CHAPTER VI.

December came and went, and although the girls had agreed to postpone their accustomed giving of gifts to one another until spring, when they hoped to present trophies of the winter’s warfare, the season was otherwise filled with the usual gayety.

Our heroines had not in the least relaxed their interest in the world in general, because of their interest in their own worlds in particular, and had not “cut loose,” as Nan at first had threatened. But, as their lives began to have more of purpose in them, their tastes changed somewhat, so that gradually the most “frothy” of their society friends drifted away unregretted, while new people, whom they had “found out,” as Evelyn phrased it, one by one slipped into the vacant places.

So it was that with less frequent but more spirited contact with society, the winter months flew away, and when the first rays of June sunshine streamed through the glass roof into “Cathy’s kingdom,” the most joyous sight they fell upon was the happy face of the proud mistress, as she went about among the radiant blooms and verdure, cutting her choicest buds for Evelyn’s luncheon, to be given that day in honor of Nan’s return and the reunion of the “jolly four.”

When the girls met in the Ferrises’ dining-room, and surveyed Evelyn’s beautiful table arrangements, they were more than usually jolly, and as that sweet young housekeeper had taken much pride in her festive board, she was deeply gratified by their exclamations of approval.

They pirouetted around and around it, admiring everything, beginning with the artistic lunch-cloth, embroidered by the same fingers which had laid a handful of Cathy’s flowers across each napkin; and they would have proceeded to scrutinize each separate detail, had not Bert seized upon a card bearing her name, attached to a cunning basket, which, in its turn, was tied with a gorgeous bow to one of the chairs. This discovery stimulated research on the part of the others, and immediately each guest was “pouncing,” as Bert said, on her own particular basket.

Nan was the first to investigate the contents. “Bonbons!” she shouted. “What richness! After luncheon, let’s toast these marsh-mallows on the ends of hat-pins over a lamp!—But who is the giver?”

Diving among the sweets for a clew, Cathy succeeded in finding a card which bore the inscription: “From the cook. Warranted pure.”

“_You_ didn’t make ’em, Evelyn?” exclaimed Bert, popping a chocolate-cream into her mouth.

“Yes, I did,” laughed Evelyn, “and it’s as _easy_!—But see here!” and she held aloft a tawny yellow vase, with a flight of butterflies, in all rich hues, encircling the top.

“Waiting for the flowers with which I hope soon to be able to fill them,” Cathy said, as the girls looked radiantly at her work, and Bert hugged one of Pompeiian red, with dull blue butterflies, while Nan suggested the “divine” effect that scarlet nasturtiums would make with the yellow butterflies and the peacock-blue background of hers.

In the meanwhile, Bert, making further search under the fringe of the table-cloth, brought to view a fascinating cabinet. “With a place for a plaque, a place for a jug, and a place for my jar!” she shouted; while Cathy added, as she lovingly surveyed hers, “Yes, and a place for _secrets_ behind the cunning little door!”

“Don’t, girls!” protested Nan, as they heaped thanks upon her. “You needn’t worry; they are not mahogany, nothing but pine, and a cheap carpenter made them, and I stained and polished them myself, so they cost hardly anything.”

“Oh, now, Nan, if you _have_ been to New York and do up your hair in a new way, you can’t get me to believe that!” said Bert decidedly; while Evelyn asked sarcastically, “And did you also design them, Nannie?”

“Of course! What am I studying for, if I can’t design a simple shelf?” cried her sister.

The girls opened their eyes wide, but Nan averted another avalanche of praise by producing the last article on her chair. She gave a deep sigh of satisfaction as she comprehended that Bert had bestowed upon her a set of photographs of the most famous pictures in the world; while Cathy sat down and gloated over her “Goethe Gallery,” and Evelyn smiled into the faces of her favorite authors.

“I beg pardon, Bert,” said Nan, “for the vulgarity of admiring the setting as much as the gem,—but, girls, will you just observe the magnificence of these Japanese leather portfolios?”

The girls observed with joy, and Evelyn said:

“Considering how smart we have already shown ourselves to be, I venture to inquire, dear Bert, if you took the photographs yourself, or only tanned the leather?”

“Neither,” laughed Bert; “I only _earned_ them with my inky fingers, so they are the first real presents I ever gave! And now let us sit down and admire one another.”

“You would be more sensible to admire my _bouillon_,” suggested Evelyn, as she ordered in the cups containing the first course.

So the merriment went on, through all the changes of Evelyn’s dainty banquet, while the girls compared notes on their various experiences.

[Illustration: “BERT SEIZED UPON A BASKET TIED TO ONE OF THE CHAIRS.”]

“Let us add up, subtract, and get our totals, both financially and spiritually,” said Bert. “Who’ll begin?—Ah, what delicious chicken croquettes these are, Evelyn!—Come, Nan! You are responsible for the whole social and moral revolution, you know; so lead off with your account.”

“Nonsense,” replied that young woman; “if I hadn’t begun it, one of you would have fired our noble hearts,—for we should have died of inanition if we had lolled in the lap of luxury another week. So as you, Bert, scrambled down to the ground first, you should begin the reports. How is your exchequer?”

