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                     A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD BOSTON

                        By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS

A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

COPYRIGHT, 1898,
BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY.

SALLIE BUFFUM:

     To you, who have been a little girl in later Boston, I inscribe
     this story of another little girl who lived almost a hundred years
     ago, and found life busy and pleasant and full of affection, as I
     hope it will prove to you.

     AMANDA M. DOUGLAS.
     NEWARK, N. J., 1898.

CONTENTS.

        I. DORIS

       II. IN A NEW HOME

      III. AUNT PRISCILLA

       IV. OUT TO TEA

        V. A MORNING AT SCHOOL

       VI. A BIRTHDAY PARTY

      VII. ABOUT A GOWN

     VIII. SINFUL OR NOT?

       IX. WHAT WINTER BROUGHT

        X. CONCERNING MANY THINGS

       XI. A LITTLE CHRISTMAS

      XII. A CHILDREN'S PARTY

     XIII. VARIOUS OPINIONS OF LITTLE GIRLS

      XIV. IN THE SPRING

       XV. A FREEDOM SUIT

      XVI. A SUMMER IN BOSTON

    XVII. ANOTHER GIRL

   XVIII. WINTER AND SORROW

     XIX. THE HIGH RESOLVE OF YOUTH

      XX. A VISITOR FOR DORIS

     XXI. ELIZABETH AND--PEACE

    XXII. CARY ADAMS

   XXIII. THE COST OF WOMANHOOD

    XXIV. THE BLOOM OF LIFE--LOVE

A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD BOSTON

CHAPTER I

DORIS

"I do suppose she is a Papist! The French generally are," said Aunt
Priscilla, drawing her brows in a delicate sort of frown, and sipping
her tea with a spoon that had the London crown mark, and had been buried
early in revolutionary times.

"Why, there were all the Huguenots who emigrated from France for the
sake of worshiping God in their own way rather than that of the Pope. We
Puritans did not take all the free-will," declared Betty spiritedly.

"You are too flippant, Betty," returned Aunt Priscilla severely. "And I
doubt if her father's people had much experimental religion. Then, she
has been living in a very hot-bed of superstition!"

"The cold, dreary Lincolnshire coast! I think it would take a good deal
of zeal to warm me, even if it was superstition."

"And she was in a convent after her mother died! Yes, she is pretty sure
to be a Papist. It seems rather queer that second-cousin Charles should
have remembered her in his will."

"But Charles was his namesake and nephew, the child of his favorite
sister," interposed Mrs. Leverett, glancing deprecatingly at Betty,
pleading with the most beseeching eyes that she should not ruffle Aunt
Priscilla up the wrong way.

"But what is that old ma'shland good for, anyway?" asked Aunt Priscilla.

"Why they are filling in and building docks," said Betty the
irrepressible. "Father thinks by the time she is grown it will be a
handsome fortune."

Aunt Priscilla gave a queer sound that was not a sniff, but had a
downward tendency, as if it was formed of inharmonious consonants. It
expressed both doubt and disapproval.

"But think of the expense and the taxes! You can't put a bit of
improvement on anything but the taxes eat it up. I want my hall door
painted, and the cornishes,"--Aunt Priscilla always would pronounce it
that way,--"but I mean to wait until the assessor has been round. It's
the best time to paint in cool weather, too. I can't afford to pay a man
for painting and then pay the city for the privilege."

No one controverted Mrs. Perkins. She broke off her bread in bits and
sipped her tea.

"Why didn't they give her some kind of a Christian name?" she began
suddenly. "Don't you suppose it is French for the plain, old-fashioned,
sensible name of Dorothy?"

Betty laughed. "Oh, Aunt Priscilla, it's pure Greek. Doris and Phyllis
and Chloe----"

"Phyllis and Chloe are regular nigger names," with the utmost disdain.

"But Greek, all the same. Ask Uncle Winthrop."

"Well, I shall call her Dorothy. I'm neither Greek nor Latin nor a
college professor. There's no law against my being sensible,
fursisee"--which really meant "far as I see." "And the idea of
appointing Winthrop Adams her guardian! I did think second-cousin
Charles had more sense. Winthrop thinks of nothing but books and going
back to the Creation of the World, just as if the Lord couldn't have
made things straight in the beginning without his help. I dare say he
will find out what language they talked before the dispersion of Babel.
People are growing so wise nowadays, turning the Bible inside out!" and
she gave her characteristic sniff. "I'll have another cup of tea,
Elizabeth. Now that we're through with the war, and settled solid-like
with a President at the helm, we can look forward to something
permanent, and comfort ourselves that it was worth trying for. Still,
I've often thought of that awful waste of tea in Boston harbor. Seems as
though they might have done something else with it. Tea will keep a good
long while. And all that wretched stuff we used to drink and call it
Liberty tea!"

"I don't know as we regret many of the sacrifices, though it came harder
on the older people. We have a good deal to be proud of," said Mrs.
Leverett.

"And a grandfather who was at Bunker Hill," appended Betty.

Aunt Priscilla never quite knew where she belonged. She had come over
with the Puritans, at least her ancestors had, but then there had been a
title in the English branch; and though she scoffed a little, she had
great respect for royalty, and secretly regretted they had not called
the head of the government by a more dignified appellation than
President. Her mother had been a Church of England member, but rather
austere Mr. Adams believed that wives were to submit themselves to their
husbands in matters of belief as well as aught else. Then Priscilla
Adams, at the age of nineteen, had wedded the man of her father's
choice, Hatfield Perkins, who was a stanch upholder of the Puritan
faith. Priscilla would have enjoyed a little foolish love-making, and
she had a carnal hankering for fine gowns; and, oh, how she did long to
dance in her youth, when she was slim and light-footed!

In spite of all, she had been a true Puritan outwardly, and had a little
misgiving that the prayers of the Church were vain repetitions, the
organ wickedly frivolous, and the ringing of bells suggestive of popery.
There had been no children, and a bad fall had lamed her husband so that
volunteering for a soldier was out of the question, but he had assisted
with his means; and some twelve years before this left his widow in
comfortable circumstances for the times.

She kept to her plain dress, although it was rich; and her housemaid was
an elderly black woman who had been a slave in her childhood. She
devoted a good deal of thought as to who should inherit her property
when she was done with it. For those she held in the highest esteem were
elderly like herself, and the young people were flighty and extravagant
and despised the good old ways of prudence and thrift.

They were having early tea at Mrs. Leverett's. Aunt Priscilla's mother
had been half-sister to Mrs. Leverett's mother. In the old days of large
families nearly everyone came to be related. It was always very cozy in
Sudbury Street, and Foster Leverett was in the ship chandlery trade.
Aunt Priscilla _did_ love a good cup of tea. Whether the quality was
finer, or there was some peculiar art in brewing it, she could never
quite decide; or whether the social cream of gentle Elizabeth Leverett,
and the spice of Betty, added to the taste and heightened the flavor
beyond her solitary cup.

Early October had already brought chilling airs when evening set in. A
century or so ago autumn had the sharpness of coming winter in the early
morning and after sundown. There was a cheerful wood fire on the
hearth, and its blaze lighted the room sufficiently, as the red light of
the sunset poured through a large double window.

The house had a wide hall through the center that was really the
keeping-room. The chimney stood about halfway down, a great stone affair
built out in the room, tiled about with Scriptural scenes, with two
tiers of shelves above, whereon were ranged the family heirlooms--so
high, indeed, that a stool had to be used to stand on when they were
dusted. Just below this began a winding staircase with carved spindles
and a mahogany rail and newel, considered quite an extravagance in that
day.

This lower end was the living part. In one of the corners was built the
buffet, while a door opposite led into the wide kitchen. Across the back
was a porch where shutters were hung in the winter to keep out the cold.

The great dining table was pushed up against the wall. The round tea
table was set out and the three ladies were having their tea, quite a
common custom when there was a visitor, as the men folk were late coming
in and a little uncertain.

On one side the hall opened in two large, well-appointed rooms. On the
other were the kitchen and "mother's room," where, when the children
were little, there had been a cradle and a trundle bed. But one son and
two daughters were married; one son was in his father's warehouse, and
was now about twenty; the next baby boy had died; and Betty, the
youngest, was sixteen, pretty, and a little spoiled, of course. Yet Aunt
Priscilla had a curious fondness for her, which she insisted to herself
was very reprehensible, since Betty was such a feather-brained girl.

"It is to be hoped the ship did get in to-day," Aunt Priscilla began
presently. "If there's anything I hate, it's being on tenterhooks."

"She was spoken this morning. There's always more or less delay with
pilots and tides and what not," replied Mrs. Leverett.

"The idea of sending a child like that alone! The weather has been fine,
but we don't know how it was on the ocean."

"Captain Grier is a friend of Uncle Win's, you know," appended Betty.

"Betty, do try and call your relatives by their proper names. An elderly
man, too! It does sound so disrespectful! Young folks of to-day seem to
have no regard for what is due other people. Oh----"

There was a kind of stamping and shuffling on the porch, and the door
was flung open, letting in a gust of autumnal air full of spicy odors
from the trees and vines outside. Betty sprang up, while her mother
followed more slowly. There were her father and her brother Warren, and
the latter had by the hand the little girl who had crossed the ocean to
come to the famous city of the New World, Boston. Almost two hundred
years before an ancestor had crossed from old Boston, in the ship
_Arabella_, and settled here, taking his share of pilgrim hardships.
Doris' father, when a boy, had been sent back to England to be adopted
as the heir of a long line. But the old relative married and had two
sons of his own, though he did well by the boy, who went to France and
married a pretty French girl. After seven years of unbroken happiness
the sweet young wife had died. Then little Doris, six years of age, had
spent two years in a convent. From there her father had taken her to
Lincolnshire and placed her with two elderly relatives, while he was
planning and arranging his affairs to come back to America with his
little daughter. But one night, being out with a sailing party, a sudden
storm had caught them and swept them out of life in an instant.

Second-cousin Charles Adams had been in correspondence with him, and
advised him to return. Being in feeble health, he had included him and
his heirs in his will, appointing his nephew Winthrop Adams executor,
and died before the news of the death of his distant relative had
reached him. The Lincolnshire ladies were too old to have the care and
rearing of a child, so Mr. Winthrop Adams had sent by Captain Grier to
bring over the little girl. Her father's estate, not very large, was in
money and easily managed. And now little Doris was nearing ten.

"Oh!" cried Betty, hugging the slim figure in the red camlet cloak, and
peering into the queer big hat tied down over her ears with broad
ribbons that, what with the big bow and the wide rim, almost hid her
face; but she saw two soft lovely eyes and cherry-red lips that she
kissed at once, though kissing had not come in fashion to any great
extent, and was still considered by many people rather dubious if not
positively sinful.

"Oh, little Doris, welcome to Boston and the United Colonies and the
whole of America! Let me see how you look," and she untied the wide
strings.

The head that emerged was covered with fair curling hair; the complexion
was clear, but a little wind-burned from her long trip; the eyes were
very dark, but of the deepest, softest blue, that suggested twilight.
There was a dimple in the dainty chin, and the mouth had a
half-frightened, half-wistful smile.

"Captain Grier will send up her boxes to-morrow. They got aground and
were delayed. I began to think they would have to stay out all night.
The captain will bring up a lot of papers for Winthrop, and everything,"
explained Mr. Leverett. "Are you cold, little one?"

Doris gave a great shiver as her cloak was taken off, but it was more
nervousness than cold, and the glances of the strange faces. Then she
walked straight to the fireplace.

"Oh, what a beautiful fire!" she exclaimed. "No, I am not cold"--and the
wistful expression wandered from one to the other.

"This is my daughter Betty, and this is--why, you may as well begin by
saying Aunt Elizabeth at once. How are you, Aunt Priscilla? This is our
little French-English girl, but I hope she will turn into a stanch
Boston girl. Now, mother, let's have a good supper. I'm hungry as a
wolf."

Doris caught Betty's hand again and pressed it to her cheek. The smiling
face won her at once.

"Did you have a pleasant voyage?" asked Mrs. Leverett, as she was piling
up the cups and saucers, and paused to smile at the little stranger.

"There were some storms, and I was afraid then. It made me think of
papa. But there was a good deal of sunshine. And I was quite ill at
first, but the captain was very nice, and Mrs. Jewett had two little
girls, so after a while we played together. And then I think we forgot
all about being at sea--it was so like a house, except there were no
gardens or fields and trees."

Mrs. Leverett went out to the kitchen, and soon there was the savory
smell of frying sausage. Betty placed Doris in a chair by the chimney
corner and began to rearrange the table. Warren went out to the kitchen
and, as by the farthest window there was a sort of high bench with a tin
basin, a pail of water, and a long roller towel, he began to wash his
face and hands, telling his mother meanwhile the occurrences of the last
two or three hours.

Aunt Priscilla drew up her chair and surveyed the little traveler with
some curiosity. She was rather shocked that the child was not dressed in
mourning, and now she discovered, that her little gown was of brocaded
silk and much furbelowed, at which she frowned severely.

True, her father had been dead more than a year; but her being an orphan
made it seem as if she should still be in the depths of woe. And she had
earrings and a brooch in the lace tucker. She gave her sniff--it was
very wintry and contemptuous.

"I suppose that's the latest French fashion," she said sharply. "If I
lived in England I should just despise French clothes."

"Oh," said Doris, "do you mean my gown? Miss Arabella made it for me.
When she was a young lady she went up to London to see the king crowned,
and they had a grand ball, and this was one of the gowns she had--not
the ball dress, for that was white satin with roses sprinkled over it.
She's very old now, and she gave that to her cousin for a wedding dress.
And she made this over for me. I got some tar on my blue stuff gown
yesterday, and the others were so thin Mrs. Jewett thought I had better
put on this, but it is my very best gown."

