University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
A CURE FOR DESPAIR.

WHEN Christie opened the eyes that had closed
so wearily, afternoon sunshine streamed across
the room, and seemed the herald of happier days.
Refreshed by sleep, and comforted by grateful recollections
of her kindly welcome, she lay tranquilly enjoying
the friendly atmosphere about her, with so strong a
feeling that a skilful hand had taken the rudder, that
she felt very little anxiety or curiosity about the haven
which was to receive her boat after this narrow escape
from shipwreck.

Her eye wandered to and fro, and brightened as it
went; for though a poor, plain room it was as neat as
hands could make it, and so glorified with sunshine
that she thought it a lovely place, in spite of the yellow
paper with green cabbage roses on it, the gorgeous
plaster statuary on the mantel-piece, and the fragrance
of dough-nuts which pervaded the air. Every thing
suggested home life, humble but happy, and Christie's
solitary heart warmed at the sights and sounds about
her.

A half open closet-door gave her glimpses of little
frocks and jackets, stubby little shoes, and go-to-meeting
hats all in a row. From below came up the sound
of childish voices chattering, childish feet trotting to
and fro, and childish laughter sounding sweetly through
the Sabbath stillness of the place. From a room near
by, came the soothing creak of a rocking-chair, the
rustle of a newspaper, and now and then a scrap of
conversation common-place enough, but pleasant to
hear, because so full of domestic love and confidence;
and, as she listened, Christie pictured Mrs. Wilkins and
her husband taking their rest together after the week's
hard work was done.

“I wish I could stay here; it 's so comfortable and
home-like. I wonder if they wouldn't let me have this
room, and help me to find some better work than sewing?
I 'll get up and ask them,” thought Christie,
feeling an irresistible desire to stay, and strong repugnance
to returning to the room she had left, for, as
Rachel truly said, it was haunted for her.

When she opened the door to go down, Mrs. Wilkins

bounced out of her rocking-chair and hurried to meet
her with a smiling face, saying all in one breath:

“Good mornin', dear! Rested well, I hope? I 'm
proper glad to hear it. Now come right down and
have your dinner. I kept it hot, for I couldn't bear to
wake you up, you was sleepin' so beautiful.”

“I was so worn out I slept like a baby, and feel like
a new creature. It was so kind of you to take me in,
and I 'm so grateful I don't know how to show it,” said
Christie, warmly, as her hostess ponderously descended
the complaining stairs and ushered her into the tidy
kitchen from which tubs and flat-irons were banished
one day in the week.

“Lawful sakes, the' ain't nothing to be grateful for,
child, and you 're heartily welcome to the little I done.
We are country folks in our ways, though we be livin'
in the city, and we have a reg'lar country dinner Sundays.
Hope you 'll relish it; my vittles is clean ef
they ain't rich.”

As she spoke, Mrs. Wilkins dished up baked beans,
Indian-pudding, and brown bread enough for half a
dozen. Christie was hungry now, and ate with an
appetite that delighted the good lady who vibrated
between her guest and her children, shut up in the
“settin'-room.”

“Now please let me tell you all about myself, for I
am afraid you think me something better than I am.
If I ask help from you, it is right that you should
know whom you are helping,” said Christie, when the
table was cleared and her hostess came and sat down
beside her.

“Yes, my dear, free your mind, and then we 'll fix

things up right smart. Nothin' I like better, and Lisha
says I have considerable of a knack that way,” replied
Mrs. Wilkins, with a smile, a nod, and an air of interest
most reassuring.

So Christie told her story, won to entire confidence
by the sympathetic face opposite, and the motherly pats
so gently given by the big, rough hand that often met
her own. When all was told, Christie said very earnestly:

“I am ready to go to work to-morrow, and will do
any thing I can find, but I should love to stay here a
little while, if I could; I do so dread to be alone. Is
it possible? I mean to pay my board of course, and
help you besides if you 'll let me.”

Mrs. Wilkins glowed with pleasure at this compliment,
and leaning toward Christie, looked into her face
a moment in silence, as if to test the sincerity of the
wish. In that moment Christie saw what steady, sagacious
eyes the woman had; so clear, so honest that
she looked through them into the great, warm heart
below, and looking forgot the fuzzy, red hair, the paucity
of teeth, the faded gown, and felt only the attraction
of a nature genuine and genial as the sunshine
dancing on the kitchen floor.

Beautiful souls often get put into plain bodies, but
they cannot be hidden, and have a power all their own,
the greater for the unconsciousness or the humility
which gives it grace. Christie saw and felt this then,
and when the homely woman spoke, listened to her
with implicit confidence.