“Low, very low; but my spirits are not, and what matters it therefore, so long as I’m happy?” answered the confidential clerk. “No, money isn’t everything, for I have a gain far better. I feel genuine; I respect Miss Me; and, best of all, I have found my father. So, Nannie dear, I thank you sincerely, for I never was so happy in my life. So much for my grand total, with a large deficit of _ennui_.”

There was a general clicking of spoons in the after-dinner coffee-cups by way of applause, as Bert finished; and she at once demanded that Nan should next be heard.

The young artist responded promptly:

“Well, we all are happy, I hope,—because, thank goodness, it is no longer the chief object of our lives to be so;—that is one of the valuable lessons I have learned as I sat, day after day, at table between fat Miss Lee and thin Miss Jennings. I have been dreadfully discouraged at times, but I used to have worse ‘blues’ when I was only trying to amuse myself. I have had a happy winter; and even if I never sell a design (I hope to sell at least one next year), I never shall regret the experiment I have made; for the feeling of self-reliance is better than a bag of gold to your friend Nan!”

“But how about the fun you were bent on having?” mildly inquired Cathy.

“Oh, I’ve had a delightful time! Girls with a purpose are twice as interesting as those without; and as most of us were impecunious, we had numberless gay little three-cent larks. Ha, I can tell you there was no lack of fun!” and Nan laughed at certain merry remembrances. “But now, Cathy,” she resumed, “I pine to know all about that famous greenhouse.”

“Green-_houses_,” replied the young florist, with dignity. “All flowers can’t grow in the same temperature, my dear.”

“Oh,—I want to know!” drawled Nan. “But are you dreadfully in debt? And do things really sprout?”

“Sprout!” exclaimed Evelyn. “You would think so, Nan, if you had seen the big basket of yellow pansies she sent to old Mrs. Burk on the anniversary of her wedding-day! But Cathy will never roll in wealth; she gives all her flowers away. She ought to hang out a sign with the words ‘Flower Mission’ on it.” And Evelyn gave her friend a loving glance.

“Never mind,” retorted Cathy, blushing a little. “Our crusade was not so much to earn money as for the right to be happy, each in her own way; and since I have repaid what Fred loaned me, I can give away my very own things if I wish to, especially as they are usually in the good company of jellies and other lovely delicacies from Evelyn’s larder,” she added. “But don’t be disturbed, my dears, about my generosity; I shall charge you opulent creatures a good round dollar for every bud you get of me.—And now, Evelyn, it’s your turn; but your luncheon has been more eloquent than words——”

“No, no!” broke in Nan, with sudden mournfulness; “Evelyn has been an egregious failure, so far as her family is concerned; she has struck for higher wages——”

But a look from her sister warned Nan not to go further, while Cathy burst out:

“Oh, Evelyn, let _me_ tell!”

“No,” she said, with an odd expression of mingled pride and timidity on her face. “I will tell it myself; why shouldn’t I? Besides, all but Bert know of it already, and I’m sure she suspects.”

“Are you _really_?” wildly demanded Bert, inconsequently except to the feminine mind.

“Yes, really!” answered Evelyn with shining eyes and flushed cheeks, while Nan groaned:

“Oh, Bert, woe is me! To think that I aided and abetted in this miserable business by encouraging Cathy to become independent, and so allowed her brother Fred to engage my sister for a wife!”

“You gave me a sister!” cried Cathy, as she tipped over her chair in an excited rush at Evelyn, whom she clasped in her arms, crying a little for joy, although her brother had partly prepared her for the glad news,—while Bert exclaimed heartily:

“You have my blessing, Evelyn dear!—And are there any more secrets to be divulged? Nan, you are in the designing business. Is there any decorative youth in view?”

“Not for me!” laughed Nan. “But, Bert, where has all your money gone? I expected you to ask me to accompany you and some delightful chaperon to Europe this summer, at your expense.”

“Oh, I frittered my funds away!” she cried. “Come, come; let us toast the marsh-mallows. Light the droplight, Evelyn. Where are the hat-pins?”

“Now, Bert,” said Evelyn, seriously, “I have found out your secret, and I’m going to tell——” But Bert had escaped and was flying upstairs, while Evelyn continued: “She has given a library to the working-girls’ association, and all that the world knows is that it came from ‘a girl who is thankful to have found out how much better work is than idleness.’ That’s what Bert has done with her money!”

THE END.

IN THE GARDEN.

BY BESSIE CHANDLER.

We were working in the garden, My little boy and I, Both digging weeds, And planting seeds To blossom by and by.

“Here is some pop-corn, dear,” I said, “I’ll give you for your own; To plant and hoe, And watch it grow, And have it when it’s grown.”

He took the kernels eagerly, His little hoe he dropped, Then, out he burst:— “Let’s pop it first, So it will come up popped!”

[Illustration: THE CREW OF THE CAPTAIN’S GIG.]

BY REV. CHARLES R. TALBOT.

