University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

`It's an astonishing thing how much it takes to kill folks!'
said Martha Jumps the morning after their safe arrival in
Massachusetts. `Beats all my arithmetic. Now here we
are, just as 'live as can be,—nobody'd guess to look at us
that we'd been chased and run over and shot through.'

The scene was the kitchen of the farm house where
Rosalie was to spend the summer; and as Miss Jumps
looked out of the open window over a pleasant expanse of
green meadows, cows, chickens, and corn fields, agreeably
diversified with a red barn and a fair little brook; the perils
of the sea appeared in strong contrast. Peace was the atmosphere
around everything in sight. The cattle cropped
their grass in a quiet leisurely way, secure and satisfied; the
shadows crept softly down the green slopes, aware of the
sun's pursuit but with no fear of being caught; and in the
uncut fields the grass waved to and fro with the very motion
of repose. Swift of wing and light of heart, the feather-clad
tribes bestirred themselves for breakfast; and filled up that

hour of the day with a merry song and chatter which did
honour to their good sense and to their business habits. No
such morning songster would ever build his nest ill, or talk
while it was a building, or tire on the wing when seeking
food for his family. Such joy with a day's work before it,
said the work would be done well.

Some chickens were already in the cow meadow, circling
about the cattle as they nosed the rich herbage and started
a thousand insects; and others sauntered along wherever a
chance grasshopper or a fly-away butterfly might lead them.
And the little brook murmured of freshness, of coolness, of
no work but rest. And yet its work was to run—and it ran,
—tumbled too, occasionally, but not as if it thought it hard
work. Clearly the brook took things by their smooth handle.
It ran not by the road, upon which opened the kitchen windows,
but through a dell at the back of the house—which
oddly enough was also the front. For the house with singular
good taste had set its face to the dell, and into that cool
shade looked the best windows and the best door; leaving
the kitchen and wood shed in full possession of the road, its
dust, and its passing wagons. Even the well with its boom
of a water-drawer, stood by the road-side; and visiters
arriving in that direction had their choice of a walk through
or a walk round the house.

`This is a queer place o' yours, Mrs. Hopper,' said
Martha Jumps, when she had looked out of the window for
the space of one minute. `It sounds dreadful quiet after
York.'

`Don't say!' replied Mrs. Hopper. `Why there's a
noise here sometimes to that point, with the chickens and
the dog and the children, that I can't hear myself think.'

The voice issued from a dark blue calico sunbonnet,
plentifully sprinkled with white spots, the apex to a tall and

slim pyramid of the same. Two brown hands, hard and sunburnt,
but nervous and capable withal, rested on the window
sill; and that was the outward display of Mrs. Hopper.

`I s'pose you're used to doin' with such noise as you can
get, and makin' the most of it,' said Martha.

`I guess I ought to be used to 'most everything here,'
said Mrs Hopper. `All the fetching up I ever got come
off o' this farm, and my forbears lived here longer'n I can
count. It's a right good one, too.'

`Looks enough like it,' said Martha. `How come you
to get your house wrong side before?'

`Didn't get it,' said Mrs. Hopper, as if the words implied
some mistake on the part of the house builder. `It
was sot so a'purpose.'

`What for?' said Martha.

`He was a thoughtful sort of a man that did it,' said
Mrs. Hopper, `and he kind o' fancied the brook looked lonesome.
Kitchen winders he said ought to have the sun on to
them,—didn't make no odds about the company side, for
that warnt never used unless there was company. When a
man's alone he wants everything done to him, and round
there he said you couldn't hear a wagon go by once a week.
That's what they say he said—them that's gone now.'

And Mrs. Hopper took off her sunbonnet, and having
carefully bent it into shape, she put it on again; thereby
giving a short view of her hair, which had much the colour
and appearance of dried corn silk, and of a face strong and
weatherbeaten—useful but not ornamental.

`Sunbunnits is dreadful smothery, aint they?' said Miss
Jumps as she surveyed the operation.

`Why my, no,' said Mrs. Hopper. `I don't never feel as
though I had a stitch o' clothes on about my work without I
have a bunnit.'

`Well I think likely you don't,' said Martha, `and I
knew what that was once myself, but I've got out of the
fashion. I haven't been in the country since I was fifteen.'

`The land sakes!' said Mrs. Hopper. `How the goodness
did you get along? That's just Jerushy's years.
Jerushy's real smart too, though you wouldn't think it to
look at her; but she's always enjoyed such ill health. She
faints away so easy,—a little scare or anything of that sort'll
keel her right over. I wouldn't wonder now if she'd drop if
you told her Abijah was coming.'