The artless sincerity and the soft sweet voice quite nonplused Aunt
Priscilla. Then Warren returned and dropped on a three-cornered stool
standing there, and almost tilted over.

"Now, if I had gone into the fire, like any other green log, how I
should have sizzled!" he said laughingly.

"Oh, I am so glad you didn't!" exclaimed Doris in affright. Then she
smiled softly.

"Does it seem queer to be on land again?"

"Yes. I want to rock to and fro." She made a pretty movement with her
slender body, and nodded her head.

"Are you very tired?"

"Oh, no."

"You were out five weeks."

"Is that a long while? I was homesick at first. I wanted to see Miss
Arabella and Barby. Miss Henrietta is--is--not right in her mind, if you
can understand. And she is very old. She just sits in her chair all day
and mumbles. She was named for a queen--Henrietta Maria."

Aunt Priscilla gave a disapproving sniff.

"Supper's ready," said Mr. Leverett. "Come."

Warren took the small stranger by the hand, and she made a little
courtesy, quite as if she were a grown lady.

"What an airy little piece of vanity!" thought Aunt Priscilla. "And
whatever will Winthrop Adams do with her, and no woman about the house
to train her!"

Betty came and poured tea for her father and Warren. Mr. Leverett piled
up her plate, but, although the viands had an appetizing fragrance,
Doris was not hungry. Everything was so new and strange, and she could
not get the motion of the ship out of her head. But the pumpkin pie was
delicious. She had never tasted anything like it.

"You'll soon be a genuine Yankee girl," declared Warren. "Pumpkin pie is
the test."

Mr. Leverett and his son did full justice to the supper. Then he had to
go out to a meeting. There were some clouds drifting over the skies of
the new country, and many discussions as to future policy.

"So, Aunt Priscilla, I'll beau you home," said he; "unless you have a
mind to stay all night, or want a young fellow like Warren."

"You're plenty old enough to be sensible, Foster Leverett," she returned
sharply. She would have enjoyed a longer stay and was curious about the
newcomer, but when Betty brought her hat and shawl she said a stiff
good-night to everybody and went out with her escort.

Betty cleared away the tea things, wiped the dishes for her mother and
then took a place beside Warren, who was very much interested in hearing
the little girl talk. There was a good deal of going back and forth to
England although the journey seemed so long, but it was startling to
have a child sitting by the fireside, here in his father's house, who
had lived in both France and England. She had an odd little accent, too,
but it gave her an added daintiness. She remembered her convent life
very well, and her stay in Paris with her father. It seemed strange to
him that she could talk so tranquilly about her parents, but there had
been so many changes in her short life, and her father had been away
from her so much!

"It always seemed to me as if he must come back again," she said with a
serious little sigh, "as if he was over in France or down in London. It
is so strange to have anyone go away forever that I think you can't take
it in somehow. And Miss Arabella was always so good. She said if she had
been younger she should never have agreed to my coming. And all papa's
relatives were here, and someone who wrote to her and settled about the
journey."

She glanced up inquiringly.

"Yes. That's Uncle Winthrop Adams. He isn't an own uncle, but it seems
somehow more respectful to call him uncle. Mr. Adams would sound queer.
And he will be your guardian."

"A--guardian?"

"Well, he has the care of the property left to your father. There is a
house that is rented, and a great plot of ground. Cousin Charles owned
so much land, and he never was married, so it had to go round to the
cousins. He was very fond of your father as a little boy. And Uncle
Winthrop seems the proper person to take charge of you."

Doris sighed. She seemed always being handed from one to another.

She was sitting on the stool now, and when Betty slipped into the vacant
chair she put her arm over the child's shoulder in a caressing manner.

"Do you mean--that I would have to go and live with him?" she asked
slowly.

Warren laughed. "I declare I don't know what Uncle Win would do with a
little girl! Miss Recompense Gardiner keeps the house, and she's as prim
as the crimped edge of an apple pie. And there is only Cary."

"Cary is at Harvard--at college," explained Betty. "And, then, he is
going to Europe for a tour. Uncle Win teaches some classes, and is a
great Greek and Latin scholar, and translates from the poets, and reads
and studies--is a regular bookworm. His wife has been dead ever since
Cary was a baby."

"I wish I could stay here," said Doris, and, reaching up, she clasped
her arms around Betty's neck. "I like your father, and your mother has
such a sweet voice, and you--and him," nodding her head over to Warren.
"And since that--the other lady--doesn't live here----"

"Aunt Priscilla," laughed Betty. "I think she improves on acquaintance.
Her bark is worse than her bite. When I was a little girl I thought her
just awful, and never wanted to go there. Now I quite like it. I spend
whole days with her. But I shouldn't spend a night in praying that
Providence would send her to live with us. I'd fifty times rather have
you, you dear little midget. And, when everything is settled, I am of
the opinion you will live with us, for a while at least."

"I shall be so glad," in a joyous, relieved tone.

"Then if Uncle Win should ask you, don't be afraid of anybody, but just
say you want to stay here. That will settle it unless he thinks you
ought to go to school. But there are nice enough schools in Boston. And
I am glad you want to stay. I've wished a great many times that I had a
little sister. I have two, married. One lives over at Salem and one ever
so far away at Hartford. And I am Aunt Betty. I have five nephews and
four nieces. And you never can have any, you solitary little girl!"

"I think I don't mind if I can have you."

"This is love at first sight. I've never been in love before, though I
have some girl friends. And being in love means living with someone and
wanting them all the time, and a lot of sweet, foolish stuff. What a
silly girl I am! Well--you are to be my little sister."

Oh, how sweet it was to find home and affection and welcome! Doris had
not thought much about it, but now she was suddenly, unreasonably glad.
She laid her head down on Betty's knee and looked at the dancing flames,
the purples and misty grays, the scarlets and blues and greens, all
mingling, then sending long arrowy darts that ran back and hid behind
the logs before you could think.

Mrs. Leverett kneaded her bread and stirred up her griddle cakes for
morning. It was early in the season to start with them, but with the
first cold whiff Mr. Leverett began to beg for them. Then she fixed her
fire, turned down her sleeves, took off the big apron that covered all
her skirt, and rejoined the three by the fireside.

"That child has gone fast asleep," she exclaimed, looking at her. "Poor
thing, I dare say she is all tired out! And, man-like, your father never
thought of her nightgown or anything to put on in the morning, and
that silk is nothing for a child to wear. I saw that it shocked Aunt
Priscilla."

"And she told the story of it so prettily. It is a lovely thing--and to
think it has been to London to see the king!"

"You must take her in your bed, Betty."

"Oh, of course. Mother, don't you suppose Uncle Win will consent to her
staying here? I want her."

"It would be a good thing for you to have someone to look after, Betty.
It would help steady you and give you some sense of responsibility. The
youngest child always gets spoiled. Your father was speaking of it. I
can't imagine a child in Uncle Winthrop's household."

Betty laughed. "Nor in Aunt Priscilla's," she appended.

"Poor little thing! How pretty she is. And what a long journey to
take--and to come among strangers! Yes, she must go to bed at once."

"I'll carry her upstairs," said Warren.

"Nonsense!" protested his mother.

But he did for all that, and when he laid her on Betty's cold bed she
roused and smiled, and suffered herself to be made ready for slumber.
Then she slipped down on her knees, and said "Our Father in Heaven" in
soft, sleepy French. Her mother had taught her that. And in English she
repeated:

"Now I lay me down to sleep," in remembrance of her father, and kissed
Betty. But she had hardly touched the pillow when she was asleep again
in her new home, Boston.

CHAPTER II

IN A NEW HOME

The sun was shining when Doris opened her eyes, and she rubbed them to
make sure she was not dreaming. There was no motion, and her bed was so
soft and wide. She sat up straight, half-startled, and she seemed in a
well of fluffy feathers. There were two white curtained windows and a
straight splint chair at each one, with a queer little knob on the top
of the post that suggested a sprite from some of the old legends she had
been used to hearing.

What enchantment had transported her thither? Oh, yes--she had been
brought to Cousin Leverett's, she remembered now; and, oh, how sleepy
she had been last night as she sat by the warm, crackling fire!

"Well, little Doris!" exclaimed a fresh, wholesome voice, with a
laughing sound back of it.

"Oh, you are Betty! It is like a dream. I could not think where I was at
first. And this bed is so high. It's like Miss Arabella's with the
curtains around it. And at home I had a little pallet--just a low,
straight bed almost like a bench, with no curtains. You slept here with
me?"

"Yes. It is my bed and my room. And it was delightful to have you last
night. I think you never stirred. My niece Elizabeth was here in the
summer from Salem, and after two nights I turned her out--she kicked
unmercifully, and I couldn't endure it. Now, do you want to get up?"

"Oh, yes. Must I jump out or just slip."

"Here is a stool."

But Doris had slipped and come down on a rug of woven rags almost as
soft as Persian pile. Her nightdress fell about her in a train; it was
Betty's, and she looked like a slim white wraith.

"Now I will help you dress. Here is a gown of mine that I outgrew when I
was a little girl, and it was so nice mother said it should be saved for
Elizabeth. We call her that because my other sister Electa has a
daughter she calls Bessy. They are both named after mother. And so am I,
but I have always been called Betty. So many of one name are confusing.
But yours is so pretty and odd. I never knew a girl called Doris."

"I am glad you like it," said Doris simply. "It was papa's choice. My
mother's name was Jacqueline."

"That is very French."

"And that is my name, too. But Doris is easier to say."

Betty had been helping her dress. The blue woolen gown was not any too
long, but, oh, it was worlds too wide! They both laughed.

"_I_ wasn't such a slim little thing. See here, I will pin a plait over
in front, and that will help it. Now that does nicely. And you must be
choice of that beautiful brocade. What a pity that you will outgrow it!
It would make such a splendid gown when you go to parties. I've never
had a silk gown," and Betty sighed.

They went downstairs. It would seem queer enough now to attend to one's
toilet in the corner of the kitchen, but it was quite customary then. In
Mrs. Leverett's room there were a washing stand with a white cloth, and
a china bowl and ewer in dark blue flowers on a white ground, picked out
with gilt edges. The bowl had scallops around the edge, and the ewer was
tall and slim. There were a soap dish and a small pitcher, and they
looked beautiful on the thick white cloth, that was fringed all around.
It had been brought over from England by Mrs. Leverett's grandmother,
and was esteemed very highly, and had been promised to Betty for her
name. But Mrs. Leverett would have considered it sacrilege to use it.

It is true, many houses now began to have wash rooms, which were very
nice in summer, but of small account in winter, when the water froze so
easily, unless you could have a fire.

When people sigh for the good old times they forget the hardships and
the inconveniences.

Doris brushed out her hair and curled it in a twinkling; then she had
some breakfast. Mrs. Leverett was baking bread and making pies and a
large cake full of raisins that Betty had seeded, which went by the name
of election cake.

The kitchen was a great cheery place with some sunny windows and a big
oven built at one side, a capacious working table, a dresser, some
wooden chairs, and a yellow-painted floor. The kitchen opened into
mother's room as well as the hall.

Doris sat and watched both busy women. At Miss Arabella's they had an
old serving maid and the kitchen was not a place of tidiness and beauty.
It had a hard dirt floor, and Barby sat out of doors in the sunshine to
do whatever work she could take out there, and often washed and dried
her dishes when the weather was pleasant.

But here the houses were close enough to smile at each other. After the
great spaces these yards seemed small, but there were trees and vines,
and Mrs. Leverett had quite a garden spot, where she raised all manner
of sweet herbs and some vegetables. Mr. Leverett had a shop over on Ann
Street, and attended steadily to his business, early and late, as men
did at that time.

The dining table was set out at noon, and soon after twelve o'clock the
two men made their appearance.

"Let me look at you," said Mr. Leverett, taking both of Doris' small
hands. "I hardly saw you yesterday. You were buried in that big hat, and
it was getting so dark. You have not much Adams about you, neither do
you look French."

"Miss Arabella always said I looked like papa. There is a picture of him
in my box. He had dark-blue eyes."

"Well, yours would pass for black. Do they snap when you get out of
temper?"

Doris colored and cast them down.

"Don't tease her," interposed Mrs. Leverett. "She is not going to get
angry. It is a bad thing for little girls."

"I don't remember much of anything about your father. Both of your aunts
are dead. You have one cousin somewhere--Margaret's husband married and
went South--to Virginia, didn't he? Well, there is no end of Adams
connection even if some of them have different names. Captain Grier
dropped into the warehouse with a tin box of papers, and your things are
to be sent this afternoon. He is coming up this evening, and I've sent
for Uncle Win to come over to supper. Then I suppose the child's fate
will be settled, and she'll be a regular Boston girl."

"I do wonder if Uncle Win will let her stay here? Mother and I have
decided that it is the best place."

"Do _you_ think it a good place?"

He turned so suddenly to Doris that her face was scarlet with
embarrassment.

"It's splendid," she said when she caught her breath. "I should like to
stay. And Aunt Elizabeth will teach me to make pies."

"Well, pies are pretty good things, according to my way of thinking.
There's lots for little girls to learn, though I dare say Uncle Win will
think it can all come out of a book."

"Some of it might come out of a cookbook," said Betty demurely.

"Your mother's the best cookbook I know about--good enough for anyone."

"But we can't send mother all round the world."

"We just don't want to," said Warren.

Mrs. Leverett smiled. She was proud of her ability in the culinary line.

Mr. Leverett looked at Doris presently. "Come, come," he began
good-naturedly, "this will never do! You are not eating enough to keep a
bird alive. No wonder you are so thin!"

"But I ate a great deal of breakfast," explained Doris with naïve
honesty.

