Part 19 (1/2)

”Land sakes! Thet gal acts like she's p'ssessed! She tellin' whut a nice time she had to yo' place las' evenin', an' then a-runnin' away like she's wild as a hawrk. Seems like she's a-gittin' mo' triflin'

every day----”

”Sence Monk Bethune's tuk to ha'ntin' this yere crick so reg'lar,”

interrupted Watts, who stood leaning against the door jamb.

”'T'aint nothin' agin Mr. Bethune, 'cause he's nice to Microby,”

retorted the woman; ”I s'pose 'cordin' to yo' idee, he'd ort to cuss her an' kick her aroun'.”

”Might be better in the long run, an' he did,” opined the man, gloomily.

”Where's yo' manners at? Not sayin' 'howdy'?” reminded his wife.

”I be'n a-fixin' to,” he apologized, ”yo' lookin' mighty peart this mawnin'.” A cry from the baby brought a torrent of recrimination upon the apathetic husband: ”Watts! Watts! Looks like yo' ort to could look after Chattenoogy Tennessee, that Microby Dandeline run off an' left alone. Like's not she's et a nail thet yo' left a han'ful of on the floor thet day yo' aimed fer to fix me a shelft.”

”She never et no nail,” confided the man, as he returned a moment later carrying the infant. ”She done fell out the do' an' them hens wus apeckin' her. She's scairt wuss'n hurt.”

”Well,” smiled Patty. ”I must go. Tell Microby to come up to my cabin right soon. I'd like to have a talk with her.”

”Might an' yo' pa's claim 'ud be som'ers up the no'th branch,”

suggested the woman. ”He rid that-a-way sometimes, didn't he, Watts?”

”I'm not prospecting to-day. I'm going over to see the Samuelsons. Mr.

Samuelson is sick.”

”Law, yes! I be'n a-aimin' fer to git to go, this long while. I heern it a spell back, an' Mr. Christie done tol' us over again. They do say he's bad off. But yo' cain't never tell, they's hopes of 'em gittin'

onto they feet agin right up 'til yo' hear the death rattle. Yo' tell Miz Samuelson I aim to git over soon's I kin. I'll bring along the baby an' a batch o' sourdough bread, an' fix to stay a hull week.

Watts'll hev to make out with Microby an' the rest. Yo' tell Miz Samuelson I say not to git down in the mouth. They all got to die anyhow. An' 'taint so bad, onct it's over an' done. But lots of 'em gits well, too. So they hain't no call to do no diggin' right up to the death rattle--an' even then they don't allus die. Ol' man Rink, over on Tom's Hope, back in Tennessee, he rattled twict, an' come to both times, an' then, couple days later, he up an' died on 'em 'thout nary rattle. So yo' cain't never tell--men's thet ornery, even the best of 'em.”

Christie's prediction that Patty would like Mrs. Samuelson proved to be conservative in the extreme. From the moment the slight gray-haired little woman greeted her, the girl felt as though she were talking to an old friend. There was something pathetic in the old lady's cheerful optimism, something profoundly pathetic in the endeavor to transform her bit of wilderness into some semblance to the far-away home she had known in the long ago. And she had succeeded admirably. To cross the Samuelson threshold was to step from the atmosphere of the cow-country and the mountains into a region of comfort and quiet that contrasted sharply with the rough and ready air of the neighboring ranches. The house itself was not large, but it was built of lumber, not logs. The long living room was provided with tastefully curtained cas.e.m.e.nt windows, and rugs of excellent quality took the place of the inevitable carpet upon the floor. A baby grand piano projected into the room from its niche beside the huge log fireplace, and bookcases, guiltless of gla.s.s fronts, occupied convenient s.p.a.ces along the wall, their shelves supporting row upon row of good editions. It was in this room, looking as though she had stepped from an ivory miniature, that the mistress of the house greeted Patty.

”You are very welcome, my dear. Mr. Samuelson and I were deeply grieved to hear the sad news of your father. We used to enjoy his occasional brief visits.”

”How is Mr. Samuelson?” asked Patty, as she pressed the little woman's thin, blue-veined hand.

”He seems better to-day.”

The girl noted the hopeful tone of voice. ”Is there anything I can do?” she asked.

”Not a thing, thank you. Mr. Samuelson sleeps a good part of the time, and Wong Yie is a wonderful nurse. But, come, you must have luncheon.

I know you will want to refresh yourself after your long ride. The bathroom is at the head of the stairs. I'll take a peep at my invalid and when you are ready we'll see what Wong Yie has for us.”

Patty looked hungrily at the porcelain tub--”A real bathroom!” she breathed, ”out here in the mountains--and books, and a piano!”

Mrs. Samuelson awaited her at the foot of the stair and led the way to the dining room. When she was seated at the round mahogany table she smiled across at the old lady in frank appreciation.

”It seems like stepping right into fairyland,” she said. ”Like the old stories when the heroes and heroines rubbed magic lamps, or stepped onto enchanted carpets and were immediately transported from their miserable hovels to castles of gold inhabited by beautiful princes and princesses.”

The old lady's eyes beamed: ”I'm glad you like it!”