University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
WINTER AT THE POOR-HOUSE.

One afternoon about the middle of October, Mary sat under
an apple-tree in the orchard, weeping bitterly. It was in
vain that Alice, who was with her, and who by this time was
able to stand alone, climbed up to her side, patting her
cheeks, and trying various ways to win her attention. She
still wept on, unmindful of the sound of rapid footsteps upon
the grass, nor until twice repeated did she hear the words,
“Why, Mary, what is the matter? What's happened?”—
then looking up she saw Billy Bender, who raised her in his
arms, and insisted upon knowing what was the matter.

Laying her head on his shoulder, she sobbed out, “She's
gone,—she's gone, and there's nobody left but Sally. Oh dear,
oh dear!”

“Gone! Who's gone?” asked Billy.

“Jenny,” was Mary's reply. “She's gone to Boston,
and won't come back till next May; and I loved her so
much.”

“Oh, yes, I know,” returned Billy. “I met them all
on their way to the depot; but I wouldn't feel so badly.
Jenny will come again, and besides that, I've got some real
good news to tell you.

“About Ella?” said Mary.

“No, not about Ella, but about myself; I'm coming here
to live with you.”

“Coming here to live!” repeated Mary with astonishment.
“What for? Are your folks all dead?”

Billy smiled and answered, “Not quite so bad as that. I
went to school here two years ago, and I know I learned more
than I ever did at home in two seasons. The boys, when
Henry Lincoln is away, don't act half as badly as they do in
the village; and then they usually have a lady teacher, because
it's cheaper I suppose, for they don't pay them half as
much as they do gentlemen, and I think they are a great
deal the best. Any way, I can learn the most when I go to
a woman.”

“But what makes you come here, and what will your
mother do?” asked Mary.

“She's got a sister come from the West to stay with
her, and as I shall go home every Saturday night, she'll get
along well enough. I heard Mr. Parker in the store one day
inquiring for a boy to do chores. So after consulting mother,
I offered my services, and was accepted. Won't we have real
nice times going to school together, and then I've brought a
plaything for you. Are you afraid of dogs?”

So saying he gave a whistle, and a large Newfoundland dog
came bounding through the orchard. At first Mary drew
back in alarm, for the dog, though young, was unusually large;
but her fears soon vanished when she saw how affectionate
he was, licking her own and Alice's hands, and bounding
playfully upon his master's shoulders.

“He is a nice fellow,” said she, stroking his shaggy sides.
“What do you call him?”

“Tasso,” answered Billy; and then seeing Mr. Parker
at a distance, and wishing to speak to him, he walked away.

Three weeks from that time the winter school commenced;
and Billy took up his abode at the poor-house, greatly
to the satisfaction of Sally and Mary, and greatly to the annoyance

of Miss Grundy, who, since Patsy's death, was
crosser and more fault-finding than ever.

“Smart idea!” said she, “to have that great lummux
around to be waited on!” and when she saw how happy his
presence seemed to make Mary, she vented her displeasure
upon her in various ways, conjuring up all sorts of reasons
why she should stay out of school as often as possible, and
wondering “what the world was a coming to, when young
ones hardly out of the cradle begun to court! It wasn't so
in her younger days, goodness knew!”

“I wouldn't venture a great many remarks about my
younger days, if I were you, Mrs. Grundy,” said Sal, who
had adhered to her resolution of always addressing her old
enemy as Mrs., though she whispered it to Mary as her opinion
that the woman didn't fancy her new title.

Much as Mary had learned to prize Sally's friendship,
before winter was over she had cause to value it still more
highly. Wretched and destitute as the poor crazed creature
now was, she showed plainly that at some period or other of
her life, she had had rare advantages for education, which
she now brought into use for Mary's benefit. When Mary
first commenced attending school, Miss Grundy insisted that
she should knit every evening, and thus she found no opportunity
for studying at home. One evening when, as usual, a
part of the family were assembled around a blazing fire in
the kitchen, Sal Furbush suddenly exclaimed, “Mary, why
don't you bring your books home at night, just as Mr. Bender
does.”

She had conceived a great respect for Billy, and always
called him Mr. Mary cast a rueful glance at the coarse
sock, which certainly was not growing fast, and replied, “I
should like to, but I have to knit all the time.”