"And you are not homesick?"

Doris thought a moment. "I don't want to go away, if that is what you
mean."

"Yes, that's about it," nodding humorously.

Warren thought her the quaintest, prettiest child he had ever seen, but
he hardly knew what to say to her.

When the men had eaten and gone, the dishes were soon washed up, and
then mother and daughter brought their sewing. Mrs. Leverett was mending
Warren's coat. Betty darned a small pile of stockings, and then she took
out some needlework. She had begun her next summer's white gown, and she
meant to do it by odd spells, especially when Aunt Priscilla, who would
lecture her on so much vanity, was not around.

Mrs. Leverett gently questioned Doris--she was not an aggressive woman,
nor unduly curious. No, Doris had not sewed much. Barby always darned
the stockings, and Miss Easter had come to make whatever clothes she
needed. She used to go to Father Langhorne and recite, and Mrs. Leverett
wondered whether she and the father both were Roman Catholics. What did
she study? Oh, French and a little Latin, and she was reading history
and "Paradise Lost," but she didn't like sums, and she could make pillow
lace. Miss Arabella made beautiful pillow lace, and sometimes the grand
ladies came in carriages and paid her ever so much money for it.

And presently dusk began to mingle with the golden touches of sunset,
and Mrs. Leverett went to make biscuit and fry some chicken, and Uncle
Winthrop came at the same moment that a man on a dray brought an
old-fashioned chest and carried it upstairs to Betty's room. But Betty
had already attired Doris in her silk gown.

Doris liked Uncle Winthrop at once, although he was so different from
Uncle Leverett, who wore all around his face a brownish-red beard that
seemed to grow out of his neck, and had tumbled hair and a somewhat
weather-beaten face. Mr. Winthrop Adams was two good inches taller and
stood up very straight in spite of his being a bookworm. His complexion
was fair and rather pale, his features were of the long, slender type,
which his beard, worn in the Vandyke style, intensified. His hair was
light and his eyes were a grayish blue, and he had a refined and gentle
expression.

"So this is our little traveler," he said. "Your father was somewhat
older, perhaps, when we bade him good-by, but I have often thought of
him. We corresponded a little off and on. And I am glad to be able to do
all that I can for his child."

Doris glanced up, feeling rather shy, and wondering what she ought to
say, but in the next breath Betty had said it all, even to declaring
laughingly that as Doris had come to them they meant to keep her.

"Doris," he said softly. "Doris. You have a poetical name. And you are
poetical-looking."

She wondered what the comparison meant. "Paradise Lost" was so grand it
tired her. Oh, there was the old volume of Percy's "Reliques." Did he
mean like some of the sweet little things in that? Miss Arabella had
said it wasn't quite the thing for a child to read, and had taken it
away until she grew older.

Uncle Winthrop took her hand again--a small, slim hand; and his was
slender as well. No real physical work had hardened it. He dropped into
the high-backed chair beside the fireplace, and, putting his arm about
her, drew her near to his side. Uncle Leverett would have taken her on
his knee if he had been moved by an impulse like that, but he was used
to children and grandchildren, and the bookish man was not.

"It is a great change to you," he said in his low tone, which had a
fascination for her. "Was Miss Arabella--were there any young people in
the old Lincolnshire house?"

"Oh, no. Miss Henrietta was very, very old, but then she had lost her
mind and forgotten everybody. And Miss Arabella had snowy white hair and
a sweet wrinkled face."

"Did you go to school?"

"There wasn't any school except a dame's school for very little
children. I used to go twice a week to Father Langhorne and read and
write and do sums."

"Then we will have to educate you. Do you think you would like to go to
school?"

"I don't know." She hung her head a little, and it gave her a still more
winsome expression. There was an indescribable charm about her.

"What did you read with this father?"

"We read 'Paradise Lost' and some French. And I had begun Latin."

Winthrop Adams gave a soft, surprised whistle. By the firelight he
looked her over critically. Prodigies were not to his taste, and a girl
prodigy would be an abhorrence. But her face had a sweet unconcern that
reassured him.

"And did you like it--'Paradise Lost'?"

"I think I did--not," returned Doris with hesitating frankness. "I liked
the verses in Percy's 'Reliques' better. I like verses that rhyme, that
you can sing to yourself."

"Ah! And how about the sums?"

"I didn't like them at all. But Miss Arabella said the right things were
often hard, and the easy things----"

"Well, what is the fault of the easy things that we all like, and ought
not to like?"

"They were not so good for anyone--though I don't see why. They are
often very pleasant."

He laughed then, but some intuition told her he liked pleasant things as
well.

"What do you do in such a case?"

"I did the sums. It was the right thing to do. And I studied Latin,
though Miss Arabella said it was of no use to a girl."

"And the French?"

"Oh, I learned French when I was very little and had mamma, and when I
was in the convent, too. But papa talked English, so I had them both.
Isn't it strange that afterward you have to learn so much about them,
and how to make right sentences, and why they are right. It seems as if
there were a great many things in the world to learn. Betty doesn't know
half of them, and she's as sweet as----Oh, I think the wisest person in
the world couldn't be any sweeter."

Winthrop Adams smiled at the eager reasoning. Betty was a bright, gay
girl. What occult quality was sweetness? And Doris had been in a
convent. That startled him the first moment. The old strict bitterness
and narrowness of Puritanism had been softened and refined away. The
people who had banished Quakers had for a long while tolerated Roman
Catholics. He had known Father Matignon, and enjoyed the scholarly and
well-trained John Cheverus, who had lately been consecrated bishop. The
Protestants had even been generous to their brethren of another faith
when they were building their church. As for himself he was a rather
stiff Church of England man, if he could be called stiff about anything.

"And--did you like the convent?" he asked, after a pause, in which he
generously made up his mind he would not interfere with her religious
belief.

"It's so long ago"--with a half-sigh. "I was very sad at first, and
missed mamma. Papa had to go away somewhere and couldn't take me. Yes, I
liked sister Thérèse very much. Mamma was a Huguenot, you know."

"You see, I really do not know anything about her, and have known very
little about your father since he was a small boy."

"A small boy! How queer that seems," and she gave a tender, rippling
laugh. "Then you can tell me about him. He used to come to the convent
once in a while, and when he was ready to go to England he took me. Yes,
I was sorry to leave Sister Thérèse and Sister Clare. There were some
little girls, too. And then we went to Lincolnshire. Miss Arabella was
very nice, and Barby was so queer and funny--at first I could hardly
understand her. And then we went to a pretty little church where they
didn't count beads nor pray to the Virgin nor Saints. But it was a good
deal like. It was the Church of England. I suppose it had to be
different from the Church of France."

"Yes." He drew her a little closer. That was a bond of sympathy between
them. And just then Uncle Leverett and Warren came in, and there was a
shaking of hands, and Uncle Leverett said:

"Well, I declare! The sight of you, Win, is good for sore eyes--well
ones, too."

"I am rather remiss in a social way, I must confess. I'll try to do
better. The years fly around so, I have always felt sorry that I saw so
little of Cousin Charles until that last sad year."

"It takes womenkind to keep up sociability. Charles and you might as
well have been a couple of old bachelors."

Uncle Win gave his soft half-smile, which was really more of an
indication than a smile.

"Come to supper now," said Mrs. Leverett.

Doris kept hold of Uncle Win's hand until she reached her place. He went
around to the other side of the table. She decided she liked him very
much. She liked almost everybody: the captain had been so friendly, and
Mrs. Jewett and some of the ladies on board the vessel so kind. But
Betty and Uncle Win went to the very first place with her.

The elders had all the conversation, and it seemed about some coming
trouble to the country that she did not understand. She knew there had
been war in France and various other European countries. Little girls
were not very well up in geography in those days, but they did learn a
good deal listening to their elders.

They were hardly through supper when Captain Grier came with the very
japanned box papa had brought over from France and placed in Miss
Arabella's care. His name was on it--"Charles Winthrop Adams." Oh, and
that was Uncle Win's name, too! Surely, they _were_ relations! Doris
experienced a sense of gladness.

Betty brought out a table standing against the wainscot. You touched a
spring underneath, and the circular side came up and made a flat top.
The captain took a small key out of a curious long leathern purse, and
Uncle Win unlocked the box and spread out the papers. There was the
marriage certificate of Jacqueline Marie de la Maur and Charles Winthrop
Adams, and the birth and baptismal record of Doris Jacqueline de la Maur
Adams, and ever so many other records and letters.

Mr. Winthrop Adams gave the captain a receipt for them, and thanked him
cordially for all his care and attention to his little niece.

"She was a pretty fair sailor after the first week," said the captain
with a twinkle in his eye. He was very much wrinkled and weather-beaten,
but jolly and good-humored. "And now, sissy, I'm glad you're safe with
your folks, and I hope you'll grow up into a nice clever woman. 'Taint
no use wishin' you good looks, for you're purty as a pink now--one of
them rather palish kind. But you'll soon have red cheeks."

Doris had very red cheeks for a moment. Betty leaned over to her
brother, and whispered:

"What a splendid opportunity lost! Aunt Priscilla ought to be here to
say, 'Handsome is as handsome does.'"

Then Captain Grier shook hands all round and took his departure.

Afterward the two men discussed business about the little girl. There
must be another trustee, and papers must be taken out for guardianship.
They would go to the court-house, say at eleven to-morrow, and put
everything in train.

Betty took out some knitting. It was a stocking of fine linen thread,
and along the instep it had a pretty openwork pattern that was like lace
work.

"That is to wear with slippers," she explained to Doris. "But it's a
sight of work. 'Lecty had six pairs when she was married. That's my
second sister, Mrs. King. She lives in Hartford. I want to go and make
her a visit this winter."

Mrs. Leverett's stocking was of the more useful kind, blue-gray yarn,
thick and warm, for her husband's winter wear. She did not have to count
stitches and make throws, and take up two here and three there.

"Warren," said his mother, when he had poked the fire until she was on
'pins and needles,'--they didn't call it nervous then,--"Warren, I am
'most out of corn. I wish you'd go shell some."

"The hens do eat an awful lot, seems to me. Why, I shelled only a few
nights ago."

"I touched bottom when I gave them the last feed this afternoon. By
spring we won't have so many," nodding in a half-humorous fashion.

"Don't you want to come out and see me? You don't have any Indian corn
growing in England, I've heard."

"Did it belong to the Indians?" asked Doris.

"I rather guess it did, in the first instance. But now we plant it for
ourselves. _We_ don't, because father sold the two-acre lot, and they're
bringing a street through. So now we have only the meadow."

Doris looked at the uncles, but she couldn't understand a word they were
saying.

"Come!" Warren held out his hand.

"Put the big kitchen apron round her, Warren," said Betty, thinking of
her silk gown.

He tied the apron round her neck and brought back the strings round her
waist, so she was all covered. Then he found her a low chair, and poked
the kitchen fire, putting on a pine log to make a nice blaze. He brought
out from the shed a tub and a basket of ears of corn. Across the tub he
laid the blade of an old saw and then sat on the end to keep it firm.

"Now you'll see business. Maybe you've never seen any corn before?"

She looked over in the basket, and then took up an ear with a mysterious
expression.

"It won't bite you," he said laughingly.

"But how queer and hard, with all these little points," pinching them
with her dainty fingers.

"Grains," he explained. "And a husk grows on the outside to keep it
warm. When the winter is going to be very cold the husk is very thick."

"Will this winter be cold?"

"Land alive! yes. Winters always _are_ cold."

Warren settled himself and drew the ear across the blade. A shower of
corn rattled down on the bottom of the tub.

"Oh! is that the way you peel it off?"

He threw his head back and laughed.

"Oh, you Englisher! We _shell_ it off."

"Well, it peels too. You peel a potato and an apple with a knife blade.
Oh, what a pretty white core!"

"Cob. We Americans are adding new words to the language. A core has
seeds in it. There, see how soft it is."

Doris took it in her hand and then laid her cheek against it. "Oh, how
soft and fuzzy it is!" she cried. "And what do you do with it?"

"We don't plant that part of it. That core has no seeds. You have to
plant a grain like this. The little clear point we call a heart, and
that sprouts and grows. This is a good use for the cob."

He had finished another, which he tossed into the fire. A bright blaze
seemed to run over it all at once and die down. Then the small end
flamed out and the fire crept along in a doubtful manner until it was
all covered again.

"They're splendid to kindle the fire with. And pine cones. America has
lots of useful things."

"But they burn cones in France. I like the spicy smell. It's queer
though," wrinkling her forehead. "Did the Indians know about corn the
first?"

"That is the general impression unless America was settled before the
Indians. Uncle Win has his head full of these things and is writing a
book. And there is tobacco that Sir Walter Raleigh carried home from
Virginia."

"Oh, I know about Sir Walter and Queen Elizabeth."

"He was a splendid hero. I think people are growing tame now; there are
no wars except Indian skirmishes."

"Why, Napoleon is fighting all the time."

"Oh, that doesn't count," declared the young man with a lofty air. "We
had some magnificent heroes in the Revolution. There are lots of places
for you to see. Bunker Hill and Lexington and Concord and the
headquarters of Washington and Lafayette. The French were real good to
us, though we have had some scrimmages with them. And now that you are
to be a Boston girl----"

"But I was in Old Boston before," and she laughed. "Very old Boston,
that is so far back no one can remember, and it was called Ikanhoe,
which means Boston. There is the old church and the abbey that St.
Botolph founded. They came over somewhere in six hundred, and were
missionaries from France--St. Botolph and his brother."

"Whew!" ejaculated Warren with a long whistle, looking up at the little
girl as if she were hundreds of years old.

Betty opened the door. "Uncle Win is going," she announced. "Come and
say good-by to him."

