The picture would have struck terror to the sad-eyed aesthete, but an artist who liked to see colors burn and glow on the canvas would have been glad to paint her: a little frock of b.u.t.tercup yellow calico, bare neck and arms, full of dimples, hair that put the yellow calico to shame by reason of its tinge of copper, skin of roses and milk that dared the microscope, red smiling lips, one stocking and ankle-tie kicked off and five pink toes calling for some silly woman to say "This little pig went to market" on them, a great bunch of nasturtiums in one warm hand and the other buried in Rags, who was bursting with the white cat's dinner, and in such a state of snoring bliss that his tail wagged occasionally, even in his dreams.

"She don't look like a missionary, if that's what you mean," said Samantha hotly. "She may not be called 'n' elected to traipse over to Africy with a Test'ment in one hand 'n' a sun umbreller in the other, savin' souls by the wholesale; but 't ain't no mean service to go through the world stealin' into folks' hearts like a ray o' sunshine, 'n' lightin' up every place you step foot in!"

"I ain't sayin' anything against the child, Samanthy Ann; you said yourself she wa'n't cut out for a Shaker!"

"No more she is," laughed Samantha, when her good humor was restored.

"She'd like the singin' 'n' dancin' well enough, but 't would be hard work smoothin' the kink out of her hair 'n' fixin' it under one o' their white Sunday bunnets. She wouldn't like livin' altogether with the women-folks, nuther. The only way for Gay 'll be to fetch her right up with the men-folks, 'n' hev her see they ain't no great things, anyway.

Land sakes! If 't warn't for dogs 'n' dark nights, I shouldn't care if I never see a man; but Gay has 'em all on her string a'ready, from the boy that brings the cows home for Jabe to the man that takes the b.u.t.ter to the city. The tin peddler give her a dipper this mornin', and the fish-man brought her a live fish in a tin-pail. Well, she makes the house a great sight brighter to live in, you can't deny that, Vildy."

"I ain't denyin' anything in partic'ler. She makes a good deal of work, I know that much. And I don't want you to get your heart set on one or both of 'em, for 't won't be no use. We could make out with one of 'em, I suppose, if we had to, but two is one too many. They seem to set such store by one another that 't would be like partin' the Siamese twins; but there, they'd pine awhile, and then they 'd get over it. Anyhow, they'll have to try."

"Oh yes; you can git over the small-pox, but you'll carry the scars to your grave most likely. I think 't would be a sin to part them children.

I wouldn't do it no more 'n I'd tear away that scarlit bean that's twisted itself round 'n' round that pink hollyhock there. I stuck a stick in the ground, and carried a string to the winder; but I didn't git at it soon enough, the bean vine kep' on growin' the other way, towards the hollyhock. Then the other night I got my mad up, 'n' I jest oncurled it by main force 'n' wropped it round the string, 'n,' if you'll believe me, I happened to look at it this mornin,' 'n' there it 't was, as nippant as you please, coiled round the hollyhock agin! Then says I to myself, 'Samantha Ann Ripley, you've known what 't was to be everlastin'ly hectored 'n' intefered with all your life, now s'posin'

you let that bean have its hollyhock, if it wants it!'"

Miss Vilda looked at her sharply as she said, "Samantha Ann Ripley, I believe to my soul you're fussin' 'bout Dave Milliken again!

"Well, I ain't! Every time I talk 'bout hollyhocks and scarlit beans I ain't meanin' Dave Milliken 'n' me,--not by a long chalk! I was only givin' you my views 'bout partin' them children, that's all!"

"Well, all I can say is," remarked Miss Vilda obstinately, "that those that's desirous of takin' in two strange children, and boardin' and lodgin' 'em till they get able to do it for themselves, and runnin' the resk of their turnin' out heathens and malefactors like the folks they came from,--can do it if they want to. If I come to see that the baby is too young to send away anywheres I may keep her a spell, but the boy has got to go, and that's the end of it. You've been crowdin' me into a corner about him for a week, and now I've said my say!"

Alas! that tiny humming-bird's egg was crushed to atoms,--crushed by a boy's slender hand that had held it so gently for very fear of breaking it. For poor little Timothy Jessup had heard his fate for the second time, and knew that he must "move on" again, for there was no room for him at the White Farm.

