“To drive the Little Red Hen off from the roof he sprang up and bumped his head against it; and the act was so unexpected by said Hen that she flew off, choked on her grain of corn and – Next!” cried Jim, while everybody shouted and Mrs. Calvert declared that she had never heard such a string of long words tied together and asked:
“How could you think of them all, Jane?”
“Oh! easily enough. I’d rather read the dictionary than any other book. I’ve only a school one yet but I’ve most enough saved to buy an Unabridged. Then – ”
“Oh! then deliver us from the learned Jane Potter! Problem: If a small school dictionary can work such havoc with a young maid’s brain will the Unabridged drive her to a lunatic asylum? or to the mill where the Little Red Hen – Next!” put in Herbert, as his contribution.
“The little Red Hen being now corn-fed, and the Mill a thing she never would reach, the Mouse and the Grouse thought best to put an end to her checkered career and boil her in a pot over a slow fire; because that’s the way to make a fowl who had traveled and endured so much grow tender and soft-hearted and fit to eat, corn and all, popped or unpopped – Pass the pan, Alfaretta! while the pot boils and the Little Red Hen – Next!” continued Littlejohn Smith, with a readiness which was unexpected; while Molly B. took up the nonsense with the remark that:
“The Little Red Hen has as many lives as a cat. All our great-great-great-grandmothers have heard about her. She was living ages and – and eons ago! She was in the Ark with Noah – in my toy Ark, anyway; and being made of wood she didn’t boil tender as had been hoped; also, all the lovely red she wore came off in the boil and – what’s happening? ’Tother side the ring where Dolly Doodles is holding Luna with both hands and staring – staring – staring – Oh! My! What’s happening to our own Little Red Hen!”
What, indeed!
CHAPTER XVI
THE FINDING OF THE MONEY
In this instance the Little Red Hen was Luna. As always when possible she had seated herself by Dorothy, who shared none of that repugnance which some of the others, especially Helena, felt toward the unfortunate. She had been cleanly if plainly clothed when she arrived at Deerhurst, but the changes which had been made in her attire pleased her by their bright colors and finer quality.
The waif always rebelled when Dinah or Norah sought to dress her in the gray gown she had originally worn or to put her hair into a snug knot. She clung to the cardinal-hued frock that Dorothy had given her and pulled out the pins with which her attendants tried to confine her white curls. In this respect she was like a spoiled child and she always carried her point – as spoiled children usually do.
Thus to-night: To the old nurse it had seemed wise that the witless one should go to her bed, instead of into that gay scene at the barn. Luna had decided otherwise. Commonly so drowsy and willing to sleep anywhere and anyhow, she was this night wide awake. Nothing could persuade her to stay indoors, nothing that is, short of actual force and, of course, such would never be tried. For there was infinite pity in the hearts of most at Deerhurst, and a general feeling that nothing they could do could possibly make up to her for the intelligence she had never possessed. Also, they were all sorry for her homelessness, as well as full of wonder concerning it. The indifferent manner in which she had been left uncalled for seemed to prove that she had been gotten rid of for a purpose. Those who had lost her evidently did not wish to find her again. Yet, there was still a mystery in the matter; and one which Mrs. Calvert, coming fresh upon it, was naturally resolved to discover. The poor thing was perfectly at home at Deerhurst now, and judging by her habitual smile, as happy as such an one could be. But though the mistress of the mansion felt that her household had done right in sheltering the wanderer and in allowing her to partake of all their festivities, she did not at all intend to give a permanent home to this stranger. She could not. Her own plans were for far different things; and since she had, at last, been so fortunate as to bestow the twins in their legitimate home, she meant to find the same for Luna.
So the guest who was both child and woman had carried her point and was one in the ring of story-tellers. She paid no heed to what was going on but amused herself with folding and unfolding her red skirt; or in smoothing the fanciful silk in which Dorothy appeared as a belle of long ago.