He was standing up with the box of papers in his hand, and saying:

"I must have you all over to tea some night, and Doris must come and see
my old house. And I have a big boy like Warren. Yes, we must be a little
more friendly, for life is short at the best. And you are to stay here a
while with good Cousin Elizabeth, and I hope you will be content and
happy."

She pressed the hand Uncle Win held out in both of hers. In all the
changes she had learned to be content, and she had a certain
adaptiveness that kept her from being unhappy. She was very glad she was
going to stay with Betty, and glanced up with a bright smile.

They all said good-night to Cousin Adams. Mr. Leverett turned the great
key in the hall door, and it gave a shriek.

"I must oil that lock to-morrow. It groans enough to raise the dead,"
said Mrs. Leverett.

AUNT PRISCILLA

There was quite a discussion about a school.

Uncle Win had an idea Doris ought to begin high up in the scale. For
really she was very well born on both sides. Her father had left
considerable money, and in a few years second-cousin Charles' bequest
might be quite valuable, if Aunt Priscilla did sniff over it. There was
Mrs. Rawson's.

"But that is mostly for young ladies, a kind of finishing school. And in
some things Doris is quite behind, while in others far advanced. There
will be time enough for accomplishments. And Mrs. Webb's is near by,
which will be an object this cold winter."

"I shouldn't like her to forget her French. And perhaps it would be as
well to go on with Latin," Cousin Adams said.

Mrs. Leverett was a very sensible woman, but she really did not see the
need of Latin for a girl. There was a kind of sentiment about French; it
had been her mother's native tongue, and one did now and then go to
France.

There had been a good deal of objection to even the medium education of
women among certain classes. The three "R's" had been considered all
that was necessary. And when the system of public education had been
first inaugurated it was thought quite sufficient for girls to go from
April to October. Good wives and good mothers was the ideal held up to
girls. But people were beginning to understand that ignorance was not
always goodness. Mrs. Rawson had done a great deal toward the
enlightenment of this subject. The pioneer days were past, unless one
was seized with a mania for the new countries.

Mrs. Leverett was secretly proud of her two married daughters. Mrs.
King's husband had gone to the State legislature, and was considered
quite a rising politician. Mrs. Manning was a farmer's wife and held in
high esteem for the management of her family. Betty was being inducted
now into all household accomplishments with the hope that she would
marry quite as well as her sisters. She was a good reader and speller;
she had a really fine manuscript arithmetic, in which she had written
the rules and copied the sums herself. She had a book of "elegant
extracts"; she also wrote down the text of the Sunday morning sermon and
what she could remember of it. She knew the difference between the
Puritans and the Pilgrims; she also knew how the thirteen States were
settled and by whom; she could answer almost any question about the
French, the Indian, and the Revolutionary wars. She could do fine
needlework and the fancy stitches of the day. She was extremely "handy"
with her needle. Mrs. Leverett called her a very well-educated girl, and
the Leveretts considered themselves some of the best old stock in
Boston, if they were not much given to show.

It might be different with Doris. But a good husband was the best thing
a girl could have, in Mrs. Leverett's estimation, and knowing how to
make a good home her greatest accomplishment.

They looked over Doris' chest and found some simple gowns, mostly summer
ones, pairs of fine stockings that had been cut down and made over by
Miss Arabella's dainty fingers, and underclothes of a delicate quality.
There were the miniatures of her parents--that of her mother very
girlish indeed--and a few trinkets and books.

"She must have two good woolen frocks for winter, and a coat," said Mrs.
Leverett. "Cousin Winthrop said I should buy whatever was suitable."

"And a little Puritan cap trimmed about with fur. I am sure I can make
that. And a strip of fur on her coat. She would blow away in that big
hat if a high wind took her," declared Betty.

"And all the little girls wear them in winter. Still, I suppose Old
Boston must have been cold and bleak in winter."

"It was not so nearly an island."

There was a good deal of work to do on Friday, so shopping was put off
to the first of the week. Doris proved eagerly helpful and dusted very
well. In the afternoon Aunt Priscilla came over for her cup of tea.

"Dear me," she began with a great sigh, "I wish I had some nice young
girl that I could train, and who would take an interest in things. Polly
_is_ too old. And I don't like to send her away, for she was good enough
when she had any sense. There's no place for her but the poorhouse, and
I can't find it in my conscience to send her there. But I'm monstrous
tired of her, and I do think I'd feel better with a cheerful young
person around. You're just fortunate, 'Lizabeth, that you and Betty can
do for yourselves."

"It answers, now that the family is small. But last year I found it
quite trying. And Betty must have her two or three years' training at
housekeeping."

"Oh, of course. I'm glad you're so sensible, 'Lizabeth. Girls are very
flighty, nowadays, and are in the street half the time, and dancing and
frolicking round at night. I really don't know what the young generation
will be good for!"

Mrs. Leverett smiled. She remembered she had heard some such comments
when she was young, though the lines were more strictly drawn then.

"Has Winthrop been over to see his charge? How does he feel about it?
Now, if she had been a boy----"

"He was up to tea last night, and he and Foster have been arranging the
business this morning. Foster is to be joint trustee, but Winthrop will
be her guardian."

"What will he do with a girl! Why, she'll set Recompense crazy."

"She is not going to live there. For the present she will stay here. She
will go to Mrs. Webb's school this winter. He has an idea of sending
her to boarding school later on."

"Is she that rich?" asked Aunt Priscilla with a little sarcasm.

"She will have a small income from what her father left. Then there is
the rent of the house in School Street, and some stock. Winthrop thinks
she ought to be well educated. And if she should ever have to depend on
herself, teaching seems quite a good thing. Even Mrs. Webb makes a very
comfortable living."

"But we're going to educate the community for nothing, and tax the
people who have no children to pay for it."

"Well," said Mrs. Leverett with a smile, "that evens up matters. But the
others, at least property owners, have to pay their share. I tell Foster
that we ought not grudge our part, though we have no children to send."

"How did people get along before?"

"I went to school until I was fifteen."

"And when I was twelve I was doing my day's work spinning. There's talk
that we shall have to come back to it. Jonas Field is in a terrible
taking. According to him war's bound to come. And this embargo is just
ruining everything. It is to be hoped we will have a new President
before everything goes."

"Yes, it is making times hard. But we are learning to do a great deal
more for ourselves."

"It behooves us not to waste our money. But Winthrop Adams hasn't much
real calculation. So long as he has money to buy books, I suppose he
thinks the world will go on all right. It's to be hoped Foster will look
out for the girl's interest a little. But you'll be foolish to take the
brunt of the thing. Now it would be just like you 'Lizabeth Leverett, to
take care of this child, without a penny, just as if she was some
charity object thrown on your hands."

Mrs. Leverett did give her soft laugh then.

"You have just hit it, Aunt Priscilla," she said. "Winthrop wanted to
pay her board, but Foster just wouldn't hear to it, this year at least.
We have all taken a great liking to her, and she is to be our visitor
from now until summer, when some other plans are to be made."

"Well--if you have money to throw away----" gasped Aunt Priscilla.

"She won't eat more than a chicken, and she'll sleep in Betty's bed. It
will help steady Betty and be an interest to all of us. I really
couldn't think of charging. It's like having one of the grandchildren
here. And she needs a mother's care. Think of the poor little girl with
not a near relative! Aunt Priscilla, there's a good many things money
can't buy."

Aunt Priscilla sniffed.

"Take off your bonnet and have a cup of tea," Mrs. Leverett had asked
her when she first came in. "It's such a long walk back to King Street
on an empty stomach. The children are making cookies, but Betty shall
brew a cup of tea at once, unless you'll wait till the men folks come
in."

Aunt Priscilla sat severe and undecided for a moment. The laughing
voices in the other room piqued and vexed and interested her all in a
breath. She had come over to hear about Doris. There was so little
interest in her methodical old life. Mrs. Leverett sincerely pitied
women who had no children and no grandchildren.

"They're quite as queer as old maids without the real excuse," she said
to her husband. "They've missed the best things out of their lives
without really knowing they were the best."

And perhaps at this era more respect was paid to age. There were certain
trials and duties to life that men and women accepted and did not try to
evade. A modern happy woman would have been bored at the call of a
dissatisfied old woman every few days. But since the death of Mehitable
Doule, Priscilla's own cousin, who had been married from her house, she
had clung more to the Leveretts. Foster was too easy-going, otherwise
she had not much fault to find with him. He had prospered and was
forehanded, and his married son and daughters had been fairly
successful.

"Well, I don't care if I do," said Aunt Priscilla, with a
half-reluctance. "Though I hadn't decided to when I came away, and
Polly'll make a great hole in that cold roast pork, for I never said a
word as to what she should have for supper. She's come to have no more
sense than a child, and some things are bad to eat at night. But if she
makes herself sick she'll have to suffer."

"I'll have some tea made----"

"No, 'Lizabeth, don't fuss. I shan't be in any hurry, if I do stay, and
the men will be in before long. So Winthrop wasn't real put out when he
saw the girl?"

"I think he liked her. He's not much hand to make a fuss, you know. He
feels she must be well brought up. Her mother, it seems, was quite
quality."

"Queer the mother's folks didn't look after her."

"Her mother was an only child. Winthrop has the records back several
generations. And when _she_ died the father was alive, you know."

"Winthrop is a great stickler for such things. It's good to have folks
you're not ashamed of, to be sure, but family isn't everything. Behaving
counts."

Aunt Priscilla took off her bonnet and shawl, and hung them in the
"best" closet, where the Sunday coats and cloaks were kept.

"You might just hand me that knitting, 'Lizabeth. I guess I knit a
little tighter'n you do, on account of my hand being out. I've more than
enough stockings to last my time out and some coarse ones for Polly.
They spin yarn so much finer now. Footing many stockings this fall?"

"No. I knit Foster new ones late in the spring. He's easy, too. Warren's
the one to gnaw out heels, though young people are so much on the go."

Aunt Priscilla took up the stocking and pinned the sheath on her side.
How gay the voices sounded in the kitchen! Then the door opened.

"Just look, Aunt Elizabeth! Aren't they lovely! Betty let me cut them
out and put them in the pans. Oh----"

Doris stood quite abashed, with a dish of tempting brown cookies in one
hand. Her cheeks were like roses now, and Betty's kitchen apron made
another frock over hers of gay chintz, that had been exhumed from the
chest.

"Good-afternoon," recovering herself.

"The cookies look delightful. I must taste one," Mrs. Leverett said
smilingly.

She handed the plate to Aunt Priscilla.

"It'll just spoil my supper if I eat one. But you may do up some in a
paper, and I'll take them home. I'm glad to see you at something useful.
Did you help about the house over there in England?"

"Oh, no. We had Barby," answered the child simply.

"Well, there's a deal for you to learn. I made bread just after I had
turned ten years old. Girls in old times learned to work. It wasn't all
cooky-making, by a long shot!"

Doris made a little courtesy and disappeared.

"I'd do something to that tousled hair, 'Lizabeth. Have her put it up
or cut it off. It's good to cut a girl's hair; makes it thick and
strong. And curls do look so flighty and frivolous."

"The new fashion is a wig with all the front in little curls. It's so
much less trouble if it is made of natural curly hair."

"Are you going to set up for fashion in these hard times?" asked the
visitor disdainfully.

"Not quite. But Betty Pickering is to be married in great state next
month, and we have been invited already. I suppose I ought to consider
her in some sort a namesake."

"I'm glad I haven't any fine relatives to be married," and the sniff was
made to do duty.

Mrs. Leverett put down her sewing. She had drawn the threads and basted
the wristbands and gussets for Betty to stitch, as they had come to
shirt-making. The new ones of thick cotton cloth would be good for
winter wear. One had always to think ahead in this world if one wanted
things to come out even.

Then she went out to the kitchen, and there was a gay chattering, as if
a colony of chimney swallows had met on a May morning. Aunt Priscilla
pushed up nearer the window. She had good eyesight still, and only wore
glasses when she read or was doing some extra-fine work.

Betty came in and rolled out the table as she greeted her relative. Aunt
Priscilla had a curiously lost feeling, as if somehow she had gone
astray. No one ever would know about it, to be sure. There were times
when it seemed as if there must be a third power, between God and the
Evil One. There were things neither good nor bad. If they were good the
Lord brought them to pass,--or ought to,--and if they were bad your
conscience was troubled. Aunt Priscilla had been elated over her idea
all day yesterday. It looked really generous to her. Of course Cousin
Winthrop couldn't be bothered with this little foreign girl, and the
Leveretts had a lot of grandchildren. She might take this Dorothy Adams,
and bring her up in a virtuous, useful fashion. She would go to school,
of course, but there would be nights and mornings and Saturdays. In two
years, at the latest, she would be able to take a good deal of charge of
the house. All this time her own little fortune could be augmenting,
interest on interest. And if she turned out fair, she would do the
handsome thing by her--leave her at least half of what she, Mrs.
Perkins, possessed.

And yet it was not achieved without a sort of mental wrestle. She was
not quite sure it was spiritual enough to pray over; in fact, nothing
just like this had come into her life before. She was not the kind of
stuff out of which missionaries were made, and this wasn't just
charitable work. She would expect the girl to do something for her
board, but Polly would be good for a year or two more. Time did hang
heavy on her hands, and this would be interest and employment, and a
good turn. When matters were settled a little she would broach the
subject to Elizabeth.

If Winthrop Adams meant to make a great lady out of her--why, that was
all there was to it! Times were hard and there might be war. Winthrop
had a son of his own, and perhaps not so much money as people thought.
And it did seem folly to waste the child's means. If she had so
much--enough to go to boarding school--she oughtn't be living on the
Leveretts. Foster was having pretty tight squeezing to get along.