SCENE XII.

_The Village._

LYDDY PETTIGROVE'S FUNERAL.

Lyddy Pettigrove was dead. Not one person, but a dozen, had called in at the White Farm to announce this fact and look curiously at Samantha Ann Ripley to see how she took the news.

To say the truth, the community did not seem to be overpowered by its bereavement. There seemed to be a general feeling that Mrs. Pettigrove had never been wanted in Pleasant River, coupled with a mild surprise that she should have been wanted anywhere else. Speculation was rife as to who would keep house for Dave Milliken, and whether Samantha Ann would bury the Ripley-Milliken battle-axe and go to the funeral, and whether Mis' Pettigrove had left her property to David, as was right, or to her husband's sister in New Hampshire, which would be a sin and a shame; but jest as likely as not, though she was well off and didn't need it no more 'n a toad would a pocket-book, and couldn't bear the sight o' Lyddy besides,--and whether Mr. Pettigrove's first wife's relations would be asked to the funeral, bein' as how they hadn't spoke for years, 'n' wouldn't set on the same side the meetin'-house, but when you come to that, if only the folks that was on good terms with Lyddy Pettigrove was asked to the funeral, there'd be a slim attendance, and--so on.

Aunt Hitty was the most important person in the village on these occasions. It was she who a.s.sisted in the last solemn preparations and took the last solemn st.i.tches; and when all was done, and she hung her little reticule on her arm, and started to walk from the house of bereavement to her own home (where "Si" was anxiously awaiting his nightly draught of gossip), no royal herald could have been looked for with greater interest or greeted with greater cordiality. All the housewives that lived on the direct road were on their doorsteps, so as not to lose a moment, and all that lived off the road had seen her from the upstairs windows, and were at the gate to waylay her as she pa.s.sed.

At such a moment Aunt Hitty's bosom swelled with honest pride, and she humbly thanked her Maker that she had been bred to the use of scissors and needle.

Two days of this intoxicating popularity had just pa.s.sed; the funeral was over, and she ran in to the White Farm on her way home, to carry a message, and to see with her own eyes how Samantha Ann Ripley was comporting herself.

"You didn't git out to the fun'ral, did ye, Samanthy?" she asked, as she seated herself cosily by the kitchen window.

"No, I didn't. I never could see the propriety o' goin' to see folks dead that you never went to see alive."

"How you talk! That's one way o' puttin' it! Well, everybody was lookin'

for you, and you missed a very pleasant fun'ral. David 'n' I arranged everything as neat as wax, and it all went off like clock-work, if I do say so as shouldn't. Mis' Pettigrove made a beautiful remains."

"I'm glad to hear it. It's the first beautiful thing she ever did make, I guess!"

"How you talk! Ain't you a leetle hard on Lyddy, Samanthy? She warn't sech a bad neighbor, and she couldn't help bein' kind o' sour like. She was born with her teeth on aidge, to begin with, and then she'd ben through seas o' trouble with them Pettigroves."

"Like enough; but even if folks has ben through seas o' trouble, they needn't be everlastin'ly spittin' up salt brine. 'Pa.s.sin' through the valley of sorrow they make it full o' fountings;' that's what the Psalms says 'bout bearin' trouble."

"Lyddy warn't much on fountings," said Aunt Hitty contemplatively; "but, there, we hadn't ought to speak nothin' but good o' the dead. Land sakes! You'd oughter heard Elder Weekses remarks; they was splendid. We ain't hed better remarks to any fun'ral here for years. I shouldn't 'a'

suspicioned he was preachin' 'bout Lyddy, though. Our minister's sick abed, you know, 'n' warn't able to conduct the ex'cises. Si thinks he went to bed a-purpose, but I wouldn't hev it repeated; so David got Elder Weeks from Moderation. He warn't much acquainted with the remains, but he done all the better for that. He's got a wond'ful faculty for fun'rals. They say he's sent for for miles around. He'd just come from a fun'ral nine miles the other side o' Moderation, up on the Blueb'ry road; so he was a leetle mite late, 'n' David 'n' I was as nervous as witches, for every room was cram full 'n' the thermometer stood at 87 in the front entry, 'n' the bearers sot out there by the well-curb, with the sun beatin' down on 'em, 'n' two of 'em, Squire Hicks 'n' Deacon Dunn, was fast asleep. Inside, everything was as silent 's the tomb, 'cept the kitchen clock, 'n' that ticked loud enough to wake the dead most. I thought I should go inter conniptions. I set out to git up 'n'

