University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
MRS. FAIRFAX VISITS MRS. WHITEFLOCK.

MRS. WHITEFLOCK was in the kitchen stirring a
bowl of gruel with her own hand. “Peter thinks
nobody makes it like me,” and of course I humor
him.”

“Of course,” says Mrs. Fairfax; but it was a
new tone for Mrs. Whiteflock to take; it had not been her
method to humor Peter much heretofore, and Mrs. Fairfax
felt that confidence was being withdrawn — felt, in fact,
slightly offended. “If she is going to be so stiff,” she said
to herself, “I don't think I'll trouble myself to tell what I
have seen; ten to one I would get no thanks for it, anyhow.”

“And how is your good man, Sister Whiteflock?” she
said, having come to the foregoing conclusion. “I have
only known since morning that he was sick, or you know I
would have been here sooner.” And then she adds that she
heard it at last quite by accident.

In their last unwisely confidential interview, they had addressed
each other as Martha and Margaret; but, somehow,
these familiarities and all like ones, were dropped now, and
that confidential interview was as though it had never been.

“By accident, sister?” asks Mrs. Whiteflock, holding
her spoon suspended above her bowl. “Why, I sent my
son, Luty, a-purpose! Didn't he tell you?”

“Sent who?” asked Mrs. Fairfax, looking puzzled and
surprised.

Now she understood perfectly well who Luty was; in
fact the changing of the name from Luther Larky to Luty,
(for Mrs. Whiteflock had always before called the name in
full) was a complete revelation to her; there had been a
falling out with Luther, senior, and hence the new appellation
of the namesake.

If she had expected to disconcert her neighbor by this
question and the accompanying look of astonishment, she
failed.

“My little son, to be sure,” answers Mrs. Whiteflock;
and then she says she supposes he forgot it, and she resumes
the stirring of her gruel, quietly.

“Forgot it! that would be strange!” says Mrs. Fairfax,
“and his own father so sick!”

“Well, my husband is not so sick,” says Mrs. Whiteflock;
“he is a little ailing, and has lost his appetite; that
is about all.” And then she goes on to say that Luty is
very much taken up about the show that is coming; that he
has some of the bills to put up, and that accounts for his
forgetfulness. However, she must take him in hand, she
says; or, she adds, “have his father do so.”

“It would certainly be wise!” says Mrs. Fairfax, hardly
suppressing a sneer.

There is a little silence, during which Mrs. Whiteflock
beats the gruel with energy quite disproportioned to the
work, and then she says with a melancholy intonation:
“How is poor Margaret?”

Mrs. Fairfax answers, putting great cheerfulness in her
voice, that Margaret is quite well, except for a little touch
of the nasty ague that is going about.

“Ah, is that all?” replies Mrs. Whiteflock; “I am so
glad to know it.” And then she says, connecting their
names quite by chance as it would appear: “Have you been
to see Samuel within a day or two?”

“Within a day or two?” cries Mrs. Fairfax. “I haven't
been at all, and what's more, I don't intend to go!”

“Humph!” is that the way you desert your friends in

their trouble, sister?” And Mrs. Whiteflock holds the
spoon suspended again.

“Friends!” retorts Mrs. Fairfax. “Sam Dale my friend,
indeed! Really, Sister Whiteflock, you do me too much
honor.”

“I don't do you any dishonor, I hope,” says Mrs. Whiteflock.
“I've lived in the house with Samuel, and ought to
know something about him.” And then she says that if
what her husband has foreseen comes out true, Samuel will
have a most respectable position in the neighborhood yet.

“Bless my heart, I hope you are not going crazy too!”
says Mrs. Fairfax.

“On the contrary, I think I am just coming to my senses,”
says Mrs. Whiteflock. “And as regards Samuel, I never
saw a nicer man about a house in my life, and I've lived
with a good many.”

“Ay, to be sure; there is Mr. Larky, for instance; how
long has he been with you, my dear?”

