While she thought over these matters, Sam Houston kept up his monologue.

Now and then Squire Stout flung in a sharp word, but Eliza heard nothing which was being said.

At length the men rose to go. Sam was yet busy narrating the events that led up to the find. The squire led him away. Eliza came to the door with them and held a lamp high in her hand to light the way. She heard Sam talking, as the two men walked on down the slope.

Turning back into the room, she went to where Beth sat huddled up and took a seat close to her.

"This has disturbed us," she said. "But it should not. I think the check will mean nothing at all. It will make no difference to you or me. You and I have been happy so far and we can continue to be. You will always be my little girl."

"I know, Adee, I know." The tears would have fallen, had not Beth by pure force of will kept them back. Her lips trembled so that she could not speak. She was silent a moment, until she was able to control herself. Then she said again, "I know, I know, Adee, that you will always want me for your little girl; but it is dreadful to have no people of your own."

Eliza could not debate that. It was true, and could not be disputed. She put her arm about Beth and drew her close. Thus they sat without saying a word for a long, long time. The log in the grate burned out. Then Eliza broke the silence.

"Go to bed now, Beth. I must attend to some work before I come up."

Beth obediently arose, kissed Adee good-night and left the room. She went to bed, but could not sleep. She could hear Adee moving about in the room below. When it grew quiet, Beth closed her eyes. She was yet wide awake, but she could see plainly a picture that had come to her again and again for as long as she could remember. It was a little white bed in which she herself lay, and a beautiful woman with flowers in her hair and a long, soft, shimmering gown stood over her. "That is something that I saw often before I came to Adee's," she told herself.

"It is so clear. Always the woman's face slips away. I cannot see it."

Meanwhile Eliza in the room below strengthened herself to do her duty.

She wanted to keep Beth-oh, how much she wanted her; but if she could find out from where she came, it was only right, for the child's sake, to do so. If Beth had kin living, it was Eliza's duty to do everything to find them, even if her own heart-strings were torn to shreds in doing so.

After reaching this decision, she went to her writing desk and wrote to the baggage agent of that particular road, at Baltimore. She told him the circ.u.mstances of the check and asked him to spare no pains to find out where it came from or where the trunk was now.

"There may be letters or clothing in the trunk which will lead us to her people," she told herself as she sealed the letter.

Neither she nor Beth could sleep much that night. They were two sorry-looking individuals the following morning. They were heavy-eyed, tired and listless. They had little to say at the breakfast table. They had worn themselves out with lying awake and letting their minds dwell on the matters which lay nearest their hearts.

There is an old adage that "troubles never come singly." Better change it to suit the new philosophy of the day, "Joys never come singly."

Sometimes lives may move serenely on for months and months, or even years. They are like a broad stretch of level plain. They would grow monotonous after a time. The finest are lands interspersed with valleys and mountains. So it is with life-here the valley of humiliation, there the mountain of joyful exultation.

Eliza mailed her letter. She lost no time, but sent Beth off to the post-office immediately after breakfast, lest she regret and prove weak enough to keep it back.

That evening the "tramp" came up the slope earlier than usual. The ground was white with snow. The drifts were deep in the ravine, but he had kept the path broken. He stepped more briskly than usual. He whistled and sang exultingly. He carried a milk-bucket and had under his arm several letters and magazines. In one hand was a great bouquet of crimson roses, wrapped in oiled paper to keep them from the biting cold.

His feet were eager to reach the Wells home. He sang and then laughed aloud to himself. He was a most peculiar sort of tramp. One could tell that from the great coat he wore. Rough cloth on the outside and black, s.h.a.ggy fur within. Wind and weather never kept him back. There was something unusual in the air this night. He was fairly bubbling over with excitement.

He knocked at Miss Eliza's door and entered before she could respond. He came directly to where she stood, removed the oiled paper and let a score of crimson roses nod and smile at her.

"I want to be the first to lay my homage at the feet of the famous one,"

he said. "Permit me, madam, to present the roses to her who is making her name a household word."

He thrust the flowers between her hands. Eliza was confused. His manner was strange. Then, too, no one had ever offered her homage, or had bought her roses. Roses with the mercury ten degrees below zero. Eliza had never seen roses except in June.