throw a shawl over it, it ticked so loud. Then, while we was all settin'

there 's solemn 's the last trump, what does old Aunt Beccy Burnham do but git up from the kitchen corner where she sot, take the corn-broom from behind the door, and sweep down a cobweb that was lodged up in one o' the corners over the mantelpiece! We all looked at one 'nother, 'n' I thought for a second somebody 'd laugh, but n.o.body da.s.sed, 'n' there warn't a sound in the room 's Aunt Beccy sot down agin' without movin' a muscle in her face. Just then the minister drove in the yard with his horse sweatin' like rain; but behind time as he was, he never slighted things a mite. His prayer was twenty-three minutes by the clock.

Twenty-three minutes is a leetle mite too long this kind o' weather, but it was an all-embracin' prayer, 'n' no mistake! Si said when he got through the Lord had his instructions on most any p'int that was likely to come up durin' the season. When he got through his remarks there warn't a dry eye in the room. I don't s'pose it made any odds whether he was preachin' 'bout Mis' Pettigrove or the woman on the Blueb'ry road,--it was a movin', elevatin' discourse, 'n' that was what we went there for."

"It wouldn't 'a' ben so elevatin' if he'd told the truth," said Samantha; "but, there, I ain't goin' to spit no more spite out. Lyddy Pettigrove's dead, 'n' I hope she's in heaven, and all I can say is, that she'll be dretful busy up there ondoin' all she done down here. You say there was a good many out?"

"Yes; we ain't hed so many out for years, so Susanna Rideout says, and she'd ought to know, for she ain't missed a fun'ral sence she was nine years old, and she's eighty-one, come Thanksgivin', ef she holds out that long. She says fun'rals is 'bout the only recreation she has, 'n'

she doos git a heap o' satisfaction out of 'em, 'n' no mistake. She'll go early, afore any o' the comp'ny a.s.sembles. She'll say her clock must 'a' ben fast, 'n' then they'll ask her to set down 'n' make herself to home. Then she'll choose her seat accordin' to the way the house is planned. She won't git too fur from the remains, because she'll want to see how the fam'ly appear when they take their last look, but she'll want to git opposite a door, where she can look into the other rooms 'n'

see whether they shed any tears when the minister begins his remarks.

She allers takes a little gum camphire in her pocket, so't if anybody faints away durin' the long prayer, she's right on hand. Bein' near the door, she can hear all the minister says, 'n' how the order o' the mourners is called, 'n' ef she ain't too fur from the front winders she can hev a good view of the bearers and the mourners as they get into the kerridges. There's a sight in knowin' how to manage at a fun'ral; it takes faculty, same as anything else."

"How does David bear up?" asked Miss Vilda.

"Oh, he's calm. David was always calm and resigned, you know. He shed tears durin' the remarks, but I s'pose, mebbe, he was wishin' they was more appropriate. He's about the forlornest creeter now you ever see' in your life. There never was any self-a.s.sume to David Milliken. I declare it's enough to make you cry jest to look at him. I cooked up victuals enough to last him a week, but that ain't no way for men-folks to live.

When he comes in at noon-time he washes up out by the pump, 'n' then he steps int' the b.u.t.t'ry 'n' pours some cold tea out the teapot 'n' takes a drink of it, 'n' then a bite o' cold punkin pie 'n' then more tea, all the time stan'in' up to the shelf 'stid o' sittin' down like a Christian, and lookin' out the winder as if his mind was in Hard Scrabble 'n' his body in b.u.t.tertown, 'n' as if he didn't know whether he was eatin' pie or putty. Land! I can't bear to watch him. I da.s.say he misses Lyddy's jawin',--it must seem dretful quiet. I declare it seems to me that meek, resigned folks, that's too good to squeal out when they're abused, is allers the ones that gits the hardest knocks; but I don't doubt but what there's goin' to be an everlastin' evenupness somewheres."