Mrs. Fairfax meant this to be a deadly thrust, but Mrs.
Whiteflock marred her point, by answering with calm directness:
“Why almost ever since we were married — long
before Matty was born, he came to us, and she is now in her
fifteenth year; almost a woman, she thinks herself.” And
then she runs on about how fast girls grow up, and how
soon they begin to want their own heads about things; and
how they will lace their corsets, and persist in wearing tight
shoes, and twisting, and torturing, and burning the hair all
off their heads; but when she has concluded the long list
of faults, she says that she has no reason to complain, she
supposes that her girls are no worse than others, but if they
had a little more of their father's quiet disposition she would
be glad.

Mrs. Fairfax felt herself more and more offended by these
repeated references to the husband and father; had not Mrs.
Whiteflock always said Peter till now, and why this new
tone!

“I could tell her something about one of her girls,” she
says inwardly, “if I had a mind; but just let her find out
things for herself, if she is so stiff. I don't know as it's my
business.”

This was what she thought to herself, but she said aloud:
“Where is your daughter, Mattie, to-day? I should like to

see her.” And then she says quite innocently: “I shouldn't
wonder if Mr. Larky was taking a notion to her one of these
days.”

“What put that moonshine into your head, my dear?”
says Mrs. Whiteflock, and she laughed with a heartiness
that indicated a long distance from any suspicion of that
sort, on her part.

“O, I don't know,” says Mrs. Fairfax, “what put it into
my head; things come about that a body don't look for,
sometimes.” And then she says, “But you didn't tell me
whether she was at home!”

“To be sure; she has gone out to the field with her father,
to pay a visit to poor old Posey; I expect them back every
moment.” And then she talks a good deal about the strong
attachment her husband has for old Posey, and says she
often tells him in jest that she doesn't suppose he would survive
long if anything should befall the old mare! None of
this talk comes down to the truth of things; it is surface,
and make-believe, from first to last.

Mrs. Fairfax had no real honesty in her nature to come
down to; not that she was not sometimes honest, but if so,
it was with premeditation, and for a purpose; and Mrs.
Whiteflock could not yet make up her mind to say outright;
“I have been wrong all these years, my sister, and I have
now taken Peter to my heart, and mean, with Heaven's help,
to do my duty hereafter. I am sorry for the past, and
ashamed of it. The treacherous weakness for Luther Larky
is overcome at last, and he is to go away from us for good
and all.” She could not say this, because it is hard to be
purely honest when honesty involves a humiliating confession,
and she had not yet suffered to the simple truth.

“I had no idea your husband was able to be about,” says
Mrs. Fairfax. “I am so glad to know it, my dear; of
course, I expected to find him in the cellar.”

And then she says, “By the way, darling, don't you think
that damp place has had something to do with his sickness?”

Mrs. Whiteflock did color a little at this, and answered
truly that she was afraid so, and that she meant to have his
bed up-stairs in a day or two.

“I would take the doctor's advice upon it,” says Mrs.
Fairfax. And then she says, as though it had just occurred
to her, that she thought she noticed the doctor's horse as
she came in, and asks if he is waiting.

No,” Mrs. Whiteflock says; “he had another call to
make, and not finding my husband in, went away almost
immediately, proposing to stop here on his return.”

And then Mrs. Fairfax unpins her shawl, and says she
wants to have a little talk with him about Margaret and
the nasty chills, and besides, she can't think of going away
without having seen the man of the house.

Mrs. Whiteflock gives some direction to the “help” about
using the china and the silver knives and forks, and then
conducts her visitor to the spare bed-room to lay off her
things.

“You've got your house like a palace, a'most,” says
Mrs. Fairfax, looking with admiring eyes from the flowered
paper on the wall to the flowered carpet on the floor. “You
must be very happy.”