The Fair Rosamond, sloop yacht, N. Y. Y. C., lay at anchor off the east shore of Cape Cod Bay, her polished brasswork and white hull glittering like gold and silver in the morning sunlight. No one was visible on board, forward or aft, until presently a youthful form showed itself above the cabin hatch, halting there a moment to survey the scene, and then stepping forth in full view upon the deck. This was Jasper. The noticeable things about Jasper were his homely, freckled face, his slim, ungainly figure, and his intensely solemn air. One would have thought, to look at him, that he was the most sober person in the world, whereas, in point of fact, he was never known to be serious two minutes at a time, and was forever making fun. He stood there for several moments, his hands in the pockets of his yachting jacket, yawning lazily and looking forward along the deck.

“Well,” he at length observed, “this is a hilarious state of things, I must say! I wonder when those men are coming?” Suddenly he assumed an attitude of declamation, and, raising his head and throwing out his right hand by way of gesture, he exclaimed:

“‘The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled——’”

These lines, not altogether inappropriate so far as they went, were interrupted here by some one coming up softly from behind and seizing the speaker by the collar. He quickly freed himself, however, and turning about, with hand still extended, finished his verse in good order:

“‘When some one seized him by the neck. He turned; ’twas Captain Fred.’”

Captain Fred laughed.

“So here you are,” said he, “come up like a whale to spout.”

“A very good joke, my dear brother,” replied Jasper. “I’ll tell you a better, though.”

“What’s that?” asked Captain Fred.

“Your merry men have not appeared yet.”

“What!” exclaimed the captain, scowling and looking forward.

Owing to a serious disagreement between the yacht’s foremast hands, Captain Fred had summarily discharged them all, and sent his sailing-master to Provincetown to pick up a new crew. It was now the third day that he had been absent on this errand; and Captain Fred had counted upon his arrival, with the four sailor men, by an early train that morning. “This is dreadfully annoying!” he declared.

“‘In vain the captain shouted——’”

Jasper began quoting again.

Jasper had a talent for quotations, as the reader will presently perceive. But again he was cut off by an arrival on deck, this time that of three young ladies and a small boy. These were Captain Fred’s pretty young wife, his niece Ethel, her intimate friend Kitty, and little Fred,—the last sometimes known as Frederick the Little, as distinguished from his uncle, Captain Frederick the Great. The girls looked wonderfully fresh and pretty, considering they had just made their toilet in a seven by nine state-room. Kitty was Ethel’s school friend, and had only been with them a few days. She was a bright, vivacious young person, however, and had already made herself quite at home on board. It was she who spoke up now.

“What is the matter, Captain Fred?” cried she. “Are the tea-kettle halliards foul again, this morning?” This was in allusion to a joke of Jasper’s, the first morning she had been on board.

“The matter is,” said Captain Fred, looking as pleasant as he could, “that our crew has not yet arrived; and we may have to lie here a day or two longer.”

At breakfast, Captain Fred announced that he was going ashore. Something must be done at once about a crew. He should run down to Provincetown himself, and should not return until the afternoon at the earliest. Meanwhile, they must get along as best they could. The yacht was in a perfectly safe position; the steward (the only man left on board) was an entirely competent and trustworthy person; and the sailing-master himself would be back, without fail, before night. “And since I am without a crew,” Captain Fred concluded, “I think that you young people will have to man my gig for me.”

[Illustration: ON BOARD THE YACHT, “FAIR ROSAMOND.”]

This proposal was agreed to, willingly enough; and a few minutes later, the gig being brought alongside, Jasper called “Giglers away!” and they all got in, Ethel and Kitty at the oars (they were accustomed to rowing together), Freddy in the bow, and Captain Fred and Jasper in the stern-sheets. Mrs. Fred preferred to remain on board and read. They pulled directly inshore. The village and railroad station were some distance below, but much nearer by land than by water. “Good-bye, all!” said Captain Fred as he jumped ashore. “Take good care of yourselves. And, Jasper, do try to behave yourself for one day.” Then he waved his “gripsack” and was gone.

They rowed along, not caring to land,—for the shore everywhere had the genuine Cape aspect, barren and unattractive,—but finding it pleasure enough to float upon the bosom of the sparkling blue water, now drifting idly, now pulling themselves here and there as the fancy seized them. They chatted and laughed and shouted, growing even boisterous by and by, Freddy and the two girls getting into a regular romp at last in the forward part of the boat. Jasper (who was not strong) sat looking down upon this with an air of elderly indulgence. It was one of Jasper’s delights to give himself patriarchal airs. Although just Ethel’s age, sixteen, he was, like Captain Fred, uncle to both her and Freddy,—a relationship which had, by courtesy, been extended to Kitty during her stay with them, though that young lady had professed herself quite indifferent to the honor,—and he loved to talk of his “avuncular responsibilities.”

“Ah, children,” he now declared, “it does your poor old uncle good to see you enjoying yourselves in this way.

“‘I love to look on a scene like this, Of wild and careless play, And persuade myself that I am not old, And my locks are not yet gray.’”

“Jasper,” asked Kitty, flushed with exercise and suddenly resting on her oar, “can you sing?”

“Sing!” Jasper looked at her as though he thought her crazy. “My dear niece, what can you be thinking of? I could no more sing than I could—raise a pair of side-whiskers.” He gave his cheek a melancholy tap.

“Oh, yes, you can!” said Kitty. “You can sing _something_,—can’t you? Some old song or other.”

