared, and stacked in tempting piles; sliced cold ham and corned beef; a hot dish of smoked beef and scrambled eggs; two kinds of jelly, and three kinds of preserves; plain and frosted cake, and last of all the inevitable pie and cheese.

With all this banquet Mrs. Beasely dared raise a moist eye to the grim crayon of the departed, and observe:

"I don't know what poor Charles would say to such a smeachin' supper, if he was alive. Oh, me! it does seem as though I didn't have no heart for cookery no more since he ain't here ter sample my work. A man's a gre't spur to a woman in her housekeepin'."

"Good Land o' Goshen!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the outspoken Mrs. Scattergood. "I count 'em a gre't nuisance. If a body didn't have no men folks to 'tend to she could live on bread an' tea--if she so liked.

"Not but what I 'preciate a good lay-out of vittles like this o' yourn, Miz' Beasely. But thank the good Lord! I ain't been the slave to no man's appet.i.te for goin' on fourteen year. An' that's about all men air, come ter think on it--a pair of muddy boots an' an unquenchable appet.i.te!"

Mrs. Beasely looked horrified, shaking her widow's cap. "Poor Charles wasn't nothin' like that," she declared, softly.

"An' I don't s'pose a worse husband ever lived in Poketown," whispered the pessimistic old lady, when the widow had gone out of the room for something. "He's been dead ten year, ain't he, 'Rill?"

"About that, mother," admitted the school-teacher.

"An' I expect ev'ry year she makes more of a saint of him. I declare for't! sech wimmen oughter be made to marry ag'in. Nothin' but a second one will cure 'em of their fust!"

Mainly Janice and her friend, the little school-teacher, were engaged in their own particular conversation. The girl spent a very pleasant hour after tea, too, and started home just as dusk was dropping over the hillside town.

There was a light in Hopewell Drugg's store. He never seemed to have customers--or so it appeared to Janice. She hesitated a moment to peer into the gloomy place--more a mausoleum than a store!--and saw Hopewell leaning against the counter, while Lottie, in her pink sash and white dress, and the kid boots, sat upon it and leaned against her father while he sc.r.a.ped out some weird minor chords upon the fiddle.

Marty had come down the lane to the corner of High Street to meet Janice. Of course, he wouldn't admit that he had done so; but he happened to be right there when his cousin put in an appearance. There were no street lights on Hillside Avenue, and Janice was glad of his company.

"Huh! ain't yer gittin' pop'lar?" croaked the boy, grinning at her. "An'

goin' ter 'Rill Scattergood's ter supper. Ye must ha' had a fine time--I don't think!"

"Of course I had a nice time," laughed Janice.

"With that old maid," scoffed Marty.

"Say, Marty, would you go to school again if they had a different teacher?" queried Janice.

"'Course I would!" returned the boy, stoutly.

"Maybe next Fall they'll have another one. Miss Scattergood talks of giving up teaching."

"I should think she would!" exploded Marty. "But she won't. You'll see.

She'll be teachin' Poketown school when she has ter go on crutches."

The next day, after Janice had inveigled Marty into spending most of his forenoon in the yard and garden (and the latter was beginning to look quite like a real garden by now), the girl went shopping. Most of the stores were "general" stores, and she did not believe there was much choice between them. Only she had an interest in Hopewell Drugg; so she proceeded to his dark little shop.

Lottie sat upon a box nursing a rag doll, in the sunlight that came in at the side door. She was crooning to herself a weird little song, and rocking back and forth upon the box. Mr. Drugg seemed to be out.

Janice walked the length of the store very quietly, and the child did not apprehend her approach. But when she stepped upon one of the boards of the back-room floor, little Lottie felt the vibration and looked up, directly at Janice, with her pretty, sightless eyes.

"Papa Drugg be right back; Papa Drugg be right back," she said, forming the phrase with evident difficulty.

Janice went close to her and laid a hand upon Lottie's shoulder. The little girl caught at it quickly, ran her slim fingers up her arm to her shoulder and so, jumping up from the box, felt of Janice's face, too.

The latter stooped and kissed her.

"I know you--I know you," murmured the child. "You came home from the lake with me. I was trying to find my echo. Did _you_ find it?"

Janice squeezed her hand, and she seemed to understand the affirmative.

"Then it's really _there_?" she sighed. "It's only _me_ that's lost it.

Well--well--Do you think I can ever find it again?"

Janice squeezed the hand firmly, and she put into that affirmative all the confidence which could possibly be thus expressed. She did not believe it to be wrong to raise hope of again hearing in the poor child's heart.

Mr. Drugg came in from the back, wiping his hands and forearms of soapy water. He had evidently been engaged in some household task. Upon closer acquaintance he was improved, so Janice thought. He possessed the long, thin, New England features; but there was a certain calm in their expression that was attractive. His gray eyes were brooding, and there were many crow's-feet about them; nevertheless, they were kindly eyes with a greater measure of intelligence in them than Janice had expected to find.

It proved that Hopewell had a considerable stock upon his dusty shelves; but how he managed to find anything that a customer called for was a mystery to Janice. She selected the few notions that she needed; and as she did so she just _ached_ to get hold of that stock of dry goods and straighten it out.

And the dust--and the flyspecks--and the jumble of useless sc.r.a.ps among the newer stock! The interior of that old store was certainly a heart-breaking sight. Two side windows that might have given light and air to the place were fairly banked up with merchandise. And when had either of the show windows been properly "dressed"?

However, Mr. Drugg was an attentive salesman and he really knew his stock very well. It mystified Janice to see how quickly he could find the article wanted in that conglomeration.

She remained a while to play with Lottie. Drugg came to look fondly at the little girl putting her rag-baby to sleep in a soap-box crib.

"She's just about ruined that dress and them shoes, I shouldn't wonder,"

mused the storekeeper. "But I forgot to put out her everyday clo'es where she could find them yesterday morning. There's so much to do all the time. Well!" He drew the violin and bow toward him and sighed. No other customer came into the store. Drugg tucked the fiddle under his chin and began to sc.r.a.pe away.

Lottie jumped up and clapped her little hands when he struck a chord that vibrated upon her nerves. There she stood, with her little, up-raised face flooded by the spring sunshine, which entered through the side doorway, a gleam of pleasure pa.s.sing over her features when she felt the vibration of the minor notes. They were deeply engaged, those two--the father with his playing, the child in striving to catch the tones.

Janice gathered up her few small purchases and stole out of the old store.

It was more than a week later when Marty came home to supper one night and grinned broadly at his cousin.

"What d'ye s'pose I've got for you, Janice?" he asked.

His cousin flashed him a single comprehending look, and then her face went white.

"Daddy!" she gasped. "A letter from Daddy?"

"Aw, shucks! ain't there nothin' else you want?" the boy returned, teasingly.

"Not so much as a talk with Daddy," she declared, breathlessly. "And that's almost what a letter will be. Dear Marty! If you've got a letter from him do, _do_ let me have it!"

"Don't you torment Janice now, Marty," cried his mother. "I hope he is all right, Janice. Is it writ in his own hand, Marty?"