“My dear, I 'd no more send you away now than I
would my Adelaide, for you need looking after for a

spell, most as much as she doos. You 've been thinkin'
and broodin' too much, and sewin' yourself to death.
We 'll stop all that, and keep you so busy there won't
be no time for the hypo. You 're one of them that
can't live alone without starvin' somehow, so I 'm jest
goin' to turn you in among them children to paster, so
to speak. That 's wholesome and fillin' for you, and
goodness knows it will be a puffect charity to me, for
I 'm goin' to be dreadful drove with gettin' up curtins
and all manner of things, as spring comes on. So it
ain't no favor on my part, and you can take out your
board in tendin' baby and putterin' over them little
tykes.”

“I should like it so much! But I forgot my debt to
Mrs. Flint; perhaps she won't let me go,” said Christie,
with an anxious cloud coming over her brightening
face.

“Merciful, suz! don't you be werried about her. I 'll
see to her, and ef she acts ugly Lisha 'll fetch her
round; men can always settle such things better 'n we
can, and he 's a dreadful smart man Lisha is. We 'll
go to-morrer and get your belongins, and then settle
right down for a spell; and by-an'-by when you git a
trifle more chipper we 'll find a nice place in the country
some'rs. That 's what you want; nothin' like green
grass and woodsy smells to right folks up. When I
was a gal, ef I got low in my mind, or riled in my
temper, I jest went out and grubbed in the gardin, or
made hay, or walked a good piece, and it fetched me
round beautiful. Never failed; so I come to see that
good fresh dirt is fust rate physic for folk's spirits as
it is for wounds, as they tell on.”

“That sounds sensible and pleasant, and I like it.
Oh, it is so beautiful to feel that somebody cares for
you a little bit, and you ain't one too many in the
world,” sighed Christie.

“Don't you never feel that agin, my dear. What 's
the Lord for ef He ain't to hold on to in times of
trouble. Faith ain't wuth much ef it 's only lively in
fair weather; you 've got to believe hearty and stan'
by the Lord through thick and thin, and He 'll stan' by
you as no one else begins to. I remember of havin'
this bore in upon me by somethin' that happened to a
man I knew. He got blowed up in a powder-mill, and
when folks asked him what he thought when the bust
come, he said, real sober and impressive: `Wal, it come
through me, like a flash, that I 'd served the Lord as
faithful as I knew how for a number a years, and I
guessed He 'd fetch me through somehow, and He did.'
Sure enough the man warn't killed; I 'm bound to
confess he was shook dreadful, but his faith warn't.”

Christie could not help smiling at the story, but she
liked it, and sincerely wished she could imitate the
hero of it in his piety, not his powder. She was about
to say so when the sound of approaching steps announced
the advent of her host. She had been rather
impressed with the “smartness” of Lisha by his wife's
praises, but when a small, sallow, sickly looking man
came in she changed her mind; for not even an immensely
stiff collar, nor a pair of boots that seemed
composed entirely of what the boys call “creak leather,”
could inspire her with confidence.

Without a particle of expression in his yellow face,
Mr. Wilkins nodded to the stranger over the picket

fence of his collar, lighted his pipe, and clumped away
to enjoy his afternoon promenade without compromising
himself by a single word.

His wife looked after him with an admiring gaze as
she said:

“Them boots is as good as an advertisement, for he
made every stitch on 'em himself;” then she added,
laughing like a girl: “It 's redick'lus my bein' so proud
of Lisha, but ef a woman ain't a right to think wal of
her own husband, I should like to know who has!”

Christie was afraid that Mrs. Wilkins had seen her
disappointment in her face, and tried, with wifely zeal,
to defend her lord from even a disparaging thought.
Wishing to atone for this transgression she was about
to sing the praises of the wooden-faced Elisha, but was
spared any polite fibs by the appearance of a small girl
who delivered an urgent message to the effect, that
“Mis Plumly was down sick and wanted Mis Wilkins
to run over and set a spell.”

As the good lady hesitated with an involuntary glance
at her guest, Christie said quickly:

“Don't mind me; I 'll take care of the house for you
if you want to go. You may be sure I won't run off
with the children or steal the spoons.”

“I ain't a mite afraid of anybody wantin' to steal
them little toads; and as for spoons, I ain't got a silver
one to bless myself with,” laughed Mrs. Wilkins. “I
guess I will go, then, ef you don't mind, as it 's only
acrost the street. Like 's not settin' quiet will be better
for you 'n talkin', for I 'm a dreadful hand to gab when
I git started. Tell Mis Plumly I 'm a comin'.”