They all wondered what made Aunt Priscilla so unaggressive at supper
time. She watched Doris furtively. All the household had a smile for
her. Foster Leverett patted her soft hair, and Warren pinched her cheek
in play. Betty gave her half a dozen hugs between times, and Mrs.
Leverett smiled when Doris glanced her way.

The quarter-moon was coming up when Priscilla Perkins opened the closet
door for her things.

"I'll walk over with Aunt Priscilla," said Warren. "It's my night for
practice."

"Oh, yes." His father nodded. Warren had lately joined the band, but his
mother thought she couldn't stand the cornet round the house.

"I aint a mite afraid in the moonlight. I come so often I ought not put
anyone out."

"Now that the evenings are cool it seems lonesomer," said Mr. Leverett,
settling in his armchair by the fire, really glad his son could be
attentive without any special sacrifice.

Doris brought the queer little stool and sat down beside him. She looked
as if she had always lived there.

"You'll all spoil that child," Aunt Priscilla said to Warren when they
had stepped off the stoop.

"I don't believe there's any spoil to her," said Warren heartily. "She's
the sweetest little thing I ever saw; so wise in some ways and so
honestly ignorant in others. I never saw Uncle Win so taken--he never
seems to quite know what to do with children. And he's asked us all over
to tea some night next week. I was clear struck."

Mrs. Perkins made no reply. About once a year he invited her over to tea
with some of the old cousins, and he called on her New Year's Day, which
was not specially kept in any fashionable way.

Mrs. Perkins always said King Street, though in a burst of patriotism
the name had been changed after the Revolution. It had dropped down very
much and was being given over to business. There was a narrow hall floor
set in a little distance, with a few steps, and the shop front with the
plain sign of "Jonas Field, Flour, Grain, and Feed." The stairway led to
an upper hall and a very comfortable suite of rooms, where Mrs. Perkins
had come as a young wife, and where she meant to end her days. It was
plenty good enough inside, and she "didn't live in the street."

The best room occupied the whole front and had three windows. Priscilla
had been barely nineteen when she was married, and Hatfield Perkins
quite a bachelor. And, as no children had come to disturb their orderly
habits, they had settled more securely in them year after year.

Next to the parlor was the sleeping chamber. Now, it was the spare room,
though no one came to stay all night who was fine enough to put in it.
The smaller one adjoining she had used since her husband's death. There
was a little tea room, and a big kitchen at the back. Downstairs the
store part had been built out, and on the roof of this the clothes were
dried. Polly always sat out here in pleasant weather, to prepare
vegetables and do various chores. The lot was deep, and at the back were
some fruit trees, and the patch of herbs every woman thought she must
have, and a square of grass for bleaching.

A lighted lamp stood at the head of the stairs. Polly was dozing in the
kitchen. Mrs. Perkins sent her to bed in short order. There were two
rooms and a storage closet upstairs in the gables. One was Polly's. The
other was the guest chamber that was good enough "for the common run of
folks."

The moon was shining in the back windows. Priscilla snuffed out the
candle; there was no use wasting candle light. She sat down in a low
rocker, the only one she owned; and several list seats had been worn out
in it besides the original one of rushes. She had never been really
lonely in the sixty-five years of her life for she had kept busy, and
was replete with old-fashioned methods that made work. She was very
particular. Everything was scrubbed and scoured and swept and dusted and
aired. The dishes were polished until they were lustrous. The knives and
forks and spoons were speckless. There were napery and bedding that had
been laid by for her marriage outfit, and not all worn out yet, though
in the early years she had kept replenishing for possible children.
There was plenty for twenty years to come, and though her people had
been strong and healthy, they never went much over seventy. She was the
youngest, and all the rest were gone. Her few real nieces and nephews
were scattered about; she had made up her mind long ago she shouldn't
ever have anyone hanging on her.

No one wanted to. No one even leaned on her. Yet somehow the life had
never seemed real solitary until now. She had comforted her years with
the thought that children were a great deal of trouble and did not
always turn out well. She could see the picture the little foreign girl
made as she folded her arms on Foster Leverett's knee. She wouldn't have
that mop of frowzly hair flying about, and she would like to fat her up
a little--she was rather peaked. She had imagined her going about in
this old place, sewing, learning to work properly, reading and studying,
and going to church every Sabbath. She had really meant to do something
for a human being day after day, not in a spasmodic fashion. And this
was the end of it.

She sprang up suddenly, lighted the candle again, went out to the
kitchen to see that everything was right and there was no danger of
fire. She opened the outside door and glanced around. There was an
autumnal chill in the air, but there were no mysterious shadows creeping
about in the yard below that might presage burglars. Then she bolted the
door with a snap, and stood a moment in the middle of the floor.

"You are an old fool, Priscilla Perkins! The idea of all Boston being
turned upside down for the sake of one little girl! People have come
over from England before, big and little, and there's been a war and
there may be another, and no end of things to happen. To be sure, I'd
done my duty by her if I'd had her; and if the others spoil her--I aint
to blame, the Lord knows!"

CHAPTER IV

OUT TO TEA

"There! Does it look like Old Boston?"

They were winding around Copp's Hill. Warren had been given part of a
day off, and the use of the chaise and Jack, to show the little cousin
something of Boston before they went to Uncle Winthrop's to tea.

Doris had her new coat, which was a sort of fawn color, and the close
Puritan cap to keep her neck and ears warm. For earache was quite a
common complaint among children, and people were careful through the
long cold winter. A strip of beaver fur edged the front, and went around
the little cape at the back. Its soft grayish-brown framed in her fair
face like a picture, and her eyes were almost the tint of the deep,
unclouded blue sky.

They had a fine view of Old Boston, but they could hardly dream of the
Boston that was to be. There were still the three elevations of Beacon
Hill, lowered somewhat, to be sure, but not taken away entirely. And
there was Fort Hill in the distance.

"Why, it looks like a chain of islands, and instead of a great sea the
water runs round and round. At home the Witham comes down to the winding
cove called The Wash. Boston is sort of set between two rivers, but it
is fast of the mainland, and doesn't look so much like floating off. You
can go over to the Norfolk shore, and you look out on the great North
Sea. But it isn't as big as the Atlantic Ocean."

"Well, I should say not!" with disdain. "Why, you can look over to
Holland!"

"You can't see Holland, but it's there, and Denmark."

"And we shall have to be something like the Dutch, if ever we mean to
have a grand city. We shall have to dike and fill in and bridge. I have
a great regard for those sturdy old Dutchmen and the way they fought the
Spanish as well as the sea."

Doris didn't know much about Holland, even if she could make pillow lace
and read French verses with a charming accent.

"That's the Mill Pond. And all that is the back part of the bay. And
over there a grand battle was fought--but you were not born before the
Revolutionary War."

"I guess you were not born yourself, Warren Leverett," said Betty, with
unnecessary vigor.

"Well, I am rather glad I wasn't; I shall have the longer to live. But
grandfather and ever so many relatives were, and father knows all about
it. I am proud, too, of having been named for General Warren."

"And down there near the bay is Fort Hill. Boston wasn't built on seven
hills like Rome, and though there are acres and acres of low ground, we
are not likely to be overflowed, unless the Atlantic Ocean should rise
and sweep us out of existence. And there is the old burying ground, full
of queer names and curious epitaphs."

The long peninsula stretched out in a sort of irregular pear-shape, and
then was connected to another portion by a narrow neck. The little
villages about had a rural aspect, and some of them were joined to the
mainland by bridges. And cows were still pastured on the commons and in
several tracts of meadow land in the city. Many people had their own
milk and made butter. There were large gardens at the sides of the
houses, many of them standing with the gable end to the street, and
built mostly of wood. But nearly all the leaves had fallen now, and
though the sun shone with a mellow softness, it was quite evident the
reign of summer was ended.

They drove slowly about, Warren rehearsing stories of this and that
place, and wishing there was more time so they might go over to
Charlestown.

"But Doris is to stay, and there will be time enough next summer. It is
confusing to see so many places at once. And mother said we must be at
Uncle Win's about four," declared Betty.

It _was_ rather confusing to Doris, who had heard so little of American
history in her quiet home. War seemed a dreadful thing to her, and she
could not take Warren's pride in battle and conquest.

So they turned and went down through the winding streets.

"Do you know why they are so crooked?" Warren asked.

"No; why?" asked Doris innocently.

"Well, William Blackstone's cows made the paths. He came here first of
all and had an allotment. Then when people began to come over from
Charlestown he sold out for thirty pounds English money. Grandfather
used to go over to the old orchard for apples. But think of Boston being
bought for thirty pounds!"

"It wasn't _this_ Boston with the houses and churches and everything.
Come, do get along, or else let me drive," said Betty.

There was quite a descent as they came down. Streets seemed to stop
suddenly, and you had to make a curve to get into the next one. From
Main they turned into Fish Street, and here the wind from the harbor
swept across to the Mill Pond.

"That's Long Wharf, and it has lots of famous stories connected with it.
And just down there is father's. And now we could cut across and go over
home."

"As if we meant to do any such foolish thing?" ejaculated Betty.

"I said we _could_. There are a great many things possible that are not
advisable," returned the oracular young man. "And I have heard the
longest way round was the surest way home. We shall reach there about
nine o'clock to-night."

"Like the old woman and her pig. I should laugh if we found mother
already at Uncle Win's."

"She's going to wait for father, and something always happens to him."

They crossed Market Square, and passed Faneuil Hall, that was to grow
more famous as the years went on; then they took Cornhill and went over
to Marlborough Street.

"That's Fort Hill. It's lovely in summer, when the wind doesn't blow you
to shreds. Now we will take Marlborough, and to-night you will be
surprised to see how straight it is to Sudbury Street."

They drove rapidly down, and made one turn. It was like a beautiful
country road, over to Common Street, and there was the great tract of
ground that would grow more beautiful with every decade. Tall,
overarching trees; ways that were grassy a month ago, but now turning
brown.

"Here we are," and they turned up a driveway at the side of the long
porch upheld with round columns. Betty sprang out on the stepping block
and half-lifted Doris, while Warren drove up to the barn.

Uncle Winthrop came out to welcome them, and smiled down into the little
girl's face.

"But where is your mother?" he asked.

"Oh, she had some shopping to do and then she was to meet father. We
have been driving up around Copp's Hill and giving Doris a peep at the
country."

"The wind begins to blow up sharply, though it was very pleasant. I am
glad to see you, little Doris, and I hope you have not grown homesick
sighing for Old Boston. For if you should reach the threescore-and-ten,
things will have changed so much that this will be old Boston; and,
Betty, you will be telling-your grandchildren what it was like."

Betty laughed gayly.

There was the same wide hall as at home, but it wasn't the keeping-room
here. It had a great fireplace, and at one side a big square sofa. The
floor was inlaid with different-colored woods, following geometric
designs, much like those of to-day. Before the fire was a rug of
generous dimensions, and a high-backed chair stood on each of the
nearest corners. There was a bookcase with some busts ranged on the top;
there were some portraits of ancestors in military attire, and women
with enormous head-dresses; there was one in a Puritan cap, wide collar,
and a long-sleeved gown, that quite spoiled the effect of her pretty
hands. Over the mantel was a pair of very large deer's antlers. Down at
one corner there were two swords crossed and some other firearms. Just
under them was a cabinet with glass doors that contained many
curiosities.

A tall, thin woman entered from a door at the lower end of the hall and
greeted Betty with a quiet dignity that would have seemed cold, if it
had not been the usual manner of Recompense Gardiner, who could never
have been effusive, and who took it for granted that anyone Mr. Winthrop
Adams invited to the house was welcome. Her forehead was high and rather
narrow, her brown hair was combed straight back and twisted in a little
knot high on her head, in which in the afternoon, or on company
occasions, she wore a large shell comb. Her features were rather long
and spare, and she wore plain little gold hoops in her ears because her
eyes had been weak in youth and it was believed this strengthened them.
Anyhow, she could see well enough at five-and-forty to detect a bit of
dust or dirt, or lint left on a plate from the towel, or a chair that
was a trifle out of its rightful place. She was an excellent
housekeeper, and suited her master exactly.

"This is the little English girl I was telling you about,
Recompense--Cousin Charles' grandniece, and my ward," announced Mr.
Adams.

"How do you do, child! Let me take off your hood and cloak. Why, she
isn't very stout or rosy. She might have been born here in the east
wind. And she is an Adams through and through."

"Do you think so?" with an expression of pleasure, as Recompense held
her off and looked her over.

"Are her eyes black?" rather disapprovingly.

"No, the very darkest blue you can imagine," said Mr. Adams.

"Betty, run upstairs with these things. Your feet are younger than mine,
and haven't done so much trotting round. Lay them on my bed. Why,
where's your mother?" in a tone of surprise.

Betty made the proper explanation and skipped lightly upstairs.

Mr. Adams took one of the large chairs, drawing it closer to the fire.
Recompense brought out a stool for the little girl. It was covered with
thick crimson brocade, a good deal faded, but it had a warm, inviting
aspect. Children were not expected to sit in chairs then, or to run
about and ask what everything was for.

There had been children, little girls of different relatives, sitting at
the fireside before. His own small boy had dozed in the fascinating
warmth of the fire and hated to go to bed, and he had weakly indulged
him, as there had been no mother to exercise authority. But Doris was
different. She was alone in the world, and had been sent to him by a
mysterious providence. He knew the responsibility of a girl must be
greater. He couldn't send her to the Latin school and then to Harvard,
and he really wondered how much education a girl ought to have to fit
her for the position Doris would be able to take.

She was like a quaint picture sitting there. Betty had tied a cluster of
curls high on her head with a blue ribbon, and just a few were left to
cling about her neck over the lace tucker. Her slim hands lay in her
lap. He glanced at his own--yes, they were Adams hands, and looked
little like hard work. He was rather proud that Recompense should
discern a family likeness.

