In a moment the door opened quietly. Knocking was a refinement quite unknown in Riverboro, and if it had been heard of would never have been wasted on a child.
Miss Miranda entered, and as her eye wandered about the vacant room, it fell upon a white and tempestuous ocean of counterpane, an ocean breaking into strange movements of wave and crest and billow.
“REBECCA!”
The tone in which the word was voiced gave it all the effect of having been shouted from the housetops.
A dark ruffled head and two frightened eyes appeared above the dimity spread.
“What are you layin’ on your good bed in the daytime for, messin’ up the feathers, and dirtyin’ the pillers with your dusty boots?”
Rebecca rose guiltily. There seemed no excuse to make. Her offense was beyond explanation or apology.
“I’m sorry, aunt Mirandy—something came over me; I don’t know what.”
“Well, if it comes over you very soon again we’ll have to find out what ‘t is. Spread your bed up smooth this minute, for ‘Bijah Flagg ‘s bringin’ your trunk upstairs, and I wouldn’t let him see such a cluttered-up room for anything; he’d tell it all over town.”
When Mr. Cobb had put up his horses that night he carried a kitchen chair to the side of his wife, who was sitting on the back porch.
“I brought a little Randall girl down on the stage from Maplewood to-day, mother. She’s kin to the Sawyer girls an’ is goin’ to live with ‘em,” he said, as he sat down and began to whittle. “She’s that Aurelia’s child, the one that ran away with Susan Randall’s son just before we come here to live.”
“How old a child?”
“‘Bout ten, or somewhere along there, an’ small for her age; but land! she might be a hundred to hear her talk! She kep’ me jumpin’ tryin’ to answer her! Of all the queer children I ever come across she’s the queerest. She ain’t no beauty—her face is all eyes; but if she ever grows up to them eyes an’ fills out a little she’ll make folks stare. Land, mother! I wish ‘t you could ‘a’ heard her talk.”
“I don’t see what she had to talk about, a child like that, to a stranger,” replied Mrs. Cobb.
“Stranger or no stranger, ‘t wouldn’t make no difference to her. She’d talk to a pump or a grind-stun; she’d talk to herself ruther ‘n keep still.”
“What did she talk about?”
“Blamed if I can repeat any of it. She kep’ me so surprised I didn’t have my wits about me. She had a little pink sunshade—it kind o’ looked like a doll’s amberill, ‘n’ she clung to it like a burr to a woolen stockin’. I advised her to open it up—the sun was so hot; but she said no, ‘t would fade, an’ she tucked it under her dress. ‘It’s the dearest thing in life to me,’ says she, ‘but it’s a dreadful care.’ Them ‘s the very words, an’ it’s all the words I remember. ‘It’s the dearest thing in life to me, but it’s an awful care!’ “—here Mr. Cobb laughed aloud as he tipped his chair back against the side of the house. “There was another thing, but I can’t get it right exactly. She was talkin’ ‘bout the circus parade an’ the snake charmer in a gold chariot, an’ says she, ‘She was so beautiful beyond compare, Mr. Cobb, that it made you have lumps in your throat to look at her.’ She’ll be comin’ over to see you, mother, an’ you can size her up for yourself. I don’ know how she’ll git on with Mirandy Sawyer—poor little soul!”
This doubt was more or less openly expressed in Riverboro, which, however, had two opinions on the subject; one that it was a most generous thing in the Sawyer girls to take one of Aurelia’s children to educate, the other that the education would be bought at a price wholly out of proportion to its intrinsic value.
Rebecca’s first letters to her mother would seem to indicate that she cordially coincided with the latter view of the situation.
Chapter IV.
Rebecca’s Point of View
Dear Mother,—I am safely here. My dress was not much tumbled and Aunt Jane helped me press it out. I like Mr. Cobb very much. He chews but throws newspapers straight up to the doors. I rode outside a little while, but got inside before I got to Aunt Miranda’s house. I did not want to, but thought you would like it better. Miranda is such a long word that I think I will say Aunt M. and Aunt J. in my Sunday letters. Aunt J. has given me a dictionary to look up all the hard words in. It takes a good deal of time and I am glad people can talk without stoping to spell. It is much eesier to talk than write and much more fun. The brick house looks just the same as you have told us. The parler is splendid and gives you creeps and chills when you look in the door. The furnature is ellergant too, and all the rooms but there are no good sitting-down places exsept in the kitchen. The same cat is here but they do not save kittens when she has them, and the cat is too old to play with. Hannah told me once you ran away with father and I can see it would be nice. If Aunt M. would run away I think I should like to live with Aunt J. She does not hate me as bad as Aunt M. does. Tell Mark he can have my paint box, but I should like him to keep the red cake in case I come home again. I hope Hannah and John do not get tired doing my chores.
Your afectionate friend
Rebecca.
P. S. Please give the piece of poetry to John because he likes my poetry even when it is not very good. This piece is not very good but it is true but I hope you won’t mind what is in it as you ran away.
This house is dark and dull and dreer
No light doth shine from far or near
Its like the tomb.
And those of us who live herein
Are most as dead as serrafim
Though not as good.
My gardian angel is asleep
At leest he doth no vigil keep
Ah! woe is me!
Then give me back my lonely farm
Where none alive did wish me harm
Dear home of youth!
P. S. again. I made the poetry like a piece in a book but could not get it right at first. You see “tomb” and “good” do not sound well together but I wanted to say “tomb” dreadfully and as serrafim are always “good” I couldn’t take that out. I have made it over now. It does not say my thoughts as well but think it is more right. Give the best one to John as he keeps them in a box with his birds’ eggs. This is the best one.
SUNDAY THOUGHTS By Rebecca Rowena Randall
This house is dark and dull and drear
No light doth shine from far or near
Nor ever could.
And those of us who live herein
Are most as dead as seraphim
Though not as good.
My guardian angel is asleep
At least he doth no vigil keep
But far doth roam.
Then give me back my lonely farm
Where none alive did wish me harm,
Dear childhood home!
Dear Mother,—I am thrilling with unhappyness this morning. I got that out of Cora The Doctor’s Wife whose husband’s mother was very cross and unfealing to her like Aunt