Then, as the child ran off, the stout lady began to

rummage in her closet, saying, as she rattled and
slammed:

“I 'll jest take her a drawin' of tea and a couple of
nut-cakes: mebby she 'll relish 'em, for I shouldn't
wonder ef she hadn't had a mouthful this blessed day.
She 's dreadful slack at the best of times, but no one
can much wonder, seein' she 's got nine children, and
is jest up from a rheumatic fever. I 'm sure I never
grudge a meal of vittles or a hand's turn to such
as she is, though she does beat all for dependin' on
her neighbors. I 'm a thousand times obleeged. You
needn't werry about the children, only don't let 'em
git lost, or burnt, or pitch out a winder; and when
it 's done give 'em the patty-cake that's bakin' for
'em.”

With which maternal orders Mrs. Wilkins assumed
a sky-blue bonnet, and went beaming away with several
dishes genteelly hidden under her purple shawl.

Being irresistibly attracted toward the children Christie
opened the door and took a survey of her responsibilities.

Six lively infants were congregated in the “settin'-room,”
and chaos seemed to have come again, for every
sort of destructive amusement was in full operation.
George Washington, the eldest blossom, was shearing
a resigned kitten; Gusty and Ann Eliza were concocting
mud pies in the ashes; Adelaide Victoria was
studying the structure of lamp-wicks, while Daniel
Webster and Andrew Jackson were dragging one
another in a clothes-basket, to the great detriment of
the old carpet and still older chariot.

Thinking that some employment more suited to the

day might be introduced, Christie soon made friends
with these young persons, and, having rescued the
kitten, banished the basket, lured the elder girls from
their mud-piety, and quenched the curiosity of the
Pickwickian Adelaide, she proposed teaching them
some little hymns.

The idea was graciously received, and the class decorously
seated in a row. But before a single verse was
given out, Gusty, being of a house-wifely turn of mind,
suggested that the patty-cake might burn. Instant
alarm pervaded the party, and a precipitate rush was
made for the cooking-stove, where Christie proved by
ocular demonstration that the cake showed no signs of
baking, much less of burning. The family pronounced
themselves satisfied, after each member had poked a
grimy little finger into the doughy delicacy, whereon
one large raisin reposed in proud pre-eminence over
the vulgar herd of caraways.

Order being with difficulty restored, Christie taught
her flock an appropriate hymn, and was flattering herself
that their youthful minds were receiving a devotional
bent, when they volunteered a song, and incited
thereunto by the irreverent Wash, burst forth with a
gem from Mother Goose, closing with a smart skirmish
of arms and legs that set all law and order at defiance.

Hoping to quell the insurrection Christie invited the
breathless rioters to calm themselves by looking at the
pictures in the big Bible. But, unfortunately, her explanations
were so vivid that her audience were fired with
a desire to enact some of the scenes portrayed, and no
persuasions could keep them from playing Ark on the
spot. The clothes-basket was elevated upon two

[ILLUSTRATION]

Mrs. Wilkins' Six Lively Infants.

[Description: 445EAF. Page 179. In-line image of Mrs. Wilkins' children, who look like hedgehogs, all sitting in a giant basket and singing.]

chairs, and into it marched the birds of the air and the
beasts of the field, to judge by the noise, and all set
sail, with Washington at the helm, Jackson and Webster
plying the clothes and pudding-sticks for oars, while
the young ladies rescued their dolls from the flood, and
waved their hands to imaginary friends who were not
unmindful of the courtesies of life even in the act of
drowning.

Finding her authority defied Christie left the rebels
to their own devices, and sitting in a corner, began to

think about her own affairs. But before she had time
to get anxious or perplexed the children diverted her
mind, as if the little flibberty-gibbets knew that their
pranks and perils were far wholesomer for her just
then than brooding.

The much-enduring kitten being sent forth as a dove
upon the waters failed to return with the olive-branch;
of which peaceful emblem there was soon great need,
for mutiny broke out, and spread with disastrous rapidity.

Ann Eliza slapped Gusty because she had the biggest
bandbox; Andrew threatened to “chuck” Daniel over-board
if he continued to trample on the fraternal toes,
and in the midst of the fray, by some unguarded
motion, Washington capsized the ship and precipitated
the patriarchal family into the bosom of the deep.

Christie flew to the rescue, and, hydropathically
treated, the anguish of bumps and bruises was soon
assuaged. Then appeared the appropriate moment for
a story, and gathering the dilapidated party about her
she soon enraptured them by a recital of the immortal
history of “Frank and the little dog Trusty.” Charmed
with her success she was about to tell another moral
tale, but no sooner had she announced the name, “The
Three Cakes,” when, like an electric flash a sudden
recollection seized the young Wilkinses, and with one
voice they demanded their lawful prize, sure that now
it must be done.