The pair were sitting on a pile of hay, leaning against a higher one, and Dorothy had been absorbed in listening to the composite story and wondering what she should add to it. Her head was bent toward Luna and she dreamily watched the movements of her neighbor’s tiny wrinkled hands. Suddenly she became aware that there was a method in their action; that they were half-pulling out, half-thrusting back, something from the fastening of the scarlet blouse.
This something was green; it was paper; it was prized by its possessor, for each time Dorothy moved, Luna thrust her treasures back out of sight and smiled her meaningless smile into the face above her. But Dorothy ceased to move at all, and the dreaminess left her gaze, which had now become breathlessly alert and strained.
She watched her opportunity and when again Luna drew her plaything from her blouse, Dorothy snatched it from her and sprang to her feet, crying:
“The money is found! The money is found! My lost one hundred dollars!”
Strangely enough Luna neither protested nor noticed her loss. The drowsiness that often came upon her, like a flash, did so now and she sank back against her hay-support, sound asleep.
All crowded about Dorothy, excited, incredulous, delighted, sorely puzzled.
“Could Luna have stolen it, that foolish one?”
“But she wasn’t in the house the night it was lost. Don’t you remember? It was then that Dolly found her out by the pond. It couldn’t have been she!”
“Do you suppose it blew out of the window and she picked it up?”
“It couldn’t. The window wasn’t opened. It stormed, you know.”
Such were the questions and answering speculations that followed Dorothy’s exclamation, as the lads and lassies found this real drama far more absorbing than the composite tale had been.
Mrs. Calvert and Mr. Seth alone said nothing, but they watched with tender anxiety to see Dorothy’s next action. That it satisfied them was evident, from the smiles of approval gathering on their faces and the joyous nodding of the gray heads. Their girl hadn’t disappointed them – she was their precious Dorothy still.
She had gone straight to where old Ephraim and his cronies now sat in a distant part of the barn, enjoying their share of the good things Alfy and Danny had provided, and kneeling down beside him had laid the roll of money on his knee. Then audibly enough for all to hear, she said:
“Dear Ephraim, forgive me, if you can. This is the money I lost, the ten crisp ten-dollar bills. Count them and see.”
“No, no, li’l Missy! No, no. An’ fo’ de lan’, doan you-all kneel to a pore ole niggah lak me! Fo’ de lan’, Missy, whe’-all’s yo’ pride an’ mannehs?”
Her posture so distressed him that she rose and said, turning to her friends that all might hear:
“It was I, and I alone, who put that money out of sight. I remember now as clearly as if it were this minute. That red frock was the one I wore that night when Luna came. There is a rip in it, between the lining and the outside of the waist. It was an oversight of the maker’s, I suppose, that left it so, but I never mended it, because it made such a handy pocket, and there was no other. I remember plain. When the crash came I gathered up the money and thrust it into that place. Instinct told me it was something to be cared for, I guess, because I’m sure I didn’t stop to think. Then when I went to bed I must have been too excited to remember about it and left it there. The next day I gave that frock to Luna and she has worn it ever since. How long before she found the ‘pocket’ and what was in it, she can’t tell us. We’ve heard the ‘help’ say how quickly she noticed when money was around and I suppose she’s been afraid we’d take it from her; although she didn’t resent it just now when I did. Oh! I am so ashamed of myself, so ashamed!”
Nobody spoke for a moment, till Ephraim rose and taking his fiddle solemnly played the Doxology. That wasn’t speaking, either, in a sense; but it told plainer than words the gratitude of the simple old man that the shadow on his character was banished forever.
Seth Winters nodded his own gray head in understanding of the negro’s sentiment, while Dorothy sped with the bills to lay them in her Aunt Betty’s lap, and to hide her mortified countenance upon the lady’s shoulder. Thence it was presently lifted, when Mrs. Calvert said:
“Now the lost is found, I’d like to inquire what shall be done with it? It’ll never seem just like other money to me or to my forgetful darling here. Let’s put it to vote. Here’s my notebook, Dolly; tear out a few leaves and give a scrap of the paper to each. Pass the pencil along with them and let each write what she or he thinks the most beneficent use for this restored one hundred dollars.”
