"Theodora Marcella Gabrielle Julianna Victoria Emeline. I never told anyone but Carrie and Miss Brooks."

A glimmer of a smile played around the man's stern mouth, hidden by his moustache.

"And Tom's? What name did you give Tom?"

"Dionysius Ulysses Humphrey Llewelyn."

"Hm, not as long as yours."

"He thought it would do. I had some more he might have had."

"So he called himself that jargon, did he?"

"Oh, no! He couldn't remember them. That was just my name for him."

"Well, Miss Tabitha Catt, you have told these people a lie."

Lie? Tabitha was startled. Lie? Was it a lie to change one's name--just one's first name? It had not appealed to her in that light before. But the relentless voice was still speaking. What was it saying?

"You have stolen your aunt's dress--"

"I--"

"Not a word yet, Tabitha Catt. When I have finished, you will have a chance to explain. You are to go to every store and hotel in this town and say--listen now, so you will get it straight, 'I told you a lie. My name is Tabitha Catt and not Theodora Marcella Gabrielle Julianna Victoria Emeline; and my brother's name is Thomas Catt and not Dionysius Ulysses Humphrey Llewelyn.' Now go, and don't you miss a single store."

The child's black eyes flashed dangerously, but she obediently started down the main street of the town, counting on her fingers, "Two drug stores, three grocery stores--no, four--one butcher shop, two dry goods stores, one millinery shop, three hotels and the bakery."

The first in line was a hotel, Silver Bow Hotel, the largest in town, and the office was crowded when she entered. Every head was lifted and every pair of eyes looked curiously at the odd little figure in its quaintly scalloped dress and shining black braids. She hesitated, looked about her in desperation, saw no familiar face in all the crowd, and haltingly began her dreadful speech:

"I told you a lie. My name is Tabitha Catt--" Someone interrupted with a mocking laugh. She wheeled toward him, shook her tightly clenched fist, and with blazing eyes continued, "and not Theodora Marcella Gabrielle Julianna Victoria Emeline; and my brother's name is Thomas Catt and not Dionysius Ulysses Humphrey Llewelyn. My father's name is Lynne Maximilian Catt, but you can call him 'lean Manx Catt;' he doesn't like it, but it ain't any worse than ours. I have an Aunt Maria." She turned as if to go, but paused to throw back over her shoulder, "My mother's name was Theodora Marcella. She was a decent woman. The good die young."

With a profound bow she was gone before the spell-bound group had recovered their breath The next place was a grocery store, and though near the supper hour, it chanced to be empty, except for the proprietor, whom she knew, and with him for her audience she spoke her little piece again, omitting none of it, and leaving him in a state of utter bewilderment. On down the long street she went, into every store and shop. Sometimes the people laughed at her, but more often absolute silence greeted her speech, for her eyes burned like live coals and her thin face was pale as death, except for a scarlet spot high on either cheek. In one shop she saw Miss Brooks, but though the teacher pitied the child with all her heart, and longed to comfort her, she knew this was no time to say anything, and was silent with the rest.

So at last the terrible ordeal was over and Tabitha dragged her feet wearily up the last slope toward home. Her father met her where she had left him, and greeted her with the remark, "Now, what have you to say for yourself, Tabitha Catt?"

She lifted her eyes full of scorching scorn and looked straight into his face so like her own, as she replied with pa.s.sionate emphasis, "That you're a beast, lean Manx Catt, and I'm ashamed of you!"

"She's right," he said to himself, and in silence followed the fleeing form through the sunset glow toward home.

CHAPTER V

TABITHA IS COMFORTED

Tom had preceded her to the house and evidently had told Aunt Maria, for when the child burst into the kitchen trailing the green gingham which she had picked up on her way, the worthy woman said never a word of reproach, but with trembling fingers helped her out of the queer little rig and laid it away herself among its crumpled wrappings, while down her withered cheek stole two tears of pity for the unhappy Tabitha.

"Supper is all ready. Come and have something to eat. I opened a jar of jam just for you."

Tabitha shook her head, but gave her aunt a grateful look as she rushed away to her room, slammed the door and crawled into bed, where she lay trembling with anger and humiliation too great for tears. The beauty of the day was gone, her pride in her school achievements was ruthlessly swept away, happiness in these new surroundings was dead.

Her father had said she lied, he had made her tell everyone so, they would hate her now and have nothing to do with her, or else they would make the days miserable by rude taunts and hateful jeers as the children in other towns had done. Miss Brooks would be disappointed in her and give her only cold looks and maybe cross words. Probably even Carrie would no longer care to be her friend. At this thought the tears came, hot, pa.s.sionate and bitter, and she sobbed convulsively under the pillow where she hid her head that no one might hear. It seemed as if her heart would break. Poor little Tabitha!

Outside the sunset colors faded, the twilight deepened and night came on. The birds twittered sleepily in their nests, a night-hawk screeched across the sky, in the distance the coyotes howled dismally, and the ceaseless throbbing of the mines filled the desert quiet.

In the kitchen Aunt Maria clattered nervously around, upset dishes, spilled the tea, burned the toast and forgot the potatoes entirely, for her perplexed thoughts were with the sobbing child in bed; and the minute the remnants of the evening meal were cleared away, the woman vanished into her room for the night.

Tom tried to eat his supper, but the food choked him, and finding rest impossible at the house, he went out of doors and up the slope to the office, hopeful of finding work there to take his attention; but the door was locked. He turned toward town with its dim, scattered lights, but they mocked him, and everywhere he looked he saw only the strained face of terrified Tabitha, seeming to reproach him for his relaxed vigilance, and he blamed himself bitterly for the calamity the day had brought upon her. At last he crept home again and went to bed, where in the anguish of his spirit, boy though he was, he dampened the pillow with a few salty tears.