“Some old song?” Jasper shook his head. “No,” said he,

“‘I can not sing the old songs’; It is not that I deem them low, ’Tis that I can’t remember How they go.”

“Pshaw!” cried Kitty, who evidently had some object in view. “I am sure you can sing something,—and you must. Don’t you know ‘Hail Columbia,’ or ‘Home, Sweet Home,’ or ‘Bonnie Doon’?”

“I know ‘Old Grimes,’” said Jasper.

“‘Old Grimes’? Well let me hear it.”

So Jasper began to sing, to a tolerably correct air but in a voice which was far from musical, the song “Old Grimes is Dead.” He grew somewhat in love with his own performance as he proceeded, and gave the “old gray coat” such a thorough “buttoning down before” in the chorus, that Kitty grew impatient.

“Why, to be sure!” she interrupted. “That air is the same as ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ and will do perfectly.” Then she turned to Freddy: “Now, Freddy, what can you sing?”

“Oh, I say,” protested Jasper, “you’re not going to make Freddy exhibit himself, too?

“‘Strike, if you will, this old gray head,’ But spare a little boy like Fred.”

Kitty inexorably repeated her question; and Freddy, showing no disposition to plead his tender years as an excuse, declared that he could sing “’Way down upon the Suwanee River,” and he freely opened his mouth and delivered himself of a verse of the song indicated, in proof of his assertion.

“That will do capitally,” pronounced Miss Kitty. “And, Ethel, you can take ‘Ben Bolt,’ say, and I will take ‘Home, Sweet Home.’ The simpler and more familiar the tunes the better. And now I’ll tell you what I wish you to do. It’s ever so much fun! We tried it one day, up at Lenox, and we got into a perfect gale over it. It’s just this: Whatever any one of us has to say, no matter what it is and without any exception, we must _sing_ it instead of saying it, every one using the tune assigned him or her. Do you understand?

“It’s the eá-siest thing in the wuh-órld, when wuh-ónce you have triéd-it.”

She calmly illustrated her meaning to the tune of “Home, Sweet Home.”

“Of course,” she added, “it’s perfectly ridiculous. But that’s the fun of it, you know.”

They all fell in with the scheme at once, though Jasper proposed to improve it a little.

“Wouldn’t it be well,” he suggested, “to prescribe some penalty or forfeit in case anybody forgets, and talks instead of singing? Suppose, for instance, we agree, each of us, to pay ten cents every time we break the rule, all money so obtained to be devoted to some charitable object.”

“I consent to that,” said Ethel, quite approving.

“And I, too!” cried Kitty. “It will make us all the more particular.”

“Well, then, _I don’t_!” shouted Freddy, rising up, very red in the face. “It’s all very well for you people who have allowances. But I’m not as rich as the Pennsylvania Railroad Company myself.”

“Well, youngster,” said Jasper, “we’ll only charge you five cents when you break over.”

To this Freddy assented.

“And, of course,” Jasper continued, “we’ll have to make the agreement for a certain length of time—two hours, say. Will that do? Very well,”—looking at his watch,—“it is distinctly understood then that from this moment—it is now half-past eleven—for two whole hours we shall _sing_ everything we have to say, every one to the tune agreed on, and that we shall pay the sum of ten cents for every violation of this rule,—with the exception of Freddy, who is to pay five cents.—Each, upon honor, agrees to this solemn compact.”

He looked about, and all gravely nodded assent.

“All right,” said Jasper. Then, to the familiar strains of “Auld Acquaintance,” without the slightest hesitation he sang these lines, giving his words the proper rhyme and rhythm almost unconsciously:

“My gallant boys (or rather, girls), Take now your oars and row; For, if you don’t, ’tis very clear This boat will never go.”

Four young people, full of frolic, found it easy to laugh at this, as well as at a number of similar outbursts on the part of the others, equally ridiculous if somewhat less elaborate. And the fun went on for some minutes. Nevertheless, it must be confessed that Miss Kitty’s plan, promising as it had seemed, did not turn out quite so well as she had expected. Admirably adapted, as no doubt it was, to a picnic party, where all sorts of people would be constantly moved to say all sorts of things, it was found not to work at all well among four persons of about the same age, in an open boat, where there was no especial necessity for saying anything. Somehow or other, after a little, the singing began to grow less funny, and presently everybody appeared to have discovered that it was easier to keep still than to express one’s self, and so a grim silence fell upon the boat. Freddy played with the water alongside; the girls bent to their oars; and Jasper attended to his steering. And, bound as they were by their absurd agreement, it is to be feared that the crew of the gig would have had a dreary time of it for the next two hours, but for an idea that suddenly suggested itself to Jasper’s fertile mind.

All at once the coxswain gave the helm a turn; and then the boat’s keel was heard grating softly upon the sand. The others looked around in surprise. The boat was close inshore, and the next moment it brought up with a gentle bump against the bank. A short distance away a railroad crossing could be seen, and, just beyond it, a red house. Jasper rose to his feet, and sang:

“Now, what say you, my gallant crew, To going with me ashore? Methinks ’twould be a goodly thing To tread the land once more.”

“I’m ready, for one,” cried Freddy, jumping ashore at once, painter in hand.

