Part 19 (2/2)

”Don't fret about what can't be helped; besides”-and he laughed whimsically--”you must look out or you'll be getting as bad as mother over her hair wreath!” And with another hasty pat on her shoulder he was gone.

Mrs. John suddenly stopped her crying. She lowered her handkerchief and stared fixedly at an old print on the wall opposite. The hotel--though strictly modern in cuisine and management--was an old one, and prided itself on the quaintness of its old-time furnis.h.i.+ngs. Just what the print represented Mrs. John could not have told, though her eyes did not swerve from its face for five long minutes. What she did see was a silent, dismantled farmhouse, and a little old man and a little old woman with drawn faces and dumb lips.

Was it possible? Had she, indeed, been so blind?

Mrs. John rose to her feet, bathed her eyes, straightened her neck-bow, and crossed the hall to Grandma Burton's room.

”Well, mother, and how are you getting along?” she asked cheerily.

”Jest as nice as can be, daughter,--and ain't this room pretty?”

returned the little old woman eagerly. ”Do you know, it seems kind of natural like; mebbe it's because of that chair there. Seth says it's almost like his at home.”

It was a good beginning, and Mrs. John made the most of it. Under her skillful guidance Grandma Burton, in less than five minutes, had gone from the chair to the old clock which her father used to wind, and from the clock to the bureau where she kept the dead twins' little white shoes and bonnets. She told, too, of the cherished parlor chairs and marble-topped table, and of how she and father had saved and saved for years to buy them; and even now, as she talked, her voice rang with pride of possession--though only for a moment; it shook then with the remembrance of loss.

There was no complaint, it is true, no audible longing for lost treasures. There was only the unwonted joy of pouring into sympathetic ears the story of things loved and lost--things the very mention of which brought sweet faint echoes of voices long since silent.

”There, there,” broke off the little old woman at last, ”how I am runnin' on! But, somehow, somethin' set me to talkin' ter-day. Mebbe't was that chair that's like yer father's,” she hazarded.

”Maybe it was,” agreed Mrs. John quietly, as she rose to her feet.

The new house came on apace. In a wonderfully short time John Burton began to urge his wife to see about rugs and hangings. It was then that Mrs. John called him to one side and said a few hurried but very earnest words--words that made the Honorable John open wide his eyes.

”But, Edith,” he remonstrated, ”are you crazy? It simply couldn't be done! The things are scattered over half a dozen towns.h.i.+ps; besides, I haven't the least idea where the auctioneer's list is--if I saved it at all.”

”Never mind, dear; I may try, surely,” begged Mrs. John. And her husband laughed and reached for his check-book.

”Try? Of course you may try! And here's this by way of wis.h.i.+ng you good luck,” he finished, as he handed her an oblong bit of paper that would go far toward smoothing the most difficult of ways.

”You dear!” cried Mrs. John. ”And now I'm going to work.”

It was at about this time that Mrs. John went away. The children were at college and boarding-school; John was absorbed in business and house-building, and Grandpa and Grandma Burton were contented and well cared for. There really seemed to be no reason why Mrs. John should not go away, if she wished--and she apparently did wish. It was at about this time, too, that certain Vermont villages--one of which was the Honorable John Burton's birthplace--were stirred to sudden interest and action. A persistent, smiling-faced woman had dropped into their midst--a woman who drove from house to house, and who, in every case, left behind her a sworn ally and friend, pledged to serve her cause.

Little by little, in an unused room in the village hotel there began to acc.u.mulate a motley collection--a clock, a marble-topped table, a cradle, a patchwork quilt, a bureau, a hair wreath, a chair worn with age and use. And as this collection grew in size and fame, only that family which could not add to it counted itself abused and unfortunate, so great was the spell that the persistent, smiling-faced woman had cast about her.

Just before the Burton house was finished Mrs. John came back to town.

She had to hurry a little about the last of the decorations and furnis.h.i.+ngs to make up for lost time; but there came a day when the place was p.r.o.nounced ready for occupancy.

It was then that Mrs. John hurried into Grandpa and Grandma Burton's rooms at the hotel.

”Come, dears,” she said gayly. ”The house is all ready, and we're going home.”

”Done? So soon?” faltered Grandma Burton, who had not been told very much concerning the new home's progress. ”Why, how quick they have built it!”

There was a note of regret in the tremulous old voice, but Mrs. John did not seem to notice. The old man, too, rose from his chair with a long sigh--and again Mrs. John did not seem to notice.

”Yes, dearie, yes, it's all very nice and fine,” said Grandma Burton wearily, half an hour later as she trudged through the sumptuous parlors and halls of the new house; ”but, if you don't mind, I guess I'll go to my room, daughter. I'm tired--turrible tired.”

<script>