Christie had forgotten all about it, and was harassed
with secret misgivings as she headed the investigating
committee. With skipping of feet and clapping of
hands the eager tribe surrounded the stove, and with

fear and trembling Christie drew forth a melancholy
cinder, where, like Casabianca, the lofty raisin still
remained, blackened, but undaunted, at its post.

Then were six little vials of wrath poured out upon
her devoted head, and sounds of lamentation filled the
air, for the irate Wilkinses refused to be comforted till
the rash vow to present each member of the outraged
family with a private cake produced a lull, during
which the younger ones were decoyed into the back
yard, and the three elders solaced themselves with
mischief.

Mounted on mettlesome broomsticks Andrew and
Daniel were riding merrily away to the Banbury Cross,
of blessed memory, and little Vic was erecting a pagoda
of oyster-shells, under Christie's superintendence, when
a shrill scream from within sent horsemen and architects
flying to the rescue.

Gusty's pinafore was in a blaze; Ann Eliza was
dancing frantically about her sister as if bent on making
a suttee of herself, while George Washington hung out
of window, roaring, “Fire!” “water!” “engine!”
“pa!” with a presence of mind worthy of his sex.

A speedy application of the hearth-rug quenched the
conflagration, and when a minute burn had been enveloped
in cotton-wool, like a gem, a coroner sat upon the
pinafore and investigated the case.

It appeared that the ladies were “only playing paper
dolls,” when Wash, sighing for the enlightenment of his
race, proposed to make a bonfire, and did so with an
old book; but Gusty, with a firm belief in future punishment,
tried to save it, and fell a victim to her principles,
as the virtuous are very apt to do.

The book was brought into court, and proved to be
an ancient volume of ballads, cut, torn, and half consumed.
Several peculiarly developed paper dolls,
branded here and there with large letters, like galley-slaves,
were then produced by the accused, and the
judge could with difficulty preserve her gravity when
she found “John Gilpin” converted into a painted
petticoat, “The Bay of Biscay, O,” situated in the
crown of a hat, and “Chevy Chase” issuing from the
mouth of a triangular gentleman, who, like Dickens's
cherub, probably sung it by ear, having no lungs to
speak of.

It was further apparent from the agricultural appearance
of the room that beans had been sowed broadcast
by means of the apple-corer, which Wash had converted
into a pop-gun with a mechanical ingenuity
worthy of more general appreciation. He felt this
deeply, and when Christie reproved him for leading his
sisters astray, he resented the liberty she took, and
retired in high dudgeon to the cellar, where he appeared
to set up a menagerie, — for bears, lions, and unknown
animals, endowed with great vocal powers, were heard
to solicit patronage from below.

Somewhat exhausted by her labors, Christie rested,
after clearing up the room, while the children found a
solace for all afflictions in the consumption of relays of
bread and molasses, which infantile restorative occurred
like an inspiration to the mind of their guardian.

Peace reigned for fifteen minutes; then came a loud
crash from the cellar, followed by a violent splashing,
and wild cries of, “Oh, oh, oh, I 've fell into the pork
barrel! I 'm drownin', I 'm drownin'!”

Down rushed Christie, and the sticky innocents ran
screaming after, to behold their pickled brother fished
up from the briny deep. A spectacle well calculated
to impress upon their infant minds the awful consequences
of straying from the paths of virtue.

At this crisis Mrs. Wilkins providentially appeared,
breathless, but brisk and beaming, and in no wise dismayed
by the plight of her luckless son, for a ten years'
acquaintance with Wash's dauntless nature had inured
his mother to “didoes” that would have appalled most
women.

“Go right up chamber, and change every rag on you,
and don't come down agin till I rap on the ceilin'; you
dreadful boy, disgracin' your family by sech actions.
I 'm sorry I was kep' so long, but Mis Plumly got tellin'
her werryments, and 'peared to take so much comfort
in it I couldn't bear to stop her. Then I jest run
round to your place and told that woman that you was
safe and well, along 'r friends, and would call in to-morrer
to get your things. She 'd ben so scart by
your not comin' home that she was as mild as milk, so
you won't have no trouble with her, I expect.”

“Thank you very much! How kind you are, and
how tired you must be! Sit down and let me take
your things,” cried Christie, more relieved than she
could express.

“Lor', no, I 'm fond of walkin', but bein' ruther hefty
it takes my breath away some to hurry. I 'm afraid
these children have tuckered you out though. They
are proper good gen'lly, but when they do take to
trainen they 're a sight of care,” said Mrs. Wilkins, as
she surveyed her imposing bonnet with calm satisfaction.

