Part 11 (1/2)

”Don't you worry one mite about me,” she replied, in an even voice.

”You change your dress, an' git off afore it's dark. I shall be all right.”

”David's harnessin' now,” said Mary, beginning to untie her ap.r.o.n. ”I sent John down to the lower barn to call him. But, mother, if anything should happen to you--”

”Lord-a-ma.s.sy! nothin' 's goin' to!” the old lady broke forth, in momentary impatience. ”Don't stan' here talkin'. You better have your mind on Stella. Fever's a quicker complaint than old age. It al'ays was, an' al'ays will be.”

”Oh, I know it! I know it!” cried Mary, starting toward the door.

”There ain't a thing for you to do. There's new bread an' preserves on the dairy-wheel, an' you have 'Liza Tolman pick you up some chips, an'

build the fire for your tea; an' don't you wash the dishes, mother.

Just leave 'em in the sink. An' for mercy sake, take a candle, an' not meddle with kerosene--”

”Come, come, ain't you ready?” came David's voice from the door. ”I can't keep the horse stan'in' here till he's all eat up with flies.”

Mary fled to her bedroom, unb.u.t.toning her dress as she ran; and David came in, bringing an air of outdoor freshness into the little sitting-room, with his regal height, his broad shoulders, and tanned, fresh face.

”Well, mother,” he said, putting a hand of clumsy kindliness on her shoulder, ”if anything happens to you while we're gone, I shall wish we'd let the whole caboodle of 'em die in their tracks. Don't s'pose anything will, do ye?”

”Law, no, David!” exclaimed the old lady, looking at him with beaming pride. ”You stan' still an' let me pick that mite o' lint off your arm.

I shall be tickled to death to git rid on ye.”

”Now, mother,” counselled Mary, when she came but of the bedroom, hastily tying her bonnet strings, ”you watch the school-children, an'

ask 'Liza Tolman to stay with you, an' if she can't, to get one of the Daltons; an' tell her we'll give her some Bartlett pears when they're ripe.”

”Yes, yes, I hear,” answered the old lady, rising, and setting back her chair in its accustomed corner. ”Now, do go along, or ye won't be down to Grapevine Run afore five o'clock.”

She watched them while they drove out of the yard, shading her eyes with one nervous hand.

”Mother,” called Mary, ”don't you stan' there in that wind, with nothin' on your head!”

The old lady turned back into the house, and her face was alive with glee.

”Wind!” she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed scornfully, and yet with the tolerance of one too happy for complaint. ”Wind! I guess there wouldn't be so much, if some folks would save their breath to cool their porridge!”

She did not go back to the sitting-room and her peaceful knitting. She walked into the pantry, where she gave the shelves a critical survey, and then, returning to the kitchen, looked about her once more.

”If it's one day sence I've been down sullar,” she said aloud, ”it's two year.” She 'was lighting a candle as she spoke. In another moment, she was taking sprightly steps down the stairs into the darkness below.

”Now, mother, don't you fall!” she chuckled, midway in the descent; and it was undeniable that the voice sounded much like Mary's in her anxious mood. ”Now, ain't I a mean creatur' to stan' here laughin' at 'em!” she went on: ”Well,' if she don't keep things nice! 'Taters all sprouted; an' the preserve cupboard never looked better in my day.

Mary's been well brought up,--I'll say that for her.”

Old Lady Lamson must have spent at least half an hour in the cellar, for when she ascended it was after four o'clock, and the school-children had pa.s.sed the house on their way home. She heard their voices under the elms at the turn of the road.

”I ain't to blame if I can't ketch 'em,” she remarked calmly, as she blew out her light. ”I don't see's anybody could say I was to blame.

An' I couldn't walk up to the Tolmans' to ask 'Liza. I might fall!”

She set about her preparations for supper. It was a favorite maxim in the household that the meal should be eaten early, ”to get it out of the way;” and to-night this unaccustomed handmaid had additional reasons for haste. But the new bread and preserves were ignored. She built a rousing fire in the little kitchen stove; she brought out the moulding-board, and with trembling eagerness proceeded to mix cream-of-tartar biscuits. Not Cellini himself nor Jeannie Carlyle had awaited the results of pa.s.sionate labor with a more strenuous eagerness; and when she drew out the panful of delicately browned biscuits, she set it down on the table, and looked at it in sheer delight.