 Chapter 8 of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm by Kate Douglas-Wigan. Chapter 8 Color of Rose. On the very next Friday, after this dreadful-est fight that ever was seen, as Bunyan says in Pilgrim's Progress, there were great doings in the little schoolhouse on the hill. Friday afternoon was always the time chosen for dialogues, songs, and recitations. But it cannot be stated that it was a gay la day in any true sense of the word. Most of the children hated speaking pieces, hated the burden of learning them, dreaded the danger of breaking down in them. Ms. Dearborn commonly went home with a headache and never left her bed during the rest of the afternoon or evening. And the casual female parent who attended the exercises sat on a front bench with beads of cold sweat on her forehead, listening to the all-too-familiar halts and stammers. Sometimes a bellowing infant who had clean forgotten his verse would cast himself bodily on the maternal bosom and be borne out into the open air, where he was sometimes kissed and occasionally spanked. But in any case, the failure added an extra dash of gloom and dread to the occasion. The advent of Rebecca had somehow infused a new spirit into these hitherto terrible afternoons. She had taught Elijah and Alicia Simpson so that they recited three verses of something with such comical effect that they delighted themselves, the teacher, and the school. While Susan, who lisped, had been provided with a humorous poem in which she impersonated a lisping child, Emma Jane and Rebecca had a dialogue and the sense of companionship buoyed up Emma Jane and gave her self-reliance. In fact, Ms. Dearborn announced on this particular Friday morning that the exercise promised to be so interesting that she invited the doctor's wife, the minister's wife, two members of the school committee, and a few mothers. Living Perkins was asked to decorate one of the blackboards and Rebecca the other. Living, who was the star artist of the school, chose the map of North America. Rebecca liked better to draw things less realistic and speedily before the eyes of the enchanted multitude. There grew under her skillful fingers an American flag done in red, white, and blue chalk. Every star in its right place, every stripe fluttering in the breeze. Beside this appeared a figure of Columbia copied from the top of the cigar box that held the crayons. Ms. Dearborn was delighted. I propose we give Rebecca a good hand clapping for such a beautiful picture, one that the whole school may well be proud of. The scholars clapped heartily and Dick Carter waving his hand gave a rousing cheer. Rebecca's heart leaped for joy and to her confusion she felt the tears rising in her eyes. She could hardly see the way back to her seat for in her ignorant lonely little life she had never been singled out for applause, never lauded nor crowned as in this wonderful dazzling moment. If nobleness and kindle nobleness so does enthusiasm beget enthusiasm and so do wit and talent and kindle wit and talent. Ellis Robinson proposed that the school should sing three cheers for the red, white, and blue and when they came to the chorus all pointed to Rebecca's flag. Dick Carter suggested that Living Perkins and Rebecca Randall should sign their names to their pictures so that the visitors would know who drew them. Holdam-Azerf asked permission to cover the largest holes in the plastered walls with boughs and fill the water pail with wildflowers. Rebecca's mood was above and beyond all practical details. She sat silent, her heart so full of grateful joy that she could hardly remember the words of her dialogue. At recess she bore herself modestly, notwithstanding her great triumph while in the general atmosphere of goodwill the smelly Randall hatchet was buried and many gathered maple boughs and covered the ugly stove with them under Rebecca's direction. Miss Dearborn dismissed the morning session at quarter to twelve so that those who lived near enough could go home for a change of dress. Emma Jane and Rebecca ran nearly every step of the way from sheer excitement only stopping to breathe at the styles. Will your Aunt Miranda let you wear your best or only your buff calico? asked Emma Jane. I think I'll ask Aunt Jane, Rebecca replied. Oh, if my pink was only finished I left Aunt Jane making the buttonholes. I'm going to ask my mother to let me wear her garnet ring, said Emma Jane. It would look perfectly elegant flashing in the sun when I point to the flag. Goodbye, don't wait for me going back, I may get a ride. Rebecca found the side door locked but she knew that the key was under the step and so of course did everybody else in Riverboro for they all did about the same thing with it. She unlocked the door and went into the dining room to find her lunch laid on the table and a note from Aunt Jane saying that they had gone to moderation with Mrs. Robinson in her carry-all. Rebecca swallowed a piece of bread and butter and flew up the front stairs to her bedroom. On the bed lay the pink gingham dress finished by Aunt Jane's kind hands. Could she? Dare she wear it without asking? Did the occasion justify the new costume or would her aunts think she ought to keep it for the concert? I'll wear it. They're not here to ask and maybe they wouldn't learn a bit, it's only gingham after all and it wouldn't be so grand if it wasn't new and hadn't kept trimming on it and wasn't pink. She unbraided her two pigtails, combed out the waves of her hair and tied them back with a ribbon, changed her shoes and then slipped on the pretty frock, managing to fasten all but three middle buttons which she reserved for Emma Jane. Then her eye fell on the cherished pink sunshade, the exact match and the girls had never seen it. It wasn't quite appropriate for school, but she needn't take it into the room. She would wrap it in a piece of paper, just show it and carry it coming home. She glanced in the parlor-looking glass downstairs and was electrified at the vision. It seemed almost as if beauty of apparel could go no further than that heavenly pink gingham dress. The sparkle of her eyes, glow of her cheeks, sheen of her falling hair, passed unnoticed in the all-conquering charm of the rose-colored garment. Goodness, it was twenty minutes to one and she would be late. She danced out the side door, pulled a pink rose from a bush at the gate and covered the mile between the brick house and the seat of learning in an incredibly short time. Meeting Emma Jane, also breathless and resplendent at the entrance. Rebecca Randall! exclaimed Emma Jane. You're handsome as a picture. I laughed, Rebecca. No sense, it's only the pink gingham. You're not good looking every day, insisted Emma Jane. But you're different somehow. See my garnet ring? Mother scrubbed it in soap and water. How on earth are your Aunt Miranda like you put on your brand new dress? They were both away and I didn't ask. Rebecca responded anxiously. Why? Do you think they've said no? Miss Miranda always says no, doesn't she? Asked Emma Jane. Yes, but this afternoon is very special. Almost like a Sunday school concert. Yes. Ascented Emma Jane. It is, of course. With your name on the board and our pointing to your flag and our elegant dialogue and all that. The afternoon was one succession of solid triumphs for everybody concerned. There were no real failures at all. No tears, no parents ashamed of their offspring. Miss Dearborn heard many admiring remarks passed upon her ability and wondered whether they belonged to her, or partly, at least, to Rebecca. The child had no more to do than several others, but she was somehow in the foreground. It transpired afterwards at various village entertainments that Rebecca couldn't be kept in the background. It positively refused to hold her. Her worst enemy could not have called her pushing. She was ready and willing and never shy, but she sought for no chances of display and was indeed remarkably lacking in self-consciousness, as well as eager to bring others into whatever fun or entertainment there was. If wherever the McGregor sat was the head of the table, so in the same way wherever Rebecca stood was the center of the stage. Her clear high trebles soared above the rest in the courses, and somehow everybody watched her. Took note of her gestures, her whole souled singing, her irrepressible enthusiasm. Finally it was over, and it seemed to Rebecca as if she should never be cool and calm again, as she loitered on the homeward path. There would be no lessons to learn tonight, and the vision of helping with the preserves on the morrow had no terrors for her. Fears could not draw breath in the radiance that flooded her soul. There were thick gathering clouds in the sky, but she took no note of them, save to be glad that she could raise her sunshade. She did not tread on solid ground after all, or have any sense of belonging to the common human family. Until she entered the side yard of the brick house, and saw her Aunt Miranda standing in the open doorway. Then, with a rush, she came back to earth. End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm by Kate Douglas Wigan Chapter 9 Ashes of Roses There she is, over an hour late. A little more, and she'd have been caught in a thundershower, but she'd never look ahead, said Miranda to Jane, and added to all her other iniquities, if she ain't rigged out in that new dress, stepping along with her father's dance and school steps, and swinging her parasol for all the world as if she was play-acting. Now I'm the oldest, Jane, and I intend to have my say out. If you don't like it, you can go into the kitchen till it's over. Step right in here, Rebecca. I want to talk to you. What did you put on that good new dress for, on a school day, without permission? I hadn't tended to ask you at new time, but you weren't at home, so I couldn't. Began, Rebecca. You did no such thing. You put it on because you was left alone, though you knew well enough I wouldn't have let you. If I'd been certain you wouldn't have let me, I'd never have done it. Said Rebecca, trying to be truthful. But I wasn't certain, and it was worth risking. I thought perhaps you might if you knew it was almost a real exhibition at school. Exhibition? Exclaimed Miranda scornfully. You are exhibition enough by yourself, I should say. Was you exhibiting your parasol? The parasol was silly. Confessed Rebecca, hanging her head. But it's the only time in my whole life when I had anything to match it, and it looked so beautiful with the pink dress. Emma Jean and I spoke a dialogue about a city girl and a country girl, and it came to me just a minute before I started how nice it would come in for the city girl. And it did. I haven't hurt my dress so much Aunt Miranda. It's the craftiness and underhandedness of your actions that's the worst. Said Miranda, coldly. And look at the other things you've done. It seems as if Satan possessed you. You went up the front stairs to your room, but you didn't hide your tracks, for you dropped your handkerchief on the way up. You left the screen out of your bedroom window for the flies to come in all over the house. You never cleared away your lunch, nor set away a dish, and you left the side door unlocked from half past twelve to three o'clock so to anybody could have come in and stolen what they liked. Rebecca sat down heavily in her chair as she heard the list of her transgressions. How could she have been so careless? The tears began to flow now as she attempted to explain sins that never could be explained or justified. Oh, I'm so sorry. She faltered. I was trimming the schoolroom, and I got belated and ran all the way home. It was