“O I am,” Mrs. Whiteflock replied, and then she added,
“as happy as I deserve to be;” and she gave a little sigh
and turned away.

“I've a'most a mind to tell her,” mused Mrs. Fairfax, “I
don't believe she is so much happier than the rest of us, for
all,” and having almost resolved, she put her finger on her
lip, and went silently down stairs.

Directly Peter came in, looking pale, and for him, thin.
He was followed by little Peter, who shied away from him
and looked at him askance, seeming all the while desirous
of being near him.

“And so you're father's boy, ain't you?” says Mrs.
Fairfax, patting him on the head. Little Peter hesitated,
and answered with some confusion, after a while, that he was
going to be uncle Sam's boy.

“And who is uncle Sam?”

“Uncle Samuel Dale,” says the boy; “don't you know
him?”

“I do, to my sorrow!” says Mrs. Fairfax, and she glances
at Peter as much as to say, “what does this mean?”

But instead of replying to her, he nodded to the child and
told him to go out of doors and play and have some fun.

“Don't want to,” says the urchin.

“O yes you do! You want to find a hen's nest, don't
you? And if you look sharp in the roost and in the haymow,
and all round, maybe you'll find one with twenty eggs in it.
O wouldn't that be nice? Then you could bring 'em in to

mother, you see, and ask her to bake a little cake for your
supper. Peter loves sweet cakes, don't he?”

But though Peter loved sweet cakes, he loved to see visitors
no less, as it seemed, and hung his head and lingered,
divided against himself.

“A terrible misfortune, Sam has had, to say no more,”
Mrs. Fairfax began directly.

Peter's face flushed up, and he nudged his elbow toward
his boy, and then he coughed, and then he shook his head,
and finally put his whole hand across his mouth and pressed
his lips quite flat.

“Ah, a great misfortune, to be sure!” Mrs. Fairfax went
on, but Peter winced and winked and pulled at her sleeve,
and in the end got her stopped.

“Yes, yes, a great fortune Sam has had,” he answered;
“he'll be one o' the richest men in these parts afore long.”
And then he opened his mouth to an O, and looked wise.

“Good fortune do you call it to be sent to prison? and I
am sure it amounts to the same thing. I don't understand.”

“You're forgettin' about that hen's nest,” says Peter, patting
his boy on the shoulder; “run right along, or else your
mother won't have time to bake the sweet cake;” but still
the lad hung back. The father looked worried, and told
him in a low voice aside, that it wasn't his uncle Sam they
was a-talkin' about, but another Sam that lived some'rs
away off, and that he never heard of, and then he patted him
again, and said “father would like to have a sweet cake
too.”

“Where is the nest then?” whined the lad.

“Where at? Why, in the roost, I reckon.”

“No, 'tain't; 'cause I was there to-day.”

“Well, go and look again; come now, that's a good boy.”

“It'll just be lookin' for a nest where there is no nest,”
pouted the boy.

“What, don't old Speckle lay into the roost; in that corner
where the straw is? Run and see; it won't take more'n
half a minute.”

“No, sir; Speckle has stole her nest.”

“O, it's Yaller Legs; I made a mistake.”

“No, Sir, 'tain't her, 'cause she lays under Posey's corntrough.”

“Well, look there then.”

“But I did look there just half an hour ago.”

“S'pose you should look under the edge o' the barn,” still
patting.

“Mother said I mustn't do that no more.”

“O, did she? Anyhow, there's the hay-mow; and sweet-cakes
full of eggs is awful good, when they're hot and
smokin'.”

This appeal was too much for boy-nature to withstand, and
casting longing, lingering looks behind, the child at last got
himself out of the room.

“I declare,” says Peter, “I never patted that boy's cheek
afore without his running straight to do my will; but there
is times when all boys is incompatible. He was so took up
with you,” he says, apologetically, and then he says little
folks has big ears sometimes, and for a reason which it will
all be understood in due time, he doesn't want his boy to
hear a word agin Samuel Dale.

