# At Last: Six Days in the Life of an Ex-Teacher/Chapter 5

Extracted from Lippincott's Magazine, Vol 43 pp. 259-270.

### FIFTH DAY.—EXCURSIONS, BURIAL AND OTHERWISE.

"YOU isn't much like uvver city folks, is you?"
This question, propounded the morning after the storm, and while I did not imagine any one was near me, startled me as if it were the traditional thunder-clap from a clear sky. I had awoke to find the rain ended and the few remaining clouds melting away before the sun: they acted like so many mischievous school-children shrinking into their seats on the approach of their teacher. I had eaten my breakfast hastily, and gone out to the piazza to enjoy the spectacle of the early mists moving about over the lowlands, a mile or two away, between the house and the ocean. The warmth of the sun was so welcome, and the air so fresh and balmy, that I soon hurried to the edge of the pine grove to enjoy a view entirely unobstructed by trees or shrubbery. I was contemplating in absolute ecstasy a picture such as I never before had imagined could be painted even by nature, when suddenly I was obliged to recall another and smaller work of nature by the question quoted above.
"My dear child," said I,—not in my most pleasing tone, I fear,—"how you startled me! How is it that you always appear so suddenly?"
"Suddenly?" the little one echoed, as she looked at me with a quizzical air. "Why, I's been standin' here about an hour, wonderin' how you could keep standin' still so long."
"An hour? I was asleep in bed an hour ago."
"Was you? Well, it seemed an hour, anyway. It always seems an awful long time when anybody stands as still as if dey was dead. When I does anyfin' naughty an' my fahver stands an' looks at me an' just keeps still, it 'pears like a hundred hours. But you isn't, is you?"
"I'm not what?"
"You isn't like uvver city folks, I mean. Here you's been here lots of days, an' you ain't ever been on any 'scursions. Anyway, if you have, I ain't heard of 'em: you didn't tell me anyfin' about 'em, or take me wiff you."
"Ah! I see; at least, I think I begin to see," I replied, looking keenly into the little face, which returned my gaze as innocently as if its owner were not under suspicion of indulging in an artful little trick. "Did you come over here so early in the mornings merely to tell me this?"
"No," said the child, raising a chubby hand with a letter in it. "I just come to bring a letter gran'ma got from de post-office for Mistress Drusilla. We gets her letters for her, 'cause she ain't got anybody to send to de post-office. But I fought of it while I was comin' along: so I fought I'd say it."
"I beg your pardon," said I, mentally informing myself that being a teacher of bad children was making me shamefully suspicious.
"Seein' dat I fought about it, an' said it," continued the child, "you might tell me. My fahver says dat when city people come to de country to rest de first fing dey do is to get 'emselves tired to deff goin' on 'scursions. But you ain't dat way, is you? Dat's what I said first, you know."
"I might be," I murmured, looking again at the glorious landscape, and wishing I might have a closer view of some charming bits of wood and field that arrested my eye,—"I might be, if I had any one to go with me and guide me to what is worth seeing."
"I don't fink you'd have any trouble about dat," said the child, "for my fahver says he don't know of a nicer person to go on a 'scursion wiff dan me."
"Indeed?"
"Yes, indeed an' in trufe. He's tried lots of uvver folks, he says, an' nobody 'joys ev'ryfin' he 'joys as much as me."
"That is quite a comprehensive recommendation for a companion," said I. "I suppose you enjoy stopping to fish in every brook, and listen to talks of farmers about pigs and ploughing, and throw stones at birds, and——"
"Well!" interrupted the child, "if dem's de kind of fings you likes to do on 'scursions, I guess I don't want to go wiff you."
"Excuse me, dear," said I, quickly. "You spoke of going with your father; and I merely chanced to think of what men seem to enjoy when they go into the country."
"Gracious me!" the child exclaimed. "Where did you ever know such awful men as dat? I guess your gran'ma ain't very puttikular about de kind of folks you get 'quainted wiff."
I attempted to annihilate the child with an indignant glance, but did not succeed, for she looked at me curiously and repeated her question; finally I meekly answered,—
"I don't know any such men, dear, but often I hear men talking in the cars in the city, of where they've been in the country, and what they've done, and unless they've killed something or made fun of somebody they don't seem to have enjoyed themselves."
