University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
A NEW FRIEND.

Three weeks had passed away since Alice's death, and affairs
at the poor-house were beginning to glide on as usual. Sal
Furbush, having satisfied her own ideas of propriety by remaining
secluded for two or three days, had once more appeared
in society; but now that Alice was no longer there to
be watched, time hung wearily upon her hands, and she was
again seized with her old desire for authorship. Accordingly,
a grammar was commenced, which she said would
contain Nine Hundred and Ninety Nine rules for speaking
the English language correctly!

Mary, who had resumed her post as dish washer in the
kitchen, was almost daily expecting Jenny; and one day
when Billy came in to dinner, he gave her the joyful intelligence
that Jenny had returned, and had been in the field to
see him, bidding him tell Mary to meet her that afternoon
in the woods by the brook.

“Oh, I do hope Miss Grundy will let me go,” said Mary,
“and I guess she will, for since Allie died, she hasn't been
near so cross.”

“If she don't, I will,” answered Mr. Parker, who
chanced to be standing near, and who had learned to regard
the little orphan girl with more than usual interest.

But Miss Grundy made no objections, and when the last
dishcloth was wrung dry, and the last iron spoon put in its

place, Mary bounded joyfully away to the woods, where she
found Jenny, who embraced her in a manner which showed
that she had not been forgotten.

“Oh,” said she, “I've got so much to tell you, and so
much to hear, though I know all about dear little Allie's
death,—didn't you feel dreadfully?”

Mary's tears were a sufficient answer, and Jenny, as if
suddenly discovering something new, exclaimed, “Why,
what have you been doing? Who pulled your teeth?”

Mary explained the circumstance of the tooth-pulling,
and Jenny continued: “You look a great deal better, and if
your cheeks were only a little fatter and your skin not quite
so yellow, you'd be real handsome; but no matter about
that. I saw George Moreland in Boston, and I wanted to
tell him about you, but I'd promised not to; and then at
first I felt afraid of him, for you can't think what a great
big fellow he's got to be. Why, he's awful tall! and handsome,
too. Rose likes him, and so do lots of the girls, but
I don't believe he cares a bit for any of them except his
cousin Ida, and I guess he does like her;—any way, he
looks at her as though he did.”

Mary wondered how he looked at her, and would perhaps
have asked, had she not been prevented by the sudden
appearance of Henry Lincoln, who directly in front of her
leaped across the brook. He was evidently not much improved
in his manners, for the moment he was safely landed
on terra firma, he approached her, and seizing her round the
waist, exclaimed, “Hallo, little pauper! You're glad to see
me back, I dare say.”

Then drawing her head over so that he could look into
her face, he continued, “Had your tusks out, haven't you?
Well, it's quite an improvement, so much so that I'll venture
to kiss you.”

Mary struggled, and Jenny scolded, while Henry said,
“Don't kick and flounce so, my little beauty. If there's
any thing I hate, it's seeing girls make believe they're modest.
That clodhopper Bill kisses you every day, I'll warrant.”

Here Jenny's wrath exploded; and going up to her
brother, she attempted to pull him away, until bethinking
her of the brook, she commenced sprinkling him with water,
but observing that more of it fell upon Mary than her
brother, she desisted, while Henry, having accomplished his
purpose, began spitting and making wry faces, assuring
Mary that “she needn't be afraid of his ever troubling her
again, for her lips were musty, and tasted of the poor-house!”

Meanwhile Tasso, who had become a great favorite with
Mary, and who, on this occasion, had accompanied her to
the woods, was standing on the other side of the brook, eyeing
Henry's movements, and apparently trying to make up
his mind whether his interference was necessary or not. A
low growl showed that he was evidently deciding the matter,
when Henry desisted, and walked leisurely off.

Erelong, however, he returned, and called out, “See,
girls, I've got an elegant necklace for you.”

Looking up, they saw him advancing towards them, with
a small water snake, which he held in his hand; and, readily
divining his purpose, they started and ran, while he pursued
them, threateing to wind the snake around the neck of the
first one he caught. Jenny, who was too chubby to be very
swift-footed, took refuge behind a clump of alder bushes;
but Mary kept on, and just as she reached a point where the
brook turned, Henry overtook her, and would perhaps have
carried his threat into execution, had not help arrived from
an unexpected quarter. Tasso, who had watched, and felt

sure that this time all was not right, suddenly pouncea upon
Henry, throwing him down, and then planting himself upon
his prostrate form, in such a manner that he dared not move.