“Ahem!” uttered Jasper loudly.

And Master Frederick, looking up, found a finger warningly pointed in his direction, and realized that he had broken the rule. Jasper solemnly took out his note-book and made an entry. Next he leaped ashore himself and stood waiting to help the girls, who, after a moment’s hesitation, also stepped ashore. Then, the boat being made fast to a convenient post, they all started leisurely up the bank.

They soon came to a road which led them directly across the railroad and toward the red house. This house was a small, one-story cottage, very humble, but with the thrifty Cape Cod look, having a bright garden in front and a neat walk, bordered with curious shells, running down to the gate. Jasper, catching sight of a well near the side door, was about to make an excuse for turning in, when Kitty forestalled him.

“Oh,” sang she, her spirits already revived by the change from sea to shore, “Be it ever so humble, I must have some water.”

They went in, therefore, and Jasper was about to let down the bucket, which worked by some modern arrangement, when a woman came running out with a glass.

“Here, here!” she cried shrilly. “We don’t ’low strangers to meddle with that well! _I_’ll draw it for you, if you please.” And she put Jasper one side, carefully letting down the bucket, and then breathlessly drawing it up. “You gave me quite a turn, I declare!” she observed as she handed Ethel the glass. “I thought you were that sewin’-machine man when I first heard ye. He said he sh’d come to-day.”

She eyed them curiously. She was a spare, energetic-looking woman, with a pinched face and small bright eyes. She seemed rather puzzled when no one spoke, though the two girls and Freddy bowed their thanks profusely as they finished drinking. Her bewilderment may well have grown to wonder as she beheld Jasper, with one hand still extended after handing back the glass and the other laid dramatically upon his heart, open his mouth and begin to sing, to the air of “Auld Lang Syne,” familiar in Cape Cod homes as everywhere else in the world,

“‘Thanks,’ said the judge, ‘a sweeter draught A fairer hand ne’er _quaffed_——’”

The combined exigencies of the tune and the effort to adapt the quotation to it, left the singer, attitude and all, hanging, so to speak, at the end of a high note; and the effect was supremely ludicrous. Jasper’s comrades could not restrain their laughter.

The woman regarded him for an instant with a look of amazement; but people on the Cape have a way of keeping their feelings to themselves, and she quickly recovered her self-possession.

“Humph!” said she, glancing keenly from Jasper to the rest. “Where do you folks come from, anyway?”

“We came,” Jasper answered, still true to “Auld Acquaintance,”

“We came, in yonder noble ship, From lands beyond the sea; And we’ve landed on this barren shore To—to—see what we could see.”

He broke a little on the last line and finished rather lamely.

“Humph!” the woman dryly repeated. “You’ve come to a dangerous place, then. P’r’aps you may not be aware that ’twas only right down here a bit that Cap’n Cook was killed.”

Here Kitty, delighted to see her scheme displaying at last some of the qualities she had claimed for it, took it upon herself to answer, clasping her hands in horror at the announcement made:

“Alas, my good woman, how dreadful! And, pray, What’s the name of this barbarous land, did you say?”

Her rhythm was not quite as smooth as Jasper’s; but she was true to her air, and the rhyme at the end fairly surprised herself.

“Well,” the woman answered seriously, “we gen’rally call it the Cape. Though they do say,” she added, “that they’re tryin’ hard to make an island of it, up to Sandwich.” This was a reference, no doubt, to the famous Cape Cod Canal. Then, still looking her visitors over and trying to make them out, “Do they all sing their words,” she inquired, “in the country you come from?”

Kitty was about to reply again; but at this instant a diversion occurred. Master Freddy, moved to exploration on his own account, had strayed away to the kitchen door, and, peeping within it, his eye had fallen upon a huge dish, full of freshly made crullers, resting upon the table. Utterly ravished by the sight, he had given vent to a prolonged “Oh!” and then, mindful of forfeits, but quite compelled to utter himself, he, too, began to sing, and the well worn notes of the “Suwanee River” rose rapturously to the breeze:

“Oh, how I wi—i—i—i—_ish_-I Ha—ad a cruller!”

“Sakes alive!” exclaimed the woman, looking around. “That reminds me. There’re my crullers all this time. I must run. Come in, won’t ye? Come in an’ try ’em.”