Betty came flying down the oaken staircase, and Warren entered from the
back door. For a few moments there was quite a confusion of tongues, and
Recompense wondered how mothers stood it all the time.

"How queer not to have anyone know about Boston," began Warren with a
teasing glance over at Doris. "We have been looking at it from Copp's
Hill, and going through the odd places."

"And I wondered if people came to be fed in White Bread Alley,"
exclaimed Doris quickly.

"And I dare say Warren didn't know."

"Why, yes--a woman baked bread there."

"Women have baked bread in a great many places," returned Uncle Win,
with a quizzical smile.

"Oh, I didn't mean just that."

"It was John Tudor's mother," appended Betty.

"Mrs. Tudor made the first penny rolls offered for sale in Boston, and
little John, as he was then, took them around for sale."

"And Mr. Benjamin Franklin didn't make them famous either," laughed
Warren.

"And Salutation Alley with its queer sign--its two old men with cocked
hats and small clothes, bowing to each other," said Betty. "It always
suggests a couplet I found in an old book:

    "'O mortal man who lives by bread,
    What is it makes your nose so red?
    O mortal man with cheeks so pale,
    'Tis drinking Levi Puncheon's ale!'"

"It is said the resolutions for the destruction of the tea were drawn up
in the old tavern. It was famous for being the rendezvous of the
patriots."

"It would be nice to drive all around Boston shore."

"Let it be summer time, then," rejoined Betty. "Or, like the Hollanders,
we might do it on skates. Of course you do not know how to skate,
Doris?"

Doris admitted with winsome frankness that she did not. But she could
ride a pony, and she could row a little.

"There are some delightful summer parties when we do go out rowing. At
least, the boys row mostly, because

    "'Satan finds some mischief still
    For idle hands to do!'"

and Betty laughed.

"And the girls always take their knitting," appended Warren. "There's
never any mischief for them to get into."

"I suppose it doesn't look much like Old Boston," inquired Miss
Recompense. "And what do the little girls do there, my dear?"

Warren opened his eyes wide. The idea of Miss Recompense saying "my
dear" to a child.

It had slipped out in a curiously unpremeditated fashion. There was
something about the little girl--perhaps it was the fact of her having
come so far, and being an orphan--that moved Recompense Gardiner.

"I didn't know any real little girls," answered Doris modestly, "except
the farmer's children. They worked out of doors in the summer in the
fields."

"And I was the youngest of five sisters," said Miss Recompense. "There
were three boys."

"It would be so nice to have a sister of one's very own. There were
Sallie and Helen Jewett on the vessel."

"I think I like the sisters to be older," said Betty archly. "There are
the weddings and the nieces and nephews. And they are always begging you
to visit them."

"And I had no sisters," said Uncle Win, as if he would fain console
Doris for her loneliness.

She glanced up with sympathetic sweetness. He was a little puzzled at
the intuitive process.

"Fix up the fire, Warren. Your mother and father will be cold when they
get in."

Warren gave the burned log a poke, and it fell in two ends, neither
dropping over the andirons. Then he pushed them a little nearer and a
shower of sparks flew about.

"Oh, how beautiful!" and Doris leaned over intently.

Warren placed a large log back of them, then he piled on some smaller
split pieces. They began to blaze shortly. He picked up the turkey's
wing and brushed around the stone hearth.

"That was very well done," remarked Miss Recompense approvingly.

"Warren knows how to make a fire," said his uncle, "and it is quite an
art."

"That is a sign he will make a good husband," commented Betty. "And I
shall get a bad one, for my fires go out half the time."

"You are too heedless," said Miss Recompense.

"Now, we ought to tell some ghost stories," suggested Warren. "Or we
could wait until it gets a little darker. The sun is going down, and the
fire is coming up, and just see how they are fighting at the Spanish
Armada. Uncle Win, when you break up housekeeping you can leave me that
picture."

They all turned to look at the picture in the cross light, with one of
the wonderful fleet ablaze from the broadside of her enemy. It was a
vigorous if somewhat crude painting by a Dutch artist.

"Oh, Uncle Win," cried Betty; "do you really think there will be war
when we have a new President?"

"I sincerely hope not."

"We ought to have an Armada. Well, I don't know either," continued
Warren dubiously. "If it should go to pieces like that one," nodding his
head over to the scene, growing more vivid by the reflection of the red
light in the west. "Doris, do you know what happened to the Spanish
Armada?"

"Indeed I do," returned Doris spiritedly. "I may not know so much about
America, except that you fought England, and were called rebels
and--and----"

"That we were the upper dog in the fight, and now we are citizens of a
great and free Republic and rebels no longer."

"But the Spanish did not conquer England. Some of the ships were
destroyed by English men-of-war, and then a terrific storm wrecked them,
and there were only a few to return to Spain."

"Pretty good," said Uncle Win smilingly. "And now, Warren, maybe you can
tell about the French Armada that was going to destroy Boston."

"Why, the French--came and helped us. Oh, there was the French and
English war, but did they have a real Armada?"

"Why, after Louisburg was taken by the colonists--we were only Colonies
in 1745. The French resolved to destroy all the towns the colonists had
planted on the coast. You surely can't have forgotten?"

"The Revolution seems so much greater to this generation," said Miss
Recompense. "That is almost seventy years ago. My father was called out
for the defense of Boston. Governor Shirley knew it would be the first
town attacked."

"And a real Armada!" said Warren, big-eyed.

"They didn't call it that exactly. Perhaps they thought the name
unlucky. But there were twenty transports and thirty-four frigates and
eleven ships of the line. Quite a formidable array, you must admit. The
Duc d'Anville left Brest with five battalions of veterans."

"And then what happened? Warren, we do not know the history of our own
city, after all. But surely they did not take it?"

"No, it is safely anchored to a bit of mainland yet," said Uncle Win
dryly. "Off Cape Sable they encountered a violent storm. The Duc
succeeded in reaching the rendezvous, but in such a damaged condition
that he felt a victory would be impossible. Conflans with several
partly disabled ships returned to France, and some steered for friendly
ports in the West Indies. The Duc died in less than a week, of poison it
was said, unwilling to endure the misfortune. The Governor General of
Canada ordered the Vice Admiral to proceed and strike one blow at least.
But he saw so many difficulties in the way, that he worried himself ill
with a fever and put himself to death with his own sword. Boston was so
well prepared for them by this time, the fleet decided to attack
Annapolis, but encountering another furious storm they returned to
France with the remnant. So Armadas do not seem to meet with brilliant
success."

"Why, that is quite a romance, Uncle Win, and I must hunt it up. Curious
that both should have shared so nearly the same fate."

"That was a special interposition of Providence," said Miss Recompense.

People believed quite strongly in such things then, and it certainly
looked like it, since the storm was of no human agency.

Miss Recompense began to light the candles, and the steps of the tardy
ones were heard on the porch. Betty sprang up and opened the door.

"I began to think I never should get here," exclaimed Mrs. Leverett. "I
waited and waited for your father, and I thought something had surely
happened."

"And so it had. Captain Conklin is going to start for China in a few
days, and there was so much to talk about I couldn't get away."

"If I had been real sure he would have come on I would have started. It
has blown off cold. Didn't you have a breezy ride? Were you warm enough,
Doris?"

"It was splendid," replied Doris, her eyes shining. "And I have seen so
many things."

"Now get good and warm and come out to supper."

"If you call this cold I don't know what you will do at midwinter."

"Well, it is chilly, and we are not used to it. But we must have our
Indian summer yet."

Betty had been carrying away her mother's hat and shawl, and now Uncle
Win led the way to the dining room. The table was bountifully spread; it
was a sort of high tea, and in those days people ate with a hearty
relish and had not yet discovered the thousand dangers lurking in food.
If it was good and well cooked no one asked any farther questions. At
least, men did not. Women took recipes of this and that, and invented
new ways of preparing some dish with as much elation as some of the
greater discoveries have given.

The men talked politics and the possibilities of war. There was an
uneasy feeling all along the border, where Indian troubles were being
fomented. There were some unsettled questions between us and England.
Abroad, Napoleon was making such strides that it seemed as if he might
conquer all Europe.

Mrs. Leverett and Miss Recompense compared their successes in pickling
and preserving, and discussed the high prices of dry goods and the newer
scant skirts that would take so much less cloth and the improvement in
home-made goods. Carpets of the higher grades were beginning to be
manufactured in Philadelphia.

Warren, with the appetite of a healthy young fellow, thought everything
tasted uncommonly good, and really had nothing to say. Doris watched one
and another, with soft dark eyes, and wondered if it would be right to
like Uncle Win any better than she did Uncle Leverett, and why she had
any desire to do so, which troubled her a little. Uncle Win _was_ the
handsomest. She liked the something about him that she came to know
afterward was culture and refinement. But she was a very loyal little
girl, and Uncle Leverett had welcomed her so warmly, even on board the
vessel.

After supper they went into Uncle Winthrop's study a while. There were
more bookcases, and such a quantity of books and pamphlets and papers.
There were busts of some of the old Roman orators and emperors, and more
paintings. There was a beautiful young woman with a head full of soft
curls and two bands passed through them in Greek fashion. A scarf was
loosely wound around her shoulders, showing her white, shapely throat,
and her short sleeves displayed almost perfect arms that looked like
sculpture. Later Doris came to know this was Uncle Winthrop's sweet
young wife, who died when her little boy was scarcely a year old.

There were many curiosities. The walls were wainscoted in panels, with
moldings about them that looked like another frame for the pictures. The
chimney piece was of wood, and exquisitely carved. There was an old
escritoire that was both carved and gilded, and in the center of the
room a large round table strewn with books and writing materials. At the
windows were heavy red damask curtains, lined with yellow brocade. They
were always put up the first of October and taken down punctually the
first day of April. Uncle Win had a luxurious side to his nature, and
there was a soft imported rug in the room as well.

Carpets were not in general use. Many floors were polished, some in the
finer houses inlaid. Rag carpets were used for warmth in winter, and
some were beautifully made. Weaving them was quite a business, and
numbers of women were experts at it. Sometimes it was in a hit-or-miss
style, the rags sewed just as one happened to pick them up. Then they
were made of the ribbon pattern, a broad stripe of black or dark, with
narrower and wider colors alternating. The rags were often colored to
get pretty effects.

It was a long walk home, but in those days, when there were neither cars
nor cabs, people were used to walking, and the two men would not mind
it. Betty could drive Jack by night or day, as he was a sure-footed,
steady-going animal, and for a distance the road was straight up Beacon
Street.

"Some day I will come up and take you out to see a little more of your
new home," said Uncle Winthrop to Doris. "When does she go to school,
Elizabeth?"

"Why, I thought it would be as well for her to begin next week. From
eight to twelve. And she is so young there is no real need of her
beginning other things. Betty can teach her to sew and do embroidery."

"There is her French. It would be a pity to drop that."

"She might teach me French for the sake of the exercise," returned Betty
laughingly when Uncle Win looked so perplexed.

"To be sure. We will get it all settled presently." He felt rather
helpless where a girl was concerned, yet when he glanced down into her
soft, wistful eyes he wished somehow that she was living here. But it
would be lonely for a child.

Warren brought Jack around and helped in the womenkind when they had
said all their good-nights, and Uncle Wrin added that he would be over
some evening next week to supper.

It was a clear night, but there was no moon. Jack tossed up his head and
trotted along, with the common on one side of him.

Boston had been improving very much in the last decade, and stretching
herself out a little. But it was quite country-like where Uncle Win
lived. He liked the quiet and the old house, the great trees and his
garden that gave him all kinds of vegetables and some choice fruit,
though he never did anything more arduous than to superintend it and
enjoy the fruits of Jonas Starr's labor.

CHAPTER V

A MORNING AT SCHOOL

Our ancestors for some occult reason held early rising in high esteem.
Why burning fire and candle light in the morning, when everything was
cold and dreary, should look so much more virtuous and heroic than
sitting up awhile at night when the house was warm and everything
pleasant, is one of the mysteries to be solved only by the firm belief
that the easy, comfortable moments were the seasons especially
susceptible to temptation, and that sacrifice and austerity were the
guide-posts on the narrow way to right living.

Mr. and Mrs. Leverett had been reared in that manner. They had softened
in many ways, and Betty was often told, "I had no such indulgences when
I was a girl." But, mother-like, Mrs. Leverett "eased up" many things
for Betty. Electa King half envied them, and yet she confessed in her
secret heart that she had enjoyed her girlhood and her lover very much.
She and Matthias King had been neighbors and played as children, went to
church and to singing school together, and on visitors' night at the
debating society she was sure to be the visitor. Girls did not have just
that kind of boy friends now, she thought.

The softening of religious prejudices was softening character as well.
Yet the intensity of Puritanism had kindled a force of living that had
done a needed work. People really discussed religious problems nowadays,
while even twenty years before it was simply belief or disbelief, and
the latter "was not to be suffered among you."

Mrs. Leverett kept to her habit of early rising. True, dark and stormy
mornings Mr. Leverett allowed himself a little latitude, for very few
people came to buy his wares early in the morning. But breakfast was a
little after six, except on Sunday morning, when it dropped down to
seven.

And Mrs. Webb's school began at eight from the first day of February to
the first day of November. The intervening three months it was half-past
eight and continued to half-past twelve.

Doris came home quite sober. "Well," began Uncle Leverett, "how did
school go?"

"I didn't like it very much," she answered slowly.

"What did you do?"

"I read first. Four little girls and two boys read. We all stood in a
row."

"What then?"

"We spelled. But I did not know where the lesson was, and I think Mrs.
Webb gave me easy words."

