Part 16 (1/2)

When Patsy left the house a few minutes later Joseph's pilgrim staff was in her hands, and she stopped on the threshold an instant to ask the way of Joseph's father.

The good man was dazed with his grief and he directed Patsy in terms of his own home-going: ”Keep on, and take the first turn to your right.”

So Patsy kept on instead of returning to the cross-roads; and chance scored another point in his comedy and continued chuckling.

Meanwhile Joseph's father went back to the spare chamber.

”'S she gone?” inquired Joseph's mother.

”Yep.”

”You know, the boy believed in her.”

”Yep, I know.”

”Well, I cal'ate we've got to, too.”

”Sure thing!”

”Ye'll never say a word, then--about seein' her; nuthin' to give the sheriff a hint where she might be?”

”Why, mother!” The man laid a hand on her shoulder, looking down at her with accusing eyes. ”Hain't you known me long enough to know I couldn't tell on any one who'd been good to--” He broke off with a cough. ”And what's more, do you think any one who could take our little boy's hand and lead him, as you might say, straight to heaven--would be a thief? No, siree!”

It was a sober, thoughtful Patsy that followed the road, the pilgrim staff gripped tightly in her hand. She clung to it as the one tangible thing left to her out of all the happenings and memories of her quest. The tinker had disappeared as completely as if the earth had swallowed him, leaving behind no reason for his going, no hope of his coming again; Billy Burgeman was still but a flimsy promise; and Joseph had outstripped them both, pa.s.sing beyond her farthest vision.

Small wonder, then, that the road was lonely and haunted for Patsy, and that she plodded along shorn of all buoyancy.

Her imagination began playing tricks with her. Twice it seemed as if she could feel a little lad's hand, warm and eager, curled under hers about the staff; another time she found herself gazing through half-shut eyes at a strange lad--a lad of twelve--who walked ahead for a s.p.a.ce, carrying two great white roses; and once she glanced up quickly and saw the tinker coming toward her, head thrown back and laughing. Her wits had barely time to check her answering laugh and hands outstretching, when he faded into empty winding road.

The morning was uneventful. Patsy stopped but once--to trundle a perambulator laden with was.h.i.+ng and twins for its small conductor, a mite of a girl who looked almost too frail to breast the weight of a doll's carriage.

Even Patsy puffed under the strain of the burden. ”How do you do it?”

she gasped.

”Well, I started when them babies was tiny and the was.h.i.+n' was small; an' they both growed so gradual I didn't notice--much. An' ma don't make me hurry none.”

”How many children are there?”

”Nine. Last's just come. Pa says he didn't look on him as no blessin', but ma says the Lord must provide--an' if it's babies, then it's babies.” She stopped and clasped her hands after the fas.h.i.+on of an ancient grandmother tottering in the nineties: ”Land o' goodness, I do think an empty cradle's an awful dismal thing to have round.

Don't you?”

Patsy agreed, and a moment later unloaded the twins and the was.h.i.+ng for the child at her doorstep.

Soon after this she caught her first glimpse of the town she was making. ”If luck will only turn stage-manager,” she thought, ”and put Billy Burgeman in the center of the scene--handy, why, I'll promise not to murder my lines or play under.”

It was not luck, however, but chance, still pulling the wires; and accordingly he managed Patsy's entrance as he wished.