"Den I guess you never saw my fahver any of dem times," said the child, "for he don't like to kill anyfin' but snakes and 'skeeters. When he goes on 'scursions he shows me ev'ryfin' dat's lovely to look at: gran'ma says she does b'lieve he'd see somefin' new if he went froo de same road ev'ry day, an' I guess he would, 'cause he always does it when I go wiff him. Sometimes dere's men dat paints pictures comes out to spend Sunday wiff him, an' he shows 'em just where to find fings to make pictures out of."
"Your father must be very different from other men," I ventured to say.
"Well, I 'most always goes wiff 'em on 'scursions, an' dey don't do none of dem horrid fings you said. Guess you ain't seen only one kind of men: my fahver says dere's lots of kinds."
I did not explain to the little defender of her father's sex that my acquaintance with men was limited and formal, and that the only man with whom I had talked freely had never conversed much about excursions. One of the many differences of opinion between Frank Wayne and me was that he had insisted that my ideas of the masculine mind and nature had been gathered from chance remarks of men whose talk I had overheard, and it did not promote further confidence between us that I retorted to this that his ideas of women had been deduced from paragraphs in the humorous newspapers and from the published rantings of some women who professed to represent their sex.
Finding myself recalling this unpleasant episode, I called myself to account for reverting to the past while the present, for one morning at least, was so glorious.
"It's just de day for a good 'scursion," remarked Alice Hope,—"just de kind of day my fahver likes. He says dat after de rain has washed de air clean, an' made de dust lie down an' keep still, an' de sun's come out, is just de time for a long walk, if a person wants to get deir eyes full of fings worf seein'. Gran'ma said dis very mornin' dat she was sure my fahver was finkin' more about home dan his business."
"Why shouldn't I enjoy a little walk with this child for guide?" I asked myself suddenly. My landladies had assured me, when I first arrived, that I might feel perfectly safe in roaming about the country near by, for all tramps had been frightened away by a stern local edict, mercilessly enforced, and I need never be out of sight of a house. The air was so bracing that I felt as if I could walk miles.
"Suppose you and I were to make a little trip this morning, dear?" said I. "I fear you would soon be tired."
"Oh, no, I wouldn't," she replied. "My fahver says I'm a regular trottypug—dat means somefin' dat can keep goin' ever so long. Besides, if I do get tired I ain't a bit hard to carry: my fahver says so. Just feel."
She put up her hands so innocently that I should estimate her weight, that I took her quickly into my arms and hugged her soundly. Meanwhile she continued,—
"I don't ever get tired, dough, unless we forget to take fings to eat wiff us. Mistress Drusilla fixes awful nice lunch-baskets to carry on 'scursions, if she knows I'm goin' along; I know she does, 'cause she done it for some ladies dat come here last year. I'll tell her about it, soon as I give her dis letter; den we can start."
"Won't your grandmother be worried at not finding you returning at once?"
"Oh, no; gran'ma says she never worries about me when I's come over here 'cause she knows where I is. Besides she says she never 'spects to see me till dinner-time, if I come here in de mornin'. I'll tell Mistress Drusilla about de lunch-basket right away."
Away through the trees hurried the child, while I followed slowly for the parasol, gloves, and other things without which no woman is supposed to venture beyond the enclosing boundaries of her home. I reached the house only two or three minutes later than the child, but already my landladies were in a high state of excitement
"I've put half a dozen eggs to boil, my dear," said Miss Dorcas, who met me at the door, "and I've got in the basket half a boiled chicken already carved, some ham sandwiches, three kinds of cake, and some oranges. Do you think there will be enough?"
"Mercy!" I exclaimed. "We shan't be gone more than an hour or two. I imagine a bit of cake in a napkin, to comfort the child when she thinks herself hungry, will be sufficient. Of course we will be home by dinner-time."
"So every one thinks, dear, when starting for a walk in this country; but you've no idea how much there is to see, and how our fresh air sharpens the appetite. And dear little Alice is growing, you know, and growing children——"
"Ah! I see," said I, thinking it wiser to carry what had been provided than to protest. We might meet some poor person who would gratefully accept the surplus.
"If you only say so, my dear," said Miss Dorcas, "I can just as well pack a custard pie so you can carry it"
"Please don't, I beg," said I: "I don't want to ruin the child's digestion."