hard getting into my dress alone, and I hadn't time to eat but a mouthful and just at the last minute went, I honestly, honestly would have thought about clearing away and locking up. I looked at the clock and knew I could hardly get back to school in time to form the line, and I thought how dreadful it would be to go in late and get my first black bark on a Friday afternoon with the minister's wife and the doctor's wife and the school committee all there. Don't wail and carry on now. It's no good crying over spilt milk. Answered Miranda. An ounce of good behavior is worth a pound of repentance. Instead of trying to see how little trouble you can make in a house that ain't your own home, it seems as if you tried to see how much you could put us out. Take that rose out of your dress and let me see the spot it's made on your yoke and the rusty holes where the wet pin went in. No, it ain't, but it's more by luck than forethought. I ain't got any patience with your flowers and frizzled-out hair and furblows and heirs and graces for all the world like your Miss Nancy Father. Rebecca lifted her head in a flash. Look here, Aunt Miranda. I'll be as good as I know how to be. I'll mine quick when I'm spoken to and never leave the door unlocked again, but I won't have my father called names. He was a perfectly lovely father. That's what he was and it's mean to call him Miss Nancy. Don't you dare answer me back that imperdent way, Rebecca. Telling me I'm mean. Your father was a vain, foolish, shiftless man and you might as well hear it from me as anybody else. He spent your mother's money and left her with seven children to provide for. Oh, it's something to leave seven nice children. Saab, Rebecca. Not when other folks have to help feed, clothe and educate them. Responded, Miranda. Now you step upstairs, put on your nightgown, go to bed and stay there till tomorrow morning. You'll find a bowl of crackers and milk on your bureau and I don't want to hear a sound from you till breakfast time. Jane, run and take the dish towels off the line and shut the shed doors. We're going to have a terrible shower. We've had it, I should think, said Jane quietly as she went to do her sister's bidding. I don't often speak my mind, Miranda, but you ought not to have said what you did about Lorenzo. He was what he was and can't be made any different, but he was Rebecca's father and Aurelia always says he was a good husband. Miranda had never heard the proverbial phrase about the only good Indian, but her mind worked in the conventional manner when she said grimly. Yes, I've noticed that dead husbands are usually good ones, but the truth needs an errand now and then and that child will never amount to a hill of beans till she gets some of her father trounced out of her. I'm glad I said just what I did. I dare say you are. Remarked Jane with what might be described as one of her annual bursts of courage. But all the same, Miranda, it wasn't good manners and it wasn't good religion. The clap of thunder that shook the house just at that moment made no such peel in Miranda Sawyer's ears as Jane's remark made when it fell with a deafening roar under conscience. Perhaps after all it is just as well to speak only once a year and then speak to the purpose. Rebecca mounted the back stairs wearily, closed the door of her bedroom, and took off the beloved pinky kingdom with trembling fingers. Her cotton handkerchief was rolled into a hard ball and in the intervals of reaching the more difficult buttons that lay between her shoulder blades and her belt, she dabbed her wet eyes carefully so that they should not rain salt water on the finery that had been worn at such a price. She smoothed it out carefully, pinched up the white ruffle at the neck and laid it away in a drawer with an extra little sob at the roughness of life. The withered pink rose fell on the floor. Rebecca looked at it and thought to herself, just like my happy day. Nothing could show more clearly the kind of child she was than the fact that she instantly perceived the symbolism of the rose and laid it in the drawer with the dress as if she were bearing the whole episode with all its sad memories. It was a child's poetic instinct with a dawning hint of a woman's sentiment in it. She braided her hair in the two accustomed pigtails, took off her best shoes, which had happily escaped notice, with all the while affixed resolve growing in her mind that of leaving the brick house and going back to the farm. She would not be received there with open arms. There was no hope of that, but she would help her mother about the house and send Hannah to Riverboro in her place. I hope she'll like it. She thought in a momentary burst of vindictiveness. She sat by the window trying to make some sort of plan, watching the lightning play over the hilltop and the streams of rain chasing each other down the lightning rod. And this was the day that had dawned so joyfully. It had been a red sunrise, and she had leaned on the windowsill studying her lesson and thinking what a lovely world it was, and what a golden morning, the changing of the bare, ugly little schoolroom into a bower of beauty. Miss Steerborn's pleasure at her success with the Simpson twins' recitation, the privilege of decorating the blackboard, the happy thought of drawing Columbia from the cigar box, the intoxicating moment when the school clapped her. And what an afternoon, how it went from glory to glory, beginning with Emma Jane's telling her, Rebecca Randall, that she was as… Handsome as a picture. She lived through the exercises again in memory, especially her dialogue with Emma Jane and her inspiration of using the bow-covered stove as a mossy bank where the country girl could sit and watch her flux. This gave Emma Jane a feeling of such ease that she never recited better. And how generous it was of her to lend the garnet ring to the city girl, fancy and truly, how it would flash as she furled her parasol and approached the awe-sturkin shepherdess. She had thought Aunt Miranda might be pleased that the niece invited down from the farm had succeeded so well at school. But no, there was no hope of pleasing her in that or in any other way. She would go to Maplewood on the stage next day with Mr. Cobb and get home somehow from cousin Ann's. On second thoughts, her aunts might not allow it. Very well. She would slip away now and see if she could stay all night with the cobs and be off next morning before breakfast. Rebecca never stopped long to think, more is the pity, so she put on her oldest dress and hat and jacket, then wrapped her nightdress, comb and toothbrush in a bundle and dropped it softly out of the window. Her room was in the L and her window at no very dangerous distance from the ground. Though had it been, nothing could have stopped her at that moment. Somebody who had gone on the roof to clean out the gutters had left a cleat nailed to the side of the house, about halfway between the window and the top of the back porch. Rebecca heard the sound of the sewing machine in the dining room and the chopping of meat in the kitchen, so knowing the whereabouts of both her aunts, she scrambled out of the window, caught hold of the lightning rod, slid down to the helpful cleat, jumped to the porch, used the wood-bind trellis for a ladder, and was flying up the road in the storm before she had time to arrange any details of her future movements. Jeremiah Cobb sat at his lonely supper at the table by the kitchen window, mother, as he with his old-fashioned habits was in the habit of calling his wife, was nursing a sick neighbor. Mrs. Cobb was mother only to a little headstone in the churchyard, where opposed Sarah Ann, beloved daughter of Jeremiah and Sarah Cobb, aged 17 months. But the name of mother was better than nothing and served at any rate as a reminder of her woman's crown of blessedness. The rain still fell and the heavens were dark, though it was scarcely five o'clock. Looking up from his dish of tea, the old man saw at the open door a very figure of woe. Rebecca's face was so swollen with tears and so sharp with misery that for a moment he scarcely recognized her. Then, when he heard her voice asking, Please may I come in, Mr. Cobb? he cried. Well, I vow. It's my little lady passenger. Come to call on old Uncle Jerry and pass the time of day, have ye? Why, you're wet as sops. Draw up to the stove. I made a fire, hot as it was, thinking I wanted something warm for my supper. Being kind and lonesome without mother, she's setting up with Seth's drought tonight. There, we'll hang your soppy hat on the nail, put your jacket over the chair rail, and then you turn your back to the stove and dry yourself good. Uncle Jerry had never before said so many words at a time, but he had caught sight of the child's red eyes and tear-stained cheeks, and his big heart went out to her in her trouble, quite regardless of any circumstances that might have caused it. Rebecca stood still for a moment until Uncle Jerry took a seat again at the table and then, unable to contain herself any longer, cried. Oh, Mr. Cobb, I've run away from the brick house and I want to go back to the farm. Will you keep me tonight and take me up to Maplewood in the stage? I haven't got any money for my fare, but I'll earn it somehow afterwards. Well, I guess we won't quarrel about money, you and me. Said the old man. And we've never had our ride together, anyway, though we all are meant to go down river, not up. I shall never see Miltown now. Sobbed, Rebecca. Come over here, side of me, and tell me all about it. Coaxed Uncle Jerry. Just sit down on that there wooden cricket, and that with the whole story. Rebecca leaned her aching head against Mr. Cobb's home-spun knee and recounted the history of her trouble. Tragic as that history seemed to her passionate and undisciplined mind, she told it truthfully and without exaggeration. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 of Rebecca's Sunnybrook Farm This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm by Kate Douglas Wigan. Chapter 10 Ashes of Roses Uncle Jerry coughed and stirred in his chair a good deal during Rebecca's recital, but he carefully concealed any undue feeling of sympathy, just muttering. Poor little soul. We'll see what we can do for her. You will take me to Maplewood, won't you, Mr. Cobb? Begged Rebecca piteously. Don't you, Fredamite? He answered, with a crafty little notion at the back of his mind. I'll see the lady passenger through somehow. Now take a bite of something to eat, child. Spread some of that tomato preserve on your bread. Draw up to the table. How'd you like to set in mother's place and pour me out another cup of hot tea? Mr. Jeremiah Cobb's mental machinery was simple, and did not move very smoothly, save when propelled by his affection or sympathy. In the present case, these were both employed to his advantage, and mourning his stupidity, and praying for some flash of inspiration to light his path, he blundered along, trusting to Providence. Rebecca, comforted by the old man's tone, and timidly enjoying the dignity of sitting in Mrs. Cobb's seat and lifting the blue china teapot, smiled faintly, smoothed her hair, and dried her eyes. I suppose your mother will be terrible glad to see you back again. Quarried, Mr. Cobb. A tiny fear, just a baby thing in the bottom of Rebecca's heart, stirred and grew larger the moment it was touched with a question. She won't like it that I ran away, I suppose, and she'll be sorry that I couldn't please Aunt Moranny, but I'll make her understand just as I did you. I suppose she was thinking, oh, you're schooling, letting you come down here, but