But strange as it may seem, Mr. Catt had the worst time of all. For the first time in all his selfish life he seemed to see things as they really were and to realize, in a measure, what a failure he had made of his fatherhood. His slumbering conscience was roused and for a few hours he had an uncomfortable struggle with himself; but though he regretted his harshness, the habits of a lifetime are not laid aside in a moment, and in the end he regarded himself as more sinned against than sinning.

If only Fortune had favored him as it had some other people--if only his wife had been spared him--if only friends had been true to him, it might have been different. Maybe he had been too severe with the girl, but she must be taught obedience. She was too much of a spitfire already, and there was no telling what she might do if some restraint was not put upon her. Still, perhaps a lighter punishment would have served the purpose just as well. She was a bright child; yes, he would admit that.

Maybe if she had looked a little more like the angel mother--and yet sometimes he could scarcely bear to look at the boy because in Tom's face he saw so often the warm tenderness that had endeared the mother to all who knew her, and the deep, soft brown eyes that always looked straight in one's face seemed to reproach him for his sternness and neglect. He had mourned because the boy had not inherited the black hair and eyes and the disposition of the Catts, and now he was sorry because the girl had. He sighed; if only--

From the next room came a deep, heavy, sobbing sigh, as if an echo of his. Tabitha had at last fallen asleep and in her slumber had tossed aside the suffocating pillow from her hot, throbbing head. He sat looking at the closed door for some minutes; then, hardly knowing why he did so, he rose and entered her room.

She was still lying in a huddled heap, face down upon the mattress, but her head was turned to one side, exposing the flushed, tear-stained cheek and swollen lids where the tears were scarcely dry. One thin arm was still curved beneath her head, but the other had slipped away from her face and lay stretched across the covers, the hand still loosely clutching a damp ball of handkerchief. The pathetic little figure, still quivering convulsively with every breath, touched the heart of the selfish man, and drawing a five-dollar gold piece from his pocket he slipped it inside the moist, brown fist. Then, as if realizing what a paltry thing gold is in comparison with love, he stooped over the flushed face and kissed it gently,--the first kiss he had ever given his little daughter. She stirred, and the coin slipped from her hand, but in his hasty retreat from the room he did not hear it fall to the floor, roll across the light matting and lodge in a crack out of sight. So he stilled the small, inner voice, and going to his room sought his couch almost satisfied with himself.

The next morning when Tabitha awoke he was gone again, back to the mines and their alluring gold, little realizing what a sore heart he had left behind him in the cottage on the desert. At first she could not think what had happened to leave such a heavy weight on her heart that the very atmosphere seemed charged with grief, but as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, still hot and stinging from her cry, she remembered the whole dreadful story, and in the sympathetic pillow she again buried her face, too humiliated to meet the world, too discouraged to care.

She heard the clock on the mantel strike seven and lay dreading the call to get up. In the kitchen Aunt Maria was busy bustling about the morning work, getting breakfast, washing the dishes and sweeping. Once she heard Tom's voice, but though she strained her ears, she could catch the sound of no answering tones.

The clock struck eight. Aunt Maria never let her stay in bed that late, even on Sundays, when they all slept a little longer than usual. There was a knock at the kitchen door. Could it be Carrie on her way to school? Not very likely, as the Carson house was nearer town than their cottage, and it was always her place to call for Carrie. Besides, Carrie was never ready on time, and they always had to hurry to reach school before the last bell rang. Still, she held her breath expectantly when steps approached her door, and her heart sank when they stopped and no one entered.

Carrie? What could she be thinking of--she, who had told a lie, deceived people? Could she expect Carrie to call for her? Could she expect Carrie to be her friend after all that had happened? Down went her head into the pillow again and the hot tears flowed in a bitter flood.

The screen door banged, Tom had gone to work. The clock struck nine.

There came another knock at the door, louder than the previous one, and for a long time she could hear Aunt Maria's voice speaking in low tones to someone who evidently stood on the steps outside.

Somewhere a sharp whistle sounded, and she flew up in bed startled to hear the clock on the mantel counting off the hour of twelve. She must have been asleep. Yes, she surely had been, for on the chair beside her bed stood a tray heaped high with bread and b.u.t.ter, cake and jam. A gla.s.s of milk was there also, and she drank it eagerly, for she was thirsty; but she could not touch the food.

So the long day pa.s.sed. Once Tom slipped in and bent over her, but her eyes were closed, and thinking her asleep, he left a golden orange beside her and went away. Once Aunt Maria asked her if she didn't feel able to dress and go out of doors for the fresh air, but she turned wearily away and hid her face in the pillow, her only refuge.

The second morning someone had left her door ajar, and she heard Aunt Maria say to Tom, "I don't know what in the world to do with her. She will be sick if she stays that way much longer."

And in Tabitha's heart sprang the fierce longing to be sick, very sick, so sick that they would have to take her away from this horrible desert town. She had heard of such things happening; perhaps--

Tom's voice interrupted her thoughts.

"It is all my fault, Aunt Maria. She told me about the name, but I didn't pay enough attention to know that she had really taken it in place of her own. _I_ ought to be thrashed instead of her being punished. Now she won't look at me or listen to me any more."

Tom took all the blame! Why, she had never for a moment thought of such a thing! It _wasn't_ his fault, she would tell him so.

"Tom!"

The sc.r.a.ping of his chair as he pushed it back from the table drowned the sound of her voice, and before she could call again he was gone. She jumped out of bed, threw on her clothes, and stopping only long enough to brush back her tangled hair, she rushed out of the house and up the hill toward the office of the surveyor.

Tom was standing by the big draughting table lettering a map, the surveyor was busy with some blueprints in the window, and Mr. Carson sat near by with a notebook in hand which he was searching industriously.