"Just as you say, my dear. About something to drink: milk soon spoils, in this weather, if it's carried long, but every living body on every road knows Alice, so you can get a glass of milk anywhere, and if you stop at any house for a minute the folks will be sure to ask you to take a cup of tea."
Meanwhile, Mistress Drusilla and the basket, escorted by little Alice, came from the kitchen. The instant the old woman placed the basket on a table in the hall the child peered into it and asked,—
"Is you sure you's got enough? Last time I went on a 'scursion wiff a boarder she got so hungry dat I was 'most starved."
"We've enough," said I, "to last several families from breakfast to noon." Then, in fear that the custard pie might still be imposed upon us, I seized the basket and began the excursion by hurrying into the path that led from the house. As I looked backward to see if the child was following, I beheld the two old sisters standing side by side at the door and regarding us with an affectionate solicitude which really was touching.
"Dis is just de loveliest air dis mornin'," remarked my companion and guide as she led the way to the road. "Don't it make you feel as if you could just fly?"
"Almost," I admitted, as a gentle breeze passed by, laden with a mingled perfume of ocean and clover-blooms.
"I'd like to fly, just to see how it feels," said the child; "but, seein' I can't, I don't like to feel as if I would. You know how not to feel dat way, don't you?"
"I fear I don't."
"Why, you just make yourself heavier, den you don't feel so light. Don't you see?"
"But how? Are we to load ourselves with stones, as I am told travellers sometimes do on windy mountain-sides?"
"Goodness! no," said the child, lifting the lid of the basket. "All you have to do is to eat somefin',—all you can, an' as soon as you can. I wonder if dese eggs is hard-boiled?" (Here she stooped and cracked one against a stone.) "Yes, dey are. Gran'ma says hard-boiled eggs is heavy on one's stomach. Don't you fink you'd better try one?"
"Thanks, no," said I, breathing in great draughts of the delicious air. "The mere mention of anything to eat is dreadful."
"Dat's funny," murmured the child, between mouthfuls of egg. "I fink it's lovely. I guess you don't like eggs, do you?"
"No,—yes; but not to-day."
"I's awful glad," said the child, taking another. I remembered Miss Dorcas's remark about "growing fast," so I did not restrain her. Meanwhile, we slowly descended a long hill and reached a little brook, along one side of which was a path, into which the child stepped.
"Where are you leading me, dear?" I asked.
"To de big oaks," said she, pointing far ahead: "don't you see?"
I recognized them as a clump of trees I had admired from my place of lookout on the top of the hill. Evidently my little guide had a sense of the picturesque.
"Do you admire the big oaks, dear?" I asked.
"'Deed I do," she replied. "You just ought to hear my fahver tell me stories about 'em,—about how George Washiton rested under 'em, an' folks had church under 'em, an' some uvver folks hid in de tops of 'em, an' Injuns had chats under 'em, an' missionaries had prayers under 'em. An', oh, dey's just de loveliest place in de world to eat lunch under. I wish I was dere dis minute."
"You poor child!" said I, looking into the basket and finding but one egg remaining: "are you hungry?"
"I's 'most starved," said the child, stopping in the path and turning upon me a mournful look. "I don't see now I can wait till we gets to de big oaks."
"Try a sandwich, dear," said I, opening the basket. My hand found two instead of one, but the child did not recognize the difference; she took both, and ate them as she walked.
The "Big Oaks" were not of the great variety of views to which distance lends enchantment. The nearer we approached, the more majestic and picturesque they appeared, and on reaching them I was delighted to find that the owner, with a spirit unusual in this land of superfluous trees, had the ground beneath them kept clear of fallen boughs, straggling weeds, and other customary cumberers of America's natural groves. I spread upon the ground a light shawl I had brought with me, and, reclining upon it, cast my eyes along the broad hill from which we had come. Everything really rural was new strange and delightful: my family had spent summers in country villages constructed by New York architects, but here was a wide expanse of country broken into small fragments by stone walls, hedge-rows, and cliff. It seemed like the country I had seen described in some books,—the country of the farmer, not the landscape-gardener,—and I gazed upon it with delighted eyes. Little Alice Hope approached me occasionally; I heard her footsteps, saw her figure to the right or left, but I was not in the mood to be interrupted, even by a very sweet and companionable child, though I promised myself to love her the more for not disturbing me during the happy half-hour I spent in absorbing the view before me. I was in closer communion with nature than ever before; she, the truest child of nature I had ever met, evidently was in sympathy with me. I did not forget how she, the dear child, had taught me to lose myself in looking at the ocean, a day or two before. Doubtless now she, like me, was again becoming the mere mirror, the recipient, of what heaven and earth were spreading before us in such bewildering profusion. Probably she was longing to voice her impressions; the language would be childish, but there are times when heart speaks so truly to heart that words are nothing.
