AMONG THE LINDENS

_By the Same Author._

THE LITTLE LADY OF THE HORSE.

  _Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill._

THE MUSHROOM CAVE.

  _Illustrated by Victor A. Searles._

A CAPE MAY DIAMOND.

  _Illustrated by Lilian Crawford True._

  Square 12mo. Cloth, extra. $1.50.

THE LITTLE RED SCHOOLHOUSE.

  _Illustrated by Victor A. Searles._

  Square 12mo. Cloth. $1.25.

[Illustration: BEARING IN HER ARMS THE BASKET OF CHRYSANTHEMUMS.]

  AMONG THE LINDENS

  BY

  EVELYN RAYMOND

  AUTHOR OF

  “THE LITTLE LADY OF THE HORSE,” “THE MUSHROOM CAVE”
  “A CAPE MAY DIAMOND,” “THE LITTLE RED
  SCHOOLHOUSE,” ETC.

  Illustrated

  BY VICTOR A. SEARLES

  BOSTON
  LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
  1898

  _Copyright, 1898_,
  BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.

  _All rights reserved._

  University Press:
  JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.

CONTENTS.

  CHAPTER                                      PAGE

      I. A KINDLY DEED                            1

     II. PINK PETALS AND BRIGHT VISIONS          13

    III. A CHRYSANTHEMUM DINNER                  28

     IV. A GENEROUS CONSPIRACY                   41

      V. IN OLD TRINITY                          54

     VI. “HUMPTY-DUMPTY’S” NOVEL EXPERIENCE      67

    VII. DINING IN STATE                         81

   VIII. PROPOUNDING A RIDDLE                    94

     IX. THE FIRST EVENING IN THE NEW HOME      108

      X. ANOTHER LITTLE EPISODE                 121

     XI. MISS JOANNA                            136

    XII. BITS OF NATURAL HISTORY                150

   XIII. GETTING DOWN TO REALITIES              161

    XIV. APIS MELLIFICA                         175

     XV. STREAKS OF HUMAN NATURE                187

    XVI. A MODERN KING ARTHUR                   201

   XVII. ROLAND’S PROJECT                       217

  XVIII. ROBERT’S OCCUPATION GONE               229

    XIX. ROBERT’S HAPPY GUESS                   244

     XX. WISTARIA                               261

    XXI. THREE YEARS LATER.--THE RESULT         277

ILLUSTRATIONS.

FROM DRAWINGS BY VICTOR A. SEARLES.

                                                                    PAGE

  “BEARING IN HER ARMS THE BASKET OF CHRYSANTHEMUMS”      _Frontispiece_

  “HE CAST A SUPERCILIOUS GLANCE ABOUT UPON THE SPECTATORS”           94

  “‘WULL, BE YOU THE EGG WOMAN?’”                                    145

  “‘LET ME ASK YOU ONE OR TWO THINGS. MAY I?’”                       184

  “‘WHY, FOLKS! WHAT’S ALL THIS?’”                                   233

  “THERE WAS NO ANSWER, AND MISS JOANNA TURNED ABOUT SWIFTLY”        267

AMONG THE LINDENS.

CHAPTER I.

A KINDLY DEED.

“Look out! Oh, look out, sir!”

“Is the man senseless?” cried a second voice.

“This way, sir--this way--quick! Dear me! Are you hurt?”

The school-girl who had uttered the first exclamation darted suddenly
forward into the midst of the crowd, and pulled from under the very
hoofs of the horses, attached to a heavy dray, the queer little old
gentleman who had occasioned her outcry.

Every New Yorker knows how thronged is that particular point, at
the southwestern corner of pretty Madison Square, where Broadway,
Fifth Avenue, and Twenty-third Street--all favorite thoroughfares of
the shoppers--meet to shake hands, as it were; while each adds its
complement of humanity on foot and humanity in vehicles to swell the
current eddying about the corner.

A gay and lively place it was, on that early afternoon. All the
curbstone merchants had come out with their mechanical toys, forever
getting under the pedestrians’ feet, tripping them up, and threatening
more than one with mischance.

Among such was an old gentleman whose dress was quaint and out of
style, while his manner was that of one unused to scenes of confusion.
For some moments he had stood upon the sidewalk, watching with curious
interest what went on about him; but when a papier-maché monkey gave
a realistic spring from the end of an elastic cord, and clasped his
ankle, he stepped boldly forth into the whirlpool of wheels. For half
the short distance between curbs all went well; then he slipped upon
the slimy pavement, and just where hoofs and wheels were in most
hopeless tangle, he fell.

There was an outcry of horror from many throats.

The policeman piloting a party of women over the crossing turned
hurriedly, just in time to see what had happened, as well as a slim
girlish figure spring to the rescue.

“Stop! That’s dangerous! Why should two be killed?”

There were groans and execrations from the drivers of carts and
carriages, the swiftly forming blockade which follows any break in
the routine of city transit, and the patrolman was back, seizing the
old man’s shoulder and demanding why he should make so much more
disturbance than was necessary by tumbling down in that ridiculous
manner. Or if the policeman did not put his inquiry in just those
words he made it distinctly evident to Mr. Philipse Chidly Brook that
visitors who could not conduct themselves any better than he had done
might likely find themselves at the station-house, to be cared for at
the public expense.

“Come this way with me, will you? Come this way just for a moment!”
cried the old gentleman, and seized upon Bonny’s hand so forcibly that,
whether she would or no, she had to follow where he led. This was
into the flower-shop close by, and she obeyed readily enough, after
all; for she loved an adventure dearly and therefore--so her sister
declared--was always meeting with one.

Isabelle, who had been with her all along, now interposed: “Bonny! What
are you doing? You must not go anywhere with a stranger. Come away at
once!” and she laid her hand in firm remonstrance upon thoughtless
Beatrice’s shoulder.

“Yes, Belle; directly. But I must see if he is hurt. Come along, too.”

“Yes, certainly; come along, too,” repeated Mr. Brook, turning toward
the elder miss.

“Thank you. It is impossible. Come, Bonny.”

But fun-loving Bonny had already followed the man into the shop; where,
with a smile of gratitude upon his very muddy face, he asked: “Who are
you, my dear?”

“Oh! no matter about that, sir. Are you hurt?”

“Not at all, I think. Time will tell. I might have some cracked bones
about my anatomy somewhere, and yet not know it, amid all this whirl
and racket. Five-and-twenty years since I set foot in the streets of
New York before, and I find them greatly changed. But I must know
your name, please. I must know to whom I am indebted for my life. I
should have been killed but for your courage, my dear; or have been
arrested and sent to the lock-up, than which I would almost think death
preferable.”

“Bonny! Bonny Beckwith! Come at once! Mother would be very much
displeased! The idea of your following a stranger about in this
way!” cried Belle, now opening the door of the shop, and looking
threateningly at her sister.

“Directly, dear. Now, sir, can you tell me where you are stopping? If
you are such a stranger here, I should think you would better take a
carriage to your home--or hotel. After twenty-five years the town must
seem like a new world to you, or, I mean--”

“Bonny!”

“Can I serve you, miss?” asked a clerk, coming forward, and Miss
Beatrice interpreted his tone to mean: “If I can I wish to do so at
once. If I cannot I would like to have the store vacated. This is no
rendezvous for adventurers.”

“No, I need nothing,” said Bonny, and moved to the door, nodding her
head brightly toward her old gentleman, but casting rather wistful
glances at the counters full of beautiful blossoms as she passed them
on her way.

“Wait a moment! Wait a moment, my dear! I have heard your name, you
see. Your sister spoke it. Here is my card; and if you will not tell
me where you live that I may call and thank you, at least let me give
you a posy before we part. Pick out what you like. Pick out what you
like, my dear, and I will pay for it. Here is my card,--Philipse Chidly
Brook, New Windsor, New York. Everybody thereabouts knows me, as
everybody hereabouts used to know me half a century ago,

  ‘When I was young as you are young,
  And love-lights in the casement hung.’”

Bonny dropped her hand from the door-knob. “Why, that is Thackeray,
sir! So you know him, too?”

“Beatrice Beckwith! Will you--or will you not--come? I--am--going!”
cried the indignant Isabelle, moving slowly away from her ill-conducted
little sister. She was greatly shocked and mortified by Bonny’s
readiness to take up with anything and anybody, and was quite justified
in her feeling; for in most cases there is danger in any girl following
a stranger, for even so slight a distance as Bonny had done, in a great
city like New York.

But this time she happened to be safe enough. Old Chidly Brook was a
gentleman if ever one lived; and queer and quaint as he now appeared,
time had been when he was a great favorite even in the most exclusive
circles of New York’s best society.

“My dear, my age is sufficient guaranty of my honor. Do allow me to
give you a little bouquet of some sort. No? Then--have you a mother?”

“Certainly. I have a dear, dear mother, who will be troubled if I stay
from home longer. Good-by.”

“Her name? Her number? I must be allowed to call and pay her my
respects!” In his eagerness, which was almost childish, the old man
laid his thin hand upon Bonny’s wrist.

She glanced down upon it; its delicacy and refinement appealed to her;
she longed to know more of its owner, and replied: “My mother is Mrs.
Rachel Beckwith, Number Blank, Second Avenue.” Then she darted out of
the shop and tried to look defiantly into the vexed face of her pretty
sister Belle.

But it was of no use. The defiance faded soon, and a whimsical humility
took its place. “I’m sorry, I’m awfully sorry, dear, that I didn’t mind
you. I’m sorry I didn’t let the dear old fellow lie there to be hurt.
I-- No, I don’t mean that. But I’ll try to behave next time. I truly
will.”

“H’m-m!” replied Isabelle; and vouchsafed nothing further till they had
reached their home, a cosey if small and plainly furnished “flat” at
the location which Bonny had given Mr. Brook.

That old gentleman, left in the flower-store after his young rescuer
had departed, turned at once to the clerk. “I saw the child cast her
eyes rather longingly, I thought, upon that vase of salmon-colored
artemisias. Are they for sale?”

“Certainly,” replied the attendant, and moved the vase forward upon the
counter. “They are the same thing as artemisias, sir, but the popular
name is chrysanthemum. These are prize flowers, from the late show. A
rare color. One of our own originating.”

“H’m-m, h’m-m. Very pretty, but roses suit me better. However, she
looked at these more than she did at the roses and pinks, and I’ll take
them. How much are they?”

“Seventy-five cents each.”

“W-h-a-t? How--much?”

“Seventy-five cents each. Chrysanthemums are the fashionable flower
now. All the people at the horse-show--”

“That’s what I came into town to see. Thinks I to myself, Old fellow,
brace up yourself a bit and take one more look at life before you step
behind the curtain. A great town, young man, and full of pitfalls.”

“Yes, sir,” respectfully. “Will you take more than one of the blooms,
sir?”

“More than one! What do you think of me, lad? If you were going to send
a posy to a pretty little girl, would you send her a pitiful, solitary
blossom? If you would you ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

The salesman laughed pleasantly, and awaited directions, which came
promptly.

“Pick me out the prettiest and biggest basket you have in the shop.
Then fill it with these artemisias--if there are enough. If not, finish
out with white ones. She looked just like a pretty pink and white
blossom herself, with her rosy cheeks and white teeth. And what eyes
she had--did she not? Yes, yes; a big basket of posies is a small price
to pay for old bones saved from breaking! It must be of the best.”

“How will this please you?” asked the attendant, showing a pretty
willow affair, shaped like the baskets seen in old-fashioned “Annuals”
as held by the hands of high-coiffured dames with sloping shoulders and
simpering mouths.

Mr. Chidly Brook was charmed directly. “That’s it! That is just the
very thing! Some of the good old notions have survived these silly
later fashions, then? Glad to hear it! I am exceedingly glad to hear
it. Now, young man, will you lend me a pen and paper, if you have such
a thing handy?”

“Certainly. Will you, please, step to the desk?”

“Just to write a little note, you know. A sort of _billet-doux_, as
we called them in the old days. I was a hand--I was a master hand at
writing _billet-doux_ then. Let me see. Number Blank, Second Avenue. A
most aristocratic neighborhood, is it not?”

“Well--sir--I don’t know. It might be. It was once, they say. I--”

“Enough. I hate these eternal ‘was onces’! No matter. What will do
for a home for that little girl must be a pretty sort of place any
way. On our farm, my uncle’s, it was just above that grand street of
millionaire residents-- Fourteenth-- What are you staring at, sir?”

“Nothing. Nothing whatever, beg pardon. But you must have known New
York for many years. Fourteenth Street is now a synonym for a street
of cheap lodging-houses and such; that is, the resident portion. The
business part is fine enough. It will take about forty-three or five
chrysanthemums to fill this basket. But we have smaller ones, sir, of
the same shape. Will you look at them?”

“I said the biggest. I didn’t mean the smallest. Thank Heaven, Philipse
Chidly Brook is still able to pay for a decent basket of posies for his
little lady, I should hope! Thank you. I will have the note written by
the time the basket is filled. And I wish to have especial care used in
the delivery of the same. The _billet-doux_ is important. I would not
have it lost.”

“It shall not be. But the filling of the basket will take some time, a
half-hour at least.”

“No matter. I am not pressed for time. Yet. I will wait.”

He did wait, with what those better acquainted with him would have
considered an unusual amount of patience; but the truth was that
the old fellow had had a pretty severe shaking-up, and now that his
excitement over the accident began to ebb, he was more and more
conscious of pains and bruises.

Finally, when the basket, perfect in its beauty, was tendered for his
inspection, he rose very stiffly and barely looked at it.

“Here is the bill, sir. Forty-three chrysanthemums at seventy-five
cents, thirty-two dollars, twenty-five cents; one basket, five--”

“The amount, lad! The amount! I hate detail.”

“Thirty-nine dollars, twenty-five cents.”

“All right. Two twenty-dollar pieces. Keep the change and buy one posy
for your girl!” And with this fine sarcasm, as he considered it, the
old gentleman left the flower-shop, entered the cab which a cash-boy
had called for him, and gave the direction: “Astor House. At once.”

CHAPTER II.

PINK PETALS AND BRIGHT VISIONS.

“Yes, Mother; if you cannot persuade Beatrice to behave herself upon
the street, I really think she should not be allowed to go out. Her
goings on are very mortifying to me, and she is sure to get us into
some dreadful sort of scrape yet, worse than that small-pox scare last
week--”

“Sweet maiden, all severe! Don’t! That is a sensitive point with
your unfortunate sister! The less said upon it the more agreeable!”
interrupted Bonny, skipping across the narrow parlor of the Beckwith
home, whither they had just returned, and catching the tall Isabelle
around the waist with a persuasive little hug.

