University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
A NEW HOME IN RICE CORNER.

Very different this time was Mary's ride with Mr. Knight
from what it had been some months before, and after brushing
away a few natural tears, and sending back a few heart-sighs
to the loved ones left behind, her spirits rallied, and
by the time they reached the borders of Rice Corner, there
was such a look of quiet happiness on her face that even
Mr. Knight noticed it.

“I'll be hanged if I know what to make of it,” said he.
“When you rid with me afore, I thought you was about as
ugly favored a child as I ever see, and now you look full as
well as they'll average. What you been doin'?”

“Perhaps it's because I've had my teeth out,” suggested
Mary, and Mr. Knight, with another scrutinizing look in her
face, replied, “Wall, I guess 'tis that. Teeth is good in
their place, but when they git to achin', why, yank 'em out.”

So saying, he again relapsed into silence, and commenced
whipping at the thistle tops and dandelions. As they rode
on, Mary fancied that the country looked pleasanter and the
houses better, than in the region of the poor-house; and
when a sudden turn of the road brought into view a beautiful
blue sheet of water, embosomed by bright green hills,
her delight knew no bounds. Springing up and pointing
towards it, she exclaimed, “Oh, please stop a moment and
look. Isn't it lovely! What is it?”

“That? Oh, that's nothing but `Pordunk Pond,' or as
folks most generally call 'em, seein' there's two, North and
South Pond.”

“But it's big enough to be a lake, isn't it?” asked Mary.

“Why, yes,” returned her companion. “It's better than
five miles long, and a mile or so wide, and in York State
I s'pose they'd call it a lake, but here in old Massachusetts
we stick to fust principles, and call all things by their right
names.”

“How far is the pond from Mrs. Mason's?” asked
Mary, casting longing glances towards the distant sandy
beach, and the graceful trees which drooped over the water's
edge.

“It's farther back than 'tis there, 'cause it's up hill all
the way,” said Mr. Knight, “but here we be at Miss Mason's,—this
house right here,” and he pointed to a neat,
handsome cottage, almost hidden from view by the dense
foliage which surrounded it.

There was a long lawn in front, and into the carriage
road on the right of it Mr. Knight turned, and driving up
to a side door, said to Mary, “Come, jump down, for my
foot is so lame I don't believe I'll get out. But there's your
chest. You can't lift that. Hallo, Judith, come 'ere.”

In answer to this call, a fat, pleasant-looking colored
woman appeared in the doorway, and as if fresh from the
regions of cookdom, wiped the drops of perspiration from her
round jolly face.

“Here, Judith,” said Mr. Knight, “help this gal lift
her traps out.”

Judith complied, and then bidding old Charlotte to “get
up,” Mr. Knight drove away, leaving Mary standing by the
kitchen door

“Come in and sit down,” said Judith, pushing a chair

towards Mary with her foot. “It's as hot here as an oven, but
I had crambry sass and ginger snaps, and massy knows what,
to make this morning, and I got belated; but set down and
make yourself to home.”

Mary took the proffered seat, and then Judith left the
room for a few moments, saying when she returned, that as
Mrs. Mason was still suffering from a headache, she could
not see Mary until after dinner. “And,” continued Judith,
“she told me to entertain you, but I don't know what to
say, nor do first. Harry died just a week to a day before
we was to be married, and so I never had any little girls to
talk to. Can't you think of something to talk about?
What have you been used to doing?”

“Washing dishes,” was Mary's reply, after glancing
about the room, and making sure that on this occasion there
were none to wash.

“Wall,” answered Judith, “I guess you won't have that
to do here; for one night when some of the neighbors were
in, I heard Miss Mason tell 'em that she got you to read to
her and wait on her. And then she said something about
your not having an equal chance with your sister. You
hain't but one, now t'other's dead, have you?”

Mary replied in the negative, and Judith continued:
“Wall, now, you've got over the first on't, I reckon you'se
glad the baby's dead, for she must have been kind of a bother,
wasn't she?”

Instantly Mary's thoughts flew back to an empty cradle,
and again a little golden head was pillowed upon her breast,
as often in times past it had been, and as it would never be
again. Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed, “Oh,
Allie, Allie! I wish she hadn't died.”

Judith looked on in amazement, and for want of something
better to do, placed a fresh stick of wood in the stove,

muttering to herself, “Now I never! I might of knew I
didn't know what to say. What a pity Harry died. I'll
give her that big ginger snap the minute it's baked. See if
I don't.”

Accordingly, when the snap was done, Judith placed it
in Mary's hands, bidding her eat it quick, and then go up
and see the nice chamber Mrs. Mason had arranged for her.

“If you please,” said Mary, rapidly shifting the hot
cake from one hand to the other,—“if you please, I had
rather go up now, and eat the cake when it is cool.”