“Oh, good, good,” said Jenny, coming out from her concealment;
“make Tasso keep him there ever so long; and,”
she continued, patting the dog, “if you won't hurt him much,
you may shake him just a little.”

“No, no,” said Henry, writhing with fear, “call him off,
do call him off. Oh, mercy!” he added, as Tasso, who did
not particularly care to have the case reasoned, showed two
rows of very white teeth.

Mary could not help laughing at the figure which Henry
cut; but thinking him sufficiently punished, she called off
the dog, who obeyed rather unwillingly, and ever after manifested
his dislike to Henry by growling angrily whenever he
appeared.

One morning about two weeks afterwards, Mary was in
the meadow gathering cowslips for dinner, when she heard
some one calling her name; and looking up, she saw Jenny
hurrying towards her, her sunbonnet hanging down her back
as usual, and her cheeks flushed with violent exercise. As
soon as she came up, she began with, “Oh my, ain't I hot
and tired, and I can't stay a minute either, for I run away.
But I had such good news to tell you, that I would come.
You are going to have a great deal better home than this.
You know where Rice Corner is, the district over east?”

Mary replied that she did, and Jenny continued: “We
all went over there yesterday to see Mrs. Mason. She's a
real nice lady, who used to live in Boston, and be intimate
with ma, until three or four years ago, when Mr. Mason died.
We didn't go there any more then, and I asked Rose what
the reason was, and she said Mrs. Mason was poor now, and
ma had `cut her;' and when I asked her what she cut her

with, she only laughed, and said she believed I didn't know
any thing. But since then I've learned what it means.”

“What does it?” asked Mary, and Jenny replied: “If
a person dies and leaves no money, no matter how good his
folks are, or how much you like them, you mustn't know
them when you meet them in the street, or you must cross
over the other side if you see them coming; and then when
ladies call and speak about them, you must draw a great long
breath, and wonder `how the poor thing will get along, she
was so dreadful extravagant.' I positively heard mother
say those very words about Mrs. Mason; and what is so funny,
the washwoman the same day spoke of her, and cried when she
told how kind she was, and how she would go without things
herself for the sake of giving to the poor. It's queer, isn't
it?”

Ah, Jenny, Jenny, you've much of life yet to learn!

After a moment's pause, Jenny proceeded: “This Mrs.
Mason came into the country, and bought the prettiest little
cottage you ever saw. She has lots of nice fruit, and for all
mother pretends in Boston that she don't visit her, just as
soon as the fruit is ripe, she always goes there. Pa says it's
real mean, and he should think Mrs. Mason would see
through it.”

“Did you go there for fruit yesterday?” asked Mary.

“Oh, no,” returned Jenny. “Mother said she was tired
to death with staying at home. Besides that, she heard
something in Boston about a large estate in England, which
possibly would fall to Mrs. Mason, and she thought it would
be real kind to go and tell her. Mrs. Mason has poor
health, and while we were there, she asked mother if she
knew of any good little girl she could get to come and live
with her; `one,' she said, `who could be quiet when her head
ached, and who would read to her and wait on her at other

times.' Mother said she did not know of any; but when
Mrs. Mason went out to get tea, I followed and told her of
you, and the tears came into her eyes when I said your folks
were all dead, and you were alone and sorry. She said right
off that she would come round and see you soon, and if she
liked you, you should live with her. But I must run back,
for I suppose you know mother brought our governess with
us, and it's time I was turning my toes out and my elbows
in. Ugh! how I do hate such works. If I ever have a
house, there shan't be a fashionable thing about it. I'll
have it full of cats, dogs, and poor children, with a swing
and a `teater' in every room, and Billy Bender shall live
with me, and drive the horses!”

So saying, she ran off; and Mary, having gathered her
cowslips, sat down to think of Mrs. Mason, and wonder if
she should ever see her. Since Alice's death she had been
in the daily habit of learning a short lesson, which she recited
to Sally, and this afternoon, when the dishes were all
washed, she had as usual stolen away to her books. She
had not been long occupied, ere Rind called her, saying Mr.
Knight, who, it will be remembered, had brought her to the
poor-house, was down stairs and wanted to see her, and that
there was a lady with him, too.