So it was done; even those among the servants grouped inside the great doors, having their share of the evening’s sport, even among these those who could write put down their wish.
Then Jim Barlow collected the ballots and sorted them; and Seth Winters’s face shone with delight when it proved the majority had voted:
“For the old man at St. Michael’s.”
So at once they made him take the money in charge; and it made all glad to hear him say:
“That will keep the poor old chap in comfort for many a day,” for he would not damp their joy by his own knowledge that Hiram Bowen’s days could not be “many,” though he meant that they should be the most comfortable of all that pain-tormented life.
“Well, our rainy day has proved a blessed one! Also, the storm is over and to-morrow should bring us fair weather for – the County Fair! All in favor of going say Aye!” cried the Master.
The rafters rang again and again, and they moved doorwards, regretful for the fun just past yet eager for that to come; while there was not a young heart there but inwardly resolved never again to harbor suspicion of evil in others, but to keep faith in the goodness of humanity.
Meanwhile, what had this rainy day seen at Heartsease Farm? Where the twins of evil names had been left to their new life, and their maternal grandfather had so coolly turned his back upon them, while they satisfied their material little souls with such cookies as they had never tasted before.
Dorcas let them alone till they had devoured more than she felt was good for them, and until Ananias turning from the table demanded:
“Gimme a drink.”
“Gimme a drink!” echoed his mate; and the old lady thought it was wonderful to hear them speak so plainly, or even that they could speak at all. But she also felt that discipline should begin at once; and though not given to embellishment of language she realized that their “plain speech” was not exactly that of the Friends.
“Thee tell me thy name, first. Then thee shall drink.”
“A-n an, a, ana, n-i ni, a-s as, Ananias.”
“S-a-p sap, p-h-i phi, r-a ra,” glibly repeated the girl, almost tripping over her brother in her eagerness to outdo him.
Dorcas Sands paled with horror. Such names as these! Forced upon the innocent babes of her Rose! It was incredible!
Then, in an instant, the meekness, the downtroddenness of the woman vanished. Her mission in life was not finished! Her sons had gone out from her home and her daughter was dead, but here were those who were dearer than all because they were “brands” to be saved from the burning.
“Hear me, Rose’s Babies! Thee is Benjamin, and a truth-teller; and thee is Ruth. Let me never hear either say otherwise than as I said. Now come. There is the bench and there the basin. The first child that is clean shall have the first drink – but no quarreling. Birthright Friends are gentle and well mannered. Forget it not.”
The sternness of mild people is usually impressive. The twins found it so. For the rest of that day, either because of the novelty of their surroundings or their difficulty in mastering – without blows – the spelling of their new names, they behaved with exceptionable demureness; and when, in some fear their grandmother dispatched Benjamin to Oliver’s office to announce dinner, the miller fairly stared to hear the midget say:
“Thee is to come to dinner, Oliver. Dorcas says so. Thee is to make haste because there is lamb and it soon cools. Dorcas says the lamb had wool once and that thee has the wool. Give it to me; Oliver. B-e-n ben, j-a ja, m-i-n min, Benjamin. That’s who I am now and I’m to have anything I want on this Heartsease Farm because I’m Rose’s baby. The Dorcas woman says so. Oliver, did thee know Rose?”
This was the “plain speech” with a vengeance! The miller could scarcely credit his own ears and doubting them used his eyes to the greater advantage. What he saw was a bonny little face, from which looked out a pair of fearless eyes; and a crown of yellow hair that made a touch of sunlight in that dark room. “Did he know Rose?”