“But you must know he's a dangerous man!” cries Mrs.
Fairfax.

“'Cause why? 'cause he seen a sperit?”

“O, Peter, how foolish you are about them things,” says
Mrs. Fairfax; “the day of ghosts and witches and all that
is gone by.”

“Who told you so?” says Peter, and then he says as to
witches, he don't believe into 'em nuther.

“O, man alive! there's the witch of Endor, you know.”

“No, I don't know no such thing.”

“Why, Peter, I did hope you read your Bible, at least.”

“At least! there was no use o' your puttin' that on, as I
see,” says Peter; and then he says, “I read my Bible regular,
but I never read about the witch, which you speak of
her.”

“Have you the Good Book convenient?” says Mrs.
Fairfax; triumphantly opening, when it was handed her, the
book of Samuel, and turning to the twenty-eighth chapter.

“Read out,” says Peter, “beginning at the sixth verse.”

“And when Saul inquired of the Lord, the Lord answered
him not, neither by dreams, nor by Urim, nor by prophets.”

And Mrs. Fairfax paused and cast a look at Peter still
more triumphant than the first; but, to her surprise, his
face was lit up with a gleam of satisfaction.

“You perceive,” says he, “the Lord had various ways of

answering them that called on him, just as he has now-a-days.”

Mrs. Fairfax went on: —

“Then said Saul unto his servants, Seek me a woman
that hath a familiar spirit, that I may go to her and inquire
of her. And his servants said to him, Behold there is a
woman that hath a familiar spirit at Endor.”

“There!” cries Mrs. Fairfax, “what do you say to that?”

“I say,” says Peter, the gleam of satisfaction still shining
in his face, “that she wasn't thought to be a witch, either
by Saul, or his servants; that comes of your modern skepticism.”

“Modern skepticism?” cries Mrs. Fairfax, lifting up her
eyes with horror and amazement.

“Yes'm,” says Peter; “disbelief in Scripter, which it is
nothing but skepticism.”

“It doesn't make no difference what they called her,” says
Mrs. Fairfax; “she was a witch anyhow, as you shall admit;”
and she read on: “And Saul disguised himself, and
put on other raiment, (`Just as some does now!' interposes
Peter. Mrs. Fairfax frowned, and continued,) and he
went, and two men with him, and they came to the woman
by night. (`Just as they do yet!' says Peter.) And they
came to the woman by night, and he said, I pray thee divine
unto me by the familiar spirit (`You notice he didn't say by
witch-work!' says Peter) and bring me him up, whom I
shall name unto thee.

“And the woman said unto him, Behold thou knowest
what Saul hath done, how he hath cut off those that have
familiar spirits (`It seems there was a good many of 'em,'
says Peter) and, the wizards out of the land; wherefore
then layest thou a snare for my life to cause me to die?

“And Saul sware to her by the Lord (`Would he a-swore
to a witch?” says Peter,) saying, as the Lord liveth, there
shall no punishment happen to thee for this thing.

“And then said the woman, (`Mind, not the witch!')
whom shall I bring up unto thee? and he said, Bring me up
Samuel.

“And when the woman saw Samuel, she cried with a loud
voice; and the woman spake to Saul, saying, “Why hast
thou deceived me? for thou art Saul.”

“You see she was frightened at her own doings,” says
Mrs. Fairfax, “and that proves that she was bad.”

“No, mem, I don't see it,” says Peter; “she wasn't frightened
at her own doings, or rather at the power of her familiar
spirit; she was afraid because she found the man to be Saul;
which you perceive she didn't know of herself.”

Mrs. Fairfax glanced along the chapter and presently
said: “Saul didn't see Samuel with his own eyes, it appears,
so we have only the witch's word that he was seen at all.”

“Witch agin!” says Peter, impatiently; “can't you
speak respectful as Saul did and call her a woman with a familiar
spirit?”