Mary readily guessed that the lady must be Mrs. Mason
and carefully brushing her hair, and tying on a clean apron,
she descended to the kitchen, where she was met by Mr.
Knight, who called out, “Hallo, my child, how do you do?
'Pears to me you've grown handsome. It agrees with you
to live here, I reckon, but I'll venture you'll be glad enough
to leave, and go and live with her, won't you?” pointing
towards a lady, who was just coming from Mrs. Parker's
room, and towards whom Mary's heart instantly warmed.

“You see,” continued Mr. Knight, “one of the Lincoln

girls has taken a mighty shine to you, and it's queer, too,
for they're dreadful stuck-up folks.”

“If you please, sir,” said Mary, interrupting him, “Jenny
isn't a bit stuck up.”

“Umph!” returned Mr. Knight. “She don't belong
to the Lincoln race then, I guess. I know them, root and
branch. Lincoln's wife used to work in the factory at
Southbridge, but she's forgot all about that, and holds her
head dreadful high whenever she sees me. But that's neither
here nor there. This woman wants you to live with
her. Miss Mason, this is Mary. Mary, this is Miss
Mason.”

The introduction being thus happily over, Mrs. Mason
proceeded to ask Mary a variety of questions, and ended by
saying she thought she would take her, although she would
rather not have her come for a few days, as she was going
to be absent. Miss Grundy was now interrogated concerning
her knowledge of work, and with quite a consequential air,
she replied, “Perhaps, ma'am, it looks too much like praising
myself, considerin' that I've had the managin' of her
mostly, but I must confess that she's lived with me so long,
and got my ways so well, that she's as pleasant a mannered,
good-tempered child, and will scour as bright a knife
as you could wish to see!”

Mary saw that Mrs. Mason could hardly repress a smile
as she replied, “I am glad about the temper and manners,
but the scouring of knives is of little consequence, for
Judith always does that.”

Sal Furbush, who had courtesied herself into the room,
now asked to say a word concerning Mary. “She is,” said
she, “the very apple of my eye, and can parse a sentence
containing three double relatives, two subjunctive moods,
and four nominatives absolute, perfectly easily.”

“I see you are a favorite here,” said Mrs. Mason, laying
her hand gently on Mary's head, “and I think that in time
you will be quite as much of one with me, so one week from
Saturday you may expect me.”

There was something so very affectionate in Mrs. Mason's
manner of speaking, that Mary could not keep her
tears back; and when Sally, chancing to be in a poetic
mood, said to her, “Maiden, wherefore weepest thou?”
she replied, “I can't help it. She speaks so kind, and
makes me think of mother.”

“Speaks so kindly, you mean,” returned Sal, while Mrs.
Mason, brushing a tear from her own eye, whispered to the
little girl, “I will be a mother to you, my child;” then, as
Mr. Knight had finished discussing the weather with Mr.
Parker, she stepped into his buggy, and was driven away.

“That's what I call a thoroughly grammatical lady,”
said Sal, looking after her until a turn in the road hid her
from view, “and I shall try to be resigned, though the vital
spark leaves this house when Mary goes.”

Not long after, Rind asked Miss Grundy if William
Bender was going away.

“Not as I know on,” answered Miss Grundy. “What
made you think of that?”

“'Cause,” returned Rind, “I heard Sal Furbush having
over a mess of stuff about the spark's leaving when Mary
did, and I thought mebby he was going, as you say he's her
spark!”

The next afternoon Jenny, managing to elude the watchful
eyes of her mother and governess, came over to the
poor-house.

“I'm so glad you are going,” said she, when she heard
of Mrs. Mason's visit. “I shall be lonesome without you,
but you'll have such a happy home, and when you get there,

mayn't I tell George Moreland about you the next time I
see him?”

“I'd rather you wouldn't,” said Mary, “for I don't believe
he remembers me at all.”

“Perhaps not,” returned Jenny, “and I guess you
wouldn't know him; for besides being so tall, he has begun
to shave, and Ida thinks he's trying to raise whiskers!”

That night, when Mary was alone, she drew from its
hiding-place the golden locket, but the charm was broken,
and the pleasure she had before experienced in looking at it,
now faded away with Jenny's picture of a whiskered young
man, six feet high! Very rapidly indeed did Mary's last
week at the poor-house pass away, and for some reason or
other, every thing went on, as Rind said, “wrong end up.”
Miss Grundy was crosser than usual, though all observed
that her voice grew milder in its tone whenever she addressed
Mary, and once she went so far as to say, by way of
a general remark, that she “never yet treated any body, particularly
a child, badly, without feeling sorry for it.”