land. You can go to school in Temperance, I suppose. There's only two months school now in Temperance, and the farm's too far from all the other schools. Oh, well. There's other things in the world besides education. Responded Uncle Jerry, attacking a piece of apple pie. Yes, the mother thought that was going to be the making of me. Returned Rebecca sadly, giving a dry little sob as she tried to drink her tea. It'll be nice for you to be all together again at the farm, such a house full of children. Remarked the dear old deceiver, who longed for nothing so much as to cuddle and comfort the poor little creature. It's too full, that's the trouble, but I'll make Hannah come to Riverborough in my place. Suppose Miranda and Jane all have her? I should be most afraid they wouldn't. They'll be kind of a manager going home, you know, and you can't hardly blame them. This was quite a new thought, that the brick house might be closed to Hannah, since she, Rebecca, had turned her back upon its cold hospitality. How was the school down here in Riverborough? Pretty good? Inquired Uncle Jerry, whose brain was working with an altogether unaccustomed rapidity. So much so, that it almost terrified him. Oh, it's a splendid school, and Miss Dearborn is a splendid teacher. You like her, do you? Well, you better believe she returns the compliment. Mother was down to the store this afternoon, buying linden-mint for Seth's drought, and she met Miss Dearborn on the bridge. They got to talking about school, for Mother has somewhere bordered a lot of the school-marms and likes them. How does the little temperance girl get along, asks Mother? Oh, she's the best scholar I have, says Miss Dearborn. I could teach school from sun up to sun down. If scholars was all like Rebecca Randall, says she. Oh, Mr. Conn, did she say that? Glowed Rebecca, her face sparkling and dimpling in an instant. I've tried hard all the time, but I'll study the covers right off of the books now. You mean you would, if you hadn't been going to stay here? Interposed, Uncle Jerry. Now, ain't it too bad you've just got to give it all up on account of your Aunt Miranda? Well, I can't hardly blame you. She's cranky and she's sour. I should think she's been nust on Bonnie Clabber and Green Apples. She needs bearing with. And I guess you ain't much on patience, Bea. Not very much, replied Rebecca Dole fully. If I'd had this talk with you yesterday. Pursued, Mr. Cobb. I believe I'd advised you different. It's too late now, and I don't feel to say you've been all in the wrong. But if twice to do over again, I'd say, well, your Aunt Miranda gives you clothes and board and school, and is going to send you to wear them at a big expense. She's terrible hard to get along with, and kind of heaves benefits at your head. Same she would be bricks, but their benefits just the same. And maybe it's your job to kind of pay for them in good behavior. Jane's a little bit more easy going than Randy, ain't she? Or is she just as hard to please? Oh, Aunt Jane and I get along splendidly. Exclaimed Rebecca. She's just as good and kind as she can be, and I like her better all the time. I think she kind of likes me too, if she smooth my hair once. I'd let her scold me all day long, for she understands. But she can't stand up for me against Aunt Miranda. She's about as afraid of her as I am. Jane will be real sorry tomorrow to find you've gone away, I guess. But never mind. It can't be helped. If she has a kind of adult time with Miranda, on account of her being so sharp, why, of course, she'd set great store by your company. Mother was talking with her after prayer meeting the other night. You wouldn't know the brick house, Sarah, says Jane. I keep it a so in school, and my scholar has made three dresses. What do you think of that, says she, for an old maid's child? I've taken a class in Sunday school, says Jane, and think of a new in my youth and go into the picnic with Rebecca, says she, and Mother declares she never see her look so young and happy. There was a silence that could be felt in the little kitchen, a silence only broken by the ticking of the tall clock, and the beating of Rebecca's heart, which, it seemed to her, almost drowned the voice of the clock. The rain ceased, a sudden rosy light filled the room, and through the window a rainbow arch could be seen, spanning the heavens like a radiant bridge. Bridges took one across difficult places, thought Rebecca, and Uncle Jerry seemed to have built one over her troubles and given her strength to walk. The shower's over, said the old man, filling his pipe. It's cleared the air, washed the face of the earth nice and clean, and everything tomorrow will shine like a new pin, when you and I are driving upriver. I'm not going to drive upriver, Mr. Cobb, she said. I don't know if Aunt Miranda will take me in after I've run away, but I'm going back now while I have the courage. He wouldn't be so good as to go with me, would you, Mr. Cobb? You better believe your Uncle Jerry don't propose to leave till he gets this thing fixed up. Now you've had all you can stand tonight, poor little soul, without getting a fit of sickness, and Miranda'll be sore and cross in in no condition for argument. So my plan is just this, to drive you over to the brick house in my top buggy, to have you set back in the corner, and I get out and go to the side door, and when I get your Aunt Miranda and Aunt Jane out into the shed to plan for a load of wood, I'm going to have hauled there this week. You'll slip out of the buggy and go upstairs to bed. The front door won't be locked, will it? Not this time of night, Rebecca answered. Not till Aunt Miranda goes to bed, but, oh, what if it should be? Well, it won't, and if it is, why, we'll have to face it out. Though in my opinion, there's things that won't bear facing out, and it better be subtle, comfortable, and quiet. You see, you ain't run away yet. You've only come over here to consult me about running away. And we've concluded it ain't worth the trouble. The only real sin you've committed, as I figure it out, wasn't coming here by the winter when you've been sent to bed. That ain't so very black, and you can tell your Aunt Jane about it come Sunday, when she's chock-full of religion, and she can advise you, when you better tell your Aunt Miranda. I don't believe in deceiving folks. But if you've had hard feelings, you ain't obliged to own them, take them up to the Lord in prayer, as the hymn says, and then don't go on heaving them. Now, come on, I'm all hitched up to go over to the post office. Don't forget your bundle. It's always a journey, Mother, when you carry a nightgown. That was the first word your Uncle Jerry ever heard you say. He didn't think you'd be bringing your nightgown over to his house. Step in and curl up in the corner. We ain't going to let folks see this little runaway gals, because they're going back to begin all over again. When Rebecca crept upstairs and, undressing in the dark, finally found herself in her bed that night, though she was aching and throbbing in every nerve, she felt a kind of peace stealing over her. She had been saved from foolishness and error, kept from troubling her poor mother, prevented from angering and mortifying her aunts. Her heart was melted now, and she determined to win Aunt Miranda's approval by some desperate means and to try and forget the one thing that wrinkled worst, the scornful mention of her father, of whom she thought with the greatest admiration, and whom she had not yet heard criticized, for such sorrows and disappointments as Aurelia Randall had suffered, had never been communicated to her children. It would have been some comfort to the bruised unhappy little spirit to know that Miranda Sawyer was passing an uncomfortable night, and that she tessedly regretted her harshness, partly because Jane had taken such a lofty and virtuous position in the matter. She could not endure Jane's disapproval, although she would never have confessed to such a weakness. As Uncle Jerry drove homeward under the stars, well content with his attempts at keeping the peace, he thought wistfully of the touch of Rebecca's head on his knee, and the rain of her tears on his hand, of the sweet reasonableness of her mind when she had the matter put rightly before her, of her quick decision when she had once seen the path of duty, of the touching hunger for love and understanding that was so characteristic in her. Lord Almighty! He ejaculated under his breath. Lord Almighty! To hector and abuse a child like that one! Jane abused exactly, I know, or it wouldn't be to some of your elephant-high to the young ones, but to that little tender will of the wisp, a hard words like a lash. Miranda Sawyer would be a heap better woman if she had a little gravestone to remember. Same as Mother and I have. I never see a child improve in her work as Rebecca has today. Remarked Miranda Sawyer to Jane on Saturday evening. That settin' down I gave her was probably just what she needed, and I daresay it'll last for a month. I'm glad you're pleased. Returned Jane. A cringing worm is what you want, not a bright, smiling child. Rebecca looks to me as if she'd been through the Seven Years War. When she came downstairs this morning, it seemed to me she'd grown old in the night. If you follow my advice, which you seldom do, you'll let me take her and Emma Jane down beside the river tomorrow afternoon and bring Emma Jane home to a good Sunday supper. Then, if you'll let her go to Milltown with the cobs on Wednesday, that'll hearten her up a little and coax back her appetite. Wednesday's a holiday on account of Miss Dearborn's going home to her sister's wedding, and the cobs and percances want to go down to the agricultural fair. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rebecca's visit to Milltown was all that her glowing fancy had painted it, except that recent readings about Rome and Venice disposed her to believe that those cities might have an advantage over Milltown in the matter of mere pictorial beauty. So soon does the soul outgrow its mansions that after once seeing Milltown, her fancy ran out to the future side of Portland. For that, having islands and a harbor and two public monuments must be far more beautiful than Milltown, which would, she felt, take its proud place among the cities of the earth by reason of its tremendous business activity rather than by any irresistible appeal to the imagination. It would be impossible for two children to see more, do more, walk more, talk more, eat more, or ask more questions than Rebecca and Emma Jane did on that eventful Wednesday. She's the best company I ever see in all my life, said Mrs Cobb to her husband that evening. We ain't had a dull minute this day, she's well mannered too. She didn't ask for anything and was thankful for whatever she got. Did you watch her face when we went into that tent where there was acting out Uncle Tom's cabin? And did you take notice of the way she told us about the book when we sat down to have our ice cream? I tell you, Harriet Beecher stole herself, couldn't have done it better justice. I took it all in, responded Mr Cobb, who was pleased that mother agreed with him about Rebecca. I ain't sure but she's going to turn out something remarkable, a singer or a writer or a lady doctor like that Miss Parks up to Cornish. Lady doctors are always hot bats, ain't they? Asked Mrs Cobb, who, it is needless to say, was distinctly of the old school in medicine. Land, no mother, there ain't no home path about Miss Parks, she drives all over the country. I can't see Rebecca as a lady doctor somehow. Mused Mrs Cobb. Her gift to God is what's