"Alice, dear?" I said, turning my head lazily on the arm on which it rested.
In an instant I heard gentle foot-falls near me; then they paused.
"Alice, dear," I continued, "are you happy? Isn't it lovely? Are you filled with——"
"It's lovely," she replied,—"all but de sandwiches; dey's got so much mustard in 'em dat dey bites my froat."
I looked up quickly, and saw a pretty little mouth discolored with eggs and two little hands, one of which held a leg of chicken and the other a piece of cake. I suppose my look was not sympathetic, for the child trembled a little as she said, quickly,—
"Don't be 'fraid. I left you 'most all de sandwiches: Miss Dorcas said when she fixed 'em dat she hoped dey'd suit you, 'cause she'd put extra mustard in 'em, 'cause all boarders from de city always liked lots of mustard."
I arose hastily and examined the lunch-basket,—not for selfish reasons, but merely from curiosity as to juvenile capacity. It contained one egg, a single (and small) bit of cold chicken, several sandwiches, but no cake. Then I lifted it: it had been heavy when we started, certainly not more than an hour before; now it was very light. I replaced the basket on the ground, looked at the child from various points of view, and at last placed one hand cautiously on her waist-band and another on her back. Finally I asked,—
"Where did you put all the luncheon, dear?"
"In my mouf," was the reply.
"H'm! Do you feel bad in any way?"
"No, indeed. I feels awful good. I feels like takin' a real nice long walk, now, soon as you's had your lunch."
"I'm not hungry," said I, abruptly closing the basket, picking up my shawl, and starting forward. Was it possible that this child, and her grandmother and parent, were so poor that they were not properly fed? I knew, from what home missionaries had told me, that many of my pupils came breakfastless to school. Could it be that this cheery, uncomplaining little sprite was really a child of poverty and with characteristic American fortitude had been bravely ignoring her misfortune while in the presence of a stranger? I would find out.
"Alice, dear," said I, "at what time did you breakfast?"
"Oh, about half-past seven,—de usual time."
"You weren't very hungry, were you?"
"H'm! I guess you don t 'member when you was a little girl, do you?"
"Perhaps not," said I. "Did you eat much?"
"I don't know," said she, meditatively. "Let's see: I had boiled hominy, an' oyster stew, an' fried ham, an' some toast: dat's all, 'xcept some milk an' two cups of cocoa."
I looked at her in amazement: she was not a large child, nor at all rotund. Unconsciously I recalled Goldsmith's rustics in the presence of the village teacher:
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
Evidently it was time to change the subject: so I said,—
"What are we to do next? You are the guide of this expedition, you know."
"I fink," said the child, after a moment of thoughtfulness, during which she did not relax her attention to a bit of cold chicken, "I fink we'd better walk up de Damascus road; dere's lots of blackberries an' cherries on top of the hill. Den we can go down-hill to Smiff's farm: dey have awful nice milk dere."
This was not what I had expected. I had been looking forward to a hap-hazard ramble which should be made delightful by the surprises and humors of childish prattle, but it seemed that Miss Alice Hope had designed a mere progressive luncheon-party. I was disappointed: probably my face said as much, for soon the child remarked,—
"If you don't like dat way, let's go out by de Norf road; den we can rest at de house where dey always give sweet cider an' molasses-cake to nice folks dat stop dere to rest."
"Any way you like," I replied, with becoming resignation. I could at least gratify my curiosity as to the digestive capacity, of a child.
We started on the Damascus road: it wound leisurely around a long hill, but, fortunately, the basket was not so heavy as when we started; indeed, it was so light that I did not scruple to let the child carry it. We found the blackberries, and the cherries too, and Alice Hope could not seem to get enough of them, although to me both tasted rather bitter. While my guide fed herself I lounged on a great warm flat stone under a cherry-tree and wondered what would happen were that child ever obliged to keep a church fast of any kind. Years before, I had wondered at the appetites of some delicate-looking girls whom I met at evening parties, but none of them ever seemed so insatiately hungry as this atom of humanity. In the course of time however the child threw herself down beside me, and exclaimed,—
"Just isn't dis world a pooty nice place?"
