CHAPTER I

It was a large house, standing well back from the broad highway that leads from Brenton to Pelham--so far back, indeed, and at the end of such a long, shady drive, that it could not be seen for some few minutes after turning in from the road.

The approach was pretty, the avenue winding through the trees, with an occasional glimpse of the meadows beyond. The road forked where the trees ended, and encircled the lawn, or the "heater-piece," as the family called it, it being in the exact shape of a flat-iron. The house stood on high ground, and there were no trees very near.

It was a white house, with green blinds, solid and substantial looking. The roof of the piazza was upheld by tall white columns, and vines growing at either end relieved the bareness. On the southern side of the house a small conservatory had been added. On the other side the ground sloped to the Charles River, though in summer one could only see the water from the upper windows, because of the trees which grew so thick upon the banks. This was Oakleigh, the home of the Franklins, so named because of a giant oak tree which spread its huge branches not far from the back of the house.

As to the Franklins, there were five of them, and they were all assembled on the front porch.

Though it was the last day of April, spring was very early for Massachusetts this year, and the day was warm and clear, suggesting summer and delightful possibilities of out-door fun.

Edith, the eldest, sat with her work. It was unusual work for a girl of barely sixteen. A large, old-fashioned basket was on the floor by her side, with piles of children's clothes in it, and she was slowly and laboriously darning a stocking over a china egg.

The children had no mother, and a good deal devolved upon Edith.

Jack and Cynthia, the twins, came next in age, and they were just fourteen. They looked alike, though Jack was much the taller of the two, and his hair did not curl as tightly as Cynthia's. She sat on the step of the piazza. Her sailor-hat was cast on the ground at her feet, and her pretty golden-brown hair was, as usual, somewhat awry.

It was one of the trials of Edith's life that Cynthia's hair would not keep smooth.

Jack lay at full length on the grass, sometimes flat on his back, staring at the sky, sometimes rolling over, the more easily to address his sisters.

[Illustration: "JACK LAY AT FULL LENGTH ON THE GRASS"]

Jack had a project in his mind, and he was very much in earnest. Cynthia, of course, was already on his side--she had known of it from the first moment the idea popped into his head, but Edith had just been told, and she needed convincing.

Janet and Willy, "the children," were playing at the other end of the porch. They were only six and five, and did not count in the family discussions.

"There's money in it, I'm sure," said Jack, "and if I can only get father to agree with me and advance some money, I can pay him back in less than a year."

"Papa hasn't much money to spare just now," said Edith, "and I have always heard there was a good deal of risk about raising chickens from an incubator."

"My dear girl," returned Jack, with an air of lofty authority, "allow me to say that you don't know much about it. I've been reading up hens for two days, and I find that, allowing for all risks--bad eggs, inexperience, weasels and skunks and diseases, you're sure to make some profit at the end of a year. Now, I'm late in thinking of it, I know. To-morrow is the 1st of May, and I couldn't get more than three hatches this summer, but that would probably pay the cost of the incubator. I can get a first-rate one for forty dollars, and I can buy one 'brooder.' If I bought one I could make the others like it."

"But your eggs," said Edith. "You would have to pay a great deal for eggs."

"Eggs would be about five or six dollars a hundred, and it takes two hundred to fill the machine. I should want to get a fine breed, of course--Brahmas or Cochins or Leghorns, probably--and they cost more; but, you see, when they begin to lay, there comes my money right back to me."

"When they do!" said Edith, sceptically.

"Edith, don't be so mean," cried Cynthia. "Jack wants to begin to make money, and I think he's right. I'm going to help him all I can, and we want you to be on our side to help talk over papa. He is always telling Jack that he'll soon have to begin to work, and now here's a chance."

"Papa wants Jack to make some money to help support us when he is old enough, but he wants him to finish his education first, of course. And I am sure he doesn't want him to lay out a lot of money, as he would have to do in raising hens."

"That's just like a girl," said Jack, scornfully. "Don't you know that there's always a lot of risk in anything you undertake, and you've got to take the chances? There are very few things you don't have to put money into."

"Of course, for a grown man; but a boy of your age ought to work for a salary, or something of that sort--not go investing."

Cynthia stirred uneasily. She knew this was just the wrong thing to say to Jack. Unfortunately, Edith was so apt to say the wrong thing.

Jack sprang to his feet.

"There's no use arguing with girls. I may be a 'boy of my age,' but I've got some sense, and I know there's money in this. I'm not going to say another word about it to anybody until father comes home, and I can talk it over with him."

And Jack walked off around the corner of the house, whistling to Ben and Chester, the two big setters, to follow him, which they did with joyful alacrity.

"There!" exclaimed Cynthia, "now he's gone off mad. I don't see why you said that, Edith."

"Said what? I'm sure it is true. The idea of a boy of his age--"

"There you go again. Jack may be young, but he is trying awfully hard to help papa, and you needn't go twitting him about his age."

"I'm sure I never meant to twit him," said Edith, "and I think he's very touchy. But it is half-past four, Cynthia, and time to go meet papa. Won't you be sure to brush your hair and put on a fresh necktie or something? You do look so untidy. That skirt is all frayed out around the bottom."