“Fudge on your everlasting knitting,” said Sal, snatching

the sock from Mary's hands and making the needles fly
nimbly. “I'm going to be very magnanimous, and every
time you'll bring your books home I'll knit for you—I beg,
Mrs. Grundy, that you'll not throw the fire all over the floor,”
she added, as that lady gave the forestick a violent kick.

“The Lord save us!” was Miss Grundy's exclamation,
when after supper the next evening she saw the three-legged
stand loaded down with Billy's and Mary's school books.

But as no one made her any reply, she quietly resumed
her work, appropriating to her own use the only tallow candle
there was burning, and leaving Billy and Mary to see as
best they could by the firelight. For some time Mary pored
over her lesson in Colburn, but coming to the question, “24
is ⅗ of how many times 10?” she stopped, unable to proceed
farther. Again and again she read it over, without
gathering a single idea, and was on the point of asking Billy
to assist her, when Sal, who had been watching her, said,
“Let me take your book, child.”

Mary did so, and then, as if conscious for the first time
of Miss Grundy's monopoly of the candle, Sal seized a large
newspaper lying near, and twisting it up, said, “Let there
be light;” then thrusting one end of it into the flames and
drawing it out again, added, “and there is light.”

After tumbling over the leaves awhile, she continued,
“No, they didn't study this when I was young; but tell me
what 'tis that troubles you.”

Mary pointed to the problem, and after looking at it attentively
a moment, Sal said, “The answer to it is 4; and if
you will give me some little inkling of the manner in which
you are taught to explain them at school, perhaps I can tell
you about that.”

“It begins in this way,” said Mary. “If 24 is ⅗ of

some number, ⅕ of that number must be something or other,
I don't know what.”

“One third of 24 of course,” said Sal.

“Oh, yes, that's it,” exclaimed Mary, who began to understand
it herself. “Now, I guess I know. You find what
one third of 24 is, and if that is one fifth, five fifths would
be five times that, and then see how many times 10 will go
in it.”

“Exactly so,” said Sal. “You'll make an arithmetic
yet, and have it out just about the time I do my grammar.
But,” she added in another tone, “I've concluded to leave
out the Grundy gender!”

Each night after this Mary brought home her books, and
the rapid improvement which she made in her studies was as
much owing to Sally's useful hints and assistance as to her
own untiring perseverance. One day when she returned
from school Sally saw there was something the matter, for
her eyes were red and her cheeks flushed as if with weeping.
On inquiring of Billy, she learned that some of the
girls had been teasing Mary about her teeth, calling them
“tushes,” &c.

As it happened one of the paupers was sick, and Dr. Gilbert
was at that time in the house. To him Sal immediately
went, and after laying the case before him, asked him to extract
the offending teeth. Sally was quite a favorite with
the doctor, who readily consented, on condition that Mary was
willing, which he much doubted, as such teeth came hard.

“Willing or not, she shall have them out. It's all that
makes her so homely,” said Sal; and going in quest of Mary,
she led her to the doctor, who asked to look in her mouth.

There was a fierce struggle, a scream, and then one of the
teeth was lying upon the floor.

“Stand still,” said Sal, more sternly than she had ever

before spoken to Mary, who, half frightened out of her wits,
stood still while the other one was extracted.

“There,” said Sal, when the operation was finished, “you
look a hundred per cent. better.”

For a time Mary cried and spit, hardly knowing whether
she relished the joke or not; but when Billy praised her improved
looks, telling her that “her mouth was real pretty,”
and when she herself dried her eyes enough to see that it
was a great improvement, she felt better, and wondered why
she had never thought to have them out before.

Rapidly and pleasantly to Mary that winter passed away,
for the presence of Billy was in itself a sufficient reason why
she should be happy. He was so affectionate and brother-like
in his deportment towards her, that she began questioning
whether she did not love him as well, if not better, than
she did her sister Ella, whom she seldom saw, though she
heard that she had a governess from Worcester, and was
taking music lessons on a grand piano which had been bought
a year before. Occasionally Billy called at Mrs. Campbell's,
but Ella seemed shy and unwilling to speak of her sister.

“Why is there this difference?” he thought more than
once, as he contrasted the situation of the two girls,—the
one petted, caressed, and surrounded by every luxury, and
the other forlorn, desolate, and the inmate of a poor-house;
and then he built castles of a future, when, by the labor of
his own head or hands, Mary, too, should be rich and happy.