 Section 64 of the uncollected stories of LM Montgomery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Barry Howarth. Uncollected short stories of LM Montgomery by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Section 64. Peter of the Lane by L. M. Montgomery. Judge Raymond was taking his morning constitutional in the lane. It was a fine old lane, running just back of Elmcroft under big chestnuts, and debouching into a sunny by street below, whereupon lived people whom to know was to be unknown. None of them ever ventured into the lane, but it was part of the Elmcroft estate, and everybody in Marsden knew that the judge did not like trespassers. He had never met anyone there in his morning walks, and he had come to look upon the lane as the one place where he was perfectly safe from all interruption. Consequently, he carried there his griefs and anxieties, and walked them off for wrestle them down, going back to the world the same suave, courtly man of iron it thought it knew so well. This particular morning the judge especially desired to be alone, for it was the 10th of June, and he had a bitter reason for hating the date. Therefore he was surprised and displeased on coming out from the chestnut shade into the sunny place at the end of the lane to find somebody sitting on the big grey boulder by the fence. This somebody was a small boy, most immaculately arrayed in white trousers and stiffly starched white blouse. He had his hands in his pockets, and although his face was very sober and care visible on his brow, he evidently did not realise in the least what an offence he was committing in sitting thus unconcernedly on Judge Raymond's boulder. His hat was pushed back on his head, and the face beneath it, rimmed about with yellow curls, was very pink and white and wholesome. A woman would have called it kissable, but of course such a thought never entered into Judge Raymond's head. The latter stopped, folded both hands over the top of his cane, and looked frowningly into the lad's blue eyes. Who are you? he said stiffly. The scowling, bushy eyebrows before which every other small boy in Marsden would have fled aghast disturbed the serenity of this self-possessed interloper not at all. He got up riskly, with a sigh of relief, and said clearly, I am Peter, and I am very glad to see you, because I want to ask a favour of you. Will you please come and help me get my kitten out of the well? She fell in two hours ago, and Aunt Mary Ellen is away waiting on a sick lady. Bless my soul, child, grumble the judge, if your cat fell into the water two hours ago it must be drowned by this time. Oh no, she's not in the water, explained Peter cheerfully. She fell into the water, I expect, but she climbed out of it into a little hole between the stones. I can see her eyes and hear her crying. Will you please tell me if you will help me to get her out? Because if you can't, I must look for someone else. Aunt Mary Ellen told me I mustn't associate with anybody round here, but I thought it wouldn't be any harm to ask you. You look so respectable. Judge Raymond, even when much younger and nimbler than he was then, had not been in the habit of rescuing cats from wells, but now he asked briefly where the well was. Come, said Peter, with equal brevity, extending a plump little paw. The judge took it and was led to a small gap in the fence palings. Peter measured the gap and the judge ruthlessly with his eye. You can't go through it, you'll have to climb over. The judge meekly climbed over. He found himself in the trim little yard of a small brown house, all grown over with vines. In the middle of the yard was the well, with an old-fashioned open hood, windlass and chain. To it, Peter dragged the judge and peered over. She's all right yet, he announced. There is a ladder on the kitchen roof. Will you get it, please? And I'll hold it steady while you go down the well and bring her up. With an effort, the judge shook off the mesmeric influence, which had already made him take three steps toward the ladder. My dear Peter, he said firmly, I can't with my years and wait go down a well on a ladder after a kitten. Instead, I'll go home and send my man Jenkins over. He will do it. Peter thrust his hands into his pocket, threw back his head and looked scrutinizingly at the judge. Is your man Jenkins respectable? He demanded. Very much so, assured the judge. Well, I'll take your word for it, said Peter confidingly. It's not that I'm so particular for myself, but Aunt Mary Ellen is. You may send Jenkins. Accordingly, Jenkins was sent, so dizzy with amazement over such an unheard of order from the judge, that he was barely capable of obeying Peter's concise and pointed directions. Eventually, the kitten was rescued as the judge, who was posed unseen behind the