“I 've enjoyed it very much, and it 's done me good,
for I haven't laughed so much for six months as I have
this afternoon,” answered Christie, and it was quite
true, for she had been too busy to think of herself or
her woes.

“Wal, I thought likely it would chirk you up some,
or I shouldn't have went,” and Mrs. Wilkins put away
a contented smile with her cherished bonnet, for Christie's
face had grown so much brighter since she saw it
last, that the good woman felt sure her treatment was
the right one.

At supper Lisha reappeared, and while his wife and
children talked incessantly, he ate four slices of bread
and butter, three pieces of pie, five dough-nuts, and
drank a small ocean of tea out of his saucer. Then,
evidently feeling that he had done his duty like a man,
he gave Christie another nod, and disappeared again
without a word.

When she had done up her dishes Mrs. Wilkins
brought out a few books and papers, and said to Christie,
who sat apart by the window, with the old shadow
creeping over her face:

“Now don't feel lonesome, my dear, but jest lop
right down on the soffy and have a sociable kind of a
time. Lisha 's gone down street for the evenin'. I 'll
keep the children as quiet as one woman can, and you
may read or rest, or talk, jest as you 're a mind.”

“Thank you; I 'll sit here and rock little Vic to
sleep for you. I don't care to read, but I 'd like to
have you talk to me, for it seems as if I 'd known you
a long time and it does me good,” said Christie, as she
settled herself and baby on the old settee which had

served as a cradle for six young Wilkinses, and now
received the honorable name of sofa in its old age.

Mrs. Wilkins looked gratified, as she settled her
brood round the table with a pile of pictorial papers to
amuse them. Then having laid herself out to be
agreeable, she sat thoughtfully rubbing the bridge of
her nose, at a loss how to begin. Presently Christie
helped her by an involuntary sigh.

“What 's the matter, dear? Is there any thing I can
do to make you comfortable?” asked the kind soul,
alert at once, and ready to offer sympathy.

“I 'm very cosy, thank you, and I don't know why I
sighed. It 's a way I 've got into when I think of my
worries,” explained Christie, in haste.

“Wal, dear, I wouldn't ef I was you. Don't keep
turnin' your troubles over. Git atop of 'em somehow,
and stay there ef you can,” said Mrs. Wilkins, very
earnestly.

“But that 's just what I can't do. I 've lost all my
spirits and courage, and got into a dismal state of mind.
You seem to be very cheerful, and yet you must have
a good deal to try you sometimes. I wish you 'd tell
me how you do it;” and Christie looked wistfully into
that other face, so plain, yet so placid, wondering to
see how little poverty, hard work, and many cares had
soured or saddened it.

“Really I don't know, unless it 's jest doin' whatever
comes along, and doin' of it hearty, sure that things
is all right, though very often I don't see it at fust.”

“Do you see it at last?”

“Gen'lly I do; and if I don't I take it on trust, same
as children do what older folks tell 'em; and byme-by

when I 'm grown up in spiritual things I 'll understan'
as the dears do, when they git to be men and women.”

That suited Christie, and she thought hopefully
within herself:

“This woman has got the sort of religion I want, if
it makes her what she is. Some day I 'll get her to tell
me where she found it.” Then aloud she said:

“But it 's so hard to be patient and contented when
nothing happens as you want it to, and you don't get
your share of happiness, no matter how much you try
to deserve it.”

“It ain't easy to bear, I know, but having tried
my own way and made a dreadful mess on 't, I concluded
that the Lord knows what 's best for us, and
things go better when He manages than when we go
scratchin' round and can't wait.”

“Tried your own way? How do you mean?” asked
Christie, curiously; for she liked to hear her hostess
talk, and found something besides amusement in the
conversation, which seemed to possess a fresh country
flavor as well as country phrases.

Mrs. Wilkins smiled all over her plump face, as if
she liked to tell her experience, and having hunched
sleepy little Andy more comfortably into her lap, and
given a preparatory hem or two, she began with great
good-will.

“It happened a number a years ago and ain't much
of a story any way. But you 're welcome to it, as some
of it is rather humorsome, the laugh may do you good
ef the story don't. We was livin' down to the east'ard
at the time. It was a real pretty place; the house
stood under a couple of maples and a gret brook come

foamin' down the rayvine and away through the medders
to the river. Dear sakes, seems as ef I see it now,
jest as I used to settin' on the doorsteps with the laylocks
all in blow, the squirrels jabberin' on the wall,
and the saw-mill screekin' way off by the dam.”