For the first time in many a day he remembered that he had known Rose; not as a rebellious daughter gone astray from the safe fold of Quakerdom, but as a dutiful innocent little one whom he had loved. Rising at last after a prolonged inspection of his grandson, an inspection returned in kind with the unwinking stare of childhood, he took the boy’s hand and said:
“Very well, Benjamin, I will go with thee to dinner.”
“But the wool? Can I have that? If I had that I could wrap it around Sap – I mean R-u ru, t-h thuh, Ruth, when it’s cold at night and Him’s off messagin’.”
“Yes, yes. Thee can have anything if thee’ll keep still while we ask blessing.”
The face of Dorcas glowed with a holy light. Never had that silent grace been more earnestly felt than on that dark day when the coming of “Rose’s babies” had wrought such a happy effect on her husband’s sorrowful mood. True she also was sorrowful, though in less degree than he; but now she believed with all her heart that this one righteous thing he had done – this allowing of the orphans to come home – would in some way heal that sorrow, or end it in happiness for all.
All afternoon she busied herself in making ready for the permanent comfort of her new-found “blessings.” She hunted up in the attic the long disused trundle-bed of her children; foraged in long-locked cupboards for the tiny sheets and quilts; dragged out of hiding a small chest of drawers and bestowed the twins’ belongings therein, bemoaning meanwhile the worldliness that had selected such fanciful garments as a trio of young girls had done. However, there was plenty of good material somewhere about the house. A cast-off coat of Oliver’s would make more than one suit for Benjamin; while for little Ruth, already the darling of her grandmother’s soul, there were ample pieces of her own gowns to clothe her modestly and well.
“To-morrow will be the Fifth day, and of course, though he seems so indifferent we shall all go to meeting. And when the neighbors ask: ‘Whose children has thee found?’ I shall just say ‘Rosie’s babies.’ Then let them gaze and gossip as they will. I, Dorcas, will not heed. There will be peace at Heartsease now Rosie has come home – in the dear forms of her children.”
Thus thought the tender Friend, sitting and sewing diligently upon such little garments as her fingers had not touched for so long a time; but the “peace” upon which she counted seemed at that moment a doubtful thing.
The day had worn itself out, and the miller had tired of indoors and his own thoughts. From the distant living-room he had been conscious of a strange sound – the prattle of childish voices and the gentle responses of his wife. His heart had been softened, all unknown to himself even, by a sorrow so recent it absorbed all his thought and kept him wakeful with anxiety; yet it was rather pleasant to reflect, in that gloomy afternoon, that he had given poor Dorcas her wish. Those twins would be a great trouble and little satisfaction. They were as much Bowen as Sands; still Dorcas had been good and patient, and he was glad he had let her have her wish.
Ah! hum! The clouds were lifting. He wondered where those children were. He began to wonder with more interest than he had felt during all that endless week, what his workmen were doing. Maybe he would feel better, more like himself, if he went out to the barn and looked about. By this time the cows should be in the night-pasture, waiting to be milked, those which were not now in the stalls of the County Fair.
That Fair! He would have hated it had he not been a Friend and known the sinfulness of hatred. But there were cattle lowing – it sounded as if something were wrong. Habit resumed its sway, and with anxiety over his cherished stock now re-awakened, he passed swiftly out.
“Oliver, thee has forgotten thy goloshes!” called his thoughtful spouse, but he paid her no heed, though commonly most careful to guard against his rheumatism.
“Who left that gate open? Who drove that cow – her calf – Child! is thee possessed?”
Mrs. Betty Calvert was a true prophet – the twins had certainly waked their grandsire up a bit! The explanation was simple, the disaster great. They had tired of the quiet living-room and had also stolen out of doors. Animals never frightened them and they were immediately captivated by the goodly herd of cattle in the pasture. To open the gate was easy; easy, too, to let free from its small shed a crying calf. Between one cow and the calf there seemed a close interest.