"Oh, bother my hair and my necktie, and everything else!" cried Cynthia, though with perfect good-nature. "Edith, you are such a fuss! Shall I go meet papa?"

"No, I'll go; but I wish you would order the horse. Now, Cynthia, don't forget your hair, will you? Papa hates to see you untidy."

For answer Cynthia banged the screen-door as she disappeared into the house and walked through the wide hall, humming as she went.

"What shall I do with these children?" sighed Edith to herself, as she laid down the stocking, mended at last, and prepared to put up her work. "I'm sure I do the best I can, and what I think our mother would have liked; but it's very hard. If Cynthia only would be more neat!"

A loud crash interrupted her thoughts. At the end of the piazza, where the children had been playing, was a mass of chairs and tables, while from the midst of the confusion came roars of pain, anger, and fright.

"What is the matter?" cried Edith, running to the scene, and overturning her work-basket in her flight.

It took several minutes to extricate the screaming children, set them on their feet, and ascertain that no bones were broken.

"Get the red url!" shrieked Janet; "that naughty boy has killed me! I'm dead! I'm dead! Get the red url!"

"It's no such a thing!" shouted Willy. "I didn't do it, and I'm dead, too. Ugh! I'm all bludgy! Get the red url!"

Cynthia had witnessed the scene from the window, and appeared just in time with the bottle of red oil, the panacea for all Franklin bumps and bruises.

"What were you doing, you naughty children?" said Edith, as she wiped the "bludge" from Willy's lip, and found that it came from a very small scratch, while Janet was scarcely hurt at all.

"We were only playing cars, and Willy would ride on the engine, and made it topple over, and--"

"It's no such a thing!" interposed Willy. "Girls don't know nothin' 'bout steam-cars, and Janet went and put her feet on the back of my chair, and--"

He was interrupted by a blow from Janet's small fat fist, which he immediately returned in kind, and then both began again to scream.

"You are both as bad as you can be, and I've a good mind to send you to bed," said Edith, severely, shaking Janet as she spoke.

Janet cast herself upon Cynthia.

"Edith's horrid to us! She's so cross. Cynthia, don't let her send us to bed. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I hit Willy; I'm sorry we upset the chairs; I'm sorry for everything."

"Well, here comes the horse, and I must go," said Edith. "Oh, look at my basket!"

And it was indeed a sight. Spools, scissors, china eggs, stockings--everything lay in wild confusion on the floor.

"Never mind. I'll pick them up," said Cynthia. "Don't bother about them, Edith. The children will help me. Come along, Willy and Janet. Let's see which can find the most spools."

Edith looked back doubtfully as, having put on her hat, she got into the carriage. What would her basket be like when she next saw it? But it was kind of Cynthia, and how much better Cynthia managed the children than she did. What was the reason? She was thinking it over when she heard her name called loudly from behind, and, pulling in her horse quickly, she waited, wondering what had happened now.

Cynthia came flying down the avenue.

"Edith, Edith! Wait a minute! I forgot to tell you. Don't say anything to papa about Jack's scheme, will you? Let him tell him himself."

"Oh, Cynthia, how you frightened me! I thought something dreadful was the matter."

"But don't, will you, Edith? Promise! You know--well, Edith, Jack can explain it so much better himself."

Cynthia was too kind-hearted to tell Edith that she would spoil it all if she said anything first, but Edith knew that was what she meant. A sharp reply was on her lips, but she controlled herself in time.

"Very well," she said, quietly, "I won't."

And then she drove on, and Cynthia went back to the house satisfied.

Edith had a quick, impatient temper, and it was not an easy matter for her to curb her tongue. Her mother had died five years ago when she was but eleven years old. Then an aunt had come to live with them, but she had lately married and gone to South America, and now there was no one else, and Edith was considered old enough to keep house and look after the children.

It would have been more difficult had it not been for the servants, who had lived with the family long before Edith was born. As it was, it made a good deal of care for the young girl, but she wanted to do it, and had herself urged the plan, assuring her father and aunt that she was fully equal to the task.

She enjoyed sitting at the head of the table and pouring her father's coffee, and it pleased her to have things just as she wished them about the house.

Edith, though a dear, lovable girl, was just a little bit vain of her own importance.

She was a pretty girl, very tall, with thick, dark hair that waved naturally about the temples, but was always brushed smoothly back into a knot, and brown eyes that looked out rather seriously upon the world, especially at this moment when she was driving down to Brenton to meet her father, who was coming out from his business in Boston.

The road wound through the woods, with here and there a view of the river, leading finally into the old New England town and forming its main street.

Tall elm-trees shaded the approach to the village, and fine old houses, with well-kept lawns in front, were to be seen on either side.

The horse that Edith drove was by no means a fine one, and the old buggy was somewhat unsteady and rattled alarmingly. In other words, the Franklins were poor, but they had hosts of friends, and as Edith entered the village she nodded right and left to the various people she met. Every one liked the Franklins, and the family had lived at Oakleigh for generations.

