University of Virginia Library

2. II.

When, the previous evening, Mr. Williams brought home
the cows, with some misgivings he approached the house, for
he yet saw no indication of life thereabouts. “Why, Polly,
what in the world has happened?” he said, placing his hands on
either side of the door, and looking anxiously within; but
Polly neither looked up nor made any reply. “Heard any
bad news, any way?” he said, after a pause. Mrs. Williams
shook her head; and after a moment of bewildered silence, and
seeing his boys lopping over the backs of their chairs, with
swollen eyes and red noses, he renewed his efforts to ascertain
what manner of calamity could have overtaken his household.
“Sick, any of you?” he said, in a tone between petulance and
tenderness.

Mrs. Williams partly removed the apron from her eyes, and
looked askance at her husband, revealing a face reddened with
tears, but she only shook her head, this time more mournfully
than before.

“Then what is the matter? seems to me you act strangely,
for nothing.”

After lingering in vain anxiety a little while longer, he proceeded
to kindle a fire, and fill the tea-kettle; and Mrs. Williams,
laying her baby in the cradle, presently went about
preparations for supper. No farther explanation was asked or
given, and a night's sleep operated to restore things to their
usual tenor.

“I had a little talk with Mr. Giles, last evening,” said Mr.
Williams, at breakfast.

“Did you?” said Mrs. Williams; “well, what did he have
to say?”

“Oh, not much—he liked our bay colt pretty well, and he
said his wife said she wanted you to come over there this afternoon—airly,
he said she said.”

“I have quite as much as I can get along with, at home,”
said Mrs. Williams; and she looked as though she endured a
great many hardships that nobody cared anything about.

“Well, do as you like, Polly,” said Mr. Williams, as he

went out to his day's labor; “but he said, Emeline said
she wanted you to come, and bring the children, he said, she
said.”

“I am sure I do n't care much about visiting anywhere, and
least of all about visiting Mrs. Giles.”

“Why, what have you against Mrs. Giles? she is a nice
woman, I am sure—beautiful day, I guess it will turn out.”

“Oh, I have nothing particular against her—I don't lay up
hard thoughts against anybody,” said the wife; “but it seems
to me it would be hard work to talk to Mrs. Giles to-day.”

Notwithstanding all Mrs. Williams said, and half believed,
she went more briskly about her work than usual, though, when
the children asked if she was going, she replied, vaguely, that
she would “see about it.”

“Toot-to-to-to-o-o!” went the dinner-horn, at half-past eleven,
and Mr. Williams hastened home, for he well knew that visiting
was to be done. “And so you have concluded to go, have you,
Polly?” he said, as he sat down to dinner.

“I suppose I may as well go, and be done with it,” she
replied, “if I have it to do; and the children are all crazy to go;
the day is pleasant, and there is nothing more than there always
is to prevent; and so I must put on the old black dress that
everbody is tired of seeing, and trot along in the sun—I 'll be
glad when it 's over.”

An hour thereafter the happy meeting took place.

“I was so afraid you would not come,” said Mrs. Giles,
untying the bonnet-strings of her friend, “for I had the queerest
dream last night, and it has seemed to me that something bad
was going to happen.”

“I do hate to be plagued with ugly dreams,” said Mrs. Williams;
“but what was it about?”

“Why,” said Mrs. Giles, “I dreamed that you were sick,
and it did not seem precisely as if you were sick, either, but
you were blind, and I thought your face was white as a cloth,
and I tried to get where you were, for I saw you walking about
in your own yard, but I kept falling as I tried to walk, and
could n't get along, and when at last I was nearly there, I found
that I had no shoes on; still I thought I must go on, and just

as I opened the gate a great dog sprung at me and took me
right in the wrist, and I fairly jumped out of my skin and
waked right up—wide awake as I am now. A good little bit
it seemed to me as if it was the truth, for I could see just how
you looked, and the thought of the cross beast made me almost
trimble; all I could do I could n't get to sleep again, and as
soon as the first roosters crowed for daylight I got up, and it
appeared like I could have no peace till I saw you.”