“We oughtn’t ha’ did that! That big cow’ll eat that little cow up. See Sapphi – Ruth, see them stairs? Let’s drive the little cow up the stair past the big wagons and keep it all safe and nice,” suggested Benjamin.
So they did; much to the surprise of the calf who bounded up the stairs readily enough, kicking its heels and cavorting in a most entrancing fashion; but when they tried to bar the big cow from following, she rushed past them and also ascended the stairs in a swift, lumbering manner. The relationship between the big and little cow now dawned even upon their limited intelligence, though there still remained the fear that the one would devour the other.
Then the twins turned and gazed upon one another, anxiety upon their faces; till spying the master of the premises most rapidly approaching they rushed to meet him, exclaiming:
“The little cow’s all safe but how will we get the big cow down?”
How, indeed! Oliver Sands was too angry to speak. For well he knew that it would require the efforts of all his force of helpers to drive that valuable Jersey down the stairs she had not hesitated to go up when driven by maternal love.
With one majestic wave of his hand the miller dismissed his grandchildren to the house and Dorcas; but so long and so hard he labored to lure that imprisoned quadruped from his carriage-loft, that, weary, he went early to bed and slept as he had not for nights. So, in that it seemed his “waking up” had proved a blessing.
CHAPTER XVII
THE STORY OF THE WORM THAT TURNED
The morning proved fair and cool, ideal weather for their visit to the County Fair; but Mrs. Calvert decided that a whole day there would be both inconvenient and too fatiguing. Now that she was at home the management of the House Party had been turned over to her by tacit consent, and she had laughingly accepted the trust.
“This was to be Dorothy’s affair, but it’s been more Mr. Winters’s than hers and now more mine than his. Well, I like it. I like it so exceedingly that I propose to repeat the experiment some time. I love young people; and am I not quite a young person myself?”
“Of course, you are, dear Aunt Betty! The youngest of us all in some things, Mr. Seth says!”
“So the farrier has been talking, eh? Well, I want to talk a bit, too. In a multitude of counselors there is wisdom – as we have the highest authority to believe; and the case in question is: Shall we, or shall we not, take Luna to the Fair?”
They were all grouped on the big piazza, after their early lunch, waiting for the wagons to come from the stables and carry them to the city beyond; and as Mrs. Betty asked this question a hush of surprise fell on them all. Finally, said Helena:
“We have taken her, she has gone with us, on all our jaunts. Doesn’t it seem too bad to leave her out of this?”
One after another as the lady nodded to each to speak the answer was frankly given, and Dorothy remarked:
“It’s about half-and-half, I guess. Yes, I know she does go to sleep in all sorts of queer places and at the strangest times, but I hate to leave her.”
“Then if she goes she must wear her own clothes.”
“Why, Aunt Betty, please? Of course, I don’t want to see her in that red frock again – I’d like to burn that up so nobody would ever see it and be reminded how careless and unjust I was. But there’s a pretty blue one she could have.”
“That’s not my reason, dearie. I think it has been a mistake, kindly meant, to dress her as you have; that is for longer than was necessary to freshen her own soiled things.” She paused and Alfy remarked:
“She’s the proudest thing for them bright colors. Red, and green, and blue – ary one just sets her smilin’. Besides, once Dinah tried to put back her old brown dress and Luna wouldn’t let her. Just folded her arms up tight and didn’t – didn’t look a mite pleasant.”
Those who had seen Luna on the rare occasions when she showed anger smiled at this mild description of her appearance then.
“I don’t know as Dinah would be bothered with her, Aunt Betty, and Norah has a sick headache. But – I’ll stay and take care of her if you don’t want her to go,” said Dorothy.
It was an effort to say this and dreading that her offer might be accepted the girl turned her face away to hide her disappointment; but whatever Mrs. Calvert’s answer might have been she was not to hear it then.