As she reached the station the train came in. A throng of carriages filled the broad space in front, and Edith was obliged to draw up at some little distance from the cars. Presently she saw her father coming towards her, and with him was an odd little figure, the sight of which made Edith's heart sink with apprehension.

"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" she exclaimed to herself, "if there isn't Aunt Betsey!"

Then she shrank back into the corner of the buggy, and watched the amused glances that were cast upon her relative by all who saw her.

Miss Betsey Trinkett, of Wayborough, was Edith's great-aunt, and constituted one of the largest thorns in her side. She was old, she was odd, she was distinctly conspicuous, and Edith disliked above all things to be made conspicuous.

Miss Betsey trotted along the platform by her nephew's side, quite unconscious of the tumult she was raising in the breast of her grandniece. She was dressed in a short, scant velveteen gown that might have belonged to her grandmother, and a large bonnet of the same date, from which hung a figured lace veil. A gay shawl was folded about her slender shoulders, and Mr. Franklin carried her carpet-bag with the silver lock and key.

She waved a welcome to Edith with a mittened hand, and Edith, recovering herself, nodded in response.

"How do you do, Aunt Betsey?" she said. "What a surprise!"

"Yes, my dear, I like to surprise you now and then. I came up to Boston town on business, and your father insisted upon my coming out to see you all. In fact, I knew he would, so I just popped my best cap and my knitting into my bag, along with some little things for you children, and here I am."

And she stepped nimbly into the buggy, followed by Mr. Franklin.

"We shall be a 'Marblehead couple,'" he said, as he balanced himself on the edge of the seat and took the reins.

Edith detested "marblehead couples"--otherwise, driving three on a seat--and she hid herself as much as possible in her corner, and hoped that people would not know she was there.

Miss Betsey chatted away with her nephew, and in time the three miles were covered, and they turned into the Oakleigh drive. Edith had recovered somewhat by this time, having been engaged in scolding herself all the way from the village for her uncordial feelings. She was even able to tell her aunt with perfect sincerity that she was glad she had come. After all, the old lady was a dear old soul, and devoted to her nephew and his children.

The others welcomed her most cordially. Aunt Betsey's carpet-bag always contained some rare treat for the little ones; and, besides, they were a hospitable family.

"But come with me, girls," said Miss Betsey, mysteriously, when she had bestowed her gifts; "there is something I want to consult you about."

She trotted up the long flight of stairs to her accustomed room with the springiness of a young girl, Edith and Cynthia following her. She closed the door behind them, and seating herself in the rocking-chair, looked at them solemnly.

"Do you remark anything different about my appearance?"

"Why, of course, Aunt Betsey!" exclaimed Cynthia. "Your hair."

"Well, I want to know! Cynthy, you are very smart! You get it from your great-grandmother Trinkett, for whom you were named. Well, what do you think of it?"

Edith had hastened to the closet, and was opening drawers and removing garments from the hooks in, apparently, a sudden desire for neatness. In reality she was convulsed with laughter.

Cynthia controlled herself, and replied, with gravity:

"Did it grow there?"

Miss Betsey rocked with satisfaction, her hands folded in her velveteen lap.

"I knew it was a success. No one would ever know it, would they? My dears, I bought it to-day in Boston town! The woman told me it looked real natural. I don't know as I like the idea exactly of wearing other people's hair; but one has to keep up with the times, and mine was getting very scant. Silas said to me the other night, said he, 'Betsey, strikes me your hair isn't as thick as it used to be.' That set me thinking, and I remembered I'd heard tell of these frontispieces, and I then and there made up some business I'd have to come up to Boston town about, and here I am. I bought two while I was about it. The woman said it was a good plan, in case one got lost or rumpled, and here it is in this box. Just lay it away carefully for me, Cynthy, my dear."

The old lady's thin and grayish locks had been replaced by a false front of smooth brown, with puffs at the side and a nice white part of most unnatural straightness down the middle.

"You see, I like to please Silas," she continued. "I'll tell you again, as I've told you before, girls, Silas Green and I, we've been keeping steady company now these forty years. But I can't give up the view from my sitting-room windows to go and live at his house on the other hill, and he can't give up the view from his best-room windows to come and live at my house. We've tried and tried, and we can't either of us give up. And so he just comes every Sunday night to see me, as he's done these forty years, and I guess it'll go on so a while longer. And that's what makes me a spinster instead of an old maid. I wonder, now, if you know the difference?"

The girls had heard it a hundred times before, but they politely asked why.

Miss Betsey rocked more violently yet.

"An old maid, my dears," she said, solemnly, "is one who never had the chance to change her state in life. A spinster is one who has the chance and prefers not to make use of it."

They were interrupted by the sound of the tea-bell.

Miss Betsey hastily settled her cap over the new front, and they all went down-stairs, Cynthia pinching Edith to express her feelings, and longing to tell Jack about Aunt Betsey's latest.

But they found Jack having an animated discussion with his father, his thoughts on business plans intent.

Cynthia anxiously surveyed the two, and she feared from appearances that Mr. Franklin did not intend to yield.