“What have you been doing now, Beatrice?” asked the gentle little
widow, looking up from a piece of wonderful embroidery, and fixing a
half-amused, half-apprehensive gaze upon the younger girl’s face.

“Nothing, dear Motherkin, but a simple act of charity. I happened to
see a funny old gentleman tumble down in the middle of the street, and
I pulled him out of harm’s way. Isn’t that a right sort of thing to do?”

“But that is only the beginning,” added Belle. “She was not contented
with a really kind and brave rescue, but she must go off with her
protégé into a store and tell him all about ourselves, and--”

“Isabelle! Not ‘all.’ I merely told him where we lived. And it was
really an act of charity to ourselves. He will make a delightful and
very salable model for Motherkin’s embroidery. Lend me your pencil,
dear. Let me show you!”

“Beatrice, have you done this foolish thing? Did you go with any
stranger into a shop?”

“Please don’t interrupt the flow of art, Motherkin!”

“If you did, you must never do so again. Leave the person you have
assisted to go his way and you go yours. And of all people to get into
such affairs you are certainly the most unfortunate child I ever knew.”

“I’ll try to be good, Mother dear. Only it will be very difficult. He
was a nice old man. This looks very like him. You must do his legs in
burnt sienna. See? And his coat--his coat was like a ‘picter.’ All
tight down the back and very high-shouldered as to sleeves, which also
were very long and narrow. Do his coat in Prussian blue. His ‘weskit’
was yellow ochre, touched up with umber; and his hat--alas! his hat had
disappeared! His face--Motherkin, he had a nice face. A good face, a--”

“Like the tramp you let into the house, while we were out, to steal
our last half-dozen silver spoons! He, I remember, ‘had a good face, a
really intellectual face’!” remarked Belle, gibingly. Her good nature
was now quite restored by the pleasure of finding some excuse for
teasing Beatrice, who liked to tease them all.

“There, Motherkin! Isn’t that ‘sweetly pretty’? Can you not work
him into a landscape of trees and cows and clouds and other country
things?” demanded Bonny, ignoring her sister, and laying the really
clever little sketch in her mother’s lap.

“How do you get on with your singing, dear?” asked that lady, smiling,
and taking time from her work to pat the soft cheek of her merry
daughter.

“Badly. There is a terrible discrepancy between my chest notes and my
head notes. When T try to stretch one up and the other down, something
appears to give way--cr-r-rick-crac-c-k-screech! Shall I illustrate,
Mother dear?”

“No, no, I beg! My nerves are in bad condition to-day. But if you’ll
sing something without nonsense, I shall be glad to hear you. It would
rest me, I think.”

Beatrice’s gay face sobered instantly, and Isabelle laid down her book.
“Are you so tired, Motherkin?”

“Oh! no, indeed! Only it is a bit monotonous stitching, stitching all
day with nobody to talk to. Never mind. Here comes Roland. I wonder why
so early.”

The inquiry was in her eyes as she raised them to meet her son’s when
he entered, full three hours before his usual time of home-coming. But
she saw instantly that he was not ill, and, that anxiety allayed, she
smiled brightly upon him. “Well, my boy! what good fortune has given
you a holiday?”

“Ill, not good fortune, Mother. I--I have been discharged. I have lost
my place.”

Then, indeed, did a significant silence fall upon the family group.
Lost his place! Could anything have been more unfortunate!

“Why, ‘Laureate,’ have you been writing more soap-poetry?”

“No, Bonny; but I had a row with the boss, and he talked to me so
rudely that I made up my mind no gentleman would stand it. So I bolted.
That’s all. I was going to leave, anyway, after the holidays.”

“Oh, you were, eh? Going into soap-poetry for a business? If it pays as
well as your first venture--”

“Be still.”

“Yes, my dear. But I’ll just make a note of your new words. You will
have quite a vocabulary if you keep on. ‘Row,’ ‘boss,’ ‘bolted,’ will
rhyme admirably with ‘cow,’ ‘toss,’ ‘moulted.’ I shall take to writing
for soap-prizes myself soon. I’ve always had a notion that my genius
would develop in a direction not at present suspected by my family.
Mother thinks I am an embryo prima-donna; Belle knows I am a fine
dressmaker; Bob is sure I was born for no other purpose than to make
boys’ kites, and Roland must acknowledge he never would have won the
soap-poem prize if I hadn’t furnished at least one missing rhyme. But--”

“Bonny, do keep still! If I were as fond of talking as you, I’d--”

“Talk! Hark! There goes the door-bell. I hope nobody has come to
call, for--” The chatterbox did not wait to express her inhospitable
reasons, but darted down the narrow passage to answer the summons,
and was back almost directly, bearing in her arms the basket of
chrysanthemums which Mr. Brook’s messenger had just brought.

“Beatrice!”

“For mercy’s sake!”

“What in the world!”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, oh, oh!” cried the delighted girl, dancing about so that nobody
could get more than a glance at her burden of lovely blossoms, until
she finally dropped in a little heap at her mother’s feet and placed
the basket on the drawing she had laid upon her mother’s knee. “Such
a handy table your lap makes, Motherkin!” she often remarked; but the
truth was that everything must be shared with this sympathizing woman
or it lost in value.

“Isn’t it lovely, lovely?”

“Lovely, indeed! But it cannot possibly be meant for you, dear. Where
did it come from? How did you get it?”

“Of course it is meant for me. It came from the store I visited in
company with my old gentleman. And I took it out of a messenger boy’s
hand. Oh! the beauties! the darlings! Now, Miss Isabelle Beckwith,
don’t you wish you had not been so impatient? Maybe his royal
highness--he must be that, at least, or he couldn’t afford such a
gift--would have sent you one wee blossom all for yourself.”

“But I do not understand. I do not know that it is right for you to
keep it, dear,” remarked Mrs. Beckwith, between the rapid exclamations
which fell from the lips of all three young people.

“Now, Motherkin! Of course it’s right! It’s the very prettiest
compliment I ever had in all my life. Don’t go for to spoil it with
your proper notions, that’s a good Mother! But--see here! Here’s a
_billet-doux_! or I’m a sinner!”

If Mr. Philipse Chidly Brook could have witnessed the delight with
which his offering was received, and could have heard the running
comments bestowed upon it, he would have been repaid a thousand times.
For when his courtly little note, with its old-fashioned writing, was
read aloud, even the careful mother had no further reproof for her
adventure-loving Beatrice, not all whose chivalrous escapades ended as
comfortably as this.

  FAIR, KIND, AND MOST RESPECTED MISS,--Allow me to present you with
  this slight token of my gratitude; which I hope to express more
  fully when I call, this evening, to make my regards to your Mother
  and her family.

  I have the honor to subscribe myself

                                  Your Obedient Servant,
                                                  PHILIPSE CHIDLY BROOK.

  Of NEW WINDSOR, N. Y., _November Twenty-third, Eighteen hundred and
      eighty-one_.

  To MISS BEATRICE BECKWITH.

“My obedient servant! My blessed old Prince of Givers! That’s what
he should have signed. Seventy-five cents each, Motherkin mine! All
lavished on your troublesome girl!”

Mrs. Beckwith did not immediately reply. She took the note from Bonny’s
hand and gazed at it musingly, as if trying to clear some confusion of
memory. “I have heard that name before--somewhere--besides in history.
Let me think!”

“I hope you will hear it again--‘somewhere’! Here comes my
‘Humpty-Dumpty’! I was wishing he could enjoy this.”

“Hello! Bon! What the dickens is that?”

“Hello! Bob! It’s chrysanthemums, not dickens!”

“Whose is it?”

“Mine!”

“Stuff! That can’t be yours! Where did you get it?”

“It can be mine, it shall be mine, it is mine. It is a reward of merit,
the first instalment of many I hope to receive.”

“Tell a feller!” pleaded the eight-year-old boy, who was very like
Beatrice, only that his hair was a little rougher, his dark eyes even
brighter, his general appearance a trifle more dilapidated.

“I have told a ‘feller,’ and if a ‘feller’ can’t believe I am not to
blame.”

“Don’t bother! Tell the hull concern!”

Beatrice slipped her arm around the little chap as affectionately as if
his costume were not plentifully bedaubed with street mud, and kissed
his retroussé nose squarely on its tip; after which she gave him a
history of the afternoon’s incident, told as only Bonny would have told
it.

“Jimminy-cracky! He must be richer’n thunder!”

“Robert! Where do you learn such talk? Why will you use such words?”

“Dunno, Mother. They seem to grow somehow. Say, Bon! That basket is
worth a heap of money!”

“My brother, you should not look a gift horse in the mouth!”

“You’re doing it yourself, aren’t you? I saw you counting all the time
you were talking. So was I. But some of ’em seemed to get away. I bet
they is more’n forty. S’pose they cost much as five cents apiece?”

“Five cents! Seventy-five is the price of that particular shade
everywhere. Think of it! Do it,--a nice little sum for a nice little
boy for a nice little girl who pulled a nice little man out of a nice
little crowd on a nice little corner of a nice--”

“Bonny, Bonny! Don’t be silly! But, indeed, I don’t wonder! The sight
of so much beauty has raised my own spirits till I feel able to fight
the world afresh--for you, my children! But Bonny is right; don’t,
don’t ‘count the teeth’ of this lovely ‘gift horse,’ dears. Put the
basket on that white cloth I just finished embroidering, right in the
centre of the table. Then let us gather about it and study it. We will
all work the better for the lesson.”

“Motherkin! you are the dearest, wisest body in the world. Here’s
your chair--right up front. And say! let’s every one tell what she or
he sees in the flowers. I suppose that present represents something
different to each; don’t you?”

“I suppose with all your practical sense you are still a fanciful
child!” responded Mrs. Beckwith, smiling fondly upon the active
Beatrice, who was, indeed, her mother’s “right hand” of dependence in
their every-day life.

“Well, if I am, I think it is a case of heredity--like I was reading
about in last night’s paper. When you were left to make faces at
fortune, with four troublesome youngsters pulling at your skirts,
you might have dropped your mouth-corners and put on a doleful
expression--but you did not. You just rolled up your sleeves and put
on your thimble and shut your eyes to the old dame’s frowns and went
to work. I remember, Motherkin, once when ‘Humpty-Dumpty’ was in the
cradle, and I was rocking him to sleep, you sang so loud and so long
that I told you I wouldn’t rock him any more if you didn’t keep still;
and you turned on me with such a look! Your eyes were full of tears and
your lips were trembling; but yet you were smiling as brave as could
be. ‘I dare not stop, darling!’ you said; ‘if I did I should cry!’ I
tell you, Motherkin, I never forgot that, and I never will! But what do
you see in the ‘posy,’ dear Mother?”

“I see an old-fashioned garden, with an old-fashioned dame walking in
it. An old-fashioned gentleman is bending before her, and presenting
her with chrysanthemums--of just this shade. It is early winter--or
late, late fall. There is hoar-frost on the dead leaves in the path,
hoar-frost upon the hair of these two people, and a touch of winter’s
cold has nipped their thin cheeks. Yet they smile and are lovingly
courteous still. They know that the chrysanthemums will fade; that the
hoar-frost will change to ice on which they must slip downwards over
the dead-leaf path--out of sight. But they will be brave and beautiful
to the end; and their memory will be like the strange and spicy
fragrance of their chosen flowers.”

“Oh, how pretty, Mother! Call the picture ‘Artemisias.’ That is the
old-time name for ‘Mums.’ And I hope when it is done some rich, rich
person who has leisure to study the meaning of beautiful things will
buy your drapery and hang it on a wall alone, close to a cheery wood
fire; and that he will sit down before it many times and learn all that
you have put into it.”

“Belle, next! What says the basket to you, Miss Beauty?”

“I see a big, big ball-room. It is filled with handsome women and
gentlemanly men. They are all, like Bonny’s ‘rich one,’ at leisure and
at rest. They say courteous things to one another, and they feel them.
The women have never known what it means to wear patched shoes and
soiled gloves. They have travelled everywhere. They know everything
that happy mortals need to know. They have never heard that there was
poverty in the world which they could not relieve, nor suffering they
could not soothe. They have never had their tempers spoiled and their
faces lined by want of any sort. I am there in the midst of them, as
care-free, as beautiful, as soft-spoken as any of them. As happy, too.
I wear a lovely gown of just that chrysanthemum shade, but no jewels. I
have the blossoms in my hair, on my corsage, in my hands. I love them.
I am wholly, wholly content. I have nothing left to wish for.”

“Happy mortal! Come, ‘Laureate’! But cut it short. Because, you know,
my poet, you are inclined to be a little long-drawn-out sometimes.”

“Hush! impious spirit! Fright not the muse away!” retorted Roland,
in a very unpoetic tone. “I am in Japan. There are lovely fountains,
perfect gardens, beautiful maidens--and lots of time! I don’t get up
in the morning till I choose. I write soap or even stove-polish poems,
unrebuked by my irreverent sister. I have plenty of money to buy my
mother gowns covered with embroidery which she doesn’t have to do
herself, and to fill the cupboard with food which she doesn’t have to
cook. There are wonderful kites which Bonny does not make, but which
‘Humpty-Dumpty’ does fly, from the top of a funny little house as tall
as a table, into a blue sky which rests on the top of his head--”

“Enough! Now, Bob?”

“Oh! I dunno. No school, fer one thing. No grammar talk when I get
home. Plenty of fire-crackers an’ pistols an’ guns an’ turkey an’
everything I want! Say, Bonny Beckwith! Ain’t we never a going to have
any supper?”

“At once, small sir. It is a matter of economy to feed you immediately
you feel the need of being fed. The longer the delay the greater the
cavity. Now, dreamers, all move back, please. Your humble servant has
the floor, and must have the table, seeing that it is the only one the
house of Beckwith possesses.”

With a smile they all pushed back; but the gentle widow laid her hand
caressingly upon Beatrice’s shoulder with the question: “Had the
chrysanthemums no visions for your eyes, sweetheart?”

“Heaps of ’em, Motherkin! But some other time.”

“No fair, no fair, Bon! What do you want?”

“A home in the country!”

“Whew! I reckon I’ll get my Japanese tour first!” said Roland, as
he placed the basket of flowers upon the top of the sewing-machine
amid a pile of unmended stockings. “Gracious! How much depends upon
surroundings! That isn’t half as suggestive up there!”

“Hark! What’s that row in the street? Hear that awful thumping!” cried
Bob, seizing his hat and bounding down the stairs, two steps at a time.