Mrs. Fairfax made no answer, but read aloud: “And he
said unto her, What form is he of? and she said, An old man
cometh up; and he is covered with a mantle. And Saul
perceived that it was Samuel, and he stooped with his face
to the ground and bowed himself.”

“There!” she exclaimed, “what do you say now?”

“Well, mem,” says Peter, “I say that things in them
days was just like things is now, purty much; some sees,
and some doesn't, and some has sperits about 'em, and some
doesn't, agin, and what's more, they don't even believe in
'em; and them's the kind that I call 'em the biggest skeptics
of all.”

“And you mean to say that I am one?”

“No, I don't say that; but I do say them that don't believe
into the Scripters as the Scripters is writ, them is 'em,
wheresomever found.”

“Your discussion is very interesting, I dare say,” says
Mrs. Whiteflock, coming in, with a smile; “but I am obliged
to put an end to it. Supper is ready; come, Mrs. Fairfax;
come, Peter, dear.”

Peter glanced at Mrs. Fairfax, all his face shining with
delight, as though he would say, “You observe how that
great woman condescends to address me.”

The elegant abundance of the table, the fine linen, the silver,
made Mrs. Fairfax jealous, and added to the irritation
she had already experienced. Nevertheless, she praised
everything, smiling with secret satisfaction at the thought
of an unhappy matter she might set against it all, if she
chose.

Peter sat as a stranger at his own table, notwithstanding
the adroit efforts of his wife to bring him out, and make him
feel at home, and appear to advantage. But between his

pride at thus being flattered, and his bashful confusion and
awkwardness in being jerked so suddenly out of the old rut,
he was really in a plight more pitiable than common. His
own old Posey would have been much more self-possessed,
and almost as much in place at the head of his table, as he.

“I had hoped to have the pleasure of the doctor's company
to tea,” says the hostess; and then she says, “I did
wait for him some time, but perhaps I should have waited
longer; would you have liked me to, my dear?”

Peter laughed, partly with delight, partly with shame-facedness
— answering finally that whatever her wish was,
it was a wish which it was his. And in the effort of speaking
he dropped his fork, and in his vain attempt to recover
it, upset his teacup, to the great temporary damage of the
exquisite table-cloth.

“O, mercy! mercy! What have I done?” he cries,
standing up, and lifting his hands, in childish terror.

“A trifle, not worth minding, my dear,” says Mrs. Whiteflock,
quietly indicating the vacant chair, and endeavoring
to make him seat himself, without telling him to do so outright.
Then she calls for a napkin, and rises to spread it
under his plate herself, and by dint of cunning management
gets him back into his place.

“He is so nervous, poor dear, since this last ill turn,”
she says, apologetically, to Mrs. Fairfax, who answers that
she never saw him looking better, and finds it very hard to
believe that he is sick. And then she says she knows he is
sick beyond all question, or Dr. Allprice would not be making
regular visits. He doesn't go like some, `need or no need!”'

Mrs. Whiteflock looked up, brightening. She had guessed
the secret. “I am so sorry he doesn't come,” she says,
“for I don't know a more agreeable gentleman.” And then
she says he is a great acquisition to the church as well as to
the profession.

“And we need him just now to make up for what we have
lost,” observes Mrs. Fairfax.

“Lost! Who have we lost?” Mrs. Whiteflock inquires
with an anxious face.

“Why, Sam Dale, of course, and if he is not lost for eternity
as well as for time, he may bless his stars, I should
think.”

Peter's hand grew steady at this, and his maudlin expression
changed to one of grave intelligence.

“I don't like to hear things like them said agin nobody,”
says he; “if the Lord has damnation to deal out, I reckon
he can deal it in his own time and way without any of our
help; anyhow, I never felt called on to take his work out of
his hands.”

“Dear me, nor I neither, but all the threats against the
wicked must apply to somebody, and the Lord's too good
not to carry them out!”

