Part 9 (1/2)

For one moment only did I catch a glimpse of Mrs. Jonas Whitermore, blus.h.i.+ng, laughing, and wiping teary eyes in which the wondrous glow still lingered; then the eager crowd swept down the aisle toward her.

”Crickey!” breathed the red-faced old man at my side. ”Well, stranger, even if it does seem sometimes as if the good Lord give some folks tongues and forgot to give 'em brains to run 'em with, I guess maybe He kinder makes up for it, once in a while, by givin' other folks the brains to use their tongues so powerful well!”

I nodded dumbly. I could not speak just then--but the young woman in front of me could. Very distinctly as I pa.s.sed her I heard her say:

”Well, now, ain't that the limit, Sue? And her such an ordinary woman, too!”

The Price of a Pair of Shoes

For fifty years the meadow lot had been mowed and the side hill ploughed at the nod of Jeremiah's head; and for the same fifty years the plums had been preserved and the mince-meat chopped at the nod of his wife's--and now the whole farm from the meadowlot to the mince-meat was to pa.s.s into the hands of William, the only son, and William's wife, Sarah Ellen.

”It'll be so much nicer, mother,--no care for you!” Sarah Ellen had declared.

”And so much easier for you, father, too,” William had added. ”It's time you rested. As for money--of course you'll have plenty in the savings-bank for clothes and such things. You won't need much, anyhow,”

he finished, ”for you'll get your living off the farm just as you always have.”

So the matter was settled, and the papers were made out. There was no one to be considered, after all, but themselves, for William was the only living son, and there had been no daughters.

For a time it was delightful. Jeremiah and Hester Whipple were like children let out of school. They told themselves that they were people of leisure now, and they forced themselves to lie abed half an hour later than usual each day. They spent long hours in the attic looking over old treasures, and they loitered about the garden and the barn with no fear that it might be time to get dinner or to feed the stock.

Gradually, however, there came a change. A new restlessness entered their lives, a restlessness that speedily became the worst kind of homesickness--the homesickness of one who is already at home.

The extra half-hour was spent in bed as before--but now Hester lay with one ear listening to make sure that Sarah Ellen _did_ let the cat in for her early breakfast; and Jeremiah lay with his ear listening for the squeak of the barn door which would tell him whether William was early or, late that morning. There were the same long hours in the attic and the garden, too--but in the attic Hester discovered her treasured wax wreath (late of the parlor wall); and in the garden Jeremiah found more weeds than _he_ had ever allowed to grow there, he was sure.

The farm had been in the hands of William and Sarah Ellen just six months when the Huntersville Savings Bank closed its doors. It was the old story of dishonesty and disaster, and when the smoke of Treasurer Hilton's revolver cleared away there was found to be practically nothing for the depositors. Perhaps on no one did the blow fall with more staggering force than on Jeremiah Whipple.

”Why, Hester,” he moaned, when he found himself alone with his wife, ”here I'm seventy-eight years old--an' no money! What am I goin' ter do?”

”I know, dear,” soothed Hester; ”but 't ain't as bad for us as 'tis for some. We've got the farm, you know; an'--”

”We hain't got the farm,” cut in her husband sharply. ”William an' Sarah Ellen's got it.”

”Yes, I know, but they--why, they're _us_, Jeremiah,” reminded Hester, trying to keep the quaver out of her voice.

”Mebbe, Hester, mebbe,” conceded Jeremiah; but he turned and looked out of the window with gloomy eyes.

There came a letter to the farmhouse soon after this from Nathan Banks, a favorite nephew, suggesting that ”uncle and aunt” pay them a little visit.

”Just the thing, father!” cried William. ”Go--it'll do you both good!”

And after some little talk it was decided that the invitation should be accepted.

Nathan Banks lived thirty miles away, but not until the night before the Whipples were to start did it suddenly occur to Jeremiah that he had now no money for railroad tickets. With a heightened color on his old cheeks he mentioned the fact to William.

”Ye see, I--I s'pose I'll have ter come ter you,” he apologized. ”Them won't take us!” And he looked ruefully at a few coins he had pulled from his pocket. ”They're all the cash I've got left.”

William frowned a little and stroked his beard.