“Some people think,” said Mrs. Williams, “that the state
of the mind, or the supper we eat, or something or other, influences
our dreams, but I don't think any such thing.”

“No, nor I,” answered Mrs. Giles, though she thought of
retiring supperless, and of some unpleasant words and feelings
previously; she did not speak of them, however. “I am sure
I have had dreams that were-omens-like,” resumed Mrs. Giles,
sadly; “along before my poor little Emeline died, I dreamed
one night that a strange woman, dressed in white, came to the
door and asked me to see the baby, and though I did n't know
who she was, it seemed to me that I must do as she bid, and I
put little Emeline in her arms and she carried her away—
walking right through the air, I thought. It was only a little
while till she took sick and died.”

At this recital the eyes of both the ladies filled with tears,
and their hearts flowed right together. The children stood in
silent wonder and fear, that seemed to say, “Why do you cry,
mother?” Mrs. Giles gave them some cakes and told them to
go out to some shady place and play, for that they were seeing
their best days. They did not believe that, though they obeyed,
and presently their merry shouts and laughter indicated that
their days were very good ones, whether their best or not.

How easily we are acted upon by outward influences! the
lively carol of a bird, a merry peal of laughter, or a smiling
face, gives tone and color to our feelings, and unconsciously we
begin to look at the cheerful side of things; and so, as the two
ladies heard the pleasant sport of their children, their thoughts
flowed into pleasant channels; and as they rocked by the vine-curtained
window, they chattered like two magpies—now of
the garden, now of the children and the school, now of what

they had got, and now of what they proposed to get, all of
which subjects were spiced occasionally with a little harmless
gossip.

“How well that dress does wear,” said Mrs. Giles, rubbing
the sleeve of her friend's gown between her fingers; “and it
looks just as good as new, yet—I wish I could get such a
thing.”

“I always thought it was a good black,” replied Mrs. Williams,
“and it does seem as if there was no wear out to it, and
it 's the handiest kind of a dress, for, being worsted, I can wear
it in winter, and yet it is so stiff and cool that I can wear it in
summer just as well as if it were lawn.”

“I 'll dare say,” said Mrs. Giles; “where did you get the
piece? I must have one just like it the first time I go to town.”

To have heard the conversation of the women, their little
confidences, and sly inuendoes, about Mr. Smith and Mrs. Hill,
and the way they managed things, you would have supposed
them two of the best friends in the world, and withal very
amiable. And so in fact they were, as friends and amiability
go; neither, as she had anticipated, felt at any loss for something
to say, and the hours glided swiftly by.

“La, bless me!” exclaimed Mrs. Giles, suddenly throwing
down her work; “just look at that shadder—why, the afternoon
don't seem to me to have been a minute long”—

“Did you ever! who would have thought it?” said Mrs.
Williams; but there they were, the long sunset shadows stretching
across the yard, and it was time for Mrs. Giles to make her
biscuits. “I guess, Polly,” she said, “you will have to move
your chair into the kitchen, for I don't like to leave you long
enough to get supper, and it 's getting so late that I must spring
about.” So they adjourned together, and Mrs. Giles, tying on
a checked apron and rolling back her sleeves, kneaded the
flour vigorously, and the tea-kettle was presently steaming like
an engine, and an extra large “drawing of tea” was steeping on
the hearth.

“Now, Emeline,” said Mrs. Williams, lifting the tea-table
into the middle of the floor, “you need n't say one word, for I
am going to set the table for you.”

“No, Polly, you are not going to do any such a thing; it's
a pretty story if you must go to work when you come to visit;
now just sit down and make yourself comfortable.”