Bonny also hurried to the window, but turned from it in instant dismay.

“For the goodness’ sake! It’s my old gentleman, and a policeman has him
by the collar!” And before anybody could interpose she had followed her
small brother.

CHAPTER III.

A CHRYSANTHEMUM DINNER.

A second time in one day was Bonny Beckwith destined to come to the
rescue of the unfortunate Mr. Brook; for she laid her hand appealingly
upon the policeman’s sleeve and cried: “Oh, sir! What are you doing?
This gentleman is all right!”

The bright-faced girl was no stranger to the officer, who probably knew
all the residents of his “beat,” and he asked, in surprise: “Why, do
you know him, Miss?”

“Certainly. He is a friend of ours.”

“Then you’d better give him some lessons in conducting himself on the
street; that’s all.” With this the roundsman loosened his hold of his
victim, and flourished his hand to disperse the crowd of urchins and
sight-seers who had gathered on the spot.

“What did he do?”

“Thumped on the door of ---- as if he were trying to break it in. Why
didn’t he ring if he wanted to, instead of creating a disturbance?”

“Were you looking for us, Mr. Brook?”

“Of course I was. And I should like to know how in the world you get
into these houses. There is no bell, and the door-knob won’t turn, and
I’d stood here as long as I dared with the wind blowing forty miles
an hour. I sent cabby off to walk his horses up and down, and he’s
disappeared entirely. I left my man at the hotel, in bed with the
rheumatism; and--if there’s any way of getting into this prison and if
you really live here, I should like to be admitted.”

“Certainly. Beg pardon for keeping you so long. See--this is the
way. Touch one of those little knobs, the one opposite the card with
‘Beckwith’ on it and the door will open almost immediately. Electric
bells, you know.”

“Unluckily, I didn’t know! I hate these new-fangled ‘conveniences’ that
are ten times as much trouble as old-fashioned things. I’m not quite a
fool, my dear, though I may have been presented to you in that light
on both occasions of our meeting. I simply did not know how to get in;
but I concluded that if I made noise enough somebody would hear and
answer,” said Mr. Brook, smiling merrily, now that the door had opened
noiselessly, as if by spirit hands, and a hallway with orthodox stairs
was revealed.

“And somebody did!” returned Bonny, quite as gayly; while Robert, who
had slipped up and thrown his arm about his sister’s waist, laughed
outright.

“Humph! Who are you, sir? You were one of the boys who jeered the
loudest, if I’m not mistaken,” said the visitor, turning with a savage
frown toward the lad.

“I’m her brother.”

“Yes. My brother Robert. He isn’t as bad as he looks, Mr. Brook.
Perhaps you would better wait a moment and get your breath. It is
pretty high up--on the fifth floor.”

“Good gracious! Is this one of those ‘flat’ houses I hear about?”

“Yes.”

“Some of the finest old houses in the city stood here a quarter of a
century ago. It is a shame, a perfect shame.”

“Yes, I suppose so. There are some beautiful residences still left in
the neighborhood, and we often look at them and try to imagine the
lives that used to be lived in them. But a fifth-story flat is all we
can afford, so you must prepare yourself for a plain little place.”

They had ascended as far as the fourth floor, and Mr. Brook had paused
on each landing to regain his wind; but Bob, at a nod from Beatrice,
had sped upwards to announce the coming of the guest.

“Ah! plainness does not disturb me, my dear; and you are a little
gentlewoman, no matter where you live. I hope I have not chosen an
inopportune hour for my call.”

“You have given us all a great, great pleasure by your beautiful
gift which came this afternoon; and we are glad to have you come and
receive our thanks, whenever it suits you best.” Bonny did not add, as
she might, that if he had deferred the call for one hour longer their
simple dinner might have been gotten out of the way, and the home made
ready for his reception.

The first thing that greeted the old gentleman’s eyes as he entered the
room, which was dining-room and parlor in one for the Beckwiths, was
his own basket of chrysanthemums replaced upon the snowy cloth in the
centre of the table, with the soft glow of a shaded lamp falling upon
it. If Mrs. Beckwith had arranged this with a view to blinding stranger
eyes to the bareness of the room otherwise, her ruse succeeded, for Mr.
Brook gazed upon the flowers and for a space saw nothing more.

“My mother, Mr. Brook,” said Bonny, bringing forward the one really
strong chair which the room afforded.

“Your humble servant, madam. I consider myself honored in making
your acquaintance. You are the mother of a most charming daughter.
Daughters, I should say;” for at that instant Isabelle moved gracefully
forward, with a friendliness meant to drive any awkward memories from
the guest’s mind, and extended her slim hand in greeting.

At which “Humpty-Dumpty,” from a point behind Mr. Brook’s back,
contorted his freckled face and rolled his black eyes so horribly that
Bonny was forced to smile.

“We have much to thank you for, and must consider that a fortunate
accident which resulted in our receiving so delightful a gift,”
answered the hostess, placing herself near her visitor, “unless your
fall of this afternoon resulted in some injury to yourself. I hope it
did not.”

“No, oh! no. That is, nothing to mention. A few bruises and scratches,
and a bit of stiffness. But I thank you. I should not have been alone,
only Dolloway, my man, has the rheumatism and I couldn’t think of
taking him out in the cold. He stayed at the hotel. If he had been
with me he would have prevented my making an exhibition of myself.
However, ‘all’s well that ends well;’ and I have been congratulating
myself ever since that I may have been thus led to trace an old friend.
Did you ever hear of one Conrad Honeychurch Beckwith?”

A responsive smile illumined the widow’s pale face, and the last
misgiving she had about thus receiving a stranger into her home
vanished. “There could be but one Conrad Honeychurch Beckwith, I think.
Such was the name of my husband’s father.”

“I thought so! I thought so! Your husband is--was--”

“Charles Honeychurch Beckwith. The only son of Conrad who grew to
manhood.”

“Madam, your hand again! We are old, old friends! Or we should be.
Conrad was the chum of my youth, the Damon to my Pythias. We even went
‘Forty-Nining’ together; but he soon left California and returned to
his dying wife in New York. I stayed--awhile. He wrote me a few times,
then ceased to even answer my letters, which after a while I ceased to
write. From that day to this I have never heard of him. I have hunted
Beckwiths without number, till people have thought me Beckwith mad; but
my Conrad was never among them, and I had given him up. How strange,
how strange, and also how fortunate, that I stood gaping at the sights
till I was knocked down and Conrad’s grandchild was sent to pick me up!
Come here, my dear! Come here and let me look at you!”

Mr. Brook’s excitement communicated itself to all the household, always
alert to anything which varied the monotony of their pinched lives.
Roland came forward and gazed wonderingly upon the man who, fast
slipping out of life, yet remembered so faithfully the friend of his
youth. Belle felt the elation of a real romance; Bonny was dancing with
delight; and Robert, the “terrible,” was eagerly speculating whether
this was the sort of an old gentleman one read of in story-books, duly
appreciative of small attentions and liberal as to tips.

But the mother understood best the desire of the old man’s heart to
learn all there was to tell, and set herself to gratify it. “My dears,
suppose you go on with the dinner-getting. I am sure Mr. Brook will
pardon our necessity, and I hope will share our meal. You see, we are
rather cramped for room; so, while table is being made ready, those of
us not engaged in the task generally retreat to this corner and call
it the ‘withdrawing room.’ But maybe you know the inconveniences of a
small city flat?”

“No, indeed. Thank the Lord, I live in the country. Even in my best
days I would get out of town nearly every night to sleep at home;
though I was a beau here, when I first came back from the coast with my
pockets full of nuggets. I used purposely to have my name in the papers
as often as might be, hoping that thus, if I could not find Conrad, he
would find me. But it was of no use. Five-and-twenty years ago I left
the town for good. I never meant to come back. But of late a terrible
uneasiness has possessed me, and I finally yielded to it. I understand
what it meant now.”

They had moved to the corner which Mrs. Beckwith had designated, and
though the guest appeared to notice nothing of what the young folks
were doing, he was, nevertheless, very watchful; and while his hostess
related all the simple history of two discouraged men, her husband
and his father, yielding to a fate which seemed too hard for them and
dying, each in his prime,--ay, even before what most would call the
prime,--the wise old visitor read between her periods the tale of her
own bravery, and wondered how best he could second her efforts.

“And that is all. I am sorry we have not better entertainment to offer,
but such as we have I see is ready.”

The widow rose as she spoke, and it was not many paces Mr. Brook need
follow her before he reached the table.

With a commendable view to eking out a short supply, Bonny had placed
the basket of flowers again upon the board, though she had had to
substitute a coarse tablecloth for the daintily embroidered fabric
which was intended for a richer household; and, at the first glance,
the guest almost believed that the posies were to be their only repast.

However, this was not the case. There were roasted potatoes, bread,
butter, and a fragrant cup of tea; the last a luxury, and the one
addition which had been made to the regular fare. Now tea was an
abomination to the palate of Philipse Chidly Brook, and potatoes he
never ate, when he could help himself; but this being an occasion when
he evidently could not, he put a brave face on the matter, and accepted
them as if they were the rarest of delicacies. Suddenly he looked up
from his plate, and beheld the dark eyes of Robert fixed upon him with
critical attention.

“Well, my lad! Out with it! A penny for your thoughts.”

For once the graceless boy was scared. The prospect of possible tips
depended upon his present behavior, and he choked back the remark that
had almost escaped his lips. “I--I haven’t any. I--I mean--I dassent
tell ’em.”

“Not for the penny?”

“No, sir, not fer a nickel.”

“You needn’t. I can guess them. In any case I never go above the
traditional price of thoughts.”

“I bet--you can’t guess ’em!”

“How much will you bet?”

“Robert!” remonstrated Mrs. Beckwith, while Belle began “talking eyes”
at her most rapid rate, certain that the boy was about to disgrace them
all.

“I’ll bet all I’ve got. Two cents ag’in two of yourn, if you say so.”

“Mr. Brook, our little brother attends the primary department of a
highly esteemed parish school. Hence the elegant language which you
must have observed,” remarked Bonny, hoping to divert attention from
the subject of “thoughts” to education.

“He is well enough. For a boy. He looks like you.”

“Motherkin says I behave like her, too,” asserted Bob, triumphantly;
and Beatrice felt her effort worse than wasted.

“H’m-m. You were wondering how old I am. Wasn’t it so?”

“Ginger! How did you know?”

“I was a boy once.”

“What did you use to do? Did you play marbles? Er fight?”

“I played marbles and I flew kites. When I could get any money to buy
them with, or coax my mother to make them. And I used to drive the cows
when I visited my uncle, on his farm, not far from here. It may be that
I have trotted barefooted over the very spot on which this house now
stands. Seventy years ago, that was; seventy years ago! Then I was a
child like you.”

“My gracious! An’ you’re alive yet!”

“Not only that--I am happy yet! Doubly happy now that I have found
somebody who may become like a little grandson to me; for I have none
of my own.”

“Why haven’t you?”

“Probably because I never had a wife. I would like to ‘adopt’ my
Conrad’s grandson, in a way, if he will let me.”

“Who’s him?”

“Yourself.”

“Pooh! You wouldn’t want me, I guess. An’ I know ’bout ’doptingness.
They was a woman in this house, she ’dopted a baby, an’ it squalled.
Nen she got tired of it. Nen she wanted to give it back an’ the folks
wouldn’t take it. Nen she put it in the Norphan ’Sylum. An’ it’s there
yet. I’m too big, anyway. I’m going on nine. Ain’t I, Mother? When will
I be as old as nine?”

“Next Fourth of July, dear. You certainly are too old for adoption, as
you mean it. But if Mr. Brook hasn’t any odd, small people to make him
both glad and sorry, all in a minute, you might supply the deficiency.”

“H’m-m. I guess I’d better not. I ain’t very good. I don’t have time to
be.”

“Indeed? What keeps you busy?” asked the amused old gentleman.

“Folks. An’ fun. Bonny ’most wears me out, some days. She sends me to
do things. I sell papers; an’ I hold horses, when I can get ’em to
hold. Some men say I ain’t big ’nough, an’ I think that’s mean. I’m as
big as I can be, ain’t I?”

“Quite!” answered the unwise Beatrice, who did her daily best to spoil
the child by alternate teasings and pettings.

“Nen I get mad. Nen Motherkin’s heart acts up. An’ they is a gen’ral
miscomfort in the house, so I go outdoors. I learn bad words outdoors,
an’ I come home an’ say ’em, an’ get ’proved. But we get along. Hello,
Motherkin! What’s the matter? Ginger! There she goes ag’in! It’s one of
her sick times, I s’pose! Oh! Mother! You’re dead--you’re dead!”

Unobserved by all but her small son, Mrs. Beckwith had fallen
gently forward till her colorless face rested upon the basket of
chrysanthemums, and the guest thought the boy had spoken the sorrowful
truth.

CHAPTER IV.

A GENEROUS CONSPIRACY.

“Don’t, Robert! Remember, it is best to be quiet!” said Isabelle, with
an admirable self-control which not only gave Mr. Brook a new idea of
her character, but the knowledge that this could not be the first time
such a trouble had befallen the household.

And, a moment later, Beatrice had taken time to whisper in the little
fellow’s ear: “It is no worse than usual, darling. Mother is reviving.”

Then the child heard a trembling question, eager and low: “Has she ever
been like this before? Is it my visit that has caused it?” and looking
up through his fingers he saw the disturbed face of their guest bent
close above him.

“Yes. No. ’Tain’t your visit. She’s this way often. But she always
looks like dead, an’ the doctor-man says she will die if she don’t
stop sewin’ an’ live outdoors. But she can’t let the sewin’ go, ’cause
we have to eat an’ wear clothes. We don’t eat any more’n we can help,
but we’re always hungry. We try not to be, but we are. So she has to
’broider the things an’ sell ’em, you see.”

The two were quite alone then in the little parlor, for Roland had, at
the first instant, lifted his mother in his arms and carried her into
the small bedroom which was her own, and had stationed himself beside
her to chafe her face and hands and administer the medicine which
Isabelle had promptly prepared. They were evidently accustomed to such
emergencies; but Bonny had disappeared in pursuit of a doctor, though
she knew this action to be against her mother’s wish, expressed in view
of such an event as this.

“But how can I help it!” argued the girl, dashing down the long flights
of stairs two steps at a time. “How can I see her suffer so and not try
to get somebody who knows more than we do to relieve her! Even though
it will take her many hours of hard labor to pay for the physician’s
visit.”