Sal Furbush was uncommonly wild, dancing on her toes,
making faces, repeating her nine hundred and ninety-nine
rules of grammar, and quoting Scripture, especially the passage,
“The Lord gave, and the Lord taketh away, &c.”
Uncle Peter, too, labored assiduously at “Delia's Dirge,”
which he intended playing as Mary was leaving the yard.

Saturday came at last, and long before the sun peeped
over the eastern hills, Mary was up and dressed. Just as
she was ready to leave her room, she heard Sally singing in
a low tone, “Oh, there'll be mourning,—mourning,—mourning,—mourning,
Oh, there'll be mourning when Mary's gone
away.”

Hastily opening her own door, she knocked at Sal's, and
was bidden to enter. She found her friend seated in the

middle of the floor, while scattered around her were the entire
contents of the old barrel and box which contained her
wearing apparel.

“Good morning, little deary,” said she, “I am looking
over my somewhat limited wardrobe, in quest of something
wherewith to make your young heart happy, but my search
is vain. I can find nothing except the original MS. of my
first novel. I do not need it now, for I shall make enough
out of my grammar. So take it, and when you are rich and
influential, you'll have no trouble in getting it published,—
none at all.”

So saying, she thrust into Mary's hand a large package,
carefully wrapped in half a dozen newspapers, and the whole
enveloped in a snuff-colored silk handkerchief, which “Willie's
father used to wear.” Here Rind came up the stairs,
saying breakfast was ready, and after putting her present
aside, Mary descended to the kitchen, where she found the
table arranged with more than usual care. An old red
waiter, which was only used on special occasions, was placed
near Miss Grundy, and on it stood the phenomenon of a
hissing coffee-pot: and what was stranger still, in the place
of the tin basin from which Mary had recently been accustomed
to eat her bread and milk, there was now a cup and
saucer, which surely must have been intended for her. Her
wonder was at its height when Miss Grundy entered from
the back room, bearing a plate filled with snowy white biscuit,
which she placed upon the table with an air of “There!
what do you think of that?”—then seating herself, she
skimmed all the cream from the bowl of milk, and preparing
a delicious cup of coffee, passed it to Mary, before
helping the rest.

“Is the Millennium about to be ushered in?” asked Sal,
in amazement; while Uncle Peter, reverently rising, said,

“Fellow-citizens, and ladies, for these extras let us thank
the Lord, remembering to ask a continuation of the same!”

“Do let your victuals stop your mouth,” said Miss
Grundy, “and don't act as though we never had coffee and
biscuit for breakfast before.”

“My memory has failed wonderfully, if we ever did,”
was Uncle Peter's reply.

Breakfast being over, Mary as usual commenced clearing
the table, but Miss Grundy bade her “sit down and rest
her,” and Mary obeyed, wondering what she had done to tire
herself. About 9 o'clock, Mr. Knight drove up alone, Mrs.
Mason being sick with nervous headache. “I should have
been here sooner,” said he, “but the roads is awful rough,
and old Charlotte has got a stub or somethin' in her foot.
But where's the gal? Ain't she ready?”

He was answered by Mary herself, who made her appearance,
followed by Billy bearing the box. And now commenced
the leave-takings, Miss Grundy's turn coming first.

“May I kiss you, Miss Grundy?” said Mary, while Sal
exclaimed aside, “What! kiss those sole-leather lips?” at
the same time indicating by a guttural sound the probable
effect such a process would have upon her stomach!

Miss Grundy bent down and received the child's kiss,
and then darting off into the pantry, went to skimming pans
of milk already skimmed! Rind and the pleasant-looking
woman cried outright, and Uncle Peter, between times, kept
ejaculating, “Oh, Lord!—oh, massy sake!—oh, for land!”
while he industriously plied his fiddle bow in the execution
of “Delia's Dirge,” which really sounded unearthly, and
dirgelike enough. Billy knew it would be lonely without
Mary, but he was glad to have her go to a better home, so
he tried to be cheerful, telling her he would take good care

of Tasso, and that whenever she chose she must claim her
property.

Aside from him, Sally was the only composed one. It
is true, her eyes were very bright, and there was a compression
about her mouth seldom seen,. except just before one of
her frenzied attacks. Occasionally, too, she pressed her
hands upon her head, and walking to the sink, bathed it in
water, as if to cool its inward heat; but she said nothing
until Mary was about stepping into the buggy, when she
whispered in her ear, “If that novel should have an unprecedented
run, and of course it will, you would not mind
sharing the profits with me, would you?”