“But taint for us to carry 'em out; and though hand jine
in hand, the wicked will not go unpunished, even if we fallible
creturs hold our peace.”

Mrs. Fairfax colored deeply, and refused a second cup of
tea.

“But I must insist,” cries Mrs. Whiteflock, reaching forth
her pretty white hand, and smiling her sweetest. And then
she says to Peter, “Don't you know, my dear, that it is very
naughty to dispute with a lady in your own house?” And
then to Mrs. Fairfax, “You must know, my friend, that
Samuel Dale is a great favorite with my husband and me.”

“Indeed! I didn't know you had so many favorites.”

It was Mrs. Whiteflock's turn to color now, and she did
— scarlet, and seeing her advantage, Mrs. Fairfax relented
and took a second cup of tea.

Peter had relapsed into himself again and was looking with
silly wonder and admiration at the silver knives and forks.

The anxious wife felt bound to arrest him, and at the same
time to make him shine out a little if possible. She at first,
therefore, called her visitor's attention to the fact that he
had seemed to have an accession of gifts lately, and then
she says, addressing him, “What was it you thought the
spirits said to you the other night. I can't tell it as you
did.”

But Peter answers that he doesn't remember.

“O yes you do — two or three nights ago. Something
about the pearly gates and the seventh sphere; it was poetry.
Can't you repeat it?”

But Peter says them fine things is things which they slip
away.

“It was about a pale flower being transplanted from earth,

to bloom forever in the garden of heaven,” says the wife,
still urging him on.

“I catch the ends o' lines now,” says Peter, “which they
was the poetry of 'em, and one was pale, and one was veil,
and one o' the tothers was heaven, and I can't tell about the
last, whether it was given or riven.”

“I'm very sorry you don't remember the whole of it,”
says Mrs. Whiteflock; “it was very beautiful.” And then
bending to Mrs. Fairfax, and whispering, she says he seems
to have lost his memory a good deal with this last illness;
but Mrs. Fairfax only lifts her eyebrows and slightly inclines
her head. Then Mrs. Whiteflock continued: “The doctor
is quite alarmed about it.”

That was another matter, and Mrs. Fairfax grew serious
and interested at once. Between the unmanageable husband
and the disaffected visitor, poor Mrs. Whiteflock had uphill
work of it, and all the shining service didn't take much from
the discomfort. It was not so easy to make a man and a
gentleman of Peter all at once; and so far as I have observed,
it is never an easy task to recast a human soul after it has
been cooling among the shoals and shadows of time for the
space of forty or fifty years. I have seen women who flattered
themselves that there was some marvellous and transmuting
power in marriage that must needs make the husband
quite to their minds, when the man was not; and I have
wished all such women joy of their faith, but for my part I
have had slight confidence in it.

Mrs. Whiteflock, as before said, had uphill work of it, and
all the more because she tried so hard to make her good man
do and say those things which it was not in him to do and
say.

Matters waxed worse and worse, until it seemed that the
worst point of all must have been touched; but say no man
is happy till he is dead, and no woman neither. Martha's
place at the table had been all this time vacant, to the manifest
uneasiness and annoyance of the mother, though she
tried to put a good face on the matter. She had not been
with her father to look after old Posey, and none of the children,
neither Madeline, nor Mary, nor Lucinda, nor John,
nor Peter, nor Cartright, nor any of them, had seen her for
the last two hours.

“In her chamber, fixing up some finery, dare say, against

the show,” said the mother; at this, Madeline ran and soon
fetched back word that she was not there.

“Never mind,” the mother says; “she is probably in the
basement — her father's office — she is very fond of the sunset
window there,” — thus endeavoring both to account for
the girl's absence, and at the same time make it appear that
the basement was rather an attractive place. “Never
mind, child!” and she caught Madeline by the sleeve, but
nothing would do but she must go down.”

“No, mother, she isn't in the cellar!”