going to be the making of her. Maybe she'll lecture or recite pieces, like that Portland elicutionist that came out here to the harvest supper. I guess she'll be able to write down her own pieces. Said Mr Cobb confidently. She could make him up faster and she could read him out of a book. It's a pity she's so plain looking. Remarked Mrs Cobb, blowing out the candle. Plain looking mother. Exclaimed her husband in astonishment. Look at the eyes of her. Look at the hair of her and the smile, and that there dimple. Look at Alice Robinson. That's called the prettiest child on the river, and see how Rebecca shines her and down out of sight. I hope Miranda will favor her coming over to see us real often, for she'll let off some of her steam here. And the brick house will be considerable safer for everybody concerned. We've known what it was to have children, even if it was more than thirty years ago, and we could make allowances. Notwithstanding the incomiums of Mr and Mrs Cobb, Rebecca made a poor hand at composition writing at this time. Ms. Dearborn gave her every sort of subject that she had ever been given herself. Cloud pictures, Abraham Lincoln, nature, philanthropy, slavery, intemperance, joy and duty, solitude, but with none of them did Rebecca seem to grapple satisfactorily. Right as you talk, Rebecca. Insisted poor Ms. Dearborn, who secretly knew that she could never manage a good composition herself. But gracious me, Ms. Dearborn, I don't talk about nature and slavery. I can't write unless I have something to say, can I? That is what compositions are for. Returned Ms. Dearborn doubtfully. To make you have things to say. Now in your last one, on solitude, you haven't said anything very interesting, and you've made it too common and every day to sound well. There are too many yous and yours in it. You ought to say one now and then to make it sound more like good writing. One opens a favourite book. One's thoughts are great comfort in solitude, and so on. I don't know any more about Solitude this week than I did about Joy and Duty last week. Grumbled Rebecca. You tried to be funny about Joy and Duty. Said Ms. Dearborn reprovenly. So of course you didn't succeed. I didn't know you were going to make us read the things out loud. Said Rebecca with an embarrassed smile of recollection. Joy and Duty had been the inspiring subject given to the older children for a theme to be written in five minutes. Rebecca had wrestled, struggled, perspired in vain. When her turn came to read, she was obliged to confess she had written nothing. You have at least two lines, Rebecca. Insisted the teacher. For I see them on your slate. I'd rather not read them, please. They're not good. Pleaded, Rebecca. Read what you have, good or bad, little or much. I'm excusing nobody. Rebecca rose, overcome with secret laughter, dread, and mortification. Then, in a low voice, she read the couplet. When Joy and Duty clashed, let Duty go to smash. Dick Carter's head disappeared under the desk while living Perkins choked with laughter. Miss Dearborn laughed, too. She was little more than a girl, and the training of the young idea seldom appealed to the sense of humor. You must stay after school and try again, Rebecca. She said, but she said it smilingly. Your poetry hasn't a very nice idea in it for a good little girl who ought to love Duty. It wasn't my idea. Said Rebecca, apologetically. I had only made the first line when I saw you were going to ring the bell and see the time was up. I had Clash written, and I couldn't think of anything then but hash or rash or smash. I'll change it to this. When Joy and Duty clash, tis Joy must go to smash. That is better, Miss Dearborn answered. Though I cannot think going to smash is a pretty expression for poetry. Having been instructed in the use of the indefinite pronoun one, as giving a refined and elegant touch to literary efforts, Rebecca painstakingly rewrote her composition on solitude, giving it all the benefit of Miss Dearborn's suggestion. It then appeared in the following form, which hardly satisfied either teacher or pupil. Solitude. It would be false to say that one could ever be alone when one has one's lovely thoughts to comfort one. One sits by oneself, it is true, but one thinks. One opens one's favorite book and reads one's favorite story. One speaks to one's aunt or one's brother, fondles one's cat or looks at one's photograph album. There is one's work also, but a joy it is to one if one happens to like work. All one's little household tasks keep one from being lonely. Does one ever feel bereft when one picks up one's chips to light one's fire for one's evening meal? Or when one washes one's milk pail before milking one's cow? One would fancy not. R. R. R. Is perfectly dreadful. Side Rebecca when she read it aloud after school. Putting in one all the time doesn't make it sound anymore like a book and it looks silly besides. You say such queer things. Objected Miss Dearborn. I don't see what makes you do it. Why did you put in anything so common as picking up chips? Because I was talking about household tasks in the sentence before and it is one of my household tasks. Don't you think calling supper one's evening meal is pretty and isn't bereft a nice word? Yes that part of it does very well. It is the cat, the chips and the milk pail that I don't like. All right. Side Rebecca. Out they go. Does the cow go too? Yes I don't like a cow in a composition. Said the difficult Miss Dearborn. The mill town trip had not been without its tragic consequences of a small sort. For the next week mini smelly's mother told Miranda Sawyer that she'd better look after Rebecca for she was given to swearing and profane language. That she had been heard saying something dreadful that very afternoon. Saying it before Emma Jane and Living Perkins who only laughed and got down on all fours and chased her. Rebecca on being confronted and charged with the crime denied it indignantly and Aunt Jane believed her. Search your memory Rebecca and try to think what many overheard you say. She pleaded. Don't be ugly and obstinate but think real hard. When did they chase you up the road and what were you doing? A sudden light broke upon Rebecca's darkness. Oh I see it now. She exclaimed. It had rained hard all the morning you know and the road was full of puddles. Emma Jane, Living and I were walking along and I was ahead. I saw the water streaming over the road towards the ditch and it reminded me of Uncle Tom's cabinet mill town when Eliza took her baby and ran across the Mississippi on the ice blocks pursued by the bloodhounds. We couldn't keep from walking after we came out of the tent because they were acting on such a small platform that Eliza had to run round and run and part of the time the one dog they had pursued her and part of the time she had to pursue the dog. I knew Living would remember too so I took off my waterproof and wrapped it around my books for a baby and then I shouted my god the river just like that the same as Eliza did in the play then I leapt from puddle to puddle and Living and Emma Jane pursued me like the bloodhounds it's just like that stupid mini smelly who doesn't know a game when she sees one and Eliza wasn't swearing when she said my god the river it was more like praying. Well you've got no call to be praying any more than swearing in the middle of the road. Said Miranda. But I'm thankful it's no worse you're born to trouble as the sparks fly upward and I'm afraid you allers will be till you learn to bridle your unruly tongue. I wish that sometimes I could bridle Minis. Murmured Rebecca as she went to set the table for supper. I declare she is the beatenest child. Said Miranda taking off her spectacles and laying down her mending. You don't think she's a little Mike crazy do you Jane? I don't think she's like the rest of us. Responded Jane thoughtfully and with some anxiety in her pleasant face. But whether it's for the better or the worse I can hardly tell till she grows up. She's got the making of most anything in her Rebecca has. But I feel sometimes as if we were not fitted to cope with her. Stuffin nonsense. Said Miranda. Speak for yourself. I feel fitted to cope with any child that ever was born into the world. I know you do Miranda but that don't make you so. Returned Jane with a smile. The habit of speaking her mind freely was certainly growing on Jane to an altogether terrifying extent. End of chapter 11. Chapter 12 of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. This is LibraVox recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibraVox.org. Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm by Kate Douglas-Wiggin. Chapter 12. See the Pale Martyr. It was about this time that Rebecca who had been reading about the Spartan boy conceived the idea of some mild form of self-punishment to be applied on occasions when she was fully convinced in her own mind that it would be salutary. The immediate cause of the decision was a somewhat sadder accident than was common even in a career prolific in such things. Glad in her best, Rebecca had gone to take tea with the cops but while crossing the bridge she was suddenly overcome by the beauty of the river and leaned over the newly painted rail to feast her eyes on the dashing torrent of the fall. Resting her elbows on the topmost board and inclining her little figure forward in delicious ease she stood there dreaming. The river above the dam was a glassy lake with all the loveliness of blue heaven and green shore reflected in its surface. The fall was a swirling wonder of water ever pouring itself over and over inexhaustibly in luminous golden gushes that lost themselves in snowy depths of foam sparkling in the sunshine gleaming under the summer moon cold and gray beneath the November sky trickling over the dam in some burning July drought swollen with turbulent power in some April fresh it how many young eyes gazed into the mystery and majesty of the falls along that river and how many young hearts dreamed out their futures leaning over the bridge rail seeing the vision splendid reflected there and often too watching it fade into the light of common day. Rebecca never went across the bridge without bending over the rail to wander and to ponder and at this special moment she was putting the finishing touches on a poem. Two maidens by a river strayed down in the state of Maine. The one was called Rebecca the other Emma Jane. I would my life were like the stream said her named Emma Jane. So quiet and so very smooth so free from every pain. I'd rather be a little drop in the great rushing fall. I would not choose the glassy lake twid not suit me at all. It was the darker maiden spoke the words I just have stated. The maidens twain were simply friends and not at all related. But oh alas we may not have the things we hope to gain the quiet life may come to me the rush to Emma Jane. I don't like the rush to Emma Jane and I can't think of anything else. Oh what a smell of paint oh it is on me oh it's all over my best stress oh what will Aunt Miranda say. With tears of self-reproach streaming from her eyes Rebecca flew up the hill sure of sympathy and hoping against hope for help of some sort. Mrs. Capp took in the situation at a glance and professed herself able to remove almost any stain from almost any fabric and in this she was corroborated by Uncle Jerry who vowed that mother could get anything out. Sometimes she took the cloth right along with the spot but she had a sure hand mother had. The damaged garment was removed and partially immersed in turpentine while Rebecca graced the festival board clad in a blue calico wrapper of