"And you did not enjoy that?" Uncle Leverett gave a short laugh.

"I was glad not to miss," she replied gravely.

"Mrs. Webb uses Dilworth's speller," said Mrs. Leverett, "and so I gave
her Betty's. But she has a different reader. She thought Doris read
uncommon well."

"And what came next?"

"They said tables all together. Why do they call them tables?"

"Because a system of calculation would be too long a name," he answered
dryly.

Doris looked perplexed. "Then there was geography. What a large place
America is!" and she sighed.

"Yes, the world is a good-sized planet, when you come to consider. And
America is only one side of it."

"I don't see how it keeps going round."

"That must be viewed with the eye of faith," commented Betty.

"All that does very well. I am sorry you did not like it."

"I did like all that," returned Doris slowly. "But the sums troubled
me."

"She's very backward in figures," said Mrs. Leverett. "Betty, you must
take her in hand."

"I must study all the afternoon," said Doris.

"Oh, you'll soon get into the traces," said Uncle Leverett consolingly.

It was Monday and wash-day in every well-ordered family. Mrs. Leverett
and Betty had the washing out early, but it was not a brisk drying day,
so no ironing could be done in the afternoon. Betty changed her gown and
brought out her sewing, and Doris studied her lessons with great
earnestness.

"I wish I was sure I knew the spelling," she said wistfully.

"Well, let me hear you." Betty laid the book on the wide window sill and
gave out the words between the stitches, and Doris spelled every one
rightly but "perceive."

"Those i's and e's used to bother me," said Betty. "I made a list of
them once and used to go over them until I could spell them in the
dark."

"Is it harder to spell in the dark?"

"Oh, you innocent!" laughed Betty. "That means you could spell them
anywhere."

Spelling had been rather a mysterious art, but Mr. Dilworth, and now
Mr. Noah Webster, had been regulating it according to a system.

"Now you might go over some tables. You can add and multiply so much
faster when you know them. Suppose we try them together."

That was very entertaining and, Doris began to think, not as difficult
as she had imagined in the morning.

"Betty," said her mother, when there was a little lull, "what do you
suppose has become of Aunt Priscilla? I do hope she did not come over
the day we were at Cousin Winthrop's. But she never was here once last
week."

"There were two rainy days."

"And she may be ill. I think you had better go down and see."

"Yes. Don't you want to go, Doris? The walk will be quite fun."

Doris could not resist the coaxing eyes, though she felt she ought to
stay and study. But Betty promised to go over lessons with her when they
came back. So in a few moments they were ready for the change. Mrs.
Leverett sent a piece of cake and some fresh eggs, quite a rarity now.

The houses and shops seemed so close together, Doris thought. And they
met so many people. Doris had not lived directly in Old Boston town, but
quite in the outskirts. And King Street was getting to be quite full of
business.

Black Polly came to the door. "Yes, missus was in but she had an awful
cold, and been all stopped up so that she could hardly get the breath of
life."

Aunt Priscilla had a strip of red flannel pinned around her forehead,
holding in place a piece of brown paper, moistened with vinegar, her
unfailing remedy for headache. Another band was around her throat, and
she had a well-worn old shawl about her shoulders, while her feet
rested on a box on which was placed a warm brick.

"Is it possible you have come? Why, one might be dead and buried and no
one the wiser. I crawled out to church on Sunday, and took more cold,
though I have heard people say you wouldn't catch cold going to church.
Religion ought to keep one warm, I s'pose."

"I'm sorry. Mother was afraid you were ill."

"And I have all the visiting to do. It does seem as if once in an age
some of you might come over. You went to Cousin Winthrop's!" in an
aggrieved tone.

"But mother had not been there since last summer, when 'Lecty was on
making her visit. And we took all the family along, just as you can," in
a merry tone. "But if you like to have mother come and spend the day,
I'll keep house. You see, there's always meals to get for father and
Warren."

"Yes, I kept house before you were born, Betty Leverett, and had a man
who needed three stout meals a day. But he want a mite of trouble. I
never see a man easier to suit than Hatfield Perkins. And I didn't
neglect him because he could be put off and find no fault. There are men
in the world that it would take the grace of a saint to cook for, only
in heaven among the saints if there aint any marryin' you can quite make
up your mind there isn't any cooking either. Well--can't you get a
chair? There's that little low one for Dorothy."

"If you please," began Doris, with quiet dignity, "my name is not
Dorothy."

"Well, you ought to hear yourself called by a Christian name once in a
while."

"Still it isn't a Scriptural name," interposed Betty. "I looked over the
list to see. And here are some nice fresh eggs. Mother has had several
splendid layers this fall."

"I'm obliged, I'm sure. I do wish I could keep a few hens. But Jonas
Field wants so much room, and there's my garden herbs. I've just been
dosing on sage tea and honey, and it has about broke up my cough. I
generally do take one cold in autumn, and then I go to March before I
get another. Well, I s'pose Recompense Gardiner stays at your uncle's?
There was some talk I heard about some old fellow hanging round. After
I'd lived so long single, I'd stay as I was."

"I can't imagine Miss Recompense getting her wedding gown ready. What
would it be, I wonder?"

Betty laughed heartily.

"She could buy the best in the market if she chose," said Aunt Priscilla
sharply. "She must have a good bit of money laid by. Cousin Winthrop
would be lost without her. Not but what there are as good housekeepers
in the world as Recompense Gardiner."

Then Aunt Priscilla had to stop and cough. Polly came in with some
posset.

"I'll have one of those eggs beaten up in some mulled cider, Polly," she
said.

Doris glanced curiously at the old colored woman. She was tall and still
very straight, and, though kept in strict subjection all her life, had
an air and bearing of dignity, as if she might have come from some royal
race. Her hair was snowy white, and the little braided tails hung below
her turban, which was of gay Madras, and the small shoulder shawl she
wore was of red and black.

"You're too old a woman to be fussed up in such gay things," Aunt
Priscilla would exclaim severely every time she brought them home, for
she purchased Polly's attire. "But you've always worn them, and I really
don't know as you'd look natural in suitable colors."

"I like cheerful goin' things, that make you feel as if the Lord had
just let out a summer day stead'er November. An', missus, you don't like
a gray fire burned half to ashes, nuther."

Truth to tell, Aunt Priscilla did hanker after a bit of gayety, though
she frowned on it to preserve a just balance with conscience. And no one
knew the parcels done up in an old oaken chest in the storeroom, that
had been indulged in at reprehensible moments.

Just then there was a curious diversion to Doris. A beautiful sleek
tiger cat entered the room, and, walking up to the fire, turned and
looked at the child, waving his long tail majestically back and forth.
He came nearer with his sleepy, translucent eyes studying her.

"May I--touch him?" she asked hesitatingly.

"Land, yes! That's Polly's Solomon. She talks to him till she's made him
most a witch, and she thinks he knows everything."

Solomon settled the question by putting two snowy white paws on Doris'
knee, and stretching up indefinitely with a dainty sniffing movement of
the whiskers, as if he wanted to understand whether advances would be
favorably received.

There was a cat at the Leveretts', but it haunted the cellar, the shed,
and the stable, and was hustled out of the kitchen with no ceremony.
Aunt Elizabeth was not fond of cats, and cat hairs were her abomination.
Doris had uttered an ejaculation of delight when she saw it one morning,
a big black fellow with white feet and a white choker.

"Don't touch him--he'll scratch you like as not!" exclaimed Mrs.
Leverett in a quick tone. "Get out, Tom! We don't allow him in the
house. He's a good mouser, but it spoils cats to nurse them. And I never
could abide a cat around under my feet."

Doris had made one other attempt to win Tom's favor as she was walking
about the garden. But Tom eyed her askance and discreetly declined her
overture. There had always been cats at Miss Arabella's, and two great
dogs as well as her pony, and birds so tame they would fly down for
crumbs.

"Oh, kitty!" She touched him with her dainty fingers. "Solomon. What a
funny name! Oh, you beautiful great big cat!"

Solomon rubbed his head on her arm and began to purr. He was sure of a
welcome.

"You can't get in her lap, for it isn't big enough," said Aunt
Priscilla. "Polly's got him spoiled out of all reason, though I s'pose a
cat's company when there's no one else."

"If you would let me--sit on the rug," ventured Doris timidly. She had
been rather precise of late in her new home.

"Well, I declare! Sit on the floor if you want to. The floor was plenty
good enough to sit on when I was a child. Me and my sisters had a corner
of our own, and we'd sit there and sew."

Betty had been about to interpose, but at Aunt Priscilla's concession
Doris had slidden down and taken Solomon in her arms, and rubbed her
soft cheek against his head. Polly came in with the egg and cider.

"Why, little missy, you just done charm him! He's mighty afeared of the
boys around, and there aint no little gals. Do just see him, Mis'
Perkins. He acts as if he was rollin' in a bed of sweet catnip."

"One is about as wise as the other," declared Aunt Priscilla, nodding
her head. She was rather glad there was something in her house to be a
rival to Cousin Winthrop and the Leveretts, since Doris Adams was to be
held up on a high plane and spoiled with indulgence. She had not yet
made up her mind whether she would like the child or not.

"Yes, she had started at Mrs. Webb's school. Uncle Win was going to make
some arrangement about her French and her writing when he came over.
They'd had a letter from 'Lecty, and as the legislature was to meet in
Hartford there would be quite gay times, and she did so hope she could
go. Mary wasn't very well, and wanted mother to come on for a week or
two presently," and Betty made big eyes at Aunt Priscilla, while that
lady nodded as well as her bundled up head would admit, to signify that
she understood.

"I'm sure you ought to know enough to keep house for your father and
Warren," was the comment.

Then Betty said they must go, and Aunt Priscilla tartly rejoined that
they might look in and see whether she was dead or alive.

"Can I come and see Solomon again?" asked Doris.

"Of course, since Solomon is head of the house."

"Thank you," returned Doris simply, not understanding the sarcasm.

"Wonderful how Solomon liked little missy," said Polly, straightening
the chairs and restoring order.

"My head aches with all the talking," said Aunt Priscilla. "I want to be
alone."

But she felt a little conscience-smitten as Polly stepped about in the
kitchen getting supper and sang in a thick, soft, but rather quivering
voice, her favorite hymn:

    "'Hark, from the tombs a doleful sound,
    Mine ears, attend the cry.'"

Yes, Polly was a faithful old creature, only she had grown forgetful,
and she was losing her strength, and black people gave out suddenly. But
there, what was the use of borrowing trouble, and the idea of having a
child around to train and stew over, and no doubt she would be getting
married just the time when she, Mrs. Perkins, would need her the most.
The Lord hadn't seen fit to give her any children to comfort her old
age; after all, would she want a delicate little thing like this child
with a heathenish name!

It was quite chilly now, and Doris, holding Betty's hand tight, skipped
along merrily, her heart strangely warm and gay.

"She's very queer, and her voice sounds as if she couldn't get the scold
out of it, doesn't it? And I felt afraid of the black woman first. I
never saw any until we were on the ship. But the beautiful cat!" with a
lingering emphasis on the adjective.

"Well--cats are cats," replied Betty sagely. "I don't care much about
them myself, though we should be overrun with rats and mice if it wasn't
for them. I like a fine, big dog."

"Oh, Betty!" and a girl caught her by the shoulder, turning her round
and laughing heartily at her surprise.

"Why, Jane! How you startled me."

"And is this your little foreign girl--French or something?"

"English, if you please, and her father was born here in Boston. And
isn't it queer that she should have lived in another Boston? And her
name is Doris Adams."

"I'm sure the Adams are sown thickly enough about, but Doris sounds like
verses. And, oh, Betty, I've been crazy to see you for two days. I am to
have a real party next week. I shall be seventeen, and there will be
just that number invited. The girls are to come in the afternoon and
bring their sewing. There will be nine. And eight young men,"
laughing--"boys that we know and have gone sledding with. They are to
come to tea at seven sharp. Cousin Morris is to bring his black fiddler
Joe, and we are going to dance, and play forfeits, and have just a grand
time."

"But I don't know how to dance--much."

Betty's highest accomplishments were in the three R's. Her manuscript
arithmetic was the pride of the family, but of grammar she candidly
confessed she couldn't make beginning nor end.

"I'm going to coax hard to go to dancing school this winter. Sam is
going, and he says all the girls are learning to dance. Mother's coming
round to-morrow. We want to be sure about the nine girls. Good-by, it's
getting late."

"Now, let's hurry home," exclaimed Betty.

The table was laid, and Mrs. Leverett said:

"Why didn't you stay all night?"

"Aunt Priscilla has her autumn cold. She was quite cross at first. She
was sick last week, and went to church yesterday, and is worse to-day.
But she was glad about the eggs."

"There comes your father. Be spry now."

After supper Warren went out to look after Jack. Mr. Leverett took his
chair in the corner of the wide chimney and pushed out the stool for the
little girl. She smiled as she sat down and laid her hands on his knee.

"So you didn't like the school," he began, after a long silence.

"Yes--I liked--most of it," rather reluctantly.

"What was it you didn't like--sitting still?"

"No--not that."

"The lessons? Were they too hard?"

"She said I needn't mind this morning."

"But the figuring bothered you."

"Of course I didn't know," she said candidly.

"You will get into it pretty soon. Betty'll train you. She's a master
hand at figures, smarter than Warren."

Doris made no comment, but there was an unconfessed puzzle in her large
eyes.

"Well, what is it?" The interest he took in her surprised himself.

"She whipped a boy on his hands with a ruler very hard because he
couldn't remember his lesson."

"That's a good aid to memory. I've seen it tried when I was a boy."

"But if I had tried and tried and studied I should have thought it very
cruel."

"I guess he didn't try or study. What did Miss Arabella do to you when
you were careless and forgot things? Or were you never bad?"