Meanwhile Robert led Mr. Brook into the corner, dignified by the
name of “withdrawing room,” and the old gentleman laid his hand
affectionately upon the boy’s shoulder. “My dear, I would like to help
you all, if I can. I do not wish to ask you anything which your mother
would not be willing you should answer; but anything that you can tell
me about your affairs, anything which your conscience does not warn you
had best be kept to yourself, I wish you would tell me. Remember I was
the friend of your grandfather, and try to feel as if you were talking
to him.”

This speech was better suited to the ears of the elder son than to
those of “Humpty-Dumpty,” and in the first case would have been
answered judiciously; but judgment and reticence were qualities unknown
to this small boy, and he now made as clean a breast of family matters
as he was capable of doing. If there was anything he did not tell, it
was something he had forgotten.

Mr. Brook listened with sympathy and some compunction; and as soon
as the physician whom Beatrice had summoned pronounced Mrs. Beckwith
“out of danger for the present,” took his leave, hunted up the
long-suffering cab-driver who had brought him thither, and returned to
his hotel.

There he burst rather excitedly into his own apartments, with the
exclamation “I’ve found them, Dolloway! The Beckwiths, at last!”

“You don’t say so!” returned the other old fellow, who had left his
bed for a cushioned chair close to a grate fire, and who had the name
of being Mr. Brook’s servant, but was, at times, his master--through
rheumatism, which mastered both.

“But I have. That must be what my anxiety to see the horse-show meant.
Else why, after all these years, should I have been suddenly rendered
too uneasy to abide at home, and must needs not only put myself out but
you as well? How goes it, Dolloway?”

“Bad, sir; about as bad as it can be. But a body must expect that who
goes a trapesing off after will-o’-wisps, at our time of life, leaving
good, respectable feather beds to sleep on boards in a barn of a place
like this.”

“Not boards, Dolloway. The best mattresses the city affords, the
manager assures me; and comfortable enough to those who like them. Yes,
yes, yes. In some ways it is a pity. Yet--it is the most fortunate
thing. Had any supper, Dolloway?”

“Don’t want any, sir. Thank you.”

“Pooh! I do. They had what they called supper, I suppose, poor things!
And I’m ashamed to mention it; only I feel hungrier than if I hadn’t
eaten anything; so, since you have not, take a cup of coffee with me,
man, and lay aside formality for once. What will we have besides the
coffee, Dolloway?”

“I couldn’t eat a bite, sir.”

“But you’d not refuse to please your old master, would you, lad? When
we have taken all this trouble we want to make our holiday seem a bit
like old times. Eh? In the old days, Dolloway, you could out-eat and
out-drink me. Yes, yes, you could, indeed! What shall it be?”

“Well, if I must I must, and I’m obliged to you, sir, though I only do
it to please you. I heard one of the waiters saying there was a lot of
nice venison come in from the West, sir. If it were not spoiled in the
cooking a venison steak--done to a turn, sir, done to a turn, as you
like it yourself, Mr. Brook--might relish a little. Eh?”

“The very thing, lad, the very thing! I will ring and order it
immediately.” Without waiting to be served by his servant, who remained
composedly in his arm-chair, Mr. Brook pulled the rope, which he
preferred to any modern “button” for bell-ringing purposes, and gave an
order for a meal that would have made the Beckwith family’s eyes open
in astonishment.

“A fine thing to have such an appetite as ours, Dolloway, at our age!
A very fine thing, indeed. Eighty I shall be on my next birthday, and
you but two years younger. And I warrant me there are no two other old
chaps in this town who will sit down to this kind of a dinner with the
relish we will. Eh? That’s the best of using gifts and not abusing
them. And my waist measures no more than it did in my youth, lad; which
shows I have not been a gourmand, though the truth is I like good
living. I like good living immensely. I would like to tell you what a
pretty family of five had prepared. Potatoes! nothing but potatoes,
except, of course, the inevitable bread and butter and the detestable
tea. I don’t wonder the woman had heart-failure, poor thing! And the
air of that ‘flat’--it was enough to stifle a body. After our air at
home, man.”

“Humph! Then I suppose I am not to know anything about Mr. Conrad’s
folks, save what you choose to tell me in driblets, sir,” remarked
Dolloway, in the injured tone of one suffering ungratified curiosity.

“You shall know all that I do myself, old fellow; but let us take it
over our dinner. I want your advice, too. I am sorry to say that Conrad
left his people poorly off.”

“Mr. Beckwith is dead, then, sir?”

“Dead this forty years, lad. Dead for forty years--that boy!” And Mr.
Brook sank into a chair opposite his companion, and at the same time
into a reverie so deep that even the highly privileged Dolloway dared
not interrupt the current of his master’s thought.

Small Robert was in bed and should have been asleep; but Beatrice,
listening, heard a forlorn little yawn and knew that the excitement of
the evening or the tea-and-chrysanthemum dinner had been too much for
his nerves. This suited her exactly; and watching her chance she stole
into the room, or bed closet, known as “the boys’,” and perched herself
on the pillow where Roland’s head would repose somewhat later.

“Hello, Bob! Asleep?”

“You know I ain’t. What’s up?”

“I am. I’ve something to say to you.”

“I hain’t done nothin’. What have I done?”

“Nothing but goodness, small sir. Bonny doesn’t scold, does she?”

“Sometimes,” answered the truthful child.

“Well, she isn’t going to now. She wants your assistance.”

“I’m goin’ ter sleep.”

“Pooh! I don’t want you to do anything to-night. I want to consult
with you. Bob, are you awake?”

“If it ain’t nothin’ ter bother a feller at night, I be.”

“Sit up in bed. Here, put my jacket around you. I’ve a scheme--a
splendid scheme!”

“Don’t like your schemes. Last one didn’t turn out worth a snap.”

“This one will. I see how you and I can make some money. Sit up.”

“I am sitting up. How can we make it?” asked the cash-greedy child,
interested at last.

“You know those chrysanthemums?”

“Yep.”

“Well; here, let me whisper. We--can--sell--them! And make a lot of
dollars--maybe. Make something, anyway. Enough to pay for the doctor’s
visit.”

“Beatrice Beckwith! They was give to you!”

“Don’t speak so loud. Mother is asleep, Roland is writing, Belle
studying. Only you and I are to know about this. Yes, I know they were
given to me. To _me_, understand. That is why I dare do this thing. And
don’t reproach me for parting with them. It breaks my heart to do it;
only it don’t break it into such little bits as it gets broken into
every time I think of Motherkin and how hard she works. To come to
the point. I want you to get up with me early to-morrow and go on the
street and try to sell the flowers. Will you?”

“Gracious! Would you--_you_ yourself?”

“I would--I myself. I would do anything rather than be so idle. The
flowers are mine. We have all enjoyed them. They did us good that way;
now I want to make them do us good some other way.”

“Humph! How much will you give me fer my share?”

“Mercenary little wretch! not a cent! I want every single cent for
Motherkin. You wouldn’t take anything away from Motherkin, would you,
Bob?”

“Not that way. I wouldn’t no quicker’n you would. But if I had a little
‘capital’ I could sell papers like the other kids do on Fourteenth
Street an’ round.”

“Robert, you are not a ‘kid.’ You are a well-born boy. I thought you
did sell papers, anyway, almost every day.”

“Fer the other fellers, that’s all. I don’t make my livin’. If I had
enough I could make a pile.”

“Well, we’ll see. But those chrysanthemums. Think of the value. Forty
times seventy-five cents! Forty times porterhouse steaks all round the
family. About one hundred and twenty tip-top oyster stews. Potatoes,
galore. Bread--bread enough to pave the street from here to Union
Square. And six weeks’ rent. Think of it, ‘Humpty-Dumpty,’ and cease to
wonder that I can hardly wait till daylight to set about the business.
Will you help me?”

“Yep, if Mother’ll let me.”

“You blessed little stupid! Mother is not to know a word about it,
till it is past forbidding. Else she has such peculiar ideas about
politeness that she might stop us. If you do as I want, as well as you
can, I’ll give you all you can make out of the best flower in the lot.”

“It’s a bargain. What time ’ill I start?”

“Not till after breakfast. Not till you go to school. Then, instead
of going to school, go with me up on Twenty-third Street, and there
we’ll seek our fortune. Stay! I’ve a splendid thought now! We’ll go to
the very store where they were bought and sell them back. They, the
store folks at least, would know the value. Then we wouldn’t either
of us have to stay away from school, and we could meet somewhere on
the way home and come in together, with flying colors. So, if Mother
wasn’t especially pleased at first, we could brace each other up in
coaxing her round to look at the matter as we do and eating one of her
chrysanthemums turned into oysters for her dinner that very day.”

“H’m-m. But-- Wull.”

“Wull me no wulls, my son!”

“Motherkin don’t coax worth a snap. An’ what if she should be
‘grieved’? I wouldn’t mind her talking, so much; but when she sits
round an’ don’t say anything, only look solemn, it--it--breaks me all
up.”

“That isn’t a nice expression for a nice little boy. Say ‘it disturbs
me’; that is more elegant.”

“Who cares for el’gunce! I hate them times when lumps come in throats.
I’ve had ’em. I’d ruther be whipped, like other kids is; I would, so!”

“Look here, Robert Beckwith. I _can_ do this thing all by myself.
I don’t need to ask you or anybody to help me, but I thought you’d
like to do something nice for Motherkin. If you don’t like to it’s
all right;” and Bonny rose to go, with that independent air which
experience had taught her would invariably bring her small brother to
terms.

“Hello! Who’s a not wantin’ ter? But--if--”

“If trouble comes I’ll take all the blame, as I should, for it belongs
to me. And I’m glad Mother is in bed now, so I can take the basket out
of the room without anybody asking questions. Good-night. Not a word,
now, to Roland when he comes in!”

“H’m-m. You might know I ain’t a blabber, anyway!”

“Of course you’re not. I depend on you. Good-night.”

Beatrice passed into the parlor and lifted her treasure from the table,
then turned to leave as quietly as she had entered.

“Where are you going with those, Bonny?” asked Isabelle, drowsily; and
her sister started as if she had been guilty of wrong-doing.

“I think they will keep better if I take them out of the basket and put
them in a pail of water,” replied Bonny, hastily.

“I suppose they would. But it seems a pity to disturb such a perfect
arrangement, and I do not think they would wither even that way very
soon. They last well.”

“I am glad of that. I would not have them wither for anything!” replied
the innocent conspirator, feeling as if she wanted to bury her face in
the flowers and cry; only she reflected that salt water was supposed to
be injurious to delicate petals and refrained. But when she went to bed
that night she had taken each chrysanthemum carefully from its mossy
nest and, after clipping its stem slightly, plunged it into a pail of
fresh water and placed it in the coolest place the house afforded.

CHAPTER V.

IN OLD TRINITY.

“Flowers? Flowers? Chrysanthemums? Any, madam?”

“How much?”

“Seventy-five cents apiece.”

“Girl, you must be crazy! I’ll give you ten.”

Beatrice turned on her heel with all her native dignity and some that
she had prepared for this especial occasion; having confided her
intention to the newspaper-woman on the corner, who also occasionally
sold flowers, and received the advice to “not be beat down by nobody.
Some is ladies an’ some is trash, what goes a shopping on th’ Aveny,
an’ you jest hold on patient,--the right one’ll come along an’ take the
hull lot, mebbe. Some woman ’at’s goin’ ter give a party er sunthin’ is
the most like ter buy; er young gells. Young gells is good customers,
if they happen ter have any money. Good luck go with you, honey; an’ I
don’t want ter see you bringin’ home a single posy!”

With this good-speed sounding pleasantly in her unaccustomed ears, the
novice at flower selling set her face westward with her basket on her
arm and her small brother presumably following her; though, as he was
sometimes in sight but oftener not, she had doubts on the subject.

“Anyway I only wanted him for company. It seems so--so sort of dreadful
to do this. I tremble every time I open my mouth, and I am afraid I
shall not sell a single blossom, except at the flower-shop. I hate to
go there, though! It seems so mean to sell things that have been given
you, and when you can have no chance to explain, though, of course, I
wouldn’t explain anyway. Robert!”

“Hi! Here am I!”

“Why can’t you walk along beside me respectably? Eh?”

“Wull, wull--why, Bon! what makes you look that way?”

“What way?”

“Just as if you was a-goin’ ter cry.”

“I don’t. I’m not. I--I hate it!”

“What makes you, then?”

“I hate other things worse, like Mother’s pale face over her work.
I don’t mean I hate, but-- Oh! I thought it would be easy, last
night when we talked it over, and it isn’t. I expect every minute
to meet some of the ‘Conservatory girls,’ then I should about die of
mortification.”

“Well, I’m beat! If girls ain’t the queerest things! A wantin’ ter do
things an’ not a wantin’ ter at the same time. Here, give me a bunch.
I’ll show you. This is the way! Flowers! _Flowers!_ Here they go!
Nicest an’ puttiest chrysms in the city! Cheap at seventy-five cents!
Only one place in town where a feller can get ’em! Here, young feller!
Don’t you want a button-holer?”

“Too dear!” replied the good-natured clerk whom Robert had intercepted
on his way down town.

“H’m-m. You don’t seem to succeed any better than I do, Bob.
Chrysanthemums! The rarest shade in the city!”

The two amateur flower-sellers had soon traversed all the distance
between their home and the very corner where their stock had been
purchased, and yet not one blossom had been exchanged for the desired
cash that was to buy the oyster dinner. When they came to the place
where Bonny had met Mr. Brook she paused, undecided whether to cross
into the next block or to take her stand there; but was finally decided
to do the latter by the fact that a well-dressed woman had paused
to examine the cluster of flowers and to admire them. She would even
have bought one apparently, but as she opened her purse, Bonny gently
mentioned the price, and the purse was closed with a snap.

“Sev-en-ty-five-cents! I think you must be new to the business, or you
would never ask such an absurd amount as that! H’m-m. Seventy-five
cents for one chrysanthemum!” And the woman with the plethoric
pocket-book had passed on.

“I’m going into the store. I can’t bear this!” cried poor Beatrice,
feeling utterly discouraged as her bright castle in the air fell
tumbling in ruins. “They will take them, anyway, I’m sure. The clerk
said yesterday to a customer that he could not supply the demand for
blossoms of this shade. Come on, Bob! The worst he can do is stare a
little, and it’s none of his business, certainly.” Thus swallowing her
pride, which she felt was silly enough, Beatrice led the way into the
shop which she had visited in Mr. Brook’s company the day before.