Ethel being the only one inclined to hold back, and she being of a yielding nature, they all followed the woman indoors, and were ushered presently into a little sitting-room next the kitchen. It was a poorly furnished, but neat and pleasant apartment, with snow-white curtains, worn haircloth furniture, and a parlor organ, and with a sewing machine in one corner. Freddy came in after the rest, a huge ring of a cruller firmly grasped in one hand, and another of more elongated proportions thrust deeply down his throat. The woman followed immediately with the dish, and her cordially repeated invitation to “try ’em” was gladly accepted. Jasper possessed himself of a magnificent specimen, and loudly sang the praises of itself and donor, pleasing himself immensely by an ingenious combination of “try ’em” and “fry ’em.” Ethel glanced at him reproachfully, feeling a pang of shame that he should persist in his joking in the face of this kindly hospitality. But Jasper was not to be stopped at such a time. Nor did Kitty seem disposed to be prudent. She was, as she herself might have expressed it, gradually working up to “concert pitch”; and she and Jasper, evidently, were having a much better time with their singing than they had while they were in the boat. Kitty also sought to celebrate in song the virtues of the crullers, even venturing upon a little parody wherein “sweet crullers” was substituted for “sweet home,” and “crumble” for “humble,” which, absolutely nonsensical as it may have been, caused Jasper to go off in fits of laughter and clap his hand upon his knee and cry “capital!” in utter violation of his vow. And then Freddy sang, too, and even Ethel sang; and they all got to laughing harder and harder, with that absurd, unreasonable laughter that laughs at almost anything, and that the more it laughs, the more it will laugh, until by and by it grows to be quite uncontrollable. All of which, the writer is aware, was exceedingly silly and ridiculous on the part of these young people whom he has introduced to the reader; but he begs the latter to remember that they were only boys and girls after all, and that they were really a little beside themselves that morning, and that, at any rate, no single one of them meant a particle of real harm by it. The only person who preserved her countenance was their hostess. That problem of a woman went in and out among them, never so much as smiling at anything that was said or done, watching them closely with her small, sharp eyes, always seeming to be “making them out,” but letting no sign of any conclusion to which she might have come find its way into her face.

At length Ethel, thinking to quiet things, glanced toward the organ and asked respectfully (though to music, of course) if she might “try the instrument.”

“Oh!” replied the woman, following Edith’s glance, and with an odd, scared look coming into her face as she did so, “I _couldn’t_ let ye touch that, Miss; indeed, I couldn’t. Why, ’taint mine, yet; an’ I don’t know now as ’t ever will be.” Then she interrupted herself with an air of deep chagrin. “Why, you mean the melodyun, don’t ye? I thought all the while you meant the sewin’-machine. How stupid! Seem’s if I can’t think o’ anythin’ lately but that sewing-machine. It’s nigh worritted my life out. You see, I bought it last winter of an agent, an’ agreed to pay ten dollars a month for it till ’twas paid for. But, somehow or ruther, Silas hasn’t earned anythin’ to speak of, sence he came back from Georges Banks, an’ things ha’ gone hard; an’ now the time is up, an’ there’s twenty-seven dollars still due. I’ve scraped up twenty, here and there, but I’m lackin’ seven, yet. The man’s comin’ to-day to take the machine, an’ I’ve got to lose all I’ve paid him. That was the bargain. But,”—she hesitated and her thin lip quivered,—“I vow it’s too bad! An’ I don’t believe the law would allow it.”

At this instant, as it happened, a step and a heavy rap were heard at the outer door. The woman started.

“There he is now!” she exclaimed. “I know his knock’s well ’s I do the minister’s or the doctor’s. ’Xcuse me a minute.” And, with lips shut tight, she left the room. Then the occupants of the sitting-room heard a man’s voice roughly explaining that he could not take the machine to-day, but that he should be along again to-morrow and should certainly take it then if the money was not ready. The woman seemed to have very little to say in reply; and presently, having dismissed her unwelcome caller, she came back into the sitting-room.

“About that melodyun, Miss,” she resumed at once with an absent air; “you’d be welcome to play on it, but Salome’s gone over to Hyannis for a visit, an’ she accidentally took the key off with her in her rettycule. Salome’s my daughter,” she added, with a touch of motherly pride. “She’s took lessons. If she was here, _she’d_ play for ye!”

What a mischievous spirit it was that prompted Kitty to break forth, in accents as tenderly regretful as any ever attained in the singing of “Sweet Home” itself!—

“Salome! Salome! Would—that you—were home!”

She wondered herself, the next moment, what had possessed her, realizing that in thus turning the absent daughter’s name to ridicule, she was doing a distinctly rude and unkind thing. She started up, sincerely meaning to apologize. But the woman had turned away, seeming not to have noticed it; and Kitty sank back in her chair again.

The woman had noticed, however, and there was a faint flush on her cheek and a resentful glitter in her eye as she stood at the table, pretending to look for something in her work-basket, and for several moments speaking not a word. Suddenly, with an air of decision, she turned and walked straight out to the kitchen, going to a back door that was there and opening it. Then they heard her calling somebody in her shrill, far-reaching voice:

“Silas! Si—las! _Si_las!”

Silas—whom all understood to be the woman’s husband—must have been close at hand, for almost immediately a man’s voice sounded without, and then the two were heard talking together in low tones inside the kitchen. The next moment they appeared at the sitting-room door.

The woman, when they entered the room, was preparing to throw a shawl about her shoulders. But nobody, at that moment, thought very much about her. Her visitors were too much struck by the appearance of the remarkable individual who attended her. He was a man of immense physical proportions, more than six feet high, and correspondingly broad. His short, stubby hair was of a dull red color, as were also the thick, wiry whiskers that covered his face. His skin, where it could be seen, was deeply burned. One of his eyes was closed and sightless. He was dressed in a big green baize jacket, oil trousers, and “fish boots.” In his hand he carried a short, heavy clam hoe. Altogether he was a formidable-looking person. The two girls uttered a little cry of dismay when they saw him; Jasper himself looked troubled, and Freddy fixed upon him a look of fascinated horror. Freddy was thoroughly familiar with the story of Polyphemus (Jasper had told it to him many times), and his one thought now was that that awful monster stood before him.