Her face grew crimson. She tried to speak, but could find no words.

"You're all at sea. This will explain." Opening one of the magazines, he laid it on the table, holding it with finger and thumb that it might not close.

"Why-why-it's our house," cried Beth.

"And it's our Adee," said the man, turning the page where was a picture of Eliza herself standing under the trees with the leaves about her.

"I had my camera set for a week before I could get that," he cried triumphantly. "I was bound to get it by fair means or foul."

Eliza was mechanically turning the leaves with one hand. The other held the roses close in her arm. She could not understand. She tried to read the t.i.tles. A few lines, and the understanding came.

"You have printed my foolish little stories," she said.

"The editors did not think they were foolish," he said. "You'll find a number there. Here are the checks for them. My, my, you'll become a bloated capitalist. Poor Beth and I will take a back seat. It will be awful hard on the nerves, Beth, to live with a celebrity."

CHAPTER XV.

Before the week pa.s.sed, Miss Eliza found herself the recipient of many honors. She had been a member of a club composed of women from Farwell since Beth had entered school.

These people began to drive out and to call upon Eliza. There were motors and sleighs in evidence every day.

Mrs. Laire came out and brought Carrie with her. She kissed Eliza effusively.

"The idea of your never telling us a word of this. But as I said right along. It is always those quiet people who are the geniuses. I knew from the very first time that you attended our Club that you were head and shoulders above us. We women are not intellectual, you know. I can get the value of a dollar when it comes to managing a household, but I'd never even dare to think of writing stories."

Eliza blushed and tried to disclaim that any honor was due her, but Mrs.

Laire would not listen. She liked to hear herself talk, which she did after an airy, dainty sort of fashion, like a bird picking a cherry.

"When I mentioned coming, nothing would do but that Carrie would come along. She thinks so highly of Beth. I'm sorry that she is not at home now. I wish you would let Beth spend a few days with us. I'm sure she and Carrie will be great friends."

"I have such a lovely new writing-desk that I wish her to see. How did you ever think about writing, Miss Wells?" began Carrie. Then, without waiting for her to answer, she continued, "Did Beth ever finish the story she meant to write? She had a fine one last fall for the Literary.

I wonder if she ever wrote the story."

This was one of the things of which Miss Eliza had not heard. Beth had planned a story about the beautiful woman who had visited school and who had kissed her so rapturously. She had written it, too, and had it hidden away. She could not have shown it to anyone.

Mrs. Laire chatted on and Carrie threw in questions. All Eliza could do was to sit and listen.

This was not the only visitor. They came by the dozen, and each one chided Eliza for never telling them, and for modestly keeping her ability hidden so long. Eliza could not fully explain. She could not tell them that she herself had never known that she had a wonderful imagination and artistic spirit. Could she tell them that a wanderer, a tramp, had bade her to be a "Columbus" to her own soul, and he had proved her Queen Isabelle who made it possible? She could only listen in silence and to thank them for their good opinion of her.

When Beth came home from school, she brought the news that the doctor's sleigh had just driven away from the Oliver cabin. Furthermore, Sam Houston's little Jim-boy had met her and told her that the tramp was ill.

"Did he mean Mr. Hillis?" asked Eliza. She blushed when she said it and let her glance wander toward the roses which had pa.s.sed their beauty and were now but dried leaves. She had not destroyed them. They were the first flowers that had ever been given her.

"Well, I thought he was a tramp. You know, that very day that we saw him months and months ago, you told me that he was a tramp."

"I did not know then. He's a gentleman, and we will always call him Mr.

Hillis and never think of him as a tramp."

"I'm very glad to. He never seemed a bit like such a horrid person. I'm sorry he's sick. Couldn't we take him something to eat, or help him some way, Adee? It must be awful to be sick and alone."

Adee had been thinking of just that thing. Now, the custom of the country declared it to be highly improper for an unmarried woman to visit a man in his home. All the old, trite conventions were live issues with Adee. On the other hand, all the laws of Christian charity and grat.i.tude told her to visit the stranger who had been a friend to her and who had brought inspiration and breadth to her life. She considered for a moment and decided that there were things bigger and better than convention.

"Yes, we'll take him something, Beth. Come and help me prepare it."