Robert followed, whistling gayly. Anything which kept him from school
was matter of rejoicing to him, and though he realized that they were
having very hard luck he felt no more shame in selling posies than
newspapers; but his hilarity was suddenly checked by the dandified
salesman calling out sharply: “Out of here, boy! We can’t have any boys
in here!”

“I should like ter know why not? What yer givin’ us?” demanded Bonny’s
“darling,” with all the roughness and assurance of a regular street
gamin.

“Hush, dear! Here, let me take yours, too. You just step outside and
wait for me till I come. I won’t be a minute now,” whispered the
sister, persuasively.

But “Humpty-Dumpty’s” blood was up. What were stores for if not for
people to enter? How did that unmannerly clerk know but that he,
Robert, wanted to buy out all the stock piled upon those loaded
counters? He’d show him! One man was as good as another, in this world.

“No, I won’t wait, neither. I’m a-goin’ where you go, an’ I’m goin’ ter
stay as long as I like. Say, boss! How much fer them roses, yonder?”

“Clear out of here, you impudent little scalliwag! You wish to buy no
roses.”

“No. But I wish to sell some chrysanthemums, sir,” interposed Beatrice,
gently. “These flowers were purchased here yesterday. I should like to
resell them to you.”

The dapper young man who had glanced admiringly at the pretty girl
on the occasion of her previous visit, under Mr. Brook’s escort, now
stared at her superciliously. “Bought here? Ah! Well, we never take
second-hand goods, you know. And flowers are an article that could not
be handled a second time, even if we did. Is that all?”

“But, sir, you told a lady, yesterday, that you could not supply the
demand for this color. I have kept these very carefully. See? They are
not withered in the least.”

“Impossible, Miss. If that boy belongs to you, you had better take him
outside before he gets into any further mischief. He has knocked down a
pile of baskets already, and if he damages--”

Poor Bonny did not wait to hear the conclusion of the matter. With a
desperate fear at her heart that her small and independent brother
would be the cause of some dreadful trouble, she seized him firmly by
the collar and forced him before her out of the shop.

The door closed behind them with the dull thud which baize-muffled
doors give, and it seemed to her sounded the knell of her “flowery
hopes,” as she herself grimly expressed it.

“Well, I say, Bon! I did think you had some snap! What’d a feller
do if he hadn’t no more grit’n a girl, I’d like to know? Here, come
on, I’ll show you. Let’s go over to the hotel there. That’s the Fifth
Avenue, where rich folks stays. I’ve sold papers for Jeemsy there,
sometimes. They’s a decent crowd goes in an’ out. Mebbe they ain’t all
so horrid stingy as they ’pear ter be on this side. But, Bon! We’ll
have ter come down on the price. They ain’t nobody, ’less he’s jest
another such old man as Mr. Brook, goin’ ter pay such a pile as that
fer posies--second-hand ones, too.”

“Robert, where did you get all this wisdom, and you but eight?”

“Oh! I’ve been around,” said Robert, with an inimitable little swagger,
which brought a fleeting smile to Beatrice’s face.

“All right. Let’s try the hotel, that is, if the people will let us.
I think I have heard that the curbstone merchants--as we are now,
dear--have each a self-appropriated place with which he allows nobody
else to interfere. We may get upon somebody’s ‘stand,’ but if we
do, from our morning’s experience, I don’t fear but we shall be so
informed.”

They did take their places opposite the entrance to the hotel, and so
respectable and quiet-looking were they that nobody molested them; and
as they were the only flower-sellers upon that corner they did after a
while exchange some of their wares for cash; but it was, as Robert had
advised, at a great reduction, and Beatrice was heartily discouraged.
Worse than that, a feeling of regret that she had undertaken this thing
without her mother’s knowledge and consent began to trouble her as it
had not done while the first enthusiasm of unselfishness lasted.

“I wish--I wish I had not slipped out of the house, as if I were doing
something wrong!” murmured the girl, half aloud.

“Hey?” asked Robert. “Ain’t it getting cold? Ginger! My toes is ’most
froze. This ain’t half the fun newspapers is. A feller can keep warm
that way. He can jump on street-cars, and off when the conductor
catches him. Let’s go home!”

“You go, dear, if you are cold. I am not. That is I--I-- No, I will not
give up beaten this way. I will sell these flowers if--”

“You can!” interjected Robert, just in time to prevent Bonny’s making a
very rash vow.

She substituted a rather forced laugh for the vow, and again urged
her brother to go and leave her. “There is no need for us both to be
miserable. Besides, if you should take cold I should never forgive
myself. Do go; there’s a dear, and I am ever and ever so grateful to
you for what you have already done.”

“No, sir-ee. I guess I’ve got grit if you haven’t. But if you don’t
mind I’ll just run around the block ter start my toes up, an’ I’ll be
back so’s you can run, too.”

Off bounded the child, and, small as he was, Beatrice felt no fear that
he would be lost even in a neighborhood of which he knew so little; but
as she watched him out of sight, a voice spoke in her ear.

“What lovely, lovely chrysanthemums! Are they for sale, miss?”

“H’m-m. She doesn’t think I look like a regular flower-girl,” thought
Bonny, complacently, and answered promptly: “Yes, madam. They are, as
you have noticed, a very peculiar shade.” Then she raised her eyes, and
met--those of the richest girl in her class at the Conservatory, the
very one who was to sing with her at the next reception.

“Goodness! Miss Beckwith! Beg pardon! I did not notice. I thought it
was a flower-girl standing here.”

Beatrice gasped, tried to smile, felt her face flame, and her
courage--or temper, she didn’t know which--rise at the same time.
“There is no mistake, Miss Agnew. I _am_, temporarily, a flower-girl.
These chrysanthemums _are_ for sale. But I have had rather bad luck.
They prove to be a more expensive sort than most passers-by care for.”

Miss Agnew’s own color rose a little. She was a gentle, high-bred girl,
and she saw at once that there was something out of the common in her
classmate’s action. If the flowers had cost all there was in her purse,
she would have taken some of them then. “Indeed? I have never seen any
like them, except at the show last week. How much are they?”

“They cost seventy-five cents each, yesterday, and I was told they were
prize flowers. They are--anything I can get for them--now!”

“Oh! I don’t call that high! I often have to pay a dollar or more for
roses at holiday time. Of the sort I like. I think these would just
suit Mamma. I will take a dozen, please. I was sorry you were not at
class to-day. The Professor went over our duet with me, and I gathered
some new ideas from him. He is very anxious it should be a success; and
naturally I am. Will you be there next lesson?”

“Yes, I think so. At least, I shall not be absent for the same reason
as to-day,” said Beatrice, with a return of something like her natural
manner.

“That’s good! I can sing so much better with you than with anybody
else,” remarked Miss Agnew, smiling pleasantly, nodding cordially, and
passing onward immediately.

“Well! I’m in for it now! If Helen Agnew is inclined to tell, the whole
class can ‘point the finger of scorn’ at me to-morrow. But how cold it
is! How warm _she_ looked! She had evidently been having luncheon at
this great hotel, for she came out, or rather she walked along with
a ‘rocky’-looking old gentleman, using a toothpick. I suppose he was
her father. How nice it must be to have a father! And think of being
able, a school-girl, out of one’s own pocket money, to buy a dozen
chrysanthemums for one’s mother--at such a price! Yet, after all,
selling them for one’s mother may be just as noble. I’ll ‘play pretend’
it is, any way. And I am quite refreshed. I’ll ‘buckle tae’ with a good
will now! There are only twenty-five left; and--”

Beatrice fell to ruminating. She forgot that she was on a street
corner, presumably to sell flowers. She paid no attention to the rude
pushes and jostles that she received, but swayed this way and that,
accommodating her slight person to the needs of the crowd, till one
more urgent pedestrian than the others suddenly caught the handle of
his walking-stick in that of her basket and ruthlessly tore it from her
grasp.

Beatrice aroused herself with a scream. “My flowers! Oh, my flowers!
Please, please, don’t tread upon them, people! Please give me time to--”

“Eh! Bon, what’s the matter? Who took ’em? This chap?” demanded Robert,
who had returned, and eagerly catching hold of the wrong person. “Look
a here, man! You’d better look out how you steal my sister’s chrysms!
I’ll let you know I-- Ginger! There’s the old fellow himself!”

Alas! the inevitable crowd! Nobody can utter a sound above the natural,
but dozens of itching ears must pause to learn why.

“Beg pardon, Miss. It was an accident. I am extremely sorry. Are they
injured? Ah! I see. Hopelessly. The price, please, I will make good the
loss; but I am in a hurry-- Yes, Dolloway, directly. Keep close to me,
Dolloway. I’ll look out for you. Eh? Hey? What?”

Bonny was stooping to gather up her ruined treasure, but something in
the voice startled her, a peculiar softness of the _r_’s, and a broad
inflection of the _a_’s.

“It is the corner of Fate!” cried the girl, recklessly, and lifted
herself face to face with Mr. Chidly Brook.

“Why, Miss Beckwith! It is, indeed!”

CHAPTER VI.

“HUMPTY-DUMPTY’S” NOVEL EXPERIENCE.

“Oh, sir! Will you ever forgive me?”

“Forgive you, my dear! I am the one to be forgiven, I should think. And
I appreciate your wearing my gift, and am exceedingly sorry I ruined
the flowers. However, they can easily be replaced. Odd that we should
meet just here again! Were you returning from your school? And how is
your mother to-day?”

“Mother is better, thank you, though I have not seen her since early
morning. But I am not returning from school, and I was not wearing your
flowers. I cannot let you think anything so kind of me as that. I was
selling them!”

The four people of the group had retreated to the wall of the hotel,
aside from the passing throng, and Mr. Dolloway had been eyeing Robert,
who returned the stare, very much as a big dog eyes a little one before
making acquaintance. If there was one object in the world of the old
fellow’s special detestation, it was the average small boy. He was
always ready to ascribe to them all the sins of the decalogue with
many original additions; and he now suspected the little brother of
Beatrice of having caused Mr. Brook’s detention for some evil purpose
of his own. He was not even convinced otherwise when presently his
master recovered sufficiently from the astonishment Bonny’s words
had caused to explain: “These are Conrad Beckwith’s grandchildren,
Dolloway.”

“Humph! How do you do?” asked the old servant, feeling he must say
something.

“First-rate!” responded Bob, heartily. “Howdy yourself?”

“H’m-m, I’m well enough, but they’s a cold wind blows round this
corner, sir.”

“Yes, lad, I know it. But did you wish to say anything further to me,
Miss Beckwith?” asked the considerate Mr. Brook, trying to make his
manner as cordial as it had been, but failing signally.

Beatrice felt desperate. She must make this kind, gentle old man
understand that she had not been selling his gift for a mean, selfish
reason; yet how was she to do so? It was unkind to keep him standing in
that bleak place any longer, nor did she wish to visit any more stores
in his company.

“Yes; I do want to tell you about it. I would be glad to talk with you
about everything; but where can I? Will you go back to my mother’s
house with me? Or where can I go with you?”

“My child, do not distress yourself about these trumpery posies. They
were yours. You had a perfect right to do with them as you chose.”

“But I want to explain. I am not so mean as you think me, and yet I am
a great deal worse. I played truant to-day, like a bad little boy, and
persuaded Robert to do the same. My poor mother knows nothing about
this affair, and she will be mortified when she hears. Besides, I would
like to ask your advice, somebody’s advice anyway, and you say you were
grandfather’s friend. I--”

“Wait a moment, my dear. Have you had your dinner yet?” Mr. Brook
glanced from the sister to the brother, as he spoke, and the
brightening of Robert’s black eyes was sufficient answer.

“No, sir. But we will get that as soon as we get home.”

“Then I have it! Let us take a carriage down to my hotel, where I am
sure of being served as I like, and you two take dinner with me there.
Then we can have ample time to talk, as well as a comfortable place to
do it in. Will you? What do you say, Robert?”

“I say yes an’ thank you,” answered the child promptly, and with more
civility than might have been expected.

“I do not like to give you that trouble and--and expense,” said Bonny
naïvely, alert as poverty had made her to the value of money. “Besides,
we should be going home soon.”

“If you have played truant for a little while, you may as well continue
a bit longer. I am as anxious to talk with you as you can possibly be
with me, and I will be responsible to your mother for this added delay;
that is, if you are not positively needed at home.”

“Thank you. No, I am not needed now. I am not of much account there
anyway; and we shall be very happy to accept your invitation,” added
Bonny, with a sudden change of determination induced by a hasty study
of her little brother’s face. How hungry he did look! How good a real
dinner would taste to the child! Well, if people didn’t mean what they
said they should be punished by being believed!

Yet Mr. Brook’s smile at her acceptance told certainly enough how
sincere had been his invitation; and in a few seconds more the
whole party were driving down Broadway, and Robert felt himself of
considerable more importance than when he had interviewed pedestrians
on the flower question.

“Do you like riding, lad?” asked Mr. Brook, amused at the earnest
expression of the boy’s face.

“Like it! You bet! It’s bully!”

Dolloway frowned and sniffed. “Talk English, can’t you?”

“He knows what I mean; so do you,” replied “Humpty-Dumpty” instantly.

“Rob! don’t be impertinent!” cried Beatrice, warningly.

“Ain’t impertinent. I do like it. Bully means tip-top. I don’t mean
anything out the way, only it does bother me to talk c’rect. I will
when I get older, mebbe.”

“Train up a child in the way--” said Dolloway; but got no further, for
Robert’s exclamations effectually stopped all other conversation, even
if his elders had been inclined to converse; and pleasant though the
ride was, all save the boy were glad when the carriage drew up before
the substantial old hostelry where Mr. Brook felt was the only positive
comfort to be found in the city.

“This is our parlor, my dear. Isn’t it a good, old-fashioned room? Our
bedrooms open off from it. I have put up at this ‘inn’ for many years;
that is, I used to do so when I was in the habit of spending much of my
time in town. Did I mention to you that we return home in the morning?”

“So soon!” exclaimed Beatrice, and wondered why she felt so sorry.

“We have been here for several days. My sister will expect us. Now,
my dear, I want you to tell me anything you wish. Rest assured I will
advise you to the utmost of my wisdom.”

Bonny looked up and saw Mr. Dolloway’s eyes fixed curiously upon her.
There was not a particle of sympathy in his face and it was evident
that girls were not much more to his taste than boys. She felt that she
could not say a word before him, and she did not know how to place him,
whether as friend or servant of her host.