“Silas,” said the woman sharply, turning toward him as she pinned her shawl, “here’s some people. I don’t know who they air, nor where they come from; but I do know that they’re stark, starin’ crazy, every one of ’em. They can’t do anythin’ but sing an’ laugh. I’m afraid of ’em; an’ I’m goin’ to run down to Squire Baker’s an’ have him send up a constable, an’ have ’em taken care of. They ought to be put in the mad-house. I want you to stay here an’ keep guard over ’em till I come back.”

And with that, before Jasper and the rest had at all grasped the meaning of her words or comprehended her intention, she was gone.

The giant, who was left behind, reached over to draw to him a large rocking-chair that stood near by and sat down before the door, not saying a word. Freddy felt quite certain now that he was Polyphemus—Polyphemus, with his terrible single eye, sitting at the door of his cave and keeping guard over Ulysses and his band. As for the rest, they knew not what to do or say. What did it all mean? What strange people these they had come among,—the woman who took them for lunatics, and that grim creature at the door? Could the woman really have believed them crazy? She had said so. And her manner from the first, as they now recalled it, suspicious and uneasy, seemed to say so too. And, indeed, it was hardly to be wondered at, considering their absurd actions. What then would come of it? Would the constable, when he came, think they were crazy too?—and the magistrate? Cape Cod people, they had always heard, were queer people. The situation seemed really serious. They looked at each other soberly, not speaking yet, but all thinking some such thoughts as these.

But Jasper, as the man of the party, felt that it behooved him to do something at once. He got up from his chair and advanced, with as determined a bearing as he could assume, in the direction of their keeper. Ethel turned pale.

“Oh, Jasper!” she murmured. “What are you going to do? Please don’t go near him.”

“No,” Kitty whispered, equally alarmed; “pray don’t. Let us wait quietly till the constable comes. It will be all right then.” No one of them thought any longer of maintaining their agreement as to singing, which, indeed, had been quite driven out of their minds.

“Pooh!” answered Jasper with lofty valor, “I’m only going to request our monumental friend here to move one side a little so that we can pass out. It’s time we were going.” Then, as the person alluded to paid no attention, he addressed him directly. “If you please, my friend, we’d like to pass out.”

[Illustration: “‘I WANT YOU TO KEEP GUARD OVER ’EM TILL I COME BACK,’ SAID THE WOMAN.”]

The other shook his head,—calmly and quietly enough. It was not anything the man did, nor indeed anything he said, when he came to speak, that was so terrible, after all; it was simply his forbidding face and his gigantic figure.

“I’m very sorry,” said he in a voice so deep and sepulchral one might well have fancied it was supplied to him somehow from the cellar below, “very sorry indeed. But the fact is ye can’t be allowed to go,—not till Malviny comes back.”

“Look here, now,” observed Jasper, straightening up and trying to look terrible himself.

“Wall, I’m lookin’ here.” The man calmly regarded him with his single eye.

“Do you know who we are?” Jasper continued.

The giant shook his head again. “Hevn’t the slightest idee. Couldn’t no more say who ye air ’n I could say who’ll be keepin’ Highland Light in the year nineteen hundred ’n eighty-six. Malviny says ye’re a passel o’ crazytics, an’ that’s all I want to know about ye. I never go behind what Malviny says. She’ll be back with the cunstable presently, an’ they’ll settle your case. Meanwhile, here you’ll hev to stay till they come.”

He leaned back in his chair and began rocking to and fro, resting his clam hoe across his knees.

“But see here,” persisted Jasper; “that is all nonsense, you know, about our being crazy. We——”

“Hi! hi!” interrupted the giant, stopping his chair. “What’s that ye say? Be keerful, young man. _Be_ keerful!” He lifted his ponderous fore-finger and slowly waved it back and forth with an air of solemn warning. “Don’t you ventur’ fur to dare fur to assertify that anything Malviny says is nonsense! She allus knows what she’s talkin’ about. If she says you’re crazy, crazy you _be_,—an’ ye can’t help yourselves.”

“But I say——” poor Jasper once again began.

“Now, be keerful, young man. _Be_ keerful!” The awful finger again cleft the air.

“Oh!” cried Jasper, stamping his foot in impotent rage. “This is intolerable! You’ve not a particle of right to keep us here. Move one side, I say, and let us pass.”

He advanced a step and threateningly confronted his enemy.

But the latter remained perfectly unmoved, save that again he gravely shook his head.

“Not till Malviny comes,” was his imperturbable answer. “Not till Malviny comes.”

And Jasper, brave as any lad, but well aware in his heart that he would no more think of actually attacking that gigantic adversary than of throwing himself upon an advancing locomotive, yielded to the renewed entreaties of Ethel and Kitty, and sullenly returned to his seat.

Then for many minutes—just how many, no one knew—there was perfect silence in the house,—or silence the perfection of which was only marred by the ticking of the little Waterbury clock on the kitchen mantel. The prisoners sat there in a dazed, despairing sort of mood, their eyes most of the time bent upon the floor, content to wait without further motion the issue of events.

