Rebecca never stopped long to think, more ‘s the pity, so she put on her oldest dress and hat and jacket, then wrapped her nightdress, comb, and toothbrush in a bundle and dropped it softly out of the window. Her room was in the L and her window at no very dangerous distance from the ground, though had it been, nothing could have stopped her at that moment. Somebody who had gone on the roof to clean out the gutters had left a cleat nailed to the side of the house about halfway between the window and the top of the back porch. Rebecca heard the sound of the sewing machine in the dining-room and the chopping of meat in the kitchen; so knowing the whereabouts of both her aunts, she scrambled out of the window, caught hold of the lightning rod, slid down to the helpful cleat, jumped to the porch, used the woodbine trellis for a ladder, and was flying up the road in the storm before she had time to arrange any details of her future movements.
Jeremiah Cobb sat at his lonely supper at the table by the kitchen window. “Mother,” as he with his old-fashioned habits was in the habit of calling his wife, was nursing a sick neighbor. Mrs. Cobb was mother only to a little headstone in the churchyard, where reposed “Sarah Ann, beloved daughter of Jeremiah and Sarah Cobb, aged seventeen months;” but the name of mother was better than nothing, and served at any rate as a reminder of her woman’s crown of blessedness.
The rain still fell, and the heavens were dark, though it was scarcely five o’clock. Looking up from his “dish of tea,” the old man saw at the open door a very figure of woe. Rebecca’s face was so swollen with tears and so sharp with misery that for a moment he scarcely recognized her. Then when he heard her voice asking, “Please may I come in, Mr. Cobb?” he cried, “Well I vow! It’s my little lady passenger! Come to call on old uncle Jerry and pass the time o’ day, hev ye? Why, you’re wet as sops. Draw up to the stove. I made a fire, hot as it was, thinkin’ I wanted somethin’ warm for my supper, bein’ kind o’ lonesome without mother. She’s settin’ up with Seth Strout to-night. There, we’ll hang your soppy hat on the nail, put your jacket over the chair rail, an’ then you turn your back to the stove an’ dry yourself good.”
Uncle Jerry had never before said so many words at a time, but he had caught sight of the child’s red eyes and tear-stained cheeks, and his big heart went out to her in her trouble, quite regardless of any circumstances that might have caused it.
Rebecca stood still for a moment until uncle Jerry took his seat again at the table, and then, unable to contain herself longer, cried, “Oh, Mr. Cobb, I’ve run away from the brick house, and I want to go back to the farm. Will you keep me to-night and take me up to Maplewood in the stage? I haven’t got any money for my fare, but I’ll earn it somehow afterwards.”
“Well, I guess we won’t quarrel ‘bout money, you and me,” said the old man; “and we’ve never had our ride together, anyway, though we allers meant to go down river, not up.”
“I shall never see Milltown now!” sobbed Rebecca.
“Come over here side o’ me an’ tell me all about it,” coaxed uncle Jerry. “Jest set down on that there wooden cricket an’ out with the whole story.”
Rebecca leaned her aching head against Mr. Cobb’s homespun knee and recounted the history of her trouble. Tragic as that history seemed to her passionate and undisciplined mind, she told it truthfully and without exaggeration.
Chapter X.
Rainbow Bridges
Uncle Jerry coughed and stirred in his chair a good deal during Rebecca’s recital, but he carefully concealed any undue feeling of sympathy, just muttering, “Poor little soul! We’ll see what we can do for her!”
“You will take me to Maplewood, won’t you, Mr. Cobb?” begged Rebecca piteously.
“Don’t you fret a mite,” he answered, with a crafty little notion at the back of his mind; “I’ll see the lady passenger through somehow. Now take a bite o’ somethin’ to eat, child. Spread some o’ that tomato preserve on your bread; draw up to the table. How’d you like to set in mother’s place an’ pour me out another cup o’ hot tea?”
Mr. Jeremiah Cobb’s mental machinery was simple, and did not move very smoothly save when propelled by his affection or sympathy. In the present case these were both employed to his advantage, and mourning his stupidity and praying for some flash of inspiration to light his path, he blundered along, trusting to Providence.
Rebecca, comforted by the old man’s tone, and timidly enjoying the dignity of sitting in Mrs. Cobb’s seat and lifting the blue china teapot, smiled faintly, smoothed her hair, and dried her eyes.
“I suppose your mother’ll be turrible glad to see you back again?” queried Mr. Cobb.
A tiny fear—just a baby thing—in the bottom of Rebecca’s heart stirred and grew larger the moment it was touched with a question.
“She won’t like it that I ran away, I s’pose, and she’ll be sorry that I couldn’t please aunt Mirandy; but I’ll make her understand, just as I did you.”
“I s’pose she was thinkin’ o’ your schoolin’, lettin’ you come down here; but land! you can go to school in Temperance, I s’pose?”
“There’s only two months’ school now in Temperance, and the farm ‘s too far from all the other schools.”
“Oh well! there’s other things in the world beside edjercation,” responded uncle Jerry, attacking a piece of apple pie.
“Ye—es; though mother thought that was going to be the making of me,” returned Rebecca sadly, giving a dry little sob as she tried to drink her tea.
“It’ll be nice for you to be all together again at the farm—such a house full o’ children!” remarked the dear old deceiver, who longed for nothing so much as to cuddle and comfort the poor little creature.
“It’s too full—that’s the trouble. But I’ll make Hannah come to Riverboro in my place.”
“S’pose Mirandy ‘n’ Jane’ll have her? I should be ‘most afraid they wouldn’t. They’ll be kind o’ mad at your goin’ home, you know, and you can’t hardly blame ‘em.”
This was quite a new thought,—that the brick house might be closed to Hannah, since she, Rebecca, had turned her back upon its cold hospitality.
“How is this school down here in Riverboro—pretty good?” inquired uncle Jerry, whose brain was working with an altogether unaccustomed rapidity,—so much so that it almost terrified him.
“Oh, it’s a splendid school! And Miss Dearborn is a splendid teacher!”
“You like her, do you? Well, you’d better believe she returns the compliment. Mother was down to the store this afternoon buyin’ liniment for Seth Strout, an’ she met Miss Dearborn on the bridge. They got to talkin’ ‘bout school, for mother has summer-boarded a lot o’ the schoolmarms, an’ likes ‘em. ‘How does the little Temperance girl git along?’ asks mother. ‘Oh, she’s the best scholar I have!’ says Miss Dearborn. ‘I could teach school from sun-up to sun-down if scholars was all like Rebecca Randall,’ says she.”
“Oh, Mr. Cobb, DID she say that?” glowed Rebecca, her face sparkling and dimpling in an instant. “I’ve tried hard all the time, but I’ll study the covers right off of the books now.”
“You mean you would if you’d ben goin’ to stay here,” interposed uncle Jerry. “Now ain’t