“I shall do no such a thing,” said Polly, “that is, I won't sit
in my laziness when you are at work; it will make me a good
deal more comfortable to help; I'd be ashamed,” she continued,
laughing, “to tell you what you should n't do, if you were at
my house.”

“Well, have your own way, and live the longer,” replied
Emeline, playfully tossing the table-cloth toward her friend,
who proceeded to arrange the tea-things with as much ease and
grace as if she were at home.

The new dishes were admired; the quality of the sugar examined,
both ladies agreeing that it was the whitest brown
sugar they had ever seen, and so cheap; the knives and forks
were thought by Mrs. Williams perfect loves—so small and
highly finished; and Mrs. Giles thought them so too, though she
said she did n't know as they were anything more than common.

“I will have a set just like them before I am a month older,”
said Mrs. Polly Williams.

“And I will have a dress just like yours,” replied Mrs. Giles,
“and I must borrow the pattern too—it fits so beautifully.”
So, it was agreed that they should go to town together—Mrs.
Giles for the dress, and Mrs. Williams for the knives and forks.
Only the previous evening Mrs. Giles had said she hoped to
have some new knives and forks before Mrs. Williams came
again, though she supposed the old ones would have to do.

What a pleasant time they had, drinking tea together! the
cake had not one heavy streak, or if it had, neither of them
saw it; and the custard was baked just enough, the biscuits
were as light and white as new fallen snow, and the butter and
the honey, all the supper, in fact, was unexceptionable; of
course Mrs. Williams praised everything, and of course Mrs.
Giles was pleased; and as for the children, they were perfectly
happy, till the time of parting. “Now you must come right
soon, and bring all the children,” said Mrs. Williams, when
they separated at the end of the lane.

“Oh, yes, I shall come soon, but don't wait for me; whenever
you can, take your work and run over.”

And after much lingering, and invitations iterated and reiterated,
and promises made over and over, each to the other,
that she would be more sociable, they parted. And certainly
there was no affectation of interest they did not feel; the crust
of selfishness that gathered over their hearts, in isolation, was
rubbed off by contact, and the hard feeling, engendered by too
frequent contemplation of the darkest side of things, was changed
into kindness under the influence of genial looks and words—
so much in this journey of life do little things discourage, or
help us on.

When Mrs. Polly Williams opened the gate at home, she
saw her husband sitting by the open door, waiting and looking
for her; the milking was done, and the kettle boiling, and it
seemed no trouble at all to prepare supper for him; and the
less, perhaps, that he said, “Do n't give yourself trouble, Polly;
just set out anything that's convenient, and never mind changing
your dress and cooking for me.”

“It will only require a minute,” replied the wife, unslipping
the hooks, for the old black dress had acquired a new value,
and, turning it wrong side out, she hung it away more carefully
than she had done for a year.

“Well, how did you like your visit?” asked the husband,
drawing his chair inside the door, as the dishes began to rattle
down on to the table.

“Oh, it was the best visit I ever had; Emeline had everything
so nice, and was so glad to see me.” Then she related
many little particulars, only interesting to them—sipping tea,
the while, not that she wanted any, but merely for company's
sake; and saying, in conclusion, that if her children were only
like Emeline's, she would be so glad!

Meantime, Mrs. Giles returned, and began washing her dishes,
and singing as she did so, while Mr. Giles sat by, looking pleased
and happy. “Just step into the pantry, my dear,” said Mrs.
Giles, (she had not said “my dear,” previously, for a long time)
“and get me a nice piece of brown paper to wrap these knives

and forks in,” and she looked at them admiringly, as she rubbed
them through the tea-towel.

“And did you find the afternoon as tedious as you expected?”
inquired the husband, bringing the paper; but the wife was so
busy in praising the children of Mrs. Williams, that she did not
seem to hear him, though perhaps she did, and meant it a reply
when she said, “La, me! everybody has their little faults, and
little troubles, too, I expect—we are none of us perfect. Just
put the knives and forks on the upper shelf.”