Pausing a moment, Mrs. Wilkins looked musingly at
the steam of the tea-kettle, as if through its silvery
haze she saw her early home again. Wash promptly
roused her from this reverie by tumbling off the boiler
with a crash. His mother picked him up and placidly
went on, falling more and more into the country dialect
which city life had not yet polished.

“I oughter hev been the contentedest woman alive,
but I warn't, for you see I 'd worked at millineryin'
before I was married, and had an easy time on't,
Afterwards the children come along pretty fast, there
was sights of work to do, and no time for pleasurin',
so I got wore out, and used to hanker after old times
in a dreadful wicked way.

“Finally I got acquainted with a Mis Bascum, and
she done me a sight of harm. You see, havin' few pies
of her own to bake, she was fond of puttin' her fingers
into her neighborses, but she done it so neat that no
one mistrusted she was takin' all the sarce and leavin'
all the crust to them, as you may say. Wal, I told her
my werryments and she sympathized real hearty, and
said I didn't ought to stan' it, but have things to suit
me, and enjoy myself, as other folks did. So when she
put it into my head I thought it amazin' good advice,
and jest went and done as she told me.

“Lisha was the kindest man you ever see, so when I
up and said I warn't goin' to drudge round no more,

but must hev a girl, he got one, and goodness knows
what a trial she was. After she came I got dreadful
slack, and left the house and the children to Hen'retta,
and went pleasurin' frequent all in my best. I always
was a dressy woman in them days, and Lisha give me
his earnin's real lavish, bless his heart! and I went and
spent 'em on my sinful gowns and bunnets.”

Here Mrs. Wilkins stopped to give a remorseful groan
and stroke her faded dress, as if she found great comfort
in its dinginess.

“It ain't no use tellin' all I done, but I had full swing,
and at fust I thought luck was in my dish sure. But it
warn't, seein' I didn't deserve it, and I had to take my
mess of trouble, which was needful and nourishin,' ef
I 'd had the grace to see it so.

“Lisha got into debt, and no wonder, with me a
wastin' of his substance; Hen'retta went off suddin',
with whatever she could lay her hands on, and everything
was at sixes and sevens. Lisha's patience give
out at last, for I was dreadful fractious, knowin' it was
all my fault. The children seemed to git out of sorts,
too, and acted like time in the primer, with croup and
pins, and whoopin'-cough and temper. I declare I
used to think the pots and kettles biled over to spite
each other and me too in them days.

“All this was nuts to Mis Bascum, and she kep'
advisin' and encouragin' of me, and I didn 't see through
her a mite, or guess that settin' folks by the ears was
as relishin' to her as bitters is to some. Merciful, suz!
what a piece a work we did make betwixt us! I
scolded and moped 'cause I couldn't have my way;
Lisha swore and threatened to take to drinkin' ef I

didn't make home more comfortable; the children run
wild, and the house was gittin' too hot to hold us,
when we was brought up with a round turn, and I see
the redicklousness of my doin's in time.

“One day Lisha come home tired and cross, for bills
was pressin', work slack, and folks talkin' about us as
ef they 'd nothin' else to do. I was dishin' up dinner,
feelin' as nervous as a witch, for a whole batch of
bread had burnt to a cinder while I was trimmin' a new
bunnet, Wash had scart me most to death swallerin' a
cent, and the steak had been on the floor more'n once,
owin' to my havin' babies, dogs, cats, or hens under
my feet the whole blessed time.

“Lisha looked as black as thunder, throwed his hat
into a corner, and came along to the sink where I was
skinnin' pertaters. As he washed his hands, I asked
what the matter was; but he only muttered and
slopped, and I couldn't git nothin' out of him, for he
ain't talkative at the best of times as you see, and when
he 's werried corkscrews wouldn't draw a word from
him.

“Bein' riled myself didn't mend matters, and so we
fell to hectorin' one another right smart. He said
somethin' that dreened my last drop of patience; I
give a sharp answer, and fust thing I knew he up with
his hand and slapped me. It warn't a hard blow by
no means, only a kind of a wet spat side of the head;
but I thought I should have flew, and was as mad as ef
I 'd been knocked down. You never see a man look so
'shamed as Lisha did, and ef I 'd been wise I should
have made up the quarrel then. But I was a fool. I
jest flung fork, dish, pertaters and all into the pot, and
says, as ferce as you please:

“`'Lisha Wilkins, when you can treat me decent you
may come and fetch me back; you won't see me till
then, and so I tell you.'

“Then I made a bee-line for Mis Bascum's; told her
the whole story, had a good cry, and was all ready to
go home in half an hour, but Lisha didn't come.

