Part 19 (1/2)

A voice spoke from the doorway; a woman's voice, full and clear, with a sharp ring of decision.

”Now you love each other pretty, right away, or I'll take the back of the hairbrush to you both!”

”_Ma_!” cried the twins; and they fell on their knees beside the little chair.

”I told 'em shut their eyes, and then slipped out!” said Calvin Parks.

”They never missed me. Jerusalem! Miss Hands, if you'll excuse the expression, how did you manage it? you got her tone to the life, I tell you.”

”I always had the trick of followin' a voice,” said Mary Sands modestly.

”And I remembered Cousin Lucindy's to Conference, for she used to speak an amazin' deal. Oh! Mr. Parks, listen! do listen to them two poor old creatur's!”

They listened. From the front room came a babble of talk, two voices flowing together in a stream, pauseless, inseparable; so fast the stream flowed, there seemed no time for breathing. But now, as the conspirators listened, dish-cloth in hand and joy in their hearts, the voices ceased for a moment, and then, with one consent, broke out into quavering, squeaking, piping song.

”Old John Twyseed; Old John Twyseed; Biled his corn, As sure's you're born, And come to borrow my seed.

”Old John Twyseed, Bought a pound o' rye seed; Paid a cent, And warn't content, But thought 'twas awful high seed.

”Old John Twyseed, Sold his neighbor dry seed; Didn't sprout; Says he 'Git out!

I thought 'twas extry spry seed!'”

CHAPTER XV

BY WAY OF CONTRAST

”I wish't you could stay to supper!” said Mary Sands.

”I wish't I could!” said Calvin. ”I want you to understand that right enough; and I guess you do!” he added, with a look that brought the color into Mary's wholesome brown cheek. ”But they plead with me kind o'

pitiful, and--honest, I'm sorry for them two women, Miss Hands. They don't seem to be real pop'lar with the neighbors--I don't know just how 'tis, but so 'tis,--and they kind o' look to me, you see. You understand how 'tis, don't you, Mary--I would say Miss Hands?”

”I expect I do, Mr. Parks!” said Mary gently, yet with some significance.

Calvin looked down at her, and his heart swelled. An immense wave of tenderness seemed to flow from him, enfolding the little woman as she stood there, so neat and trim in her blue cashmere dress, her pretty head bent, the light playing in the waves of her pretty hair.

”For two cents and a half,” Calvin Parks said silently, ”I'd pick you up and carry you off this minute of time. You're my woman, and don't you forget it!” Then he spoke aloud, and his voice sounded strange in his ears.

”You and the boys,” he said, ”are always askin' me for stories. If--if I should come and tell you a story some day--the very first day I had a right to--that the boys warn't goin' to hear, nor anybody else but just you--would you listen to it, Miss Hands?”

Mary's head bent still lower, and she examined the hem of her ap.r.o.n critically. ”I expect I would, Mr. Parks!” she said softly.

But when Calvin had driven off, chirrupping joyfully to the brown horse, Mary's little brown hands came together with a clasp, and she looked anxiously after him.

”If they don't get you away from me!” she said. ”Oh! my good, kind,--there! _stupid_ dear, if they don't get you away from me!”

”Hossy,” said Calvin; ”do you feel good? Do you? Speak up!”

The brown horse shook his head as the whip cracked past his ear, and whinnied reproachfully.