Because there was Jim Barlow beckoning to her in a mysterious manner from behind a great hydrangea bush and looking vastly excited over something. So it was a relief to murmur: “Excuse me a minute, Aunt Betty,” and to respond to that summons.
“Dolly, there’s a man here wants to see you.”
“A man? To see me? and not Aunt Betty? Who is he?”
Jim answered rather impatiently to this string of questions.
“I said a man, didn’t I. He said he’d rather see you because he knows you, that is you gave him a lift on the road once in your pony cart and talked real sensible – ”
“Couldn’t have meant me, then, could he, Jim?”
“Don’t fool, Dorothy. He looks as if he was in some trouble. He’s the head man from Oliver Sands’s grist-mill. Some relation to the miller, I’ve heard, and lives with him. Hurry up and don’t hender the raft of us any longer’n you can help. Tell him, whatever his business is, ’twill have to wait, ’t we’re going to the Fair and all the teams are ready – ”
“Yes, I’ll hurry. Where is he?”
“In that little summer-house beyond the lily pond. That’s where he said he’d go. Get rid of him quick, for the horses don’t like to stand after they’re harnessed.”
“All right, I’ll try!” Gayly waving her hand in the direction of the piazza, she sped across the lawn to a group of silver birches, and the spot in question. Solidly roofed, with vine covered sides, and good board floor, the out-of-door building was a pleasant place, and had been greatly enjoyed by all the House Party. It was well furnished with wicker tables, chairs, and lounges, and heavy matting covered the floor. It was empty now except for the old man awaiting Dorothy, and his first remark showed that he appreciated this bit of outdoor comfort.
“It’s real purty in here, ain’t it? Anybody could spend a night here and take no hurt, couldn’t she?”
“Why, ye-es, I suppose so; if anybody wished. James told me you asked for me. What is it, please, for we’re just on the point of starting for the County Fair, and I don’t like to delay the others.”
“Hmm. Yes. I suppose so. Hmm. Yes. Thee is the little girl that’s had such a story-paper kind of life, isn’t thee? Don’t remember me, but I do thee. Gave me a ride once after that little piebald nag thee swopped Oliver’s calf for. Thee sees I know thee, if thee has forgot me and how my floury clothes hit the black jacket thee wore, that day, and dusted it well, ‘Dusty miller’ thee laughed and called me, sayin’ that was some sort of plant grows in gardens. But I knew that. Dorcas has a whole bed of it under her kitchen window. Hmm. Yes.”
Dorothy tapped her foot impatiently, but did not sit down. Would the man never tell his errand? Finally, as he lapsed into a reverie she roused him, saying:
“What is your errand, please?”
“It’s to help an old man in trouble. It – the – I don’t find it so easy to begin. But – is there a little old woman here, no bigger than a child? Is she here? Is she safe?”
This was a question so unexpected that Dorothy sat down the better to consider it; then greatly wondering, answered:
“Yes, there is an afflicted little creature here. Why? What do you know about her?”
“All there is to know, child! All there is to know. Thee sees a most unhappy man before thee, lass.”
“Who is Luna? How came she here? Tell me, quick, quick; and if you know her home?”
“Verily, I know it, since it’s my own, too. It’s a long story, a long lane, but the worm turned. Ah! yes. It turned.”
Dolly began to think her visitor was crazy and springing up ran toward the house, saying:
“I’m going for Aunt Betty. I’d rather you told your errand to her.”
The man did not object, and, greatly surprised by the imperative summons though smiling at her darling’s excitement, Mrs. Calvert left her guests and followed the girl through the shrubbery to the arbor where the vines hid her from the curious glances of those she had left.
“Something’s up! I wonder what?” exclaimed Monty Stark.
“Whatever it is, if it concerns us we shall be told in due time; and if it doesn’t – Hmm,” answered Helena.
“Stand corrected, Miss Montaigne; but bet a cookie you’re as curious as all the rest of us.”