Perhaps Mr. Brook saw this hesitation and rightly interpreted it;
for he rose almost at once and said: “I would like to go down to old
Trinity before I return home. I’ll leave you, Dolloway, and our young
friend Robert to order the dinner, and Miss Beckwith and I will walk
down to the church,--that is, if she will favor me with her company. By
the time we come back, dinner will be ready to serve, and I shall be
able to satisfy Joanna’s questions about her old place of worship. Does
that plan suit everybody?”

Bonny sprang up instantly. “I think you have a gift for plans which
please everybody, dear sir! I was never in Trinity Church but once,
though I was born and have always lived in New York. I should like to
go very much.”

“Then let us be off. Will the arrangement suit Robert? If not--”

“I’d rather stay here, thank you, sir,” said the boy; “and did you mean
’at I could have _anything_ I wanted to eat?”

“Bob!”

“Certainly. Order anything you wish, that is in market. I remember how
hungry I used to get when I was a school-boy. I’m hungry still; so
don’t forget to look out for me, too. Good-by for a little while;” and
nodding gayly to the lad, Mr. Brook led the way into the street and
down it to the church.

“I like this old place. I can remember it for so long. To step into
it out of the rush of Broadway is almost like being recreated,” said
Mr. Brook, reverently, as they entered and passed slowly up the broad
aisle.

Bonny could say nothing. Her mind was in a ferment of eagerness to tell
this new-old friend everything concerning herself and her dear ones.
She felt that he would understand and be able to explain the “muddle”
in which she found herself without her saying a word, and yet she
wanted to leave nothing for him to guess at.

“Will you sit down here with me, Mr. Brook?”

“Certainly.”

They took the places Beatrice had designated, and as she looked up into
the kindly, interested face all her trouble passed away. “You must
have seen, sir, that we are very poor. When I looked at that basket
of flowers I thought it was dreadful to have anything of such value
wasted in that way, while my precious mother is toiling her life out to
keep her family in simple necessaries. Then it came into my head that
I might sell them. I never did such a thing before, though I would not
have been ashamed to if-- No, that isn’t quite honest. I don’t like to
earn money that way, but I would be glad to earn it regularly, by any
straight-forward, hard work, if I might be allowed.”

“How ‘allowed,’ my dear? Can you not work if you will?”

“No; that is just it. Mother thinks her geese are all swans, and
must not swim in common mill-ponds. So she is just killing herself to
keep Isabelle at the fashionable school where she studies art, in pay
for her--Belle’s--looking after ‘primaries.’ That way it doesn’t cost
anything for the instruction; but clothes do cost, such clothes as my
sister must wear if she goes fitly among such rich pupils, cost a great
deal for us. Roland is the happiest of all, maybe; because he does
generally earn his own way. That is, what he earns has mostly paid the
rent, only now he’s lost his place. I think it was the knowledge of
that which upset Mother, last night. Her courage has been stretched so
much that it is wearing out.”

“How did he lose his position? What was it?”

“He was some sort of a clerk in a wholesale dry-goods house. I suppose
he quarrelled with his employer. He hated it. He said it would have
seemed a great deal manlier to him to sell stoves or steam-engines, or
something not so womanish as silks and velvets; but I fancy it would
have made no difference. He was born to live out of doors. He’s a
different boy when he happens to get an outside ‘job,’ once in a while.”

“How old is he?”

“Sixteen. Belle is one year older than he.”

“What do you study, my dear?”

“Nothing much but music, now. Mother has a friend who is interested
in the best Conservatory here, and I have the benefit of instruction
there. I have an idea that this lady, this friend, pays my expenses, or
advances the money to Mother for that purpose, though I do not know.
I asked once, but was not told. Mother is certain I have a fortune in
my voice, and she is killing herself to keep me in training. I cannot
say I have not. I have no wish to run down my only legitimate stock in
trade, but I don’t believe I’m a Patti or a Jenny Lind. I may be, of
course. Brother Robert is too little to be anything but the dearest,
sweetest small chap in the world. So there you have us. We are not
beggars, exactly; for Mother has a little bit of an income which ekes
out the embroidery money, and so we manage. But it isn’t as it should
be, and what I want to know is: Could such a family as ours make a
living in the country somewhere? Do you think our ‘talents’ could be
put to any sensible use? And--do you forgive my selling your flowers?”

“My dear, I am glad if they brought you one bit of additional money. I
wish you had had double the number--”

“Oh dear! I don’t! That sounds saucy. But I never in the world could
make my salt that way. I haven’t the patience, and I have too much
pride. But I did get quite a nice little sum for them, and I am sure it
will do Motherkin a lot of good. Only her pride will suffer, and her
heart ache a little that I could do anything without telling her first.
We never have any secrets in our small household; and I have been so
low-spirited all day over mine. Only, of course, I shall make a clean
breast of the business as soon as I get home.”

“Miss Beckwith, or Beatrice, if you will let me call you so, I thank
you for your confidence in me. I want to prove myself to you all that
my Conrad would have been to any one dear to me, if I can. But I see
very clearly that your mother is proud and self-reliant. She is not of
the sort to whom one can offer pecuniary aid without offering a sting
as well. I am of the same kind myself. I should not like to receive
benefits at all, unless I had a chance of repaying them. I agree with
the doctor that Mrs. Beckwith would be better in the country; but I
dare not propose my poor knowledge of what is best for you youngsters
against a mother’s wish and wisdom. Still, continue to trust me for a
little while. Some way will open to help you; and Joanna will advise
me. I never take any important step without consulting her.”

Bonny looked her surprise. Mr. Brook was a hale, strong-hearted man of
eighty years. How odd that he should need to take counsel of anybody,
least of all of a woman! “Is Joanna the sister of whom you spoke?”

“Yes. A wise and dear friend she has been to me all my life. She and I
live together at the old homestead in New Windsor with the servants who
have been long in our employ. I hope you will know her soon. You are
certain to love her if you do.”

Bonny’s quick sympathy sent a momentary moisture to her bright eyes,
which Mr. Brook saw clearly enough, even without his glasses, which had
fallen from his nose. “Why, what, my dear?”

“Nothing--nothing, sir! Only that is so beautiful! I wonder if my
Roland will love me like that when he is old, and I am! We are the
‘closest chums’ now; but--do you suppose it will last?”

“Let us hope it will last, my dear. And it certainly will if you do
your sisterly share to make it. Never for one moment allow yourself to
forget that you are children of one mother,--the brave little mother
who has toiled to keep you in one fold. Then I am as positive it ‘will
last’ as that our dinner must be waiting us now!”

Bonny sprang up at once. “Thank you, Mr. Brook. And if your sister does
not see how to help us into a sensible way of living, still I shall
always remember you gratefully; and I will try to be to my Roland what
Miss Brook has been to you. I will, indeed. But I am glad to go back
to Robert. He is rather uncertain in his behavior, though the dearest
little fellow in the world!”

“Indeed?” laughed Mr. Brook, dryly; and with so much of mischief in
his fine old face that again Beatrice was reminded of the picture her
mother had seen in the chrysanthemums, and she beguiled the way back
to the hotel by a description of the little scene when the basket had
arrived.

“That was pretty, very pretty. Joanna must certainly know your mother;
and I have a scheme in my mind that, meeting her approval, will bring
many happy days to all of us, I trust.” The old man looked up cheerily,
and caught Bonny’s wondering gaze fixed upon his face. “Ah, ha, my
dear! You see that youth has no monopoly of ‘looking forward.’ A man
may be a deal happier at eighty than he ever was at eighteen. I am.”

They reached the hotel none too soon. Dinner had been ready for some
moments, and both Mr. Dolloway and Robert were in the condition of
temper which hungry men, of any size, not possessing more than the
usual amount of “grace” commonly exhibit.

“Bonny! I want to go home! Right away! That horrid old man
has--sp-sp-spanked--me!”

CHAPTER VII.

DINING IN STATE.

“Impossible!” cried Beatrice, catching the angry boy in her arms, and
casting a defiant glance toward the irate Mr. Dolloway.

“Well, when a young one don’t know any better than to sass his elders
he’d ought to be spanked. So I done it. An’ I’ll do it again, if I ever
have occasion to.”

“Dolloway!”

Beatrice was surprised to hear how stern Mr. Brook’s voice could
become, and she was delighted to see the other old fellow wince
visibly. The sternness had gone home to the servant’s guilty heart, as
it should.

“Truth, sir. Begging your pardon for sayin’ so. Here was I, laying
myself out to entertain the boy; a telling stories till my jaws ached,
and answering questions by the thousand till I couldn’t talk no more.
Then I remembered the checker-board we’d brought along, and I tried to
learn him how to play. The sass he give me--beat all! He knows more’n
I do; more’n you do, sir; more’n the President of these United States
and Queen Victory into the bargain.”

“I--I--I don’t! I--never!” sobbed Robert.

“You did. You do--er you think you do! Didn’t you conteradict me plain
to my face about them moves? Didn’t you just as good as say I cheated?”

“Wull--wull--wull--you did!”

“Hush, Bob! Let the old man tell his story first.”

“If--if he gets his in fust--who’s a-goin’ ter b’lieve mine?” demanded
“Humpty-Dumpty,” with renewed energy. “Fust off he knocked me down
with the checker-board. Think I was goin’ ter stan’ that? I guess not!
So I hit him with my fist. That’s all they was to it. An’ I’d a been
satisfied nen to quit an’ begin over again, if he’d a played fair. But
he wouldn’t. Nen--he--he caught me up--an’--”

“Never mind, now. Try not to think about it. And if you have been
naughty you must apologize to Mr. Dolloway.”

“This--this is distressing!” exclaimed poor Mr. Brook, who hated a
quarrel. “Try, both of you, to forget all about it. You were probably
both almost starved. So I’ll order in the dinner at once, and that
will set us all straight. Come here, my little man. Here is a quarter
for you.”

But the “little man” was beyond the allurements of tips. He had
sustained an indignity which it seemed to him he could never forget. It
had been part of Mrs. Beckwith’s gentle rule that no physical violence
should ever be visited upon her children. In the street the boys had
taken their share of rough-and-tumble fighting with other boys, but in
their own home or at their schools neither had ever received a blow.
The fact and the method of Mr. Dolloway’s punishment was, therefore,
the more infuriating and humiliating to the really proud little boy,
who was at heart as “good” as his doting sister constantly declared him.

“Go, darling!” whispered Bonny. “Don’t make poor Mr. Brook feel any
worse. He is unhappy about his man’s rudeness to you. Go! Be generous,
and take it!”

This was putting the matter in a new light; and Robert despised
anything like want of generosity. He hesitated but a second longer,
till Bonny added, “Go, dear!” and then he marched straight to Mr. Brook
and laid his soiled hand confidingly upon that gentleman’s knee.

“Wull--I’ll take it to ’blige you, not him. I ain’t a takin’ no pay
fer what he done, an’ I’ll lick him yet, if I get big enough. Thank
you, sir. There comes the waiter man. He’s been in here a lot o’ times
a’ready. I guess it’s dinner, don’t you?”

“I guess it is. In fact, I know it is. Now, my son, what did you order?
And I hope you did not forget me. I’m as hungry as a bear.”

“Are bears hungry?”

“They have that reputation. I am not acquainted with any bears myself,
so I cannot speak from experience. Come, Dolloway, here is your
especial bit of venison steak again, I see. Come, draw up to the table,
all.”

Mr. Dolloway sniffed, “After you is manners for me, sir.”

“Stuff and nonsense, lad! Waive formality for once, and take a bit of
dinner with an old friend--not after him. Come.”

“No, no, sir; thank you, I never could relish my victuals with young
ones to the table.”

“Dolloway! sit up. That is enough of nonsense. And show the ill-taught
child how he should behave--if you know how yourself.”

To Beatrice’s surprise, Mr. Dolloway did not apparently resent this
speech of Mr. Brook’s, and he immediately obeyed it. She saw then
that, familiar and almost equal as the two had seemed to her, one was
still the master, the other the man.

The dinner began in silence, broken only by the host’s attempts at
conversation, which fell without much response; for Dolloway was
stubbornly speechless, and the young Beckwiths were too much impressed
by the strangeness of their surroundings to have leisure for words.
Even restaurant service, to which most young city folk become early
accustomed, was unknown to them, for their simple meals had always
been taken at home; and the deft movements of the waiter, perplexity
as to the use of the various utensils with which he provided them,
and a close observation of Mr. Brook and his manner of using the big
or little forks and spoons, occupied them to the exclusion of almost
everything else, even food.

“Try a few of those oysters. They are delicious, my dear, they are
indeed,” urged the entertainer, pushing the plate of half-shells gently
toward Bonny’s place.

Then she rallied herself. “I must not seem ungrateful, and the
food does smell so good! Only there is so much of it! One of these
‘courses,’ I suppose they are, would make enough for once at home. I
wish Motherkin had some oysters like these! And she shall. I will buy
some on my way back.” Then she turned to her host, and exerted herself
to be as entertaining as Bonny Beckwith certainly could be if she
willed, and before he knew it even Mr. Dolloway was laughing.

In that laugh the hatchet was buried; or rather the last ill-temper
which Robert had retained vanished, and he turned merrily toward his
enemy with the words: “My eye! This turkey is an awful good one, ain’t
it? I wish I could have you tell me what to order, every day!”

“When I was a boy I liked turkey,” answered Dolloway, graciously.

“Tell me ‘when you was a boy,’ please. If you will I won’t be sassy no
more, an’ I won’t beat you no more.”

“Some time. Not now. I did tell you all I knew, ’most.”

“He says you have horses of your own, Mr. Brook!” said “Humpty-Dumpty,”
suddenly remembering this communication and wishing to have it verified.

“Yes, I have a number; seven in the stables now, I think. But all are
not mine; one pair is my sister’s. Some day I hope you will come and
see them.”

“Ginger! Do you? Honest Injun?”

“Certainly. Why should you doubt it?”

“Oh--because I hit _him_, an’ I’m a ‘young one,’ an’--I’m gen’ally
doin’ somethin’ I hadn’t oughter. But if you mean it I’ll come, if my
mother will let me.”

“I shall ask her,” said Mr. Brook, cheerfully. “I have hopes she will
say ‘yes.’ Then Dolloway, here, shall teach you how to ride.”

“No, I sha’n’t teach nobody to break his neck.”

“Perhaps you may have a horse of your own, some day,” calmly pursued
Mr. Brook, undisturbed by Dolloway’s present rebellion against
authority.

Robert gasped. Such a “perhaps” literally took his breath away. Then he
asked:

“Could I ride him bareback?”

“I presume you would attempt it.”

