"Hard on her? to feed her, and clothe her, and keep her out of the alms-house," said Dolly. "Dreadful hard, that is."
"But you know you speak pretty sharp to her, and she does try to do right, Dolly."
"So she ought," said Dolly, tartly.
"Yes – but you know some children would get clean discouraged, if they were never praised."
"Let her get discouraged, then, I don't care, so long as she does what I tell her."
"I am afraid it will spoil her temper, by and by, and make it hard for you to get along with her."
"No fear of that," answered Dolly, glancing up at her small riding-whip.
"I have finished in the kitchen, Aunt Dolly," said Rose. "Shall I go take my sewing?"
"Of course," said Dolly. "You might know that, without asking."
"Looking pale, is she?" said Dolly, turning to Daffy, "did you see what a bright color she had when she came in, and how her eyes sparkled?"
"I never saw her look so before," replied Daffy; "I wonder what has come over her."
"Nothing has come over her, except that it has done her good to work;" said Dolly, "talk about my being 'hard on her,' indeed."
"Good morning, Dolly! A paper of No. nine needles, sharps, if you please – have you heard the news?"
"No," exclaimed Dolly and Daffy in a breath.
"Well – Miss Pettingill was down to Miss Gill's to tea last night, and Miss Gill was to work the day before at Deacon Grant's; and she said Deacon Grant and Deacon Tufts were closeted in the back parlor all the afternoon, and Miss Gill listened at the key-hole, and she heard them say, that the minister ought to go off on a little journey with his wife, because they were so low sperrited about the baby, and they are going to raise the funds to send him to the springs or somewhere, I don't know where. Miss Gill couldn't hear the whole of it, because she was afraid of being caught listening."
"I can tell them they won't raise any funds out of me," said Dolly – "Do I ever go to the springs? Do I ever get low-spirited? When minister's folks want to go on a frolic they always get up some such nonsense, and the parish has to pay the fiddler. It won't do," said Dolly. "I shan't give the first red cent toward it. His wife is going too, I 'spose."
"Yes – both on 'em – they are both all down at the heel. I'm sorry for 'em."
"Well, I ain't," said Dolly – "babies is as plenty as blackberries, for the matter of that; they may have a dozen more yet, and if they don't, why then they will have more time to call on the parish, and make sermons and things – it is ridikilis!"
Years rolled slowly away. Difftown, doomed to stereotyped dullness, remained in statu quo. It had still its "trainings" on the green, its cattle-fair Mondays, and its preceding Sabbaths in which herds of cattle, driven into the village on that day to 'save time' (as if time was ever saved or gained by breaking the fourth commandment), ran bleating round the little church, and with the whoas of their drivers, drowned the feeble Mr. Clifton's voice; feeble, though he still labored on, for consumption lent its unnatural brightness to his eye, and burned upon his hollow cheek; – the parsonage was doubly drear now, for the gentle form which flitted around it, had lain down long since with "the baby," and the broken band was destined soon to be complete.
CHAPTER XIX
"'Most there, driver?" thundered out a red-faced man, as he thrust his frowsy head out of the stage-coach window.
"'Most there? Sahara is nothing to this sand-hill; phew! touch up yer hosses, can't you? I'm perspiring like an eel in a frying-pan."
"So are my horses," answered the driver, sulkily, "I can't run them up hill, this weather, to please you."
It was hot. The dust-begrimed leaves by the roadside hung limp and motionless: the cattle lay with protruding tongues under the broad tree shadows; not a single friendly cloud obscured the fierce brightness of the sun-rays, while the locust shrilly piped his simoom song in triumph.
"In-fern-al!" growled the fat man on the back seat, as he wiped his rubicund face with a soiled cotton handkerchief.
"Swearing will not make thee any cooler, friend," quietly remarked a drab bonnet by his side.
"Did thee ever try it, ma'am?" asked the irritated Falstaff, mimicking her tone, "'cause if thee hasn't, thee is not qualified to judge on that point."
"Did thee ever roll down that precipice?" asked the drab bonnet, "yet thee knows if thee should it would certainly harm thee."
"Keen," muttered the fat man to a young lady who sat near him, as a suppressed titter ran round the coach. "These women always trip up a man in an argument, not by any fair play either, but by some such metaphorical twist as that now. Well – nature gives strength to us, cunning to them; I suppose she knows what she is about. Women are necessary evils; if we can not get along with them, we certainly can not without them; I suppose it is all right;" and he looked for a reply in the face of the young lady whom he had addressed.
She seemed not to have heard any thing which had passed; her large, dark eyes were bent upon an infant who lay asleep on her lap, a very cupid for grace and beauty. The child could scarcely have been her own, for she could not have numbered more than sixteen summers; and yet there was the same full red lip, the same straight nose, and the same long curved lashes. The intense heat which had coarsened the features of her companions served only to have heightened the beauty of the young girl; deepening the rose on her lip and cheek, and moistening her tresses till they curled round her open brow like vine tendrils.
"This is the house miss," said the driver, throwing open the door, and looking in. "This is old Ma'am Bond's, miss."
The young girl colored slightly, and roused the little sleeper on her lap, who opened his large brown eyes, and yawned just enough to show off two little snowy teeth, and a very bewitching dimple, and then cuddled his little head into the girl's neck as the driver held out his arms to take him.
The driver deposited his charge and their scanty baggage, on the front stoop of the old wooden house, and remounting his box, gave his horses' ears a professional touch with his long whiplash. Turning to give his ex-passengers a parting glance, he said:
"Wonder if that girl is the child's mother? Can't be, though," said he, still gazing at her slight figure; "she's nothing but a child herself. That boy is a beauty, any how, shouldn't mind owning him myself. I'm beat if any parson could call him totally depraved. That girl can't be his mother, though – she's too young."
Yes, young in years; but what is the dial's finger to those who live years in a lightning moment, or to whom an hour may be the tortoise creep of a century?
Yes, young in years; the face may be smooth and fair, while the heart is wrinkled; the eye may be bright, though the fire which feeds it is drying up the life-blood.
Yes, young in years; but old in sorrow – a child, and yet a woman! – a mother, but the world said, not a wife.
Rat – tat – the dilapidated brass knocker is as old as its mistress. The young girl draws a glove from her small hand, and applies her knuckles to the sun-blistered door. Old Mrs. Bond toddles to the threshhold. With what a stony look the stranger meets her curious gaze! With what a firm step she crosses the threshhold; as if, child-mother as she was, she had rights that must not be trampled on. But see, her eye moistens, and her lip quivers. Harshness she was prepared for – kindness she knows not how to bear.
"You must be very weary," said good Mrs. Bond to Rose, as she held out her matronly arms for little Charley. "Poor little fellow!" and she held a glass of cold spring water to his parched lips; "how pleasant he is; and the weather so warm too."
"Charley is a good boy," said the young mother, pushing back the moist curls from his temples, with a sad pride.
"It is a very pleasant country through which you passed to-day," said Mrs. Bond, "though mayhap you were too weary to look at it."
"Is