Part 8 (1/2)

”Well, we can have a home of our own when father comes?”

”Oh, yes; when he comes.”

”Well, then I shall not mind;” decisively.

Still she peered about among the old things. There were some iron fire-dogs, a much-tarnished frame, with a cracked gla.s.s that cut her face in a grotesque fas.h.i.+on, old dishes and kitchen furniture past using, or that had been supplanted by a newer and better kind.

”Oh, dear! this is an undertaking!” declared Miss Winn, with a sigh. ”I do not believe you will ever use half these things; there are stuffs enough to dress a queen.”

It was beginning to grow dusky before she was through, though the sky was overcast, and there would be no fine sunset. Indeed, the wind blew up stormily. Cynthia had been viewing the place from the windows in the four gables, though she had to stand on a box. There were South River and the Neck and the s.h.i.+pping--the men, hurrying to and fro, looking so much smaller that it puzzled Cynthia. And there was North River winding about, and over beyond the great ocean she had crossed. There was old St. Peter's Church, the new one was not built until long afterward, and smaller places of wors.h.i.+p. There was the small beginning of things to be famous later on.

The wind began to whistle about and it grew cool, so they were glad to go down to the cheerful sitting-room, where a fire was blazing on the hearth.

”We shall have a storm to-night,” said Miss Eunice, ”our three days'

storm that usually makes its appearance about this time. Didn't you 'most perish upstairs? And what did you find to interest you?”

Cynthia had brought a stool and sat close to Miss Eunice, leaning one arm on her knee.

”Oh, so many queer things. You don't mind if I call them queer, do you?”

”Oh, no; they _are_ queer. And when we are dead and gone some one will call ours queer, no doubt. But we haven't many. When father died we were on a farm just out of Marblehead. Things were mostly sold at a vendue, for the two boys were going in the army. That was back in '78. Mother and we two girls went to her mother's at Danvers. Elizabeth took up sewing, but there were hard times, for the war stretched out so long, and it did seem as if the Colonies would never gain their cause. But they did. Brother Linus was killed, and later on I had a dear friend lost at sea. Mother died, and we were sort of scattered about till we came here. Cousin Chilian was very good to us. So you see we haven't much to leave, but then we haven't any descendant;” and she gave a soft little laugh. ”Elizabeth has mother's gold comb, set with amethysts, and a brooch, and I have the string of gold beads and some rings. A cousin in London sent them to grandmother.”

”Eunice, you might set the table,” said Elizabeth, rather sharply. ”I'm making some fritters. They will taste good this cold night.”

”Couldn't I help?” asked Rachel.

”Oh, you must be tired enough without doing any more. It's a good thing you have all your belongings housed. The garret doesn't leak.”

”Yes, I am thankful. I really did not think there was so much.”

There was a savory fragrance in the sitting-room. Chilian came in, looking weary with his long ride.

”It is almost wintry cold,” he said, holding his hands to the fire.

”Have you had a nice day, little girl?”

”Yes;” glancing up with a smile.

They did justice to Bessy's nice supper. Chilian had seen Cousin Giles, who sent remembrances to them all, and was coming up some day to see Letty Orne's little girl. Chilian found there was a good deal of business to do. For a while his days of leisure and ease would be over.

Then he brought out a Boston paper and read them some of the news. Miss Eunice went on with her fringe. Elizabeth was knitting a sock for Chilian out of fine linen yarn, spun by herself, and she put pretty open-work st.i.tches all up the instep. For imported articles were still dear, and there was a pride in the women to do all for themselves that they could. Cynthia leaned her head on Rachel's lap and went asleep.

”Do hear that rain! The storm has begun in good earnest.”

It was rus.h.i.+ng like a tramp of soldiers, flinging great sheets against the closed shutters, and the wind roared in the chimney like some prisoned spirit.

”Wake up, Cynthia, and say good-night.”

Elizabeth watched the child. Her theory was that children should be put to bed early and not allowed to lie around on any one's lap. There was always a tussle of wills when you roused them. She drew herself up with a kind of severe mental bracing and awaited the result, glad Chilian was there.