Doris hung her head, while a faint color mounted to her brow.

"When I was naughty I couldn't go out on the pony nor take him a lump of
sugar. And he loved sugar so. And sometimes I had to study a psalm."

"And weren't children ever whipped in your country?"

"The common people beat their children and their wives and their horses
and dogs. But Miss Arabella was a lady. She couldn't have beaten a cat."

There was a switch on the top of the closet in the kitchen that beat Tom
out of doors when he ventured in. Doris' tender heart rather resented
this.

Foster Leverett smiled at this distinction.

"I do suppose people might get along, but boys are often very trying."

"Don't grown-up people ever do anything wrong? And when they scold
dreadfully aren't they out of temper? Miss Arabella thought it very
unladylike to get out of temper. And what is done to grown people?"

Uncle Leverett laughed and squeezed the soft little hands on his knee.
Yes, men and women flew into a rage every day. Their strict training had
not given them control of their tempers. It had not made them all
honest and truthful. Yet it might have been the best training for the
times, for the heroic duties laid upon them.

"She was very cross once, and her forehead all wrinkled up, and her eyes
were so--so hard; and when she is pleasant she has beautiful brown eyes.
I like beautiful people."

"We can't all be beautiful or good-tempered."

"But Miss Arabella said we could, and that beauty meant sweetness and
grace and truth and kindliness, and that"--she lowered her voice
mysteriously--"where one really tried to be good God gave them grace to
help. I don't quite know about the grace, I'm so little. But I want to
be good."

Was there a beautiful side to goodness? Foster Leverett had been for
some time weakening in the old faith.

"Now I'm ready," exclaimed Betty briskly. "We can say tables without any
book."

Uncle Leverett laughed and squeezed the soft little stranger at his
hearth. But affection was not demonstrative in those days, and it looked
rather weak in a man.

They had grand fun saying addition and multiplication tables. They went
up to the fives, and Doris found that here was a wonderful bridge.

"You could add clear up to a hundred without any trouble," the child
declared gleefully. "But you couldn't multiply."

"Why, yes," said Betty. "I had not exactly thought of it before. Five
times thirteen would be sixty-five, and so on. Five times twenty would
be a hundred. Why, we do it in a great many things, but I suppose
they--whoever invented tables thought that was far enough to go."

"Who did invent them?"

"I really don't know. Doris, we will ask Uncle Win when he comes over.
He knows about everything."

"It would take a great many years to learn everything," said the child
with a sigh.

"But the knowledge goes round," said Betty with arch gayety. "One has a
little and the other a little and they exchange, and then women don't
have to know as much as men."

"I'd like to see the man that knew enough to keep house," declared Mrs.
Leverett. "And didn't Mrs. Abigail Adams farm and bring up her children
and pay off debts while her husband was at congress and war and abroad?
It isn't so much book learning as good common sense. Just think what the
old Revolutionary women did! And now it is high time Doris went to bed.
Come, child, you're so sleepy in the morning."

Doris had her dress unbuttoned and untied her shoes to make sure there
were no knots to pick out. Knots in shoe-strings were very perplexing at
this period when no one had dreamed of button boots. I doubt, indeed, if
anyone would have worn them. The shoes were made straight and changed
every morning, so as to wear evenly and not get walked over at the side.
And people had pretty feet then, with arched insteps, and walked with an
air of dignity. Some of the gouty old men had to be measured for a
tender place here or a protuberance there, or allowance made for bad
corn.

Doris said good-night and went upstairs. Miss Arabella had always kissed
her. Betty did sometimes, and said "What a sweet little thing you are!"
or "What a queer little thing you are!" She said her prayers, hung her
clothes over a chair, put her little shoes just right for morning, and
stepping on the chair round vaulted over to her side of the bed.

What a long, long day it had been! The most beautiful thing in it was
the big cat Solomon, and if she could nurse him she shouldn't be very
much afraid of Aunt Priscilla. Oh, how soft his fur was, and how he
purred, just as if he was glad she had come! Perhaps he sometimes tired
of Aunt Priscilla and black Polly, and longed for a little girl who
didn't mind sitting on the floor, and who knew how to play.

Then there was the spelling, and she tried to think over the hard words,
and the tables, and her small brain kept up such a riot that she was not
a bit sleepy.

Betty brought out her work after lighting another candle. Mr. Leverett
sat and dozed and thought. When Warren had finished up the chores he
went around to the other side of Betty's table, and was soon lost in a
history of the French War. When the tall old clock struck nine it was
time to prepare for bed.

Betty was putting up some wisps of hair in tea leads, when Doris sat up.

"Oh, you midget! Are you not asleep yet?" she exclaimed.

"No. I've been thinking of everything. And, Betty, can you go to the
party? I went to the May party when I was home, but that was out of
doors, and we danced round the May pole."

"The party----"

"Yes, did you ask Aunt Elizabeth?" eagerly.

"Oh, no. I wasn't going to be caught that way. She would have had time
to think up ever so many excellent reasons why I shouldn't go. And now
Mrs. Morse will take her by surprise, and she will not have any good
excuse ready and so she will give in."

"But wouldn't she want you to go?" Doris was rather confused by the
reasoning.

"I suppose she thinks I am young to begin with parties. But it isn't a
regular grown-up affair. And I am just crazy to go. I'm so glad you did
not blurt it out, Doris. I'll give you a dozen kisses for being so
sensible. Now lie down and go to sleep this minute."

The child gave a soft little laugh, and a moment later Betty was
"cuddling" her in her arms.

The result of Foster Leverett's cogitation over the fire led him to say
the next morning to his son:

"Warren, you run on. I have a little errand to do."

He turned in another direction and went down two squares. There was Mrs.
Webb sweeping off her front porch and plank path.

"Good-morning," stopping and leaning on her broom as he halted.

"I'm glad to see you, Mrs. Webb. I suppose the little girl wasn't much
trouble yesterday. She's never been to school before."

"Trouble! Bless you, no. If they were all as good as that I should feel
frightened, I really should, thinking they wouldn't live long. She's a
bit timid----"

"She's backward in some things--figures, for instance. And a little
strange, I suppose. So if you would be kind of easy-going with her until
she gets settled to the work----"

"Oh, you needn't be a mite afraid, Mr. Leverett. She's smart in some
things, but, you see, she's been run on different lines, and we'll get
straight presently. She's a nice obedient little thing, and I do like to
see children mind at the first bidding."

"Your school is so near we thought we would try it this winter. Yes, I
think all will go right. Good-morning," and his heart lightened at the
thought of smoothing the way for Doris.

CHAPTER VI

A BIRTHDAY PARTY

Doris sat in the corner studying. Betty had gone over to Mme. Sheafe's
to make sure she had her lace stitch just right. They had been ironing
and baking all the morning, and now Mrs. Leverett had attacked her pile
of shirts, when Mrs. Morse came in. She had her work as well. Everybody
took work, for neighborly calls were an hour or two long.

Doris had been presented first, a kind of attention paid to her because
she was from across the ocean. Everybody's health had been inquired
about.

"I came over on a real errand," began Mrs. Morse presently. "And you
mustn't make excuses. My Jane is going to have a little company week
from Thursday night. She will be seventeen, and we are going to have
seventeen young people. The girls will come in the afternoon, and the
young men at seven to tea. Then they will have a little merrymaking. And
we want Warren and Betty. We are going to ask those we want the most
first, and if so happen anything serious stands in the way, we'll take
the next row."

"You're very kind, I'm sure. Warren does go out among young people, but
I don't know about Betty. She's so young."

"Well, she will have to start sometime. My mother was married at
sixteen, but that is too young to begin life, though she never regretted
it, and she had a baker's dozen of children."

"I'm not in any hurry about Betty. She is the last girl home. And the
others were past nineteen when they were married."

"We feel there is no hurry about Jane. But I've had a happy life, and
all six of us girls were married. Not an old maid among us."

"Old maids do come in handy oftentimes," subjoined Mrs. Leverett.

Yet in those days every mother secretly, often openly, counted on her
girls being married. The single woman had no such meed of respect paid
her as the "bachelor maids" of to-day. She often went out as housekeeper
in a widower's family, and took him and his children for the sake of
having a home of her own. Still, there were some fine unmarried women.

"Yes, they're handy in sickness and times when work presses, but they do
get queer and opinionated from having their own way, I suppose."

Alas! what would the single woman, snubbed on every side, have said to
that!

Then they branched into a chatty discussion about some neighbors, and as
neither was an ill-natured woman, it was simply gossip and not scandal.
Mrs. Morse had a new recipe for making soap that rendered it clearer and
lighter than the old one and made better soap, she thought. And
to-morrow she was going at her best candles, so as to be sure they would
be hard and nice for the company.

"But you haven't said about Betty?"

"I'll have to think it over," was the rather cautious reply.

"Elizabeth Leverett! I feel real hurt that you should hesitate, when our
children have grown up together!" exclaimed Mrs. Morse rather aggrieved.

"It's only about putting Betty forward so much. Why, you know I don't
mind her running in and out. She's at your house twice as often as Jane
is here. And when girls begin to go to parties there's no telling just
where to draw the line. It's very good of you to ask her. Yes, I do
suppose she ought to go. The girls have been such friends."

"Jane would feel dreadfully disappointed. She said: 'Now, mother, you
run over to the Leveretts' first of all, because I want to be sure of
Betty.'"

"Well--I'll have to say yes. Next Thursday. There's nothing to prevent
that I know of. I suppose it isn't to be a grand dress affair, for I
hadn't counted on making Betty any real party gown this winter? I don't
believe she's done growing. Who else did you have in your mind, if it
isn't a secret?"

"I'd trust it to you, anyhow. The two Stephens girls and Letty Rowe,
Sally Prentiss and Agnes Green. That makes six, with Betty. We haven't
quite decided on the others. I dare say some of the girls will be mad as
hornets at being left out, but there can be only nine. Of course we do
not count Jane."

These were all very nice girls of well-to-do families. Mrs. Leverett did
feel a little proud that Betty should head the list.

"They are all to bring their sewing. I had half a mind to put on a
quilt, but I knew there'd be a talk right away about Jane marrying, and
she has no steady company. I tell her she can't have until she is
eighteen."

"That's plenty young enough. I don't suppose there will be any dancing?"

"They've decided on proverbs and forfeits. Cousin Morris is coming round
to help the boys plan it out. Are you real set against dancing,
Elizabeth?"

"Well--I'm afraid we are going on rather fast, and will get to be too
trifling. I can't seem to make up my mind just what is right. Foster
thinks we have been too strait-laced."

"I danced when I was young, and I don't see as it hurt me any. And some
of the best young people here-about are going to a dancing class this
winter. Joseph has promised to join it, and his father said he was old
enough to decide for himself."

Mrs. Morse had finished her sewing and folded it, quilting her needle
back and forth, putting her thimble and spool of cotton inside and
slipping it in her work bag. Then she rose and wrapped her shawl about
her and tied on her hood.

"Then we may count on Warren and Betty? Give them my love and Jane's,
and say we shall be happy to see them a week from Thursday, Betty at
three and Warren at seven. Come over soon, do."

When she had closed the door on her friend Mrs. Leverett glanced over to
the corner where Doris sat with her book. She had half a mind to ask her
not to mention the call to Betty, then she shrank from anything so
small.

Doris studied and she sewed. Then Betty came in flushed and pretty.

"I didn't have the stitch quite right," she said to her mother. "And I
have been telling her about Doris. She wants me to bring her over some
afternoon. She is a little curious to see what kind of lace Doris makes.
She has a pillow--I should call it a cushion."

"Doris ought to learn plain sewing----"

"Poor little mite! How your cares will increase. Can I take her over to
Mme. Sheafe's some day?"

"If there is ever any time," with a sigh.

"Do you know your spelling?" She flew over to Doris and asked a question
with her eyes, and Doris answered in the same fashion, though she had a
fancy that she ought not. Betty took her book and found that Doris knew
all but two words.

"If I could only do sums as easily," she said, with a plaintive sound in
her voice.

"Oh, you will learn. You can't do everything in a moment, or your
education would soon be finished."

"What is Mme. Sheafe like?" she asked with some curiosity, thinking of
Aunt Priscilla.

"She is a very splendid, tall old lady. She ought to be a queen. And she
was quite rich at one time, but she isn't now, and she lives in a little
one-story cottage that is just like--well, full of curious and costly
things. And now she gives lessons in embroidery and lace work, and
hemstitching and fine sewing, and she wears the most beautiful gowns and
laces and rings."

"Your tongue runs like a mill race, Betty."

"I think everybody in Boston is tall," said Doris with quaint
consideration that made both mother and daughter laugh.

"You see, there is plenty of room in the country to grow," explained
Betty.

"Can I do some sums?"

"Oh, yes."

Plainly, figures were a delusion and a snare to little Doris Adams. They
went astray so easily, they would not add up in the right amounts. Mrs.
Webb did not like the children to count their fingers, though some of
them were very expert about it. When the child got in among the sevens,
eights, and nines she was wild with helplessness.

Supper time came. This was Warren's evening for the debating society,
which even then was a great entertainment for the young men. There would
be plenty of time to give them the invitation. Mrs. Leverett was sorry
she had consented to Betty's going, but it would have made ill friends.

The next day Mrs. Hollis Leverett, the eldest son's wife, came up to
spend the day, with her two younger children. Doris was not much used to
babies, but she liked the little girl. The husband came up after supper
and took them home in a carryall. Doris was tired and sleepy, and
couldn't stop to do any sums.

Betty was folding up her work, and Warren yawning over his book, when
Mrs. Leverett began in a rather jerky manner:

"Mrs. Morse was in and invited you both to Jane's birthday party next
Thursday night."