"That depends," said I, suddenly becoming severe of soul, "upon the place from which one looks at it."
"Make b'lieve it's dis place, den," said the child. "We's got nice fings to look at, an' it's nice wevver, an' we don't feel so starved dat we wish de dinner-bell would ring right away. I fink it's lovely,—or I will, when we get to Smiff's farm an' have a lot of nice milk to drink."
"My dear little girl," said I, feeling that the time had fully come for the utterance of some cautionary remarks, "I'm afraid that you think too much of mere animal pleasures. Eating and drinking seem to have filled your mind this morning, to the exclusion of everything else."
"Well," said the child, after a moment of wondering stare, "I's sure I's got to. How's I goin' to grow if I don't eat a lot? An' if I don't grow, how's I goin' to be a woman? An' if I don't get to be a woman, how's I ever goin' to be any good to anybody, 'xcept gran'ma and my fahver, an' maybe Mistress Drusilla an' Miss Dorcas?"
This seemed a reasonable question; but I dissented from the conclusion. I had been taught that a ravenous appetite was bad for any one, and my settled convictions were not be disturbed by the hunger of an unreasoning child: so I said,—
"I hope, dear, you will grow to be a strong, good woman and be very useful in the world; but you can't do it by thinking only of eating."
"Well, anyway, my fahver says it takes food to make brains, an' de reason women ain't so smart as men is dat dey don't eat 'nough."
Women not as smart as men! All my suspicions of the father of this child came back to me with cumulative force. It was bad enough that any man should have such thoughts; it was simply shameful that he should have put them into the mind of a child.
"My fahver takes me big walks," continued little Alice, "so I'll get a good appetite, an' know my own mind so I won't lose it when I see it, and fink about somefin' else. He says he once knowed a lady dat would have been an angel if she'd only ate 'nough to know her own mind. I don't see how she didn't, I's sure; I don't ever have no trouble to eat 'nough."
"So it seems," said I.
"You know your mind, don't you?" the child asked, raising the cover of the basket; "'cause, if you don't, here's——"
I interrupted by taking the basket and making a mid-morning lunch on sandwiches. I was not hungry, but masculine criticisms of women always disturbed my mental equilibrium and made me angry. I felt like consuming something: the remaining luncheon could endure it with least annoyance to any one.
"You's feedin' your brains, ain't you?" said the child, opening her eyes wonderingly. "I's glad you ain't dat kind my fahver told about."
Suddenly I threw away a sandwich I had in my hands, and closed the lid of the basket with a sharp snap. If, as one of my landladies had intimated, this child unconsciously told stories at home she should have no excuse to tell one at my expense.
"I's so glad yous got froo," said Alice Hope, "'cause now we can go to de milk place, an' den to de cider-an'-molasses-cake place. I was 'fraid you wasn't goin' to be hungry a bit, an' den we wouldn't have no fun. But it don't take long to see dat you ain't dat kind. Gracious! just didn't you eat like ev'ryfin' while you was doin' it?"
We soon reached a crossing of the road, and little Alice, turning to the left, said,—
"Come on. Dis is de way to de Smiff farm, where dey always give folks nice milk, an' de cider-an'-molasses-cake place is just——"
"Let us go the other way," said I.
The child looked at me inquiringly, then pathetically. Evidently she wanted milk, cider, and cake. But I was obdurate: besides, I was determined to teach her that an unrestrained appetite was absolutely sinful. I did not doubt that her father and grandmother loved her dearly, but love, in itself, is no training for the duties of life. I had seen other children killed by kindness: no such fate should befall this little innocent, this child of exceptional promise, if I could properly tell her what her clear little head was wise enough to receive.
"Alice, dear," said I, as the child reluctantly followed me on the road which led away from milk, cider, and cake, "don't you know that if you eat as heartily as you have done this morning—and in summer, too—you are in danger of becoming sick?"
"Goodness! no. Real sick, or only make-believe sick?" the child asked, with a fearless smile.