Mrs. Cobbs. Don't let it take your appetite away. Crooned Mrs. Cobb. I've got cream biscuit and honey for you. If the turpentine don't work I'll try French chalk, magnesium and warm suds. If they fail father shall run over to Strats and borrow some of the stuff Marphy got in Midtown to take the current buyer out of her wedding dress. I ain't got to understand in this painting accident yet. Said Uncle Jerry Jocosele as he handed Rebecca the honey. Being as housed there's fresh paint signs hung all over the bridge so to a blind asylum couldn't miss them. I can't hardly count for your getting into that pesky stuff. I didn't notice the signs. Rebecca said dull fully. I suppose I was looking at the falls. The falls has been there since the beginning of time and I calculate they'll be there till the end of it. So you needn't be in such a brush to get a sight of them. Children comes terrible hide mother. I suppose you must have them. He said, winking at Mrs. Cobb. When supper was cleared away, Rebecca insisted on washing and wiping the dishes while Mrs. Cobb worked on the dress with an energy that plainly showed the gravity of the task. Rebecca kept leaving her post at the sink to bend anxiously over the basin and watch her progress. While Uncle Jerry offered advice from time to time. You must have laid all over the bridge, Jerry. Said Mrs. Cobb. For the paints not only on your elbows and yolk and waist but it about covers your front breath. As the garment began to look a little better, Rebecca's spirits took an upward turn and at length she left it to dry in the fresh air and went into the sitting room. Have you a piece of paper please? Asked Rebecca. I'll copy out the poetry I was making while I was lying in the paint. Mrs. Cobb sat by her mending basket and Uncle Jerry took down a gingham bag of strings and occupied himself in taking the snarls out of them. A favorite evening amusement with him. Rebecca soon had the lines copied in her round schoolgirl hand making such improvements as occurred to her on sober second thought. The Two Wishes by Rebecca Randall Two maidens by a river strayed which was in the state of Maine. Rebecca was a darker one, the Farah Emma Jane. The Farah Maiden said, I would my life were as the stream so peaceful and so smooth and still so pleasant and serene. I'd rather be a little drop in the great rushing fall. I'd never choose the quiet lake, it would not please me at all. It was the darker maidens' book, the words we just have stated, the maidens' twain were simply friends not sisters or related. But oh alas we may not have the things we hope to gain the quiet life may come to me the rush to Emma Jane. She read it aloud and the Cubs thought it not only surpassingly beautiful but a marvelous production. I guess if that writer that lived on Congress Street in Portland could have heard your poetry he'd have been astonished. Said Mrs. Cobb. If you ask me, I'll say this piece is as good as that one of his. Tell me more to mournful numbers and considerable clearer. I never could fairly make out what mournful numbers was. Remarked Mr. Cobb critically. Then I guess you never studied fractions. Flashed, Rebecca. See here, Uncle Jerry and Aunt Sarah. Would you write another verse, especially for a last one, as they usually do, one with thoughts in it, to make a better ending? If you can grind them out just by turning the crank. Why, I should say the more the merrier. But I don't hardly see how you could have a better ending. Observed, Mr. Cobb. It is horrid. Grumbled, Rebecca. I ought not to have put that me in. I'm writing the poetry. Nobody ought to know it is me standing by the river. It ought to be Rebecca, or the darker maiden, and the rush to Emma Jane is simply dreadful. Sometimes I think I never will try poetry. It's so hard to make it come right. And other times it just says itself. I wonder if this would be better. But oh, alas, we may not gain the good for which we pray. The quiet life may come to one who likes it rather gay. I don't know whether that is worse or not. Now for a new last verse. In a few minutes, the poetess looked up, flushed, and triumphant. It was as easy as nothing, just here. And she read slowly with her pretty, pathetic voice. Then if our lot be bright or sad, be full of smiles or tears, the thought that God has planned it so should help us spare the years. Mr. and Mrs. Cobb exchanged dumb glances of admiration. Indeed, Uncle Jerry was obliged to turn his face to the window and wipe his eyes furtively with a string bag. How in the world did you do it? Mrs. Cobb exclaimed, Oh, it's easy, answered Rebecca. The hymns at meeting are all like that. You see, there's a school newspaper printed out wear him academy once a month. Dick Carter says the editor is always a boy, of course, but he allows girls to try and write for it, and then chooses the best. Dick thinks I can be in it. In it? exclaimed Uncle Jerry. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if you had to write the whole paper. And as for any boy editor, you could lick him right and I bait you with one hand tied behind you. Can we have a copy of the poetry to keep in the family bible? inquired Mrs. Cobb respectfully. Oh, would you like it? asked Rebecca. Yes, indeed. I'll do a clean nice one with violet ink and a fine pen, but I must go and look at my poor dress. The old couple followed Rebecca into the kitchen. The frock was quite dry, and in truth, it had been helped a little by Aunt Sarah's ministrations, but the colors had run in the rubbing. The pattern was blurred, and there were muddy streaks here and there. As a last resort, it was carefully smoothed with the warm iron, and Rebecca was urged to attire herself that they might see if the spots showed as much when it was on. They did, most uncompromisingly, and to the dullest eye. Rebecca gave one searching look and then said, as she took her hat from a nail in the entry, I think I'll be going. Good night. If I've got to have a scolding, I want it quick and get it over. Poor little unlucky misfortunate thing. sighed Uncle Jerry, as his eyes followed her down the hill. I wish you could pay some attention to the ground under her feet, but I vow, if she was orn I'd let her slot paint all over the house before I could scold her. Here's her poetry she's left behind. Read it out again, mother. Land! He continued, chuckling as he lighted his coppipe. I can just see the last flap of that boy editor's shirt tail as he legs it for the woods, while Rebecca settles down in his revolving chair. Unpuzzled us to what kind of a job editing is, exactly, but you'll find out, Rebecca will, and she'll just edit for all she's worth. The thought that God has planned it so should help us bear the years. Land, mother, it takes right halt, kind of like the gospel. How do you suppose she thought that out? She could have thought it out at her age, said Mrs. Cobb. She must have just guessed it was that way. We know some things without being told, Remia. Rebecca took her scolding, which she richly deserved, like a soldier. There was considerable of it, and Miss Miranda remarked, among other things, that so absent-minded a child was sure to grow up into a driveling idiot. She was bitten to stay away from Alice Robinson's birthday party and doomed to wear her dress, stained and streaked as it was, until it was worn out. Aunt Jane, six months later, mitigated this martyrdom by making her a ruffled dimity pinafore, artfully shaped to conceal all the spots. She was blessedly ready with these mediations between the poor little sinner and the full consequences of her sin. When Rebecca had heard her sentence and gone to the North Chamber, she began to think. If there was anything she did not wish to grow into, it was an idiot of any sort, particularly a driveling one, and she resolved to punish herself every time she incurred what she considered to be the righteous displeasure of her virtuous relative. She didn't mind staying away from Alice Robinson's. She had told Aunt Jane it would be like a picnic in a graveyard, the Robinson House being as near an approach to a tomb as a house can manage to be. Children were commonly brought in at the back door and requested to stand on newspapers while making their call, so that Alice was begged by her friends to receive in the shed or barn whenever possible. Mrs. Robinson was not only terrible neat, but terrible close, so that the refreshments were likely to be peppermint lozenges and a glass of well water. After considering the relative values as penances of a piece of haircloth worn next to the skin and a pebble in the shoe, she dismissed them both. The haircloth could not be found, and the pebble would attract the notice of the argous-eyed aunt, besides being a foolish bar to the activity of a person who had to do housework and walk a mile and a half to school. Her first experimental attempt at martyrdom had not been a distinguished success. She had stayed at home from the Sunday School Concert, a function of which, in ignorance of more alluring ones, she was extremely fond. As a result of her desertion, two infants who relied upon her to prompt them, she knew the verses of all the children better than they did themselves, broke down ignominiously. The class to which she belonged had to read a difficult chapter of scripture and rotation, and the various members spent an arduous Sabbath afternoon counting out verses according to their seats in the pew and practicing the ones that would inevitably fall to them. They were too ignorant to realize when they were called upon that Rebecca's absence would make everything come wrong, and the blow descended with crushing force when the Djiboutzites and the Amorites, the Gurgashites, Hivites, and Parasites had to be pronounced by the persons of all others least capable of grappling with them. Self-punishment, then, to be adequate and proper must begin like charity at home, and unlike charity should end there, too. Rebecca looked about the room vaguely as she sat by the window. She must give up something, and truth to tell she possessed little to give, hardly anything but, yes, that would do, the beloved pink parasol. She could not hide it in the attic, for in some moment of weakness she would be sure to take it out again. She feared she had not the moral energy to break it into bits. Her eyes moved from the parasol to the apple trees in the side yard, and then fell to the well curb. That would do. She would fling her dearest possession into the depths of the water. Action followed quickly upon decision as usual. She slipped down in the darkness, stole out the front door, approached the place of sacrifice, lifted the cover of the well, gave one unresigned shutter, and flung the parasol downward with all her force. At the crucial instance of renunciation, she was greatly helped by the reflection that she closely resembled the heathen mothers who cast their babies to the crocodiles in the Ganges. She slept well and arose refreshed. As a consecrated spirit always should, and sometimes does. But there was great difficulty in drawing water after breakfast. Rebecca, chastened and uplifted, had gone to school. A bite of flag was summoned, lifted the well cover, explored, found the inciting cause of trouble, and with the help of Yankee Witt, succeeded in removing it. The fact was that the ivory hook of the parasol had caught in the chain gear, and when the first attempt at drawing water was made, the little offering of a contrite heart was jerked up, bent, its strong ribs jammed into the well side, and entangled with the twig root. It is needless to say that no sleight-of-hand performer, however expert, unless aided by the powers