“If I ’tempted it I’d do it. They ain’t no back down ter me; I’ve got
grit, I have. Bonny, here, she would ’a’ give up--kerflummux! a sellin’
those chrysms, but I made her hold on. If it hadn’t ’a’ been fer me she
wouldn’t ’a’ made nothin’, hardly.”

Bonny winced. The least said about chrysanthemums the better she liked
it now. But she answered: “How about the dozen which Miss Agnew
bought? Where were you at that time?”

Robert ignored the inquiry. He had now eaten all that his capacity
permitted, and he began to think of home. Not that homesickness
troubled him, but a longing to boast of that day’s experience over the
humdrum, matter-of-fact life which had probably gone on in the Second
Avenue flat.

“Say, Bon! It’s time fer a feller ter go! Motherkin’ll be gettin’
worried ’bout us.”

“If Mr. Brook will excuse us we will go at once, before the up-town
cars get crowded.”

“Golly! Will you ride? Eh?”

“Yes, dear. We are a long way from our own neighborhood now.”

“I know that. But I’ve walked it before, when I didn’t have no such
good dinner inside of me. I’d laugh if I couldn’t now!”

“Very well. We’ll try it, then.”

But they were not to be permitted. When they turned to bid their host
good-by, they found him with his hat on, ready to accompany them to the
street. “You must allow me to put you in a cab, my dears. Yes, yes.
Indeed, I shall permit nothing else. You are to say all kind things
to the family for me, and I will write your mother or you, after I
reach home and have seen Joanna. One thing, remember. I am not a new
acquaintance. I am an old and tried friend. You can trust me. You can
expect to see a great deal of me, if you will. Good-by.”

“Good-by.” “Good-by! Don’t forget about my visit to you!” “Thank you.
Good-by.”

Around whirled the cab, and off up the street sped--no, crawled--the
vehicle, among the lines of trucks and wagons, street-cars, hacks, and
carriages, till Beatrice felt she could have outstripped that pace on
her own light feet.

“But it’s riding, all the same, Bon! Let’s play pretend it’s our own
carriage and we have been down town to buy a horse.”

“No; a house in the country.”

“Horses too. An’ we’re goin’ ter live ‘swell’ forever after. We’re
goin’ ter have turkey every day.”

“Every other day, dear; it would be better for our digestion.”

“What’s digestion?”

“It is the one thing which the impecunious young Beckwiths have in
perfection.”

“Pooh! What’s the use of saying words a mile long? An’ why don’t you
give a real answer?”

“I like to use long words. It’s the only luxury I can afford. And the
real answer is, the prime condition of our ‘insides,’ which allow us to
eat anything from ‘A to Izzard.’ There, let’s get out at this corner. I
want to invest a little of my money in a few oysters for Motherkin, as
well as to pay you the seventy-five cents I promised.”

They dismissed the cab at the corner of Third Avenue and hurried into
the nearest market, where Bonny selected with utmost care a dozen of
the very finest “bivalves” she could find; but when she offered the
promised reward to her little brother he surprised her by refusing to
take it.

“Why, Bob! Why not? Are you ill? What is the matter?”

“No, I ain’t ill. Can’t a feller do a gen’rous thing ’ithout his folks
’cusin’ him o’ bein’ sick? But, say! Wait a minute! I will take it,
too. I’ll take it an’ give it to my mother myself. I earned it fair an’
square, didn’t I?”

“Of course you did. And you are a perfect darling that you do not
wish to waste it on yourself. Mother will be delighted with your
unselfishness! If it weren’t in the street I’d kiss you, sweetheart!”

“Well, you needn’t. An’ I’ve got a quarter, anyway. That is more’n I’ve
had in a dog’s age before. Do you s’pose my mother will scold me for
running away from school?”

“As you draw near home your conscience begins to prick you, doesn’t it?
Mine does. I didn’t feel half as guilty before.”

There was such a sympathy in this matter that despite its being on the
“street” and a place where exhibitions of affection were out of place,
the brother and sister clasped hands with an eagerness that told how
much they really feared the quiet glance of disapproval which Mrs.
Beckwith would make her only punishment.

But it was not Beatrice’s habit to acknowledge herself worsted till
compelled; and she dashed into the little parlor of their flat crying,
as gayly as she could: “Fairy gifts, Motherkin! I’ve discovered the
secret of transmuting posies into pounds, petals into pennies, and
chrysanthemums into oysters! Behold--and believe!”

“Ahem! Miss Beatrice, this is truly fortunate. I had begun to despair
of seeing you.”

The girl wheeled suddenly about, and there, spectacles on nose and
music-roll in hand, sat the Professor of Voice Culture who was training
her for “her career,” and whom she had faithfully promised to meet
that day for “a particular reason of obligingness to me myself; that
may mean a much of benefit to the poor old Herr Doctor.”

Until that instant she had utterly forgotten the teacher’s request and
her promise, and the regret with which she now recalled it effectually
banished all affected hilarity. Dropping her package of “saddle rocks,”
she held out both hands to the shabby-looking German, with an accent
of such keen distress in her voice that he forgave her on the instant:
“Oh, sir! I am so sorry. But--I never thought of it, not once. Has it
made a great difference?”

“No, no,--not so great--but the mother--”

Bonny turned once more, this time to be confronted by another visitor,
and oddly enough another teacher, the head master of the parochial
institution where Robert was supposed to learn more refinement than he
could at the public schools of the city.

“My dear, Mr. Benton. He has called about Robert’s absence, fearing he
was ill. He also has a broken engagement to explain. Where have you
both been all day?”

“Mother! must I tell--now--before these?”

“I know of no reason why you should not. I hope my children have not
absented themselves from their duties for any cause which they would
be ashamed to mention.” There was both pride and pain in the widow’s
tone, and Bonny opened her lips to “make a clean breast of the matter,”
but a second thought restrained her. What she had done might have been
unwise, but she saw no reason to explain their actual poverty to “all
the world.” For the first time in her life she refused to answer her
mother’s question, and a spot of heightened color burned on each cheek
as she bowed and murmured: “I cannot give the reason now, dear. Please
do not press me;” and immediately quitted the apartment.

But alas for the Beckwith pride! In her haste Beatrice forgot that she
had left the garrulous “Humpty-Dumpty” behind her.

CHAPTER VIII.

PROPOUNDING A RIDDLE.

“Ginger! If Bon hasn’t dropped them oysters down kerflump!” cried
Robert, picking up the brown paper parcel and laying it on his
mother’s lap. Then he plunged one pudgy hand deep in the corner of his
pocket, where the hole had been pinned together, and produced four
silver quarters. “Hi! there, Motherkin! See _them_?” and he cast a
supercilious glance about upon the spectators, as if pitying the envy
which must thrill their breasts.

“I see, dear. But go and make your excuses to Mr. Benton. I have had
none to make for you.”

Robert immediately crossed to the master’s side and explained: “I
couldn’t come ter school to-day, sir, ’cause my sister had ter go an’
sell some chrysms on the Avenue, an’ I didn’t like ter let her go
alone. It ain’t nice fer girls to go ter places alone, my mother says.”

When the child had reached this point in his disclosures Isabelle
rose rather hurriedly and left the room by the same door which had
covered Bonny’s exit.

[Illustration: HE CAST A SUPERCILIOUS GLANCE ABOUT HIM.]

“Well, my boy. If you have a valid reason for your absence we will have
to see about getting you excused. But there has been too much of this
truanting, and we have resolved to put a stop to it. We have not quite
the authority which the public school teachers have, else we should
not be so troubled. An examination for promotion is to be held next
week, and I felt that Robert had no time to lose if he wished to go
forward with his class. Besides, he had promised to assist me a little
in preparing for an evening entertainment in aid of the school, and I
depended on him. He was to have been a little ‘Red Cross Knight,’ but
owing to his absence I was obliged to give his place to another boy.”

Five minutes later both the Professor and Mr. Benton had departed,
and Bonny immediately reappeared. “Mother! don’t look at me so
grieved. I am bad, I know; as bad as I can be. But I don’t mean it,
and I really felt as if I were doing something very praiseworthy when
I set out on my adventures this morning. I was in quite a glow of
self-righteousness. I was, indeed!”

“How about the glow now, my child?” asked the mother, gently stroking
the flushed face resting on her knee.

“It’s gone. But--but this remains;” and she counted out the contents of
her little purse, which amounted to about ten dollars. “That isn’t so
very bad, though it’s about one fourth of what I anticipated bringing
home. As it is, nine dollars of this came from one person.”

“Beatrice! Not from Mr. Brook, I hope!”

“No, Motherkin. But _will_ you forgive me? I’ll never do so again. I
promise you. And I’ve so much to tell. I can’t wait till I tell it, yet
it doesn’t come easy with that sort of a wall of displeasure and sorrow
between us. Please take your bad girl back, down deep into the happy
place in your heart again, Mother darling! I hate to feel unhappy! I
do, awfully!”

Her whimsical entreaty covered a regret so sincere that Mrs. Beckwith
understood, and stooping kissed very tenderly the tumbled curls of her
energetic daughter. There was a trace of tears in her own eyes as she
lifted her head, but there was no further word of blame or repentance
between them; yet Beatrice never forgot that hour, nor did she ever
again test any scheme, no matter how brilliant its promise, without
taking her mother into confidence first.

“Well, then, that’s settled and done with. I feel better, very much
better. And Robert is not to be blamed at all. Nor am I, even, for
part of my badness. I forgot that. Mr. Brook has part of the blame. He
claims it, and I’m sure I’m willing he should enjoy it.”

“My daughter, have you been to see Mr. Brook?”

“Yes,’m, I have. I’ve dined with him. At the Astor House. In a private
parlor. But that wasn’t the beginning of the story. You should let
people begin at the beginning, Mother dear.”

“Begin at the beginning, Beatrice.”

The recital was given, amid the comments and illustrations of the
youngest Beckwith; no details were omitted, and it ended with the
question: “If this good friend of our grandfather’s finds some place
that we could live in the country, would you go, Mother?”

“For my own part, I should be glad to go. But your education, the
different careers which may be open to you here, my children, these
must be considered first. All the young people are leaving the country
places and flocking to the towns, if we are to believe the articles we
read. If those who have been born and reared in the country cannot
make a decent livelihood there, how can we expect to do so?”

“Well, you see, Motherkin! we’re all geniuses! That’s the theory we are
living on now; and a genius can do what no less gifted mortal can! But
all jesting aside, Mr. Brook agrees with the doctor that your health
would be a great deal better in a country place than here; and I’ll
risk the rest of the question for that great gain. So should you, if
you love us.”

“Well, well, dearie. The question is not to be met to-night. But those
oysters you brought in and dropped so disdainfully upon the floor will
taste very nicely to us who have _not_ dined at the Astor House upon
roast turkey and other good things galore. Would you object to broiling
me a few?”

After all, the day ended merrily. The Beckwiths had a faculty of
making mirth out of trifles, and it kept them all from growing sour
or cross-grained over the inevitable hardnesses of their lot in life.
Roland brought out his banjo and forgot the day’s hopeless search for
a new situation in the picking up of a melody that had caught his ear.
Belle worked hard to make a realistic “study” of chrysanthemums from
the two or three which Beatrice had left behind her that morning on
her mother’s kitchen table. Mrs. Beckwith “outlined” a pattern against
the next day’s finer embroidering; Robert played at jack-straws till
he had “beaten himself” a satisfying number of times; while Beatrice
moved everywhere about the little home, putting away scattered papers
and books, dusting carefully each nook and corner, and finally sitting
down to peruse a cook-book in the hope of finding some desirable dish
for the next day’s dinner which would cost next to nothing in the
concocting.

A busy week followed, busy for all save Roland, and yet even for him,
though his labors were without apparent result; and then the postman
brought the letter which all except Bonny had nearly forgotten, the
letter that Mr. Brook was to write after consultation with his sister,
Miss Joanna.

It was “Humpty-Dumpty” who received the communication from the
messenger and flew upstairs with it, crying out: “I bet this is the
country letter! I bet it’s Mr. Brook has found a home for us an’ a
horse! Read it, won’t you, Motherkin, quick?”

“It is very brief, my dears; but it contains an invitation for Roland
to go up and see Mr. Brook at his own home. He writes that there are
some things much better discussed in person than by mail, and unless
he hears to the contrary he will send a carriage to meet my son at the
railway station nearest his house on Thursday--why, that is to-morrow!
He adds that he trusts the meeting will not be fruitless of good to all
concerned, else he would not suggest it. Well, well.”

“‘Well’ means ‘yes,’ doesn’t it?” demanded Bonny, eagerly.

“I wonder how much it will cost!” remarked Roland, reflectively.

“No matter, sir. We’ll write another poem on somebody’s medicine and
earn the price of the trip, maybe! Anyway, there is the chrysanthemum
money which my mother has punished me by refusing to touch; you shall
take that. Then Mr. Brook can feel that he has paid your way and will
have no scruples about that matter. In his heart of hearts, the dear
old gentleman has been worried over it, I know, just as well as if I
had heard him say: ‘But, Joanna, they are so poor! What if he goes to
the expense for nothing!’ and she has comforted him by saying: ‘Never
mind, Chidly dear, we will make it up to them in some way. The young
man must come, of course.’ You see how it is, don’t you, Motherkin?”

“I see that, among you, you would wheedle the foolish old Motherkin
into letting all of you sacrifice your own best interests because
you happen to think a country life is best for her!” answered Mrs.
Beckwith, smiling fondly upon them all. “But Roland must go. No
matter if we could afford it even less than by Bonny’s exploit we are
fortunately able, it would be a rudeness not to accept the invitation.
Yet, Roland, remember; it is no light task you are undertaking, and you
must not bring back rose-colored reports unless the facts will bear
them out; that is, I want you to look at everything with practical
eyes.”

“I’ll try, Mother. But my opinion cannot decide the question.”

“Your opinion may soon have to decide all family matters, my son,”
answered Mrs. Beckwith, with a gravity that woke a sudden terror in
their loving hearts.

But Bonny would have none of this! Trouble--sorrow--should not come
to them, not such sorrow as her mother’s tone suggested; and with the
swift rebellion of her hopeful nature she turned upon her brother
playfully. “Yes, my Laureate. Just take the poetical part of you off
and give it to me. I’ll lock it safely up in my own bureau till you
return. And, see; here’s the money! Oh, Bob! don’t you wish you were
the big brother instead of the little one? Think of seeing your friend
Mr. Dolloway again!”

Three days later Roland had made his journey and returned; and the
first glance Bonny gave to his face set her heart to beating gayly.
“Oh! I see it’s good news you bring, Laureate! You needn’t try to look
so solemn, you’re so happy you could dance!” which was the one thing
Roland never attempted to do.