“Say basement, or office, child, do!” in a half whispered
tone of reproof.

“What for? 'Cause Mrs. Fairfax is here?”

“Why, no! how ridiculous to be sure!” And the
mother, with her cheek on fire, hushed the child up, and
began talking in a spirited tone about the doctor. “What
in the world could detain him? Can it be Mrs. Jones or
Mrs. Smith? They are both expecting, you know;” —
confidentially and with great accession of interest — “but
may be they would prefer the old doctor;” and then seeing
that Mrs. Fairfax tossed up her head, she added, as though
it had been a part of her first intention, “but that's not
likely, neither.”

“Say, mother, what is Mrs. Jones expecting?” cries
Madeline, making vague dabs in the air with her fork, as
indicative, no doubt, of the confused state of her mind.

“Expecting Abner and Josey to catch the hooping-cough;
but little girls must eat their suppers and not ask questions.”

“How are little girls to learn, then? say, mother?”

“O, you behave so naughty, Mrs. Fairfax will never come
to see us again, will you, Mrs. Fairfax?”

“No, never!” says Mrs. Fairfax, shaking her head at
little Madeline with make-believe displeasure. For, what
with the doctor, and the mysterious matter obliquely glanced
at, she was gotten into quite a good humor, the consummation
being almost perfected when Mrs. Whiteflock observed
that Dr. Allprice was beautifully behaved in cases of hooping-cough;
she must say that for him, if he was a young
man.

“Not so very young,” says Mrs. Fairfax eagerly; “he is
older than I, by a good deal.”

He was the older by just three days; but it did not suit
Mrs. Fairfax to be too accurate, just then.

The current was thus beginning to run smoothly, at last,
when all at once little Peter came flying in — his face flushed,
and holding his cap out before him in an excited manner.

“How many eggs, my little man?” says the father,
peeping curiously into the cap.

“Nary,” replies the lad; “but I got something else,
though! Just see, father; ain't it enough to take me and
you and Uncle Samuel and mother and all of us to the great
show what's a-coming? Cipher it up and see; won't it be
fun though! But do you think Uncle Samuel will go?”

“O, be sure,” says the father, taking up the loose
change that was in the cap and counting it; “that is, if he
gets home from the frolic he's gone to, in time; but where
did you find all this money? for money is a thing which
doesn't grow onto bushes.”

The boy hung his head and made no answer.

“What! cries the mother, coming to the rescue. “You
haven't been to your father's money drawer, I hope?”

“No, ma'am,” says Peter, promptly; and then he says
he didn't know that father had a money drawer; he thought
the money was hers.

“No matter what you thought! What you have to do
just now is to tell your father and me where you got these
silver pieces.” And she took hold of the boy's shoulder
much as a policeman takes hold of a culprit to whom he has
traced the missing jewels or the great bank robbery.

“I got 'em in the barn,” whimpered the lad, frightened
half out of his wits.

“In the barn? that's a likely story! do you mean to pretend
you found them?”

“No, ma'am, I don't mean to pretend nothing, but I don't
want to tell nothing more about it.”

“Why don't you want to tell?”

“Because I wasn't to; I was to say I got 'em honest,
and I wasn't to say no more; I'd rather give 'em back than
tell.”

“Give them back to whom?”

“To them that give 'em.”

“And who are them? that's the question.”

“But the answer is the answer that I ain't to answer,”
says little Peter, trembling.

“But you must answer, or take a whipping.”

“Well, he'll whip me if I tell, and you'll whip me if I
don't tell.”

“He! who is he?”

Peter threw the money from him and began to cry.

“This is most extraordinary;” cries the exasperated
mother; and then she asks Mrs. Fairfax if she ever had such
trouble with her children, adding that she knew she never
had, nor no other woman!