Miss Jumps naturally inquired who Abijah might be.

`Abijah?' said Mrs. Hopper—`why that's my son—
Abijah Hopper. Five foot nine in his stockings and as
handsome as a pictur.' He's off to some fur'n country now,
fighting for his'n.'

`How old is he?' said Martha.

`Just in his two and twenty,' replied Mrs. Hopper.
`He was first and then Jerushy; but Jerushy never see her
father to know him.'

`She didn't!' said Martha.

`No,' said Mrs. Hopper taking off the sunbonnet and
giving it another bend.

`Well who are the children you tell about?' said
Martha.

`Not mine,' said Mrs. Hopper—`The neighbour's saplings
come in here whiles and raise Cain with Jerushy.'

`Got pleasant neighbours here?' said Martha.

`Pleasant enough as folks run—' said Mrs. Hopper,—
`and that's pretty much like a flock o' sheep. There's some
fine families. But this won't make my child a frock,' she
added, tying her sunbonnet with great vigour and tightness,
`What time does your folks breakfast?'

`O just when they take a notion,' said Martha imposingly.

`That's the time o' day, is it?' said Mrs. Hopper.
`Then I'll tell you what, they'll have to get it without me.
I have to pour out coffee bright and early for the men folks,
and it saves time to eat as I go along. And two breakfasts
in a morning is one too many for my appetite.'

`I guess they'll all be glad o' the spare one,' said Martha.
`I'm hungry, for one.'

`You look as if you was used to that—stall fed,' said Mrs.
Hopper. `But Jerushy can fry the eggs as good as I can,
every bit—whenever they do get up,—and there's bread and
butter enough in the pantry—cheese too if they like it; and
pies, real good ones. Tell 'em to eat all they can lay their
hands on.'

`They always have their eggs boiled,' said Martha.

`Then they don't know what's good,' said Mrs. Hopper.
`But it's nothing to me if they eat 'em raw. There's eggs
enough, and water enough, and kettles enough—fire enough
too, for that matter; but if I'm not up to the store in a jiffy
Squire Hubbard 'll be off with my quarter of mutton. He
owes me two now.'

And Mrs. Hopper departed; leaving Martha in great
admiration of her smartness and liberality, to get breakfast
with Jerusha, who was a chip of the same block. Or rather
a whittling—with very faint blue eyes and a tongue that
was strong in proportion.

With this young lady's able assistance and conversation,
Martha prepared both table and breakfast admirably; and
Rosalie found but one thing wanting to her comfort. Now
that the time was come for parting with her brother, she felt
the old painful doubt of it grow stronger; and often wished
that she had refused to leave the city. Sometimes she half

resolved to go back with him; and then a look at Hulda's
face, already brightening in the pure air, kept her silent.
And silent the whole breakfast time was. But after breakfast,
when the table was cleared and Hulda had gone out to
inspect clover heads, Thornton spoke.

`I hope you feel satisfied with your farm house, Alie?'

`I should be, if you were to be in it.'

`I thank you my dear—I am afraid I should not.'

`I have been wishing this morning that I had not come
or that I was going back with you.'

`Thank you for that too,' he said, drawing back her hair
and kissing her, `but I do not join in the wish.'

They stood silent again; and the little wagon that was
to take him to meet the stage came slowly out of the barn,
and was attached to its locomotive.

`What commands, Alie?' said Thornton then. `I
must be off, my dear, in five minutes.'

She turned and laid her hands on his shoulders after her
old fashion, and looked at him, and did not speak. Her
heart was too full, each word that came to her lips seemed
too weak; and without words the brother and sister parted.

“`He is able to keep that which I have committed to
him,'” Rosalie thought, as she saw Thornton drive off and
caught the last wave of his hand. And quitting the window
she sat down and took her Bible. Not to read, but to turn
over leaf after leaf; catching here and there a word of comfort,
a word of hope, a word of strength; until the promises
had done their work. Her lips lost their nervous trembling,
and with a few long breaths the heart beat easier; and laying
her head down upon the closed book Rosalie cried herself
to sleep.

`Well this is a pretty state of things!' said Miss Jumps
when she came in to set the table for dinner. `Here's

everything ready—and the mutton 'll be rags, and no living
creature can tell what the potatoes 'll be. Pickles 'll keep
—that's one thing, and so 'll bread,—and she wants it bad
enough in all conscience.' And softly closing the door at
the end of her soliloquy, Martha retired.