of darkness, could have accomplished his feat, but a luckless child in the pursuit of virtue had done it with a turn of the wrist. We will draw a veil over the scene that occurred after Rebecca's return from school. You who read may be well advanced in years. You may be gifted in rhetoric, ingenious in argument, but even you might quail at the thought of explaining the torturous mental processes that led you into throwing your beloved pink parasol into Miranda Sawyer's well. Perhaps you feel equal to discussing the efficacy of spiritual self-chastisement with a person who closes her lips into a thin line and looks at you out of blank, uncomprehending eyes. Common sense, right, and logic were all arrayed on Miranda's side. When poor Rebecca, driven to the wall, had to avow the reasons lying behind the sacrifice of the sunshade, her aunt said, Now see here, Rebecca, you're too big to be whipped, and I never shall whip you. But when you think you ain't punished enough, just tell me, and I'll make out to invent a little something more. I ain't so smart as some folks, but I can do that much. And whatever it is, it'll be something that won't punish the whole family and make them drink ivory dust, wood chips, and pink silk rags with their water. End of Chapter 12 Chapter 13 of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm This is LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm by Kate Douglas-Wiggin Chapter 13 Snow White, Rose Red Just before Thanksgiving, the affairs of the Simpsons reached what might have been called a crisis, even in their family, which had been born and reared in a state of adventurous poverty and perilous uncertainty. Riverboro was doing its best to return the entire tribe of Simpsons to the land of its fathers, so to speak, thinking rightly that the town which had given them birth, rather than the town of their adoption, should feed them and keep a roof over their heads until the children were of an age for self-support. There was little to eat in the household and less to wear, though Mrs. Simpson did, as always, her poor best. The children managed to satisfy their appetites by sitting modestly outside their neighbor's kitchen doors when meals were about to be served. They were not exactly popular favorites, but they did receive certain undesirable morsels from the more charitable housewives. Life was rather dull and dreary, however, and in the chill and gloom of November weather, with the vision of other people's turkeys bursting with fat, and other people's golden pumpkins and squashes and corn being garnered into barns, the young Simpsons groped out for some inexpensive form of excitement and settled upon the selling of soap for a premium. They had sold enough to their immediate neighbors during the early autumn to secure a child's handcart, which, though very weak on its pins, could be trundled over the country roads. With large business sagacity and an executive capacity which must have been inherited from their father, they now propose to extend their operations to a larger area and distribute soap to contiguous villages if these villages could be induced to buy. The Excelsior Soap Company paid a very small return of any kind to its infantile agents who were scattered through the state, but it inflamed their imaginations by the issue of circulars with highly colored pictures of the premiums to be awarded for the sale of a certain number of cakes. It was at this juncture that Clara Bell and Susan Simpson consulted Rebecca who threw herself solidly and wholeheartedly into the enterprise, promising her help, and that of Emma Jane Perkins. The premiums within their possible grasp were three, a bookcase, a plush reclining chair, and a banquet lamp. Of course the Simpsons had no books and casting aside without thought or paying the plush chair, which might have been of some use in a family of seven persons, not counting Mr. Simpson, who ordinarily sat elsewhere at the town's expense, they warmed themselves rapturously in the vision of the banquet lamp, which speedily became to them more desirable than food, drink, or clothing. Neither Emma Jane nor Rebecca perceived anything incongruous in the idea of the Simpsons striving for a banquet lamp. They looked at the picture daily and knew that if they themselves were free agents, they would toil, suffer, eye sweat, for the happy privilege of occupying the same room with that lamp through the coming winter evenings. It looked to be about eight feet tall in the catalogue and Emma Jane advised Clara Bell to measure the height of the Simpsons' ceilings, but a note in the margin of the circular informed them that it stood two and a half feet high when set up in all its dignity and splendor on a proper table three dollars extra. It was only if polished brass continued the circular, though it was invariably mistaken for solid gold and the shade that accompanied it, at least it accompanied it if the agent sold a hundred extra cakes, was of crinkled crepe paper, printed in a dozen delicious hues, from which the joy dazzled agent might take his choice. Seesaw Simpson was not in the syndicate. Clara Bell was rather a successful agent, but Susan, who could only say, Thope, never made large returns, and the twins who were somewhat young to be thoroughly trustworthy could be given only a half dozen cakes at a time and were obliged to carry with them on their business trips a brief document stating the price per cake, dozen, and box. Rebecca and Emma Jane offered to go two or three miles in some one direction and see what they could do in the way of stirring up a popular demand for the Snow White and Rose Red brands, the former being devoted to laundry purposes and the latter being intended for the toilet. There was a great amount of hilarity in the preparation for this event and a long counsel in Emma Jane's attic. They had the soap company's circular from which to arrange a proper speech and they had, what was still better, the remembrance of a certain patent medicine vendor's discourse at the Milltown Fair. His method, when once observed, could never be forgotten, nor his manner, nor his vocabulary. Emma Jane practiced it on Rebecca and Rebecca on Emma Jane. Can I sell you a little soap this afternoon? It is called the Snow White and Rose Red soap, six cakes in an ornamental box, only twenty cents for the white, twenty-five cents for the red. It is made from the purest ingredients and if desired, could be eaten by an invalid with relish in profit. Oh, Rebecca, don't let's say that. Interposed Emma Jane hysterically. It makes me feel like a fool. It takes so little to make you feel like a fool, Emma Jane. Rebuke to Rebecca. That sometimes I think you must be one. I don't get to feeling like a fool so awfully easily. Now leave out that eating part if you don't like it and go on. The Snow White is probably the most remarkable laundry soap ever manufactured. Immerse the garments in a tub, lightly rubbing the more soiled portions with the soap. Leave them some merchant water from sunset to sunrise and then the youngest baby can wash them without the slightest effort. Babe, not baby. Corrected Rebecca from the circular. It's just the same thing. Argued Emma Jane. Of course it's just the same thing, but a baby has got to be called babe or infant in a circular, the same as it is in poetry. Would you rather say infant? No. Grumbled Emma Jane. Infant is worse even than babe. Rebecca, do you think we'd better do as the circular says and let Elijah or Alicia try the soap before we begin selling? I can't imagine a babe doing a family wash with any soap. Answered Rebecca. But it must be true or they would never dare to print it so don't let's bother. Oh won't it be the greatest fun Emma Jane? As some of the houses where they can't possibly know me, I shan't be frightened and I shall reel off the whole rigamarole, invalid babe and all. Perhaps I shall say even the last sentence if I can remember it. We sound every chord in the great macrocosm of satisfaction. This conversation took place on a Friday afternoon at Emma Jane's house where Rebecca to her unbounded joy was to stay over Sunday, her aunts having gone to Portland to the funeral of an old friend. Saturday being a holiday they were going to have the old white horse, drive to North Riverboro three miles away, eat a 12 o'clock dinner with Emma Jane's cousins, and be back at four o'clock punk truly. When the children asked Mrs. Perkins if they could call at just a few houses coming and going and sell a little soap for the Simpsons, she at first replied decidedly in the negative. She was an indulgent parent, however, and really had little objection to Emma Jane amusing herself in this unusual way. It was only for Rebecca as the niece of the difficult Miranda Sawyer that she raised scruples, but when fully persuaded that the enterprise was a charitable one, she acquiesced. The girls called at Mr. Watson's store and arranged for several large boxes of soap to be charged to Clarabel Simpsons' account. These were lifted into the back of the wagon and a happier couple never drove along the country road than Rebecca and her companion. It was a glorious Indian summer day, which suggested nothing of Thanksgiving near at hand as it was. It was a rustly day, a scarlet and buff, yellow and carmine. Bronze and crimson day. There were still many leaves on the oaks and maples, making a goodly show of red and brown and gold. The air was like sparkling cider, and every field had its heaps of yellow and russet good things to eat, all ready for the barns, the mills, and the markets. The horse forgot his twenty years, sniffed the sweet bright air, and trotted like a colt. Nokomis mountain looked blue and clear in the distance, Rebecca stood in the wagon and apostrophized the landscape with a sudden joy of living. Great wide beautiful wonderful world with the wonderful water round you curled and the wonderful grass upon your breast, world you are beautifully dressed. Dull Emma Jane had never seemed to Rebecca so near, so dear, so tried and true, and Rebecca, to Emma Jane's faithful heart, had never been so brilliant, so bewildering, so fascinating, as in this visit together, with its intimacy, its freedom, and the added delights of an exciting business enterprise. A gorgeous leaf blew into the wagon. Does color make you sort of dizzy? Asked Rebecca. No. Answered Emma Jane after a long pause. No, it don't, not of mine. Perhaps dizzy isn't just the right word, but it's nearest. I'd like to eat color and drink it and sleep in it. If you could be a tree, which one would you choose? Emma Jane had enjoyed considerable experience of this kind, and Rebecca had succeeded in unstopping her ears, ungluing her eyes, and loosening her tongue, so that she could play the game after a fashion. I'd rather be an apple tree and blossom, that one that blooms pink by our pickpen. Rebecca laughed. There was always something unexpected in Emma Jane's replies. I'd choose to be that scarlet maple just on the edge of the pond there. And she pointed with the whip. Then I could see so much more than your pink apple tree by the pickpen. I could look at all the rest of the woods, see my scarlet dress and my beautiful looking glass, and watch all the yellow and brown trees growing upside down in the water. When I'm old enough to earn money, I'm going to have a dress like this leaf, all ribby color, thin, you know, with a sweeping train and roughly curly edges. Then I think I'll have a brown sash like the trunk of a tree, and where could I be green? Do they have green petticoats, I wonder? I'd like a green petticoat coming out now and then, underneath to show what