“Come, then,” said Judith; and leading the way, she
conducted Mary up the staircase, and through a light, airy
hall to the door of a small room, which she opened, saying,
“Look, ain't it pretty?”

But Mary's heart was too full to speak, and for several
minutes she stood silent. With the exception of her mother's
pleasant parlor in Old England, she had never before
seen any thing which seemed to her so cosy and cheerful as
did that little room, with its single bed, snowy counterpane,
muslin curtains, clean matting, convenient toilet table, and
what to her was fairer than all the rest, upon the mantel-piece
there stood two small vases, filled with sweet spring
flowers, whose fragrance filled the apartment with delicious
perfume. All this was so different from the bare walls, uncovered
floors, and rickety furniture of the poor-house, that
Mary trembled lest it should prove a dream, from which erelong
she would awake.

“Oh, why is Mrs. Mason so kind to me?” was her mental
exclamation; and as some of our readers may ask the
same question, we will explain to them that Mrs. Mason was
one of the few who “do to others as they would others
should do to them.”

Years before our story opens, she, too, was a lonely

orphan, weeping in a dreary garret, as ofttimes Mary had
wept in the poor-house, and it was the memory of those dark
hours, which so warmed her heart towards the little girl she
had taken under her charge. From Jenny we have learned
something of her history. Once a happy, loving wife, surrounded
by wealth and friends, she had thought the world
all bright and beautiful. But a change came over the spirit
of her dream. Her noble husband died,—and the day succeeding
his burial, she was told that their fortune, too, was
gone. One by one, as misfortune came upon her, did her
fashionable friends desert her, until she was left alone, with
none to lean upon except the God of the widow and fatherless,
and in Him she found a strong help for her dark hour
of need. Bravely she withstood the storm, and when it was
over, retired with the small remnant of her once large fortune
to the obscure neighborhood of Rice Corner, where
with careful economy she managed to live comfortably, besides
saving a portion for the poor and destitute. She had
taken a particular fancy to Mary, and in giving her a home,
she had thought more of the good she could do the child,
than of any benefit she would receive from her services as
waiting maid. She had fully intended to go for Mary herself;
but as we already know, was prevented by a severe
headache, and it was not until three o'clock in the afternoon,
that she was even able to see her at all. Then, calling
Judith, she bade her bring the little girl to her room, and
leave them alone.

Judith obeyed, charging Mary to “tread on tiptoe, and
keep as still as a mouse, for Miss Mason's head ached fit to
split.”

This caution was unnecessary; for Mary had been so
much accustomed to sick persons that she knew intuitively
just what to do, and when to do it, and her step was so

light, her voice so low, and the hand which bathed the
aching head so soft and gentle in its touch, that Mrs. Mason
involuntarily drew her to her bosom, and kissing her lips,
called her her child, and said she should never leave her;
then laying back in her easy chair, she remained perfectly
still, while Mary alternately fixed her hair, and smoothed
her forehead until she fell into a quiet slumber, from which
she did not awake until Judith rang the bell for supper,
which was neatly laid out in a little dining parlor, opening
into the flower garden. There was something so very social
and cheering in the appearance of the room, and the arrangement
of the table, with its glossy white cloth, and dishes of
the same hue, that Mary felt almost as much like weeping
as she did on the night of her arrival at the poor-house.
But Mrs. Mason seemed to know exactly how to entertain
her; and by the time that first tea was over, there was
hardly a happier child in the world than was Mary.

As soon as Mrs. Mason arose from the table, she, too,
sprang up, and taking hold of the dishes, removed them to
the kitchen in a much shorter space of time than was usually
occupied by Judith. “Git away now,” said that lady as she
saw Mary making preparations to wash the cups and saucers.
“I never want any body putterin' round under my feet. I
always wash and wipe and scour my own things, and then
I know they are done.”

Accordingly, she returned to Mrs. Mason, who, wishing
to retire early, soon dismissed her to her own room, where
she for some time amused herself with watching the daylight
as it gradually disappeared from the hills which lay beyond
the pond. Then when it all was gone, and the stars began to
come out, she turned her eyes towards one, which had always
seemed to her to be her mother's soul, looking down upon her
from the windows of heaven. Now, to-night there shone

beside it a smaller, feebler one, and in the fleecy cloud which
floated around it, she fancied she could define the face of her
baby sister. Involuntarily stretching out her hands, she
cried, “Oh, mother, Allie, I am so happy now;” and to the
child's imagination the stars smiled lovingly upon her, while
the evening wind, as it gently moved the boughs of the tall
elm trees, seemed like the rustle of angels' wings. Who
shall say the mother's spirit was not there to rejoice with
her daughter over the glad future opening so brightly before
her?