“Wal, that night passed, and what a long one it was
to be sure! and me without a wink of sleep, thinkin' of
Wash and the cent, my emptins and the baby. Next
day come, but no Lisha, no message, no nuthin', and I
began to think I'd got my match though I had a sight
of grit in them days. I sewed, and Mis Bascum she
clacked; but I didn't say much, and jest worked like
sixty to pay for my keep, for I warn't goin' to be
beholden to her for nothin'.

“The day dragged on terrible slow, and at last I
begged her to go and git me a clean dress, for I'd come
off jest as I was, and folks kep' droppin' in, for the
story was all round, thanks to Mis Bascum's long
tongue.

“Wal, she went, and ef you'll believe me Lisha
wouldn't let her in! He handed my best things out a
winder and told her to tell me they were gittin' along
fust rate with Florindy Walch to do the work. He
hoped I'd have a good time, and not expect him for a
consider'ble spell, for he liked a quiet house, and now
he'd got it.

“When I heard that, I knew he must be provoked
the wust kind, for he ain't a hash man by nater. I
could have crep' in at the winder ef he wouldn't open
the door, I was so took down by that message. But
Mis Bascum wouldn't hear of it, and kep' stirrin' of

me up till I was ashamed to eat 'umble pie fust; so I
waited to see how soon he'd come round. But he had
the best on't you see, for he'd got the babies and lost a
cross wife, while I'd lost every thing but Mis Bascum,
who grew hatefuler to me every hour, for I begun to
mistrust she was a mischief-maker, — widders most
always is, — seein' how she pampered up my pride and
'peared to like the quarrel.

“I thought I should have died more'n once, for sure
as you live it went on three mortal days, and of all
miser'ble creeters I was the miser'blest. Then I see
how wicked and ungrateful I'd been; how I'd shirked
my bounden duty and scorned my best blessins.
There warn't a hard job that ever I'd hated but what
grew easy when I remembered who it was done for;
there warn't a trouble or a care that I wouldn't have
welcomed hearty, nor one hour of them dear fractious
babies that didn't seem precious when I'd gone and
left 'em. I'd got time to rest enough now, and might go
pleasuring all day long; but I couldn't do it, and would
have given a dozin bunnets trimmed to kill ef I could
only have been back moilin' in my old kitchen with
the children hangin' round me and Lisha a comin' in
cheerful from his work as he used to 'fore I spoilt his
home for him. How sing'lar it is folks never do know
when they are wal off!”

“I know it now,” said Christie, rocking lazily to and
fro, with a face almost as tranquil as little Vic's, lying
half asleep in her lap.

“Glad to hear it, my dear. As I was goin' on to say,
when Saturday come, a tremenjus storm set in, and it
rained guns all day. I never shall forgit it, for I was

hankerin' after baby, and dreadful werried about the
others, all bein' croupy, and Florindy with no more
idee of nussin' than a baa lamb. The rain come down
like a reg'lar deluge, but I didn't seem to have no ark
to run to. As night come on things got wuss and wuss,
for the wind blowed the roof off Mis Bascum's barn
and stove in the butt'ry window; the brook riz and
went ragin' every which way, and you never did see
such a piece of work.

“My heart was most broke by that time, and I knew
I should give in 'fore Monday. But I set and sewed and
listened to the tinkle tankle of the drops in the pans set
round to ketch 'em, for the house leaked like a sieve.
Mis Bascum was down suller putterin' about, for every
kag and sarce jar was afloat. Moses, her brother, was
lookin' after his stock and tryin' to stop the damage.
All of a sudden he bust in lookin' kinder wild, and
settin' down the lantern, he sez, sez he: `You're
ruthern an unfortinate woman to-night, Mis Wilkins.'
`How so?' sez I, as ef nuthin' was the matter already.

“`Why,' sez he, `the spilins have give way up in the
rayvine, and the brook's come down like a river, upsot
your lean-to, washed the mellion patch slap into the
road, and while your husband was tryin' to git the pig
out of the pen, the water took a turn and swep him
away.'

“`Drownded?' sez I, with only breath enough for that
one word. `Shouldn't wonder,' sez Moses, `nothin'
ever did come up alive after goin' over them falls.'

“It come over me like a streak of lightenin'; every
thin' kinder slewed round, and I dropped in the first
faint I ever had in my life. Next I knew Lisha was

holdin' of me and cryin' fit to kill himself. I thought
I was dreamin', and only had wits enough to give a sort
of permiscuous grab at him and call out:

“`Oh, Lisha! ain't you drownded?' He give a gret
start at that, swallered down his sobbin', and sez as
lovin' as ever a man did in this world:

“`Bless your dear heart, Cynthy, it warn't me it was
the pig;' and then fell to kissin' of me, till betwixt
laughin' and cryin' I was most choked. Deary me, it
all comes back so livin' real it kinder takes my breath
away.”