my leaves were like before I was a scarlet maple. I think it would be awful homely, said Emma Jane. I'm going to have a white satin with a pink sash, pink stockings, bronze slippers, and a spangled fan. 14. Mr Aladdin A single-hours experience of the Viscitudes incident to a business career clouded the children's spirits just the least bit. They did not accompany each other to the doors of their chosen victims, feeling sure that together they could not approach the subject seriously. But they parted at the gate of each house, the one holding the horse while the other took the soap samples, and interviewed anyone who seemed of a coming-on disposition. Emma Jane had disposed of three single cakes, Rebecca of three small boxes. For a difference in their ability to persuade the public was clearly defined at the start, though neither of them ascribed either success or defeat to anything, but the imperious force of circumstances. Housewives looked at Emma Jane and desired no soap, listened to her description of its merits, and still desired none. Other stars in their courses governed Rebecca's doings. The people whom she interviewed either remembered their present need of soap, or reminded themselves that they would need it in the future. The notable point in the case being that Lucky Rebecca accomplished, with almost no effort, results that poor little Emma Jane failed to attain by hard and conscientious labor. It's your turn, Rebecca, and I'm glad, too. Said Emma Jane, drawing up to a gateway, and indicating a house that was set a considerable distance from the road. I haven't gotten over-trembling from the last place yet. A lady put her head out of an upstairs window and called. Go away, little girl! Whatever you have in your box, we don't want any. I don't know who lives here, and the blinds are all shut in front. If there's nobody at home, you mustn't count it, but take the next house as yours. Rebecca walked up the lane and went to the side door. There was a porch there, and seated in a rocking chair, her skin-corn was a good-looking young man, or was he middle-aged? Rebecca could not make up her mind. At all events, he had an air of the city about him, well-shaven face, well-trimmed mustache, well-fitting clothes. Rebecca was a trifle shy at this unexpected encounter, but there was nothing to be done but explain her presence, so she asked, Is the lady of the house at home? I'm the lady of the house at present. Said the stranger with a whimsical smile. What can I do for you? Have you ever heard of the—would you like—or, I mean, do you need any soap? Quarried, Rebecca. Do I look as if I did? He responded unexpectedly. Rebecca dimpled. I didn't mean that. I have some soap to sell. I mean, I would like to introduce to you a very remarkable soap, the best now on the market. It is called the— Oh, I must know that soap. Said the gentleman genially. Made out of pure vegetable fats, isn't it? The very purest. Corroborated, Rebecca. No acid in it. Not a trace. And yet a child could do the Monday washing with it and use no force. A babe. Corrected, Rebecca. Oh, a babe, huh? That child grows younger every year instead of older. Why, as child? This was a great good fortune to find a customer who knew all the virtues of the article in advance. Rebecca dimpled more and more, and at her new friend's invitation sat down on a stool at his side near the edge of the porch. The beauties of the ornamental box, which held the rose red, were disclosed, and the prices of both that and the snow white were unfolded. Presently she forgot all about her silent partner at the gate and was talking as if she had known this grand personage all her life. I'm keeping house today, but I don't live here. Explained, the delightful gentleman. I'm just on a visit to my aunt, who has gone to Portland. I used to be here as a boy, and I'm very fond of the spot. I don't think anything takes the place of the farm where one lived where one was a child. Observed, Rebecca, nearly bursting with pride at having at last successfully used the indefinite pronoun in general conversation. The man darted a look at her and put down his ear of corn. So you consider your childhood a thing of the past, do you, young lady? I can still remember it. Answered Rebecca gravely. Though it seems a long time ago. I can remember mine well enough, and a particularly unpleasant one it was. Said the stranger. So was mine. sighed Rebecca. What was your worst trouble? Lack of food and clothes, principally. Oh! exclaimed Rebecca sympathetically. Mine was no shoes and too many babies and not enough books. But you're all right and happy now, aren't you? She asked doubtfully. For though he looked handsome, well fed and prosperous, any child could see that his eyes were tired and his mouth was sad when he was not speaking. I'm doing pretty well, thank you. Said the man with a delightful smile. Now tell me, how much soap ought I to buy today? How much has your aunt on hand now? Suggested the very modest and inexperienced agent. And how much would she need? Oh, I don't know about that. Soap keeps, doesn't it? I'm not certain, said Rebecca conscientiously. But I'll look in the circular, it's sure to tell. And she drew the document from her pocket. What are you going to do with the magnificent profits you get from this business? We are not selling for our own benefit, said Rebecca confidentially. My friend who is holding the horse at the gate is the daughter of a very rich blacksmith and doesn't need any money. I am poor but I live with my aunts in a brick house and of course they wouldn't like me to be a peddler. We are trying to get a premium for some friends of ours. Rebecca had never thought of alluding to the circumstances with her previous customers, but unexpectedly she found herself describing Mr. Simpson, Mrs. Simpson, and the Simpson family, their poverty, their joyless life, and their abject need of a banquet lamp to brighten their existence. You needn't argue that point. Laugh to the man as he stood up to get a glimpse of the rich blacksmith's daughter at the gate. I can see that they ought to have it if they want it, and especially if you want them to have it. I have known what it was myself to do without a banquet lamp. Now give me the circular and let's do some figuring. How much do the Simpsons lack at this moment? If they sell two hundred more cakes this month than next, they can have the lamp by Christmas. Rebecca answered. And they can get a shade by summertime, but I'm afraid I can't help very much after today because my Aunt Miranda may not like to have me. I see. Well, that's all right. I'll take three hundred cakes, and that will give them shade and all. Rebecca had been seated on a stool very near the edge of the porch, and, at this remark, she made a sudden movement, tipped over, and disappeared into a clump of lilac bushes. It was a very short distance, fortunately, and the amused capitalist picked her up, set her on her feet, and brushed her off. You should never seem surprised when you have taken a large order, said he. You ought to have replied, can't you make it three hundred and fifty, instead of capsizing in that unbusiness-like way? Oh, I could never say anything like that. exclaimed Rebecca, who was blushing crimson at her awkward fall. But it doesn't seem right for you to buy so much. Are you sure you can afford it? If I can't, I'll save on something else. returned the Jocos philanthropist. What if your aunt shouldn't like that kind of soap? quarried Rebecca nervously. My aunt always likes what I like. He returned. Mine doesn't. exclaimed Rebecca. Then there's something wrong with your aunt. Or with me. laughed Rebecca. What is your name, young lady? Rebecca Rowena Randall, sir. What? With an amused smile. Both. Your mother was generous. She couldn't bear to give up either of the names she says. Do you want to hear my name? I think I know already. answered Rebecca with a bright glance. I'm sure you must be Mr. Aladdin in the Arabian Nights. Oh, please. Can I run down and tell Emma Jane? She must be so tired waiting, and she'll be so glad. At the man's nod of ascent, Rebecca sped down the lane, crying irrepressibly as she neared the wagon. Oh, Emma Jane. Emma Jane, we are sold out. Mr. Aladdin followed smilingly to corroborate this astonishing, unbelievable statement. Lifted all their boxes from the back of the wagon, and, taking the circular, promised to write to the Excelsior Company that night concerning the premium. If you could contrive to keep a secret, you two little girls, it would be rather a nice surprise to have the lamp arrive at the Simpsons on Thanksgiving Day, wouldn't it? He asked, as he tucked the old laprobe causally over their feet. They gladly assented, and broke into a chorus of excited thanks during which tears of joy stood in Rebecca's eyes. Oh, don't mention it. Laughed Mr. Aladdin, lifting his hat. I was a sort of commercial traveler myself once, years ago, and I like to see the thing well done. Goodbye, Miss Rebecca Rowena. Just let me know whenever you have anything to sell, for I'm certain beforehand I shall want it. Goodbye, Mr. Aladdin, I surely will. Cried Rebecca, tossing her dark braids delightedly and waving her hand. Oh, Rebecca! Said Emma Jane in an awestruck whisper. He raised his hat to us, and we knocked thirteen. It'll be five years before we're ladies. Never mind. Answered Rebecca. We are the beginnings of ladies, even now. He took the laprobe round us, too. Continued Emma Jane in an ecstasy of reminiscence. Oh, isn't he perfectly elegant, and wasn't it lovely of him to buy us out? And just think of having both the lamp and the shade for one day's work. Aren't you glad you wore your pinking them now? Even if mother did make you put on flannel underneath, you do look so pretty in pink and red, Rebecca, and so homely and drab and brown. I know it. Cried Rebecca. I wish I was like you, pretty in all colors. And Rebecca looked longingly at Emma Jane's fat, rosy cheeks, at her blue eyes, which said nothing, at her neat nose, which had no character, at her red lips, from between which no word worth listening to had ever issued. Never mind, said Emma Jane, comfortingly. Everybody says you're awful bright and smart, and mother thinks you'll be better looking all the time as you grow older. You wouldn't believe it, but I was a dreadful homely baby, and homely right along till just a year or two ago, when my red hair began to grow dark. What was the nice man's name? I never thought to ask. Ejaculated Rebecca. Aunt Miranda would say that was just like me, and it is, but I called the Mr. Aladdin because he gave us a lamp. You know the story of Aladdin in the wonderful lamp? Oh, Rebecca, how could you call him a nickname? The very first time you ever saw him. Aladdin isn't a nickname exactly, anyway, he'll often seem to like it. By dint of superhuman effort, and putting such a seal upon their lips as never mortals put before, the two girls succeeded in keeping their wonderful news to themselves. Although, it was obvious to all beholders that they were in an extraordinary and abnormal state of mind. On Thanksgiving, the lamp arrived in a large packing box, and was taken out and set up by Seesaw Simpson, who suddenly began to admire and respect the business ability of his sisters. Rebecca had heard the news of its arrival, but waited until nearly dark before asking permission to go to the Simpsons, so that she might see the gorgeous trophy lighted and sending a blaze of crimson glory through its red crepe paper shade. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm by Kate Douglas Wigan Chapter 15 The Banquet Lamp There had been company at the Brick House to the bountiful Thanksgiving dinner which had been provided at one o'clock. The Burnham sisters, who lived between North River Borough and Shaker Village, and who, for more than a quarter of a century, had come to pass the holiday with the Sawyers every year. Rebecca sat silent with a book after the dinner dishes were washed, and when it was nearly five, asked if she might go to the Simpsons. What do you want to run after those Simpsons children for on a Thanksgiving day? Quarried, Miss Miranda. Can't you sit still for once and listen to the improved conversation of your elders? You never can let well enough alone, but want to be forever on the move. The Simpsons have a new lamp, and Emma Jean and I promised to go up and see it lighted and make it a kind of party. What under the canopy did they want of a lamp? And where did they get the money to pay for it? If Abner was at home, I should think he'd been swapping again. Said Miss Miranda. The children got it as a prize for selling soap. Replied, Rebecca. They've been working for a year, and you know I told you that Emma Jean and I helped them the Saturday afternoon you were in Portland. I didn't take notice, I suppose, for it's the first time I ever heard the lamp mentioned. Well, you can go for an hour, and no more. Remember, it's as dark at six as it is at midnight. Would you like to take along some Baldwin apples? What have you got in the pocket of that new dress that makes it sag down so? It's my nuts and raisins from dinner. Replied, Rebecca, who never succeeded in keeping the most innocent action, a secret from her Aunt Miranda. They're just what you gave me on my plate. Why didn't you eat them? Because I'd had enough dinner, and I thought if I saved these, it would make the Simpsons party better. Stammered, Rebecca, who hated to be scolded and examined before company. They were your own, Rebecca. Interposed, Jane. And if you chose to save them to give away, it is all right. We ought to never to let this day pass without giving our neighbors something to be thankful for, instead of taking all the time to think of our own mercies. The Burnham sisters nodded approvingly, as Rebecca went out, and remarked that they had never seen a child grow and improve so fast, in so short a time. There's plenty of room left for more improvement, as you'd know if she lived in the same house with you. Answered Miranda. She's into every nameable thing in the neighborhood, and not only into it, but generally at the head and front of it, especially when it's mischief. Of all the foolishness I ever heard of, that lamp beats everything. It's just like those Simpsons, but I didn't suppose the children had brains enough to sell anything. One of them must have. Said Miss Ellen Burnham. For the little girl that was selling soap at the lads in North Riverboro was described by Adam Ladd as the most remarkable and winning child he ever saw. He must have been Clarabelle, and I should never call her a remarkable. Answered Miss Miranda. Has Adam been home again? Yes, he's been staying a few days with his aunt. There's no limit to the money he's making, they say, and he always brings presents for all the neighbors. This time it was a full set of furs for Mrs. Ladd, and to think we can remember the time he was a barefoot boy without two shirts to his back. It is strange he hasn't married with all his money and him so fond of children that he always has a pack of them at his heels. There's hope for him still, though. Said Miss Jane, smilingly. For I don't suppose he's more than thirty. He could get a wife in Riverboro if he was a hundred and thirty. Remarked Miss Miranda. Adam's aunt says he was so taken with the little girl that sold the soap. Clara Bell, did you say her name was? That he declared he was going to bring her a Christmas present. Continued Miss Ellen. Well, there's no accountant for taste. Exclaimed Miss Miranda. Clara Bell's got cross eyes and red hair, but I'd be the last one to grudge her a Christmas present. The more Adam Ladd gives to her, the less the town'll have to. Isn't there another Simpson girl? Asked Miss Lydia Burnham. For this one couldn't have been cross-eyed. I remembered Miss Ladd saying Adam remarked about this child's handsome eyes. He said it was her eyes that made him bite the three hundred cakes. Miss Ladd hasn't stacked up in the shed chamber. Three hundred cakes. Ejaculated Miranda. Well, there's one crop that never fails in Riverboro. What's that? Asked Miss Lydia politely. The fool crop. Responded Miranda tersely and changed the subject much to Jane's gratitude, for she had been nervous and ill at ease for the last 15 minutes. What child in Riverboro could be described as remarkable and winning, save Rebecca? What child had wonderful eyes except the same Rebecca? And finally, was there ever a child in the world who could make a man by soap by the hundred cakes? Save Rebecca? Meantime, the remarkable child had flown up the road in the deepening dusk, but she had not gone far before she heard the sound of hurrying footsteps and saw a well-known figure coming in her direction. In a moment, she and Emma Jane met and exchanged a breathless embrace. Something awful has happened. Panted Emma Jane. Don't tell me it's broken. exclaimed Rebecca. No, oh no, not that. It was packed on straw and every piece came out all right, and I was there. And I never said a single thing about your selling the 300 cakes that got the lamp, so that we could be together when you told. Our selling the 300 cakes. Corrected Rebecca. You did as much as I. No, I didn't, Rebecca Randall. I just sat at the gate and held a horse. Yes, but whose horse was it that took us to North Riverboro? Besides, it just happened to be my turn. If you had gone in and found Mr. Aladdin, you would have had the wonderful lamp given to you. What's the trouble? The Simpsons have no kerosene and no wicks. I guess they thought a banquet lamp was something that lighted itself and burned without any help. Cisa has gone to the doctors to try if he can borrow a wick. And the mother let me have a pint of oil, but she says she won't give me any more. We never thought of the expense of keeping up the lamp, Rebecca. No, we didn't, but let's not worry about that till after the party. I've a handful of nuts and raisins and some apples. I have peppermints and maple sugar, said Emma Jane. They had a real Thanksgiving dinner. The doctor gave them sweet potatoes and cranberries and turnips. Father sent a spare rib and Mrs. Cobb a chicken and a jar of minced meat. At half past five, one might have looked in at the Simpsons' windows and seen the party at its height. Mrs. Simpson had let the kitchen fire die out and had brought the baby to grace the festival scene. The lamp seemed to be having the party and receiving the guests. The children had taken the one small table in the house and it was placed in the far corner of the room to serve as a pedestal. On it stood the sacred, the adored, the long desired object, almost as beautiful and nearly half as large as the advertisement. The brass glistened like gold and the crimson paper shade glowed like a giant ruby. In the wide splash of light that it flung upon the floor sat the Simpsons in reverent and solemn silence. Emma Jane standing behind them, hand in hand with Rebecca. There seemed to be no desire for conversation. The occasion was too thrilling and serious for that. The lamp, it was tacitly felt by everybody, was dignifying the party and providing sufficient entertainment simply by its presence, being fully a satisfactory in its way as a pianola or a string band. I wish father could see it, said Clairabelle, loyally. If he once thought he'd want to thwap it, murmured Susan sagaciously. At the appointed hour, Rebecca dragged herself reluctantly away from the enchanting scene. I'll turn the lamp out in the minute I think you and Emma Jane are home, said Clairabelle. And oh, I'm so glad you both live or you can see it shine from our windows. I wonder how long it will burn without being filled if I only keep it lit one hour every night. You needn't put it out for want of kerosene, said César, coming in from the shed. For there's a great cag of it sitting out there. Mr. Tubbs brought it over from North River borough and said somebody sent an order by mail for it. Rebecca squeezed Emma Jane's arm and Emma Jane gave a rapturous return squeeze. It was Mr. Aladdin, whispered Rebecca as they ran down the path to the gate. César followed them and handsomely offered to see them a piece down the road. But Rebecca declined his escort with such a decision that he did not press the matter but went to bed to dream of her instead. In his dreams flashes of lightning proceeded from both her eyes and she held a flaming sword in either hand. Rebecca entered the home dining room joyously. The Burnham sisters had gone and the two aunts were knitting. It was a heavenly party. She cried, taking off her hat and cape. Go back and see if you have shut the door tight and then lock it. Said Miss Miranda in her usual austere manner. It was a heavenly party. Reiterated Rebecca, coming in again, much too excited to be easily crushed. And oh, Aunt Jane, Aunt Miranda, if you'll only come into the kitchen and look out of the sink window you can see the banquet lamp shining all red just as if this instant house was on fire. And probably it will be before long. Observed, Miranda. I've got no patience with such foolish goings on. Jane accompanied Rebecca into the kitchen. Although the feeble glimmer which she was able to see from that distance did not seem to her a dazzling exhibition, she tried to be as enthusiastic as possible. Rebecca, who was it that sold the 300 cakes of soap to Mr. Ladd in North Riverboro? Mr. Who? exclaimed Rebecca. Mr. Ladd in North Riverboro. Is that his real name? queried Rebecca in astonishment. I didn't make a bad guess. And she left softly to herself. I asked you who sold the soap to Adam Ladd? Resumed, Miss Jane. Adam Ladd. Then he's A-Ladd, too. What fun. Answer me, Rebecca. Oh, excuse me, Aunt Jane. I was so busy thinking. Emma Jane and I sold the soap to Mr. Ladd. Did you tease him or make him buy it? No, Aunt Jane. How could I make a big grown-up man buy anything if he didn't want to? He needed the soap dreadfully as a present for his aunt. Miss Jane still looked a little unconvinced, though she only said, I hope your Aunt Miranda won't mind, but you know how particular she is, Rebecca, and I really wish you wouldn't do anything out of the ordinary without asking her first, for your actions are very queer. There can't be anything wrong this time. Rebecca answered confidently. Emma Jane sold her cakes to her own relations and to Uncle Jerry Cobb, and I went first to these new tenements near the lumber mill, and then to the lads. Mr. Ladd bought all we had and made us promise to keep the secret until the premium came, and I've been going about ever since as if the banquet lamp was inside of me all lighted up and burning for everybody to see. Rebecca's hair was loosened and falling over her forehead in ruffled waves. Her eyes were brilliant, her cheeks crimson. There was a hint of everything in the girl's face, of sensitiveness and delicacy, as well as of ardor. There was the sweetness of the Mayflower and the strength of the young oak, but one could easily divine that she was one of the souls by nature pitched too high, by suffering plunged too low. That's just the way you look, for all the world is if you did have a lamp burning inside of you. Side Aunt Jane. Rebecca, Rebecca, I wish you could take things easier, child. I am fearful for you sometimes. End of Chapter 15