All at once, from the watcher’s direction, there came a sound, loud, clear, sonorous, unmistakable—the sound of a human snore. They all looked up surprised, and a single glance at the mammoth form in the doorway assured them of the fact which the sound had intimated. Their keeper slept.

Jasper, with a swift gesture of caution to his comrades, sat and watched the sleeper for a moment, to be sure that it was so; then he rose to his feet. The time for action had undoubtedly arrived. He glanced about the room, marking its ways of egress. The windows were open, but not far enough, and it would not do to risk the noise of opening them farther. There were four doors in the room, besides that leading to the kitchen, all closed. Jasper passed three of these by as admitting without doubt to bedrooms or cupboards, and turned to the fourth. This opened, as he had expected, into a little front hall; and there, right at hand, was the outer door. Jasper’s heart sank as he saw that the key was gone; but he tried the door, and lo! to his surprise, it was not locked at all. Here then was freedom at last, in their very grasp! “Come! Come!” he whispered, beckoning eagerly to his companions. And then, like a captain who must be last to quit the wreck, he stood holding open the door for the others to pass through.

Freddy came first, painfully tiptoeing his way, and scarcely able even now to remove his glance from the fearful being across the room. Then Kitty glided out and Ethel followed, and the three stood safely outside. Jasper lingered a moment, latch in hand, glancing back at the grim sentinel in the rocking-chair. The man still sat there, his head thrown back and his dreadful eye fast closed, wrapped apparently in profoundest slumber. Jasper felt all his old assurance coming back. He kissed his hand to the sleeper.

“Good-bye, my dear guardian, good-bye!” he cried, half aloud.

“‘My boat is on the shore, and my bark is on the sea; But before I go, once more I must say farewell to thee.’”

But what meant that movement on the part of the sleeper? Jasper stared. The huge frame was certainly shaking in its chair. Could it be that the man was laughing in his sleep? The lad did not stop to ponder the question, but closed the door behind him and hurried after the rest.

At the crossing, they came suddenly upon Mrs. Malviny. Jasper made her a bow.

“May I ask,” he inquired, “if you saw Squire Baker?”

“Yes,” answered she gloomily; “I saw him. He says it’s no use. Unless I pay the money, the man can take the machine. I can’t—But sho! There I am again. You mean did I see him about the constable? Well, no; I didn’t.” She looked at them now with a humorous twinkle in her eye. “The fact is, that was one o’ my jokes. You seemed to be havin’ a good deal o’ fun at my expense, up to the house, an’ so I thought I’d have a little at yours. I hope ye didn’t have any trouble with Silas. He’s the best-natered man in the world,—wouldn’t harm a toad-fish. If he would, I’d set him after that sewin’-machine man! There’s Silas at the front gate now! What’s he laughin’ at, I wonder? Well, good-day! If anybody in your country asks after us Cape folks, you tell ’em we aint all fools down here. We don’t live on fish for nothin’.”

“Well!” uttered Jasper, gazing after her a moment with an air of profound admiration, and then looking down at himself in equally deep disgust. “If we haven’t been most beautifully and artistically circumvented _this_ time, I should like to know the reason why! I feel as cheap as an eighty-cent dollar.”

“We certainly have had a good fright!” declared Kitty.

“It seems to me,” observed Ethel seriously, “that this ought to be a lesson to us not to turn everything and everybody to ridicule quite so freely in the future.”

“Yes,” cried Freddy. “And how about all that money you three will have to pay for talking all this while, instead of singing?”

“Sure enough!” said Kitty.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” suggested Ethel. “We will let ourselves off, once for all, for seven dollars; and we’ll make up that sum and send it to Mrs. Malviny to complete the twenty-seven dollars she owes her sewing-machine man.”

“Done!” shouted Jasper with enthusiasm.

And done it was, that very night.

THE WEASEL AND THE ADDER.

[Illustration]

Of all the sharp-toothed and vindictive little animals that prey upon their comrades and sometimes do service for man, none is sharper or more vindictive than the weasel—a bright-eyed little beast, with a coat of golden-brown fur and a clean white shirt-front. It somewhat resembles the rat, and also the squirrel; but it is, really, the deadly enemy of both.

And of all the hateful reptiles that crawl and coil and sting, there are few more venomous and hateful than is the little olive-brown snake known as the adder—a rattlesnake without rattles, and the untiring foe to mice and birds and moles, thus also occasionally proving of service to man.

Both the weasel, which belongs to the family known as the _mustelidæ_, or mouse-eaters, and the adder, which belongs to the _viperidæ_, or viper family, are, as you see, agreed upon one thing—a liking for mice for dinner. And they are just as heartily united upon another subject—their hatred of each other.

So when, as in the above picture, weasel and adder meet in the way, there is certain to be a duel to the death.

The weasel is a spry and fiery-tempered little animal; the adder is treacherous and equally hot-headed. And although, as the rule, the weasel is worsted in such encounters, sometimes the coils of the adder squirm and droop and stiffen as, with one quick snap, the sharp teeth of the weasel seize and break the mottled neck of the snake.

GEORGE WASHINGTON.

[_An Historical Biography._]

BY HORACE E. SCUDDER.