"Real sick, of course," said I. "I am not in the habit of making fun of serious subjects and scaring little girls. I like to see children well fed; it almost breaks my heart to look at some of my school-children who do not get enough to eat. But——"
"Den why don't you——"
"Feed them myself? I wish I could, dear; but only a millionaire could do it. But, as I began to say, you, a child, have eaten more this morning than I, a woman grown, would eat in two or three days. It isn't right."
"Dear me!" the child exclaimed, with a tender, pitiful look, "is you always 'fraid to ask Mistress Drusilla or Miss Dorcas for more? I'll ask 'em for you, if you don't like to."
"Nonsense!" I exclaimed, curbing an inclination to be angry. "I don't mean that I do not have enough to eat. Those good old women do everything they can to tempt me to take more; but—" here I tried to put force into my countenance as well as my words, "but I won't be persuaded to take more than I want."
"Say, den you better do de uvver way, if you know what's good for you. You ought to hear my fahver tell about de two men dat built houses. Did you ever hear about dat?"
"Not that I can remember."
"Well, 'twas dis way: I can't tell it as good as my fahver, but I's pooty sure I know it all. Once dere was two men dat went to work an' built houses. One of 'em found somefin' solid to build his house on, but de uvver went an' put de timbers right on de sand. Well one day, along come a big storm, an' it rained like ev'ryfin', an' de wind blowed awful, but it didn't trouble de man dat had his house on somefin' solid,—'way down on de rock. But de uvver man,—when de rain come down in his yard it washed all de sand out from under de house, an' left a big empty place dere, so when de wind come along it had a big hole to tumble de house down into."
"What has this story to do with eating?" I asked, somewhat shocked by the lack of application.
"Well, my fahver says it wasn't made about eatin'; but he told it to our preacher dat way one day, an' said if de preacher ate more he wouldn't get so tired out an' find ev'ryfin' so dark-lookin', an' de preacher's wife told gran'ma, pooty soon after, dat her husband begun to get fat an' jolly an' have 'vivals of religion in de church. I don't know what dem fings is; but gran'ma says dey make de preacher awful happy, an' my fahver says it's all 'cause he's got a solid—solid—oh, dear! what do you call dem fings dat houses stand on?"
"Foundations?"
"Yes,—dat's it! 'cause he's got a solid foundation now. Say! I's so firsty dat I don't know what to do."
"We'll get some water at the first farm-house we come to, dear," I replied.
"I don't 'xactly want water; I does wish I had a drink of milk, like de Smiffs give folks."
I turned about and started in the direction the child had first taken: after that Miss Alice did not loiter behind, but took the lead, and moved forward so rapidly with her little feet that soon I began to tire of the pace, and, complaining of weariness, leaned against a stone wall to rest. The child looked at me curiously for a moment, and then said,—
"I guess you hasn't got a very solid foundation, has you? I feel as if I could walk all day long; but den my foundation is all right."
"So I should imagine," said I, suggestively shaking the basket, which contained only a sandwich or two.
We went on to the "Smiff" farm, and Alice Hope speedily found a way of getting some milk: it required very little persuasion to make me also take some. The women of the house regarded me with devouring eyes, after the manner of country-people in general when they see strangers. After we departed the child remarked,—
"Dem's awful silly people. One of 'em asked me if I'd got a new muvver, an' when I said 'no' she said it kind o' looked as if I was goin' to have."
I did not wish to learn any of the gossip or facts that might be current about the matrimonial intentions of the child's father, but I could not help a sudden fear for the future of my little companion were her father to fall in love after the accidental manner of most men. I had seen many good men unfortunately tied for life by merely lingering too long over the smile, the prattle, even the pose, of some girl whom I knew to be of unformed character and small soul; and some of the worst of these blunderers were widowers. I wondered, as we strolled along hand in hand, how a father with such a child as Alice Hope could marry again without earnest thought as to how the change would affect his daughter. The more I thought on the subject, the more apprehensive I became for the child's future. I became so absorbed in the thought that I almost resolved to break my determination to know no one in the vicinity. I certainly was skilful enough at conversation to learn from my landladies the name of the woman, if there really were one, of whom Alice's father was fond; then I might become acquainted with her, and impress her with the child's unusual sweetness and character. If she were truly womanly and conscientiously she could not take offence: my long and varied knowledge of child-nature ought to be to her sufficient excuse for my interest in her prospective daughter.