There is no diplomatist like a woman when she chooses to
be one, and Mrs. Fairfax, who understands the whole matter,
manipulates it so artfully that the boy escapes punishment
and the mother is content to leave the secret to the development
of time. Content, I said, but it was with that poor
content which we purchase by the postponement of an
inevitable evil. She seemed content, and the arrival of Dr.
Allprice directly, prevented all further discussion of the mystery,
for the present.

“Dear Prosper,” cries Mrs. Fairfax, who could not
forego the high privilege of engagement, “I was getting so
uneasy about you!” And she made room for him by her
side; but the doctor seemed oblivious to her invitation, and
seated himself by Mrs. Whiteflock.

“I shall be greatly flattered,” he said, bowing all round,
as though there had been a general uneasiness felt on his
account.

“I was afraid your horse had run away, or something;
indeed I was.” And Mrs. Fairfax put her handkerchief to
her eyes.

“Does your head ache, my dear madam?” And the doctor
orders a blue pill now and then.

“It is not my head, Prosper,” replies the widow, in a
voice low and sad; “it's my heart.”

“Ah, indeed! then I am afraid your case will baffle medical
skill.” And the doctor laughs a thin little laugh by
way of covering his confusion.

The widow drops the handkerchief from her eyes, and
placing one hand on his arm with that right of manner an
engagement is presumed to confer, says, with bewitching
sweetness, “Promise me now, won't you, my dear, that you
will never drive that dreadfully wild horse of yours again?
O, if you knew how anxious it makes me!”

“Your anxiety is quite superfluous, madam, and I regret

that you should waste it; my mare is perfectly manageable;
a little spirited, that is all.”

“But do promise me, do now, you must!”

“I should be most happy to oblige you, madam,” replies
the doctor, coloring, and spreading butter on his pound cake,
in his confusion, “but really, I prefer to be excused.”

“Naughty man!” cries Mrs. Fairfax, shaking her head
playfully, and then she tells him that she cannot allow him
to eat butter with his cake — that it will bring on dyspepsia
as true — as true as that he is very dear to somebody she
knows of!

“But the blue pill is infallible,” says the doctor, buttering
his cake again, this time in defiance.

“O Prosper, you shall mind me!” and Mrs. Fairfax playfully
snatches the buttered piece from his hand.

The doctor took no notice of this charming sally, but
turning to Mrs. Whiteflock made some inquiry about her
children, the while he disposed of his napkin, and she, feeling
that some sort of oppression one feels before the bursting
of a thunder-storm, presently arose. Mrs. Fairfax came
dancing up to the doctor, and asked him, with what she
thought a very childish prettiness, if they should not kiss
and be friends! He answered, dryly, that though he did
not object to kisses in themselves, he had a decided prejudice
against taking them with bread and butter, and he
offered his arm to Mrs. Whiteflock. Mrs. Fairfax took the
arm of Peter, who by this time was sidling down stairs
toward his own familiar quarters, where he felt so much
more at home.

“No, sir, that'll never do!” she says, shaking her head
at him playfully, “it's so seldom we have the pleasure of
your society that we can't give it up readily. Really, it is
quite un unexpected favor.” And so, he walking automatically,
she got him into the drawing-room. Then she makes
him sit by her on the sofa, taking secret delight in the embarrassment
of her dear sister, as she leads the conversation
to channels quite strange and puzzling to him, using words
of which she is sure he does not know the meaning — words
which she is not accustomed to use herself, and which she
lugs in, right or wrong. And in this she had a twofold purpose,
doubtless; to shine with uncommon splendor in the
doctor's eyes, as well as to annoy her dear friend.

“If Martha Whiteflock is a mind to pretend to me,” she
says to herself, “I'll take her at her word, that's all!”

But her brilliancy failed in one of its objects; it did not
enchant the doctor; on the contrary, it brought him to the
very borders of disenchantment, and at length, excusing
himself abruptly to his hostess, he crossed the room and
with “Allow me, madam?” seated himself between his
mistress and poor Peter.