And well it might, for the good soul entered so
heartily into her story that she unconsciously embellished
it with dramatic illustrations. At the slapping
episode she flung an invisible “fork, dish, and pertaters”
into an imaginary kettle, and glared; when the
catastrophe arrived, she fell back upon her chair to express
fainting; gave Christie's arm the “permiscuous
grab” at the proper moment, and uttered the repentant
Lisha's explanation with an incoherent pathos that
forbid a laugh at the sudden introduction of the porcine
martyr.

“What did you do then?” asked Christie in a most
flattering state of interest.

“Oh, law! I went right home and hugged them
children for a couple of hours stiddy,” answered Mrs.
Wilkins, as if but one conclusion was possible.

“Did all your troubles go down with the pig?”
asked Christie, presently.

“Massy, no, we're all poor, feeble worms, and the
best meanin' of us fails too often,” sighed Mrs. Wilkins,
as she tenderly adjusted the sleepy head of the young

worm in her lap. “After that scrape I done my best;
Lisha was as meek as a whole flock of sheep, and we
give Mis Bascum a wide berth. Things went lovely for
ever so long, and though, after a spell, we had our ups
and downs, as is but natural to human creeters, we
never come to such a pass agin. Both on us tried
real hard; whenever I felt my temper risin' or discontent
comin' on I remembered them days and kep' a
taut rein; and as for Lisha he never said a raspin'
word, or got sulky, but what he'd bust out laughin'
after it and say: `Bless you, Cynthy, it warn't me, it
was the pig.”'

Mrs. Wilkins' hearty laugh fired a long train of lesser
ones, for the children recognized a household word.
Christie enjoyed the joke, and even the tea-kettle
boiled over as if carried away by the fun.

“Tell some more, please,” said Christie, when the
merriment subsided, for she felt her spirits rising.

“There's nothin' more to tell, except one thing that
prevented my ever forgittin' the lesson I got then. My
little Almiry took cold that week and pined away
rapid. She'd always been so ailin' I never expected to
raise her, and more'n once in them sinful tempers of
mine I'd thought it would be a mercy ef she was took
out of her pain. But when I laid away that patient,
sufferin' little creeter I found she was the dearest of
'em all. I most broke my heart to hev her back, and
never, never forgive myself for leavin' her that time.”

With trembling lips and full eyes Mrs. Wilkins
stopped to wipe her features generally on Andrew
Jackson's pinafore, and heave a remorseful sigh.

“And this is how you came to be the cheerful, contented

woman you are?” said Christie, hoping to
divert the mother's mind from that too tender memory.

“Yes,” she answered, thoughtfully, “I told you Lisha
was a smart man; he give me a good lesson, and it set
me to thinkin' serious. 'Pears to me trouble is a kind
of mellerin' process, and ef you take it kindly it doos
you good, and you learn to be glad of it. I 'm sure Lisha
and me is twice as fond of one another, twice as
willin' to work, and twice as patient with our trials
sense dear little Almiry died, and times was hard.
I ain't what I ought to be, not by a long chalk, but I
try to live up to my light, do my duty cheerful, love
my neighbors, and fetch up my family in the fear of
God. Ef I do this the best way I know how, I 'm sure
I 'll get my rest some day, and the good Lord won't
forgit Cynthy Wilkins. He ain't so fur, for I keep my
health wonderfle, Lisha is kind and stiddy, the children
flourishin', and I 'm a happy woman though I be a humly
one.”

There she was mistaken, for as her eye roved round
the narrow room from the old hat on the wall to the
curly heads bobbing here and there, contentment,
piety, and mother-love made her plain face beautiful.

“That story has done me ever so much good, and I
shall not forget it. Now, good-night, for I must be up
early to-morrow, and I don't want to drive Mr. Wilkins
away entirely,” said Christie, after she had helped put
the little folk to bed, during which process she had
heard her host creaking about the kitchen as if afraid
to enter the sitting-room.

She laughed as she spoke, and ran up stairs, wondering
if she could be the same forlorn creature who had
crept so wearily up only the night before.

It was a very humble little sermon that Mrs. Wilkins
had preached to her, but she took it to heart and
profited by it; for she was a pupil in the great charity
school where the best teachers are often unknown, unhonored
here, but who surely will receive commendation
and reward from the head master when their long vacation
comes.