Evidently little Alice had forgotten the personal remark made at the "Smiff" farm, for at each turn of the road she announced the distance which still separated us from the place where cider and molasses-cake were always offered to visitors, and when finally we reached the house she took me in so suddenly that I had not time to protest against such intrusion. She led me into the sitting-room, and was greeted with affection and delight by a motherly-looking old lady, to whom she said,—
"Missis Tree, I told de teacher you folks always gave cider an' molasses-cake to people dat come in to see you."
The old lady laughed, looked at me, and said,—
"One word for you an' two for herself. I know that youngster of old. So you're to be the new teacher, eh? Well, I'm glad you've got into the neighborhood early enough to get 'quainted 'round. What might your name be?"
"My name is Ruth Brown," said I; "but I am not to teach here. My school is in New York."
"Oh?" said the old lady, with as much emphasis as if I had been imparting valuable information. "Dear me!" Then she looked at me earnestly, as if I were the first human being she had seen in ages. How long she might have stared I do not know, for she was recalled to the purpose of our visit by Miss Alice remarking,—
"Missis Tree's molasses-cake is awful good; it's almost as good as gran'ma's."
Mrs. Tree laughed again, and left the room, though as she went through the door she glanced backward, apparently for another look at me. She was welcome to it,—poor woman! if my face could break for a moment the dreary routine of a farmer's wife, I would be only too glad.
The cider and cake were brought in profusion, and while the child consumed both rapidly, and I leisurely found them good, the old lady steadily consumed us with her eyes. Finally she said,—
"Alice, I hope you are fond of Miss Brown?"
"'Deed I am," replied the child, through a mouthful of cake. "She's the nicest new friend I ever had."
"That's right, child; that's right," said the old lady, with emphasis. Apparently I had made a favorable impression, and, as I always had credited old people with much shrewdness in judging human nature, I felt flattered. When we arose to go, the old lady insisted I should go into her parlor a moment, to see a framed "sampler" worked by her great-grandmother a hundred years before. No sooner were we apart from the child than the old lady said to me rapidly, and almost in a whisper,—
"I do hope, Miss Brown, that you realize what a dear smart little thing Alice is."
"Indeed I do," said I, heartily. "I have already learned to love her dearly."
"I'm so glad,—so glad!" said she. Then she startled me by kissing me on each cheek, and apologizing for the liberty she had taken.
As we resumed our excursion I found myself wondering what could be the mystery of public interest in Alice Hope. That every one liked the child I could easily understand; but why should they be solicitous about her? From her own stories, I imagined her home-life must be very happy. Could it be, as I had begun to suspect, that her father was about to remarry, and had selected a bride of whom the family acquaintance did not approve? The mere thought increased my solicitude for the child, so that I placed my hand on her shoulder and drew her closely to me as we walked side by side. As we reached the next crossing, little Alice stopped, looked each way, and said,—
"Here's de dear old big road. I just love it, 'cause it's de way my fahver always comes home from de city."
"If you like it so much, let's rest beside it for a while," said I, spreading my shawl at the shady side of a clump of young sassafras-trees that had been washed by the shower and were diffusing a faint perfume in the warm air. I seated myself upon the shawl, and the child, throwing herself down, pillowed her head in my lap and ban looking vacantly into the sky, while I looked thoughtfully into her dear little face and begged heaven to forgive me for every impatient thought I ever had towards children. How long we were silent I do not know, but suddenly the child's eyes, wandering towards mine, studied my face a moment; then she sprang up and threw her arms around my neck, and exclaimed,—
"You's just nicer dan any uvver new person I ever knowed."
I returned her caresses a hundred times, as I realized that soon I must part from her. She clung closely to me, and I prayed that I might never forget the sensation of those dear little arms so tightly clasped around me. But suddenly I heard some one approaching,—evidently a man or boy, for the lively whistling of an air from "Patience" was my first warning. I hastily prepared to look unconcerned: little Alice, somewhat unceremoniously placed upon her feet looked around, and shouted,—
"Oh! dere's my fahver!"
As she ran to meet him, I hastily arose and looked quickly over my attire. Then I saw the child held in the arms of a broad-shouldered man who was kissing her repeatedly. As he released her and turned his face towards me, he exclaimed,—
"Ruth Brown!"
And I, feeling as if the earth were reeling under me, gasped,—
"Frank Wayne!"