Part 14 (2/2)

That night Reuben brought home a large bag of peanuts and put them down in triumph on the kitchen table.

”There!” he announced in high glee, ”I'm goin' to have a bang-up good time!”

”Why, Reuben,” remonstrated his wife gently, ”you can't eat them things--you hain't got no teeth to chew 'em with!”

The man's lower jaw dropped.

”Well, I'm a-goin' to try it, anyhow,” he insisted. And try he did; but the way his poor old stomach rebelled against the half-masticated things effectually prevented a repet.i.tion of the feast.

Early on Monday morning Nancy appeared. Mrs. Gray a.s.sumed a brave aspect, but she quaked in her shoes as she showed the big strapping girl to her room. Five minutes later Nancy came into the kitchen to find Mrs.

Gray bending over an obstinate coal fire in the range--with neither coal nor range was the little woman in the least familiar.

”There, now,” said Nancy briskly, ”I'll fix that. You just tell me what you want for dinner, and I can find the things myself.” And she attacked the stove with such a clatter and din that Mrs. Gray retreated in terror, murmuring ”ham and eggs, if you please,” as she fled through the door. Once in the parlor, she seated herself in the middle of the room and thought how nice it was not to get dinner; but she jumped nervously at every sound from the kitchen.

On Tuesday she had mastered her fear sufficiently to go into the kitchen and make a cottage cheese. She did not notice the unfavorable glances of her maid-of-all-work. Wednesday morning she spent happily puttering over ”doing up” some handkerchiefs, and she wondered why Nancy kept banging the oven door so often. Thursday she made a special kind of pie that Reuben liked, and remarked pointedly to Nancy that she herself never washed dishes without wearing an extra ap.r.o.n; furthermore, she always placed the pans the other way in the sink. Friday she rearranged the tins on the pantry shelves, that Nancy had so unaccountably mussed up.

On Sat.u.r.day the inevitable explosion came:

”If you please, mum, I'm willin' to do your work, but seems to me it don't make no difference to you whether I wear one ap.r.o.n or six, or whether I hang my dish-towels on a string or on the bars, or whether I wash goblets or kittles first; and I ain't in the habit of havin' folks spyin' round on me. If you want me to go, I'll go; but if I stay, I want to be let alone!”

Poor little Mrs. Gray fled to her seat in the parlor, and for the rest of that winter she did not dare to call her soul her own; but her table was beautifully set and served, and her house was as neat as wax.

The weeks pa.s.sed and Reuben began to be restless. One day he came in from the post office fairly bubbling over with excitement.

”Say, Em'ly, when folks have money they travel. Let's go somewhere!”

”Why, Reuben--where?” quavered his wife, dropping into the nearest chair.

”Oh, I dunno,” with cheerful vagueness; then, suddenly animated, ”Let's go to Boston and see the sights!”

”But, Reuben, we don't know no one there,” ventured his wife doubtfully.

”Pooh! What if we don't? Hain't we got money? Can't we stay at a hotel?

Well, I guess we can!”

And his overwhelming courage put some semblance of confidence into the more timid heart of his wife, until by the end of the week she was as eager as he.

Nancy was tremblingly requested to take a two weeks' vacation, and great was the rejoicing when she graciously acquiesced.

On a bright February morning the journey began. It was not a long one--four hours only--and the time flew by as on wings of the wind.

Reuben a.s.sumed an air of worldly wisdom, quite awe-inspiring to his wife. He had visited Boston as a boy, and so had a dim idea of what to expect; moreover, he had sold stock and produce in the large towns near his home, and on the whole felt quite self-sufficient.

As the long train drew into the station, and they alighted and followed the crowd, Mrs. Gray looked with round eyes of wonder at the people--she had not realized that there were so many in the world, and she clung closer and closer to Reuben, who was marching along with a fine show of indifference.

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