“Here he is, Motherkin! And he _is_ rose-colored, though he tries not
to be.”

“Ah, my son! We have missed you greatly. But did you have a pleasant
time?”

“Mother, it’s delightful! It is. Just the plain, common-sense side of
it is too good to be true. It is all so much better than we any of us
dreamed that I hardly know how to begin.”

“I know, Roland!” interposed Robert. “Begin as we like stories to do:
‘Once upon a time.’”

“All right, little chap. ‘Once upon a time’ there was an old gentleman
that had a great deal of money, much more than he needed himself,
and he liked to do good with it. He was a peculiar old gentleman,
too. He didn’t believe in the actual giving away of this money, as
we sometimes give to the street beggars; but he would help those who
wanted to help themselves. He said that was the Lord’s own way, and he
certainly could not improve upon it. So all his life long he has been
putting tumble-down people on their feet, and educating ignorant ones,
and building little homes for homeless folks, who generally plucked up
courage enough to earn the cost of the homes themselves at last. All
which the splendid old fellow didn’t tell me himself; but I found out
by asking more questions of everybody I met than even Bob could ask in
the same length of time.”

“You couldn’t!” said Robert, indignantly.

“I did, small sir. I’ll prove it by anybody who saw me while I was in
New Windsor town! Well, sure enough, when I got to the station there
was a cosey carriage waiting for me, and in it, not just the servant I
had expected to see, but Mr. Brook and the sweetest-faced old lady I
ever saw.”

“Roland! _Did_--you go and take that poetry-side out of my drawer
before you started?” asked Bonny, pathetically.

“No, miss. This is plain, unvarnished fact. Miss Brook is like her
brother, only--more so! She looks like him, with a little smaller
features and a bonnet on. She wears white curls each side her face,
and her bonnet is big enough to cover her head, and she had on a
soft-colored old shawl; India, I think she called it. She is very
decided and quick, but not harsh. It is only that her mind seems to go
as fast as Bonny’s does, though more wisely.”

“Thanks. Next chapter, please,” remarked the object of comparison,
slipping her arm within her brother’s.

“Well, I will skip the rest, for a minute, and hurry to the ‘plan.’
Mr. Brook has a house he would like to rent us. It stands on the
land adjoining his own place, and was owned by some city people who
got dissatisfied and left. He bought it partly as an investment, and
partly to prevent undesirable persons coming to live there. It is
old and picturesque, but it is in good order. It has a revolutionary
history,--that is, the west side has; the eastern half is more modern.
It stands almost upon the river bank, though on a bluff above it, and
the orchard slopes quite down to the water. The rent is two hundred
dollars a year, which is one hundred less than we pay now. It seemed
to me that there was more room in it than we needed, but Mr. Brook
said he thought not. And Bob’s friend, Dolloway, who went through the
house with us, remarked: ‘I should think you’d be glad to have room
enough to swing a cat in for once!’ and I concluded that it might be
pleasant. The house is partly furnished; that is, there are curtains
of some sort at the windows, and matting on the floors. There are
closets everywhere, and one room is just as General Somebody used it.
I declare, I was ashamed to find my history so rusty, for the whole
locality is historic. And-- Oh, Mother, I do hope you will think
favorably of it!”

“The main question is earning our living there; that is, if I can bring
myself to take you away from your schools.”

“We talked that all over. There are ten acres with the house. There is
also a little greenhouse, where Mr. Brook thinks we could raise early
vegetables and flowers for market. Miss Brook says that you could do
your embroidery there as well as here, and that if it seemed best the
girls could come into the city for their lessons once or twice a week.
They said we ought to keep one cow and a horse, and they had a plan by
which we could make the horse pay for its keep; that is, if we were
willing to work.”

“Are you, my dears? Remember it is not congenial work, nothing to do
with books and music and art. But I was brought up in the country
myself, and I know that the only way to get a living out of land is,
as my guardian used to say, ‘dig it out.’ It seems strange for us,
with our ignorance, to go back and attempt to do what the real country
people have given up as a failure. I am more than doubtful about our
success.”

“Mother, I never knew you to be so undecided about anything! I have
always felt you knew long beforehand just what was best; don’t let us
think of this thing at all if it troubles you,” said Isabelle, gently.

“There was never so much at stake before, my dear. But I will waver no
longer. Let us each make the most of our last winter in the city, and
in the spring we will go to New Windsor. Now, my Beatrice, if that soup
of yours is ready we will have our dinner.”

They rose promptly, but soberly. Even Bonny could not shake off the
influence of her mother’s thoughtful words, though she tried to jest
as usual, and began to sing a gay little melody that Belle liked,
till Roland interrupted her by saying: “Oh, I forgot; here is a little
letter for you, from Mr. Brook,” and gave her an unsealed envelope.

“For me? How nice! But--how queer! Listen to this, all of you!”

  MY DEAR MISS BEATRICE,--The name of the place where I hope you will
  live, is The Lindens, from the trees which surround it. You will find
  your fortune in those trees if you search for it. I leave your quick
  wit to solve the riddle.

                                Faithfully Yours,
                                                  PHILIPSE CHIDLY BROOK.

CHAPTER IX.

THE FIRST EVENING IN THE NEW HOME.

A few months later, when the spring was just opening, Beatrice and
Roland stood on the wide porch of the old house in New Windsor,
eagerly watching the approach of a carriage which was bringing to the
Lindens the rest of their family. The girl’s feet could not keep from
dancing, and the lad’s spirits found vent in a whistle so merry and so
spontaneous that old Mr. Dolloway, hearing it, muttered grimly: “I hope
he can keep on a feeling that way after he’s tried farming a spell. I
don’t see any great fun in hard work myself, an’ that’s what he’ll get,
an’ plenty of it.”

“Oh! I hope Motherkin will not be disappointed! Think of her trusting
everything to her children, and saying that what we like will certainly
suit her! Was there ever such a love of a mother in this world?”

“No, Bonny, I don’t believe there ever was. I can imagine no human
being more perfect than our mother.”

“I mean she shall have a splendid rest now. This air is perfectly
delicious! It fairly tingles through my veins, it is so pure and
brilliant!”

The brother fell to whistling again.

“See! The buds are really swelling on my lindens! I wonder what their
secret is.”

“I thought you professed to having found out?”

“Not quite. I did think, from the stories I have read about
Revolutionary times here, that perhaps Mr. Brook believed there was
a buried treasure underneath those trees somewhere. But last night
I asked him, and he laughed so gayly that I knew I was on the wrong
track. Miss Joanna laughed, too, and asked me if I thought all the poor
old soldiers had money to bury, because she had certainly heard of
enough being searched for to supply the whole army with wealth, and yet
history told us that they suffered great privations. There _have_ been
some ‘pots of gold’ resurrected right here in this New Windsor town,
but they did not hold enough to enrich anybody, and their contents are
preserved more as curiosities than used to supply common wants.”

“So you give up that idea entirely?”

“Entirely. There they come. Oh, Mother! Here at last!”

Considerate in all things, Mr. Brook had sent his own carriage to the
station to bring Mrs. Beckwith and Belle with little Robert, but he
had not accompanied it himself. He wanted the first glimpse of her new
home should be an impartial one on the lady’s part, and he was too
prejudiced a person to refrain from pointing out this or that favorable
feature of the spot he loved so well. So the family were quite by
themselves, and free to express their thoughts as they were inclined
without fear of wounding anybody’s preferences, had there been any
danger of their doing so. But there was not. As Roland had said, when
he returned from that first visit of the autumn before, “It is all so
much better than one could have dreamed!” was the one and only feeling
of the brave little woman who stepped down from the carriage with happy
face and shining eyes.

“Here at last, my darling! All together once more. Are you not tired
out with all your hard work? And, Roland, my son, it actually seems to
me you have grown, even in these few days!”

“Grown in importance, Motherkin. He’s really very ‘masterful’ up here.
He feels that he is the head of the family now, in good earnest. You
should hear him say: ‘Bonny! that room _must_ be my mother’s. It is the
very sunniest, pleasantest in the whole house!’ in such a tone. As if
a body wished to dispute his royal highness! But--how _do_ you like it?
And how did you manage in the boarding-house, after we came away with
the ‘things’?”

“Oh, we managed nicely. Did everything come? Don’t you think you are
very smart, you two, to take the whole responsibility of settling a
house, and such a big house as this? How nice it looks! How pretty,
nay, how beautiful, it all is! See the delicate green of those
tree-buds! And that clump of willows by the river-side. What an
exquisite color! And the plashing of the water at the foot of the
bluff! I had no idea it was so lovely!”

“Now, Motherkin! That’s charming of you; but you don’t wish to waste
all your enthusiasm out of doors, I hope. As for those willow boughs,
I can tell you exactly what to do them in. Cadmium, Motherkin, cadmium
yellow, number two, with shadows of _terre verte_ and umber. Oh! I
know! I was taken with just such an artistic spasm the other day when
I was scrubbing the kitchen pantry, and I sat right down and made a
study of those willows on the back of the moulding-board. I didn’t
quite finish it, though, for Roland called to me to help him with
the stove-pipe, and that sort of dampened my spirits for a while.
Stove-pipes have a depressing influence on mankind generally, I
believe; for we couldn’t get it right, though we tried never so, and
after a little while Roland had to call on Mr. Dolloway for advice.
He-- I fancy I had best not tell what he said. It wouldn’t have been
allowed in polite society. He--”

“Bonny, do keep still! Mother, she talks all the time up here. That is
one drawback I have discovered to this paradise. It is either talk or
sing with Beatrice; she cannot keep still a minute.”

“Never mind! A _happy_ racket never is disturbing to _me_. So this is
my room? Well, I thank you for selecting one so big and cheerful. How
well our old furniture does look, after all! And what pretty matting!
It--seems like a dream. And there is almost as much space in this
one apartment as in the whole of our little flat. I feel like a Mrs.
Crœsus! And what a light for my embroidery!”

“Motherkin, you are not to embroider one stitch for one whole week.
True. Roland has said so, and you will not dare to disobey the
Laureate--and the head of the family--combined!”

It was indeed a cheerful, picturesque old farm-house, and could not
have been situated more pleasantly. To the east, across the river,
the highlands were violet in the light of the setting sun, and the
broad stream itself was flecked here and there by the white-sailed
boats which had awaked from the winter’s sleep with the opening of
navigation, and now darted busily up and down intent upon making lost
time good. Barges and steam-tugs, a steamer or two, and the rattle of
trains on both banks of the Hudson gave what Roland called “an American
flavor to an idyllic picture,” and convinced them all that in turning
their backs upon the city they had not left behind them all connection
with its stirring life.

“Now the greenhouse, Mother! Then you may have your supper. Miss Brook
invited us there to-night, but I asked her to excuse us. I thought you
would be tired and would like to eat your first meal in your new home.
Though we are all to go there to dine to-morrow, and she is coming over
to see you ‘early in the morning,’ which means early, too! Those two
people have not a thing to do except please themselves; and how do you
think they do it? One of the ‘hows’?”

“Don’t tire us with conundrums, Bonny!” pleaded Isabelle, who had made
a swift tour of the whole premises and now returned to the empty little
glass house where the rest had gathered.

“By having their breakfast at seven o’clock the year round!”

“Then during the week you have passed with them you have either
suffered or been impolite!” said Mrs. Beckwith, with conviction.

“I wasn’t impolite, Motherkin. I didn’t keep them waiting,--they
wouldn’t have waited, though,--but I was on hand every morning, sharp.
So was Roland. Oh! that youth is a changed young man! If it only lasts!”

“Now, here,” said Roland, paying no attention to Bonny’s banter, “is
where I have sowed my celery seed. Here is lettuce; there radishes;
there onions, tomatoes, and by this side a few early potatoes. Isn’t
that like living?”

“Roland, how did you know what to do? And how have you had time to
accomplish so much since you came? Shall you like it?”

“Mother, you are almost as curious as Bob! It does me good to hear
it. I was taught what to do by Mr. Brook’s gardener. And we have not
wasted any of the hours during this past week, anyway. And I shall like
it--immensely. I never felt so much a man in all my life.”

“Why, you ain’t a man, Roland! You’re only a boy,” remarked Robert,
feeling a bit jealous of this big brother who had had a whole
week at the Lindens, while he had been forced to remain in a city
boarding-house till Beatrice and the “Laureate” prepared the home for
their mother’s coming. “And don’t it look funny to see our old things
in this new house! I found my own bed the first thing. It’s in a room
all by my own self, ’cause Bon said so. That bed is new if nothin’ else
ain’t, an’ I’m as much ’count as you if I can have a bedroom too.”

“I think that is one of the luxuries of the situation, that each member
of the household can have his or her own little apartment to do in just
as he pleases.”

“To do in not at all as he pleases, you mean! That girl has fidgeted
herself sick lest there should be a speck of dirt left anywhere for
your eyes to find, Mother. And if I laid a single thing down in my
room--so-called--she’d pounce upon it and hang it up or hide it away,
lest the place should ‘look like fury.’”

“Well, she has her reward. I really think she has done wonders, as well
as you. And now I think I smell a cup of tea. If your supper is ready,
Miss Housekeeper, I should be pleased to eat it.”

They had not been allowed to enter the dining-room before. Bonny had
prepared her table and then locked the door. She wanted that room, next
to the mother’s the most cheerful room in the house, to be a surprise
to them; and she now opened the door with a flourish of arms, then
stood back to enjoy the look of pleasure she was sure her mother’s face
would show.

“Oh, how pretty! My dear, you _have_ kept the best to the last. And
this will be our living-room, our ‘home’ room; and as we break bread
together in it for the first time, let us each resolve that into this
room, whatever of sorrow may come, there shall never come an angry word
or an unloving thought. Three times each day, God willing, we will
gather here _in peace_.”

“Then let’s call it the ‘peace-room’ Motherkin!” cried “Humpty-Dumpty,”
touched for almost the first time in his life to a bit of sentiment by
the sweet solemnity of his mother’s face.

“Good for you, small sir! It’s a compact! Your hand upon it, little
brother! And whenever you get into a scrape, if ever such an
unheard-of thing should happen, remember this room shall be a retreat
where you will be safe. I, too; and between us--”

“It will not be often unoccupied!” said Belle, saucily, and moved her
mother’s chair to its place.

“What a great, big fireplace! And ain’t it wicked to burn so much wood,
Roland? Must ’a’ cost a heap!” remarked Bob, leaning his head on his