“Well, yes, I am; though I never bet – even cookies. Now let’s talk of something else till they come back. I know they’ll not be long.”
Nor were they; for down in the summer-house, with Elisabeth Calvert’s compelling gaze upon him, the visitor told his tale.
“Thee can look upon me, lady, as the worm that turned. I am a poor relation of Oliver Sands and he felt he owned me.”
“That man? Are we never to hear the end of Oliver Sands? He’s the ‘Old Man of the Mountain’, in truth, for his name is on everyone’s lips,” cried Mistress Betty, crisply, yet resigning herself to the chair Dorothy pushed her way.
“Thee never said truer. He is the biggest man up-mounting in more ways’n one. I’ve not wasted more love on him than many another but I hadn’t no call to break his heart. Hark, thee. I’ll be as short as I can.
“When Oliver’s mother died he was a boy and I was. She – ”
“Beg pardon, please; but this afternoon I really have no time to learn the family history of my neighbor.”
“But I have to tell thee part, to make thee understand. When his mother died, a widow, she left them two children, Oliver and Leah. He was a big boy, smart and trustable, and Leah was almost a baby. Her mother knew then that the child wasn’t like others, she’d talked it with me, I bein’ older’n him; but he didn’t know it and from the time she was born he’d just about worshiped that baby. When she was dying Mehitabel made him promise, and a Friend’s promise is as good as another man’s oath, ’t he’d always take care of little Leah and love her better’n anybody in the world. That nobody, even if he should grow up and marry and have children of his own, should ever come betwixt her and him. Well, ’twas a good spell before he found out ’t he was brother to a fool. That’s plain speech but I’m a Quaker. When he did find out, ’twas a’most more’n he could bear. He give out to anybody that asked, how ’t she was sickly and had to be kept private.
“Elisabeth Calvert, she has been kept private, all her life long, till I let out the secret. He and Dorcas and me, and the children while they lived at the farm, we was the only ones ever had to do with care of her or saw her even. I worked on for him, he makin’ the money, I gettin’ shorter wages each year, besides him investin’ ’em for me as he pleased.
“But I’m old. I want a home of my own; and lately I’ve been pestering him to let me go. He’d always make excuse and talk plausible how ’t he couldn’t spare me nohow. I knew he told the truth, since if I left he’d have to get in strange help and it might get out ’t his sister’s sickness was plain want of brains. That’d have nigh killed him, he’s so proud; to be pointed at as ‘Oliver Sands, that’s brother to a fool’.”
“Well, well. This is exceedingly painful to hear, but to what does it tend?” asked Mrs. Calvert.
“Just this, Elisabeth. One day I got nursin’ my wrongs and forgettin’ my blessings, and the devil was on hand to give me the chance. Dorcas was off nursing a sick neighbor, Oliver was to Newburgh on some Fair business, and there wasn’t nobody in the house but me and Leah. I took an old horse and wagon, ’t he’d been meaning to sell, to the sales-stable at the Landing; and I coaxed Leah to come take a ride. She come ready enough. She didn’t have much fun, anyway, except sitting with him in the office such times as he was lookin’ over his accounts and reckonin’ his money. She liked that. She always liked to handle money. That proved her a Sands, even if she was imbecile!
“Thinks I, I’ll break his pride. I’ll make him know ’t he ain’t no better than other folks, even if he does speak in meeting. I meant to carry her clear to the Landing and let things take their chance while I cleared out for good. But when I’d got as far as here I begun to get scared on her account. I’d set out to humble Oliver but I liked Leah, poor creatur’! and I’d forgot I might be hurtin’ her the worst. She’d never been ’mongst folks and they might treat her rough. So then I remembered this little girl, and how there was talk ’round about her having a passel of young folks to visit her. So I thought Leah would have a chance amongst ’em and I fetched her in and laid her right in this summer-house, on that bench yonder and covered her with a shawl I saw. She was asleep as she is a lot of the time, and didn’t notice.