Samantha got up suddenly and went to the sink window. "It's 'bout time the men come in for their dinner," she said. But though Jabe was mowing the millstone hill, and though he wore a red flannel shirt, she could not see him because of the tears that blinded her eyes.

SCENE XIII.

_The Village._

PLEASANT RIVER IS BAPTIZED WITH THE SPIRIT OF ADOPTION.

"But I didn't come in to talk 'bout the fun'ral," continued Aunt Hitty, wishing that human flesh were transparent so that she could see through Samanthy Ann Ripley's back. "I had an errant 'n' oughter ben in afore, but I've ben so busy these last few days I couldn't find rest for the sole o' my foot skersely. I've sewed in seven dif'rent houses sence I was here last, and I've made it my biz'ness to try 'n' stop the gossip 'bout them children 'n' give folks the rights o' the matter, 'n' git 'em interested to do somethin' for 'em. Now there ain't a livin' soul that wants the boy, but"--

"Timothy," said Miss Vilda hurriedly, "run and fetch me a pa.s.sle of chips, that's a good boy. Land sakes! Aunt Hitty, you needn't tell him to his face that n.o.body wants him. He's got feelin's like any other child."

"He set there so quiet with a book in front of him I clean forgot he was in the room," said Aunt Hitty apologetically. "Land! I'm so tender-hearted I can't set my foot on a June bug 'n' 't aint' likely I'd hurt anybody's feelin's, but as I was sayin' I can't find n.o.body that wants the boy, but the Doctor's wife thinks p'raps she'll be willin' to take the baby 'n' board her for nothing if somebody else 'll pay for her clothes. At least she'll try her a spell 'n' see how she behaves, 'n'

whether she's good comp'ny for her own little girl that's a reg'lar limb o' Satan anyway, 'n' consid'able worse sence she's had the scarlit fever, 'n' deef as a post too, tho' they're blisterin' her, 'n' she may git over it. I told her I'd bring Gay over to-night as I was comin' by, bein' as how she was worn out with sickness 'n' house-cleanin' 'n' one thing 'n' nother, 'n' couldn't come to git her very well herself. I thought mebbe you'd be willin' to pay for her clothes ruther 'n hev so much talk 'bout it, tho' I've told everybody that they walked right in to the front gate, 'n' you 'n' Samanthy never set eyes on 'em before, 'n' didn't know where they come from."

Samantha wiped her eyes surrept.i.tiously with the dishcloth and turned a scarlet face away from the window. Timothy was getting his "pa.s.sle o'

chips." Gay had spied him, and toddling over to his side, holding her dress above the prettiest little pair of feet that ever trod clover, had sat down on him (a favorite pastime of hers), and after jolting her fat little person up and down on his patient head, rolled herself over and gave him a series of bear-hugs. Timothy looked pale and languid, Samantha thought, and though Gay waited for a frolic with her most adorable smile, he only lifted her coral necklace to kiss the place where it hung, and tied on her sun-bonnet soberly. Samantha wished that Vilda had been looking out of the window. Her own heart didn't need softening, but somebody else's did, she was afraid.

"I'm much obliged to you for takin' so much interest in the children,"

said Miss Vilda primly, "and partic'lerly for clearin' our characters, which everybody that lives in this village has to do for each other 'bout once a week, and the rest o' the time they take for spoilin' of 'em. And the Doctor's wife is very kind, but I shouldn't think o'

sendin' the baby away so sudden while the boy is still here. It wouldn't be no kindness to Mis' Mayo, for she'd have a regular French and Indian war right on her premises. It was here the children came, just as you say, and it's our duty to see 'em settled in good homes, but I shall take a few days more to think 'bout it, and I'll let her know by Sat.u.r.day night what we've decided to do.--That's the most meddlesome, inteferin', gossipin' woman in this county," she added, as Mrs. Silas Tarbox closed the front gate, "and I wouldn't have her do another day's work at this house if I didn't have to. But it's worse for them that don't have her than for them that does.--Now there's the Baptist minister drivin' up to the barn. What under the canopy does he want?