Part 4 (2/2)

”And one is as good as another,” added his sister, maliciously, ”If she will only talk nonsense, and let you hold her from falling out when you whisk over the thank-e-ma'ams.”

”I didn't have to go from home to learn that most girls talk nonsense,” laughed Roger. ”By the way, how did you learn about the thank-e-ma'ams? I didn't teach you.”

”No, indeed! Sisters may fall out for all that brothers care.”

”That depends on whose sisters they are,” said Roger, rising. ”I now perceive that mine has been well taken care of.”

”You think other young men have your pert ways,” retorted Sue, reddening. ”My friends have manners.”

”Oh, I see. They let you fall out, and then politely pick you up.”

”Come, you are both in danger of falling out now,” said the mother reprovingly.

Roger went off whistling to his work, and the hired man lumbered after him.

”Father,” said Mrs. Atwood, ”who'll go down to the river for the trunks?”

”Well, I s'pose I'll have to,” grumbled Mr. Atwood. ”Roger don't want to, and Jotham can do more work in the cornfield than me.”

”I'm glad you're so sensible. Riding down to the river and back will be a good bit easier than hoeing corn all day. The stage will be along about five, I guess, and I'll get supper for 'em in the sittin'-room, so you can eat in your s.h.i.+rt-sleeves, if that'll quiet your mind.”

With the aspect of a November day Mr. Atwood got out the great farm-wagon and jogged down to the landing on the Hudson, which was so distant as to insure his absence for several hours.

It was a busy day for Mrs. Atwood and Susan. Fresh bread and cake were to be baked, and the rooms ”tidied up” once more. A pitcher that had lost its handle was filled with old-fas.h.i.+oned roses that persisted in blooming in a gra.s.s-choked flower-bed. This was placed in the room designed for Mrs. Jocelyn and the children, while the one flower vase, left unbroken from the days of Roger's boyish carelessness, adorned the smaller apartment that Mildred and Belle were to occupy, and this was about the only element of elegance or beauty that Susan was able to impart part to the bare little room.

Even to the country girl, to whom the term ”decorative art” was but a vague phrase, the place seemed meagre and hard in its outlines, and she instinctively felt that it would appear far more so to its occupants.

”But it's the best we can afford,” she sighed; ”and at the prices they'll pay us they shouldn't complain.”

Still the day was full of pleasurable excitement and antic.i.p.ation to the young girl. She was aware that her mother's tasks and her own would be greatly increased, but on the other hand the monotony of the farm-house life would be broken, and in the more distant future she saw a vista of new gowns, a jaunty winter hat with a feather, and other like conditions of unalloyed happiness. Susan had dwelt thus far in one of life's secluded valleys, and if she lost much because her horizon was narrow she was s.h.i.+elded from far more. Her fresh, full face had a certain pleasant, wholesome aspect, like the fields about her home in June, as she bustled about, preparing for the ”city folks” whom her father so dreaded.

Roger's buggy was not yet paid for. It was the one great extravagance that Mr. Atwood had permitted for many a year. As usual, his wife had led him into it, he growling and protesting, but unable to resist her peculiar persistency. Roger was approaching man's estate, and something must be done to signalize so momentous an event. A light buggy was the goal of ambition to the young men in the vicinity, and Roger felt that he could never be a man without one. He also recognized it as the best means of securing a wife to his mind, for courting on a moonlit, shadowy road was far more satisfactory than in the bosom of the young woman's family. Not that he was bent on matrimony, but rather on several years of agreeable preparation for it, proposing to make tentative acquaintances, both numerous and miscellaneous.

In his impatience to secure this four-wheeled compendium of happiness he had mortgaged his future, and had promised his father to plant and cultivate larger areas. The shrewd farmer therefore had no prospect of being out of pocket, for the young man was keeping his word. The acres of the cornfield were nearly double those of the previous year, and on them Roger spent the long hot day in vigorous labor in preference to the easy task of going to the river for the luggage. Dusty and weary, but in excellent spirits over the large s.p.a.ce that he and the hired man had ”hilled up,” he went whistling home through the long shadows of the June evening. The farm wagon stood in the door-yard piled with trunks. The front entrance of the house--rarely used by the family--was open, and as he came up the lane a young girl emerged from it, and leaned for a few moments against the outer pillar of the little porch, unconscious of the picture she made. A climbing rose was in bloom just over her head, and her cheeks, flushed with heat and fatigue, vied with them in color. She had exchanged her travelling-dress for one of light muslin, and entwined in her hair a few buds from the bush that covered the porch. If Roger was not gifted with a vivid imagination he nevertheless saw things very accurately, and before he reached the head of the lane admitted to himself that the old ”front steps”

had never been so graced before. He had seen many a rustic beauty standing there when his sister had company, but the city girl impressed him with a difference which he then could not understand.

He was inclined to resent this undefined superiority, and he muttered, ”Father's right. They are birds of too fine a feather for our nest.”

He had to pa.s.s near her in order to reach the kitchen door, or else make a detour which his pride would not permit. Indeed, the youth plodded leisurely along with his hoe on his shoulder, and scrupled not to scrutinize the vision on the porch with the most matter-of-fact minuteness.

”What makes her so 'down in the mouth'?” he queried. ”She doesn't fancy us barbarians, I suppose, and Forestville to her is a howling wilderness. Like enough she'll take me for an Indian.”

Mildred's eyes were fixed on a great s.h.a.ggy mountain in the west, that was all the more dark and forbidding in its own deep shadow.

She did not see it, however, for her mind was dwelling on gloomier shadows than the mountain cast.

As he pa.s.sed he caught her attention, and stepping toward him a little impatiently, she said,

”I suppose you belong to the premises?”

He made an awkward attempt at a bow, and said stiffly, ”I'm one of the Atwood chattels.”

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