chestnut trees, saw. Upon Jenkins' return, he condescended to question him. Do you know who these people are, Jenkins? I thought old Mr Morris and lived there alone. He used to, sir, but he died very suddenly a month ago, and I understand, sir, that his property went to a cousin of his. She only came last week, sir. The little chap is her nephew and a fine manly little fellow he is. Was the kitten uninjured, Jenkins? It hasn't lost more than one of its nine lives, sir. Very wet and muddy, sir. Peter made me carry it into the kitchen and lay it on the rug, because he said his aunt had told him on no account to dirty his clean clothes, and he always obeyed her when he could because there was often times when he couldn't. The next morning, Peter was sitting on the boulder again. The judge halted before him and smiled. I hope the kitten hasn't fallen into the well again, Peter. Oh, no. Such a thing isn't likely to happen every morning, said Peter, and Aunt Mary Ellen is going to have a pump put in. She says I'll be falling into the well myself the next thing if she don't. Aunt Mary Ellen is bringing me up, you know, because my parents are dead, and she takes a great deal of trouble with me. But I came out this morning for two reasons. One was that I wanted to thank you for helping me yesterday. I'm very much obliged to you, sir, and if you ever want me to do anything for you, you've only to mention it. Thank you. I will, said the judge. What was your other reason? Peter sighed. I was lonesome, he said frankly. I've nobody to talk to and I thought maybe you'd let me talk with you for a spell. Certainly, certainly. Only I've grown so unaccustomed to conversing with boys that I'm afraid you will have to do most of the talking. Oh, I'm well able to do that, said Peter confidently, getting up and falling into step with the judge. Aunt Mary Ellen says I talk a great deal too much and sometimes when I'm very bad she punishes me by forbidding me to say a word for one hour by the clock. You've no idea how long an hour like that can be, but the time seems very long anyway in Marsden. Where did you live before you came here? asked the judge. In Westfield. The judge frowned. He had his own reasons for disliking the name of Westfield, but Peter, striding blithely along with his hands in his pockets, did not see the frown and perhaps would not have cared in the least if he had. Westfield's a dandy place. I had so many friends there, one very dear friend in particular. It's a terrible thing to part with your friends, isn't it? It hurts your feelings so much, doesn't it? Yes. It hurts them so much that they sometimes never get over it, said the judge, gruffly. Perhaps he was gruff because he was so unaccustomed to talking about his feelings. Marsden people would have said he hadn't any to talk about. Would you please tell me what your name is? said Peter. It's not that I care myself what it is, because I'd like you if you hadn't any name at all. But Aunt Mary Ellen does. She is very particular who I associate with, as I told you. I couldn't tell you your name yesterday, and she didn't much like the sound of Jenkins. People call me Judge Raymond. Peter looked up with a radiant smile. Oh, I'm so glad. Raymond is a favourite name of mine. You see, confidentially, it's the name of my promised wife. The judge gasped. You're... you're... Well, I understand that the rising generation is very precocious, but aren't you rather young to be engaged? Far too young, agreed Peter promptly. I'm only seven. But you see, I couldn't leave her in Westville without making sure of her, especially when Roger Mitchell was to go on living there after I left. So I asked her to marry me, and she said she would, and promised she'd never play with Roger anymore. She'll keep her word, too, for she is that sort of girl. So I'm quite easy in my mind. Of course, we don't intend to get married till we're grown up. Come, come. That's a relief, anyhow. What is your fair lady's name? Averill Raymond. The judge gave an inarticulate exclamation and stopped short. His face grew purple, and his eyebrows drew down in such a black scowl that his deep-set black eyes could hardly be seen. Peter looked up in astonishment. What is the matter? Nothing, nothing, said the judge with an effort, and walked on. I wouldn't look like that over nothing, said Peter indignantly. You gave me a fright. I thought you were sick. I expect I look like that when I take stomach cramps. Well, I was telling you about Averill. I'm so glad I found somebody I can talk to about her. Somebody who is sympathetic. Aunt Mary Ellen isn't very sympathetic. She liked Averill, though. Everybody likes Averill. But Aunt Mary Ellen laughs at a fellow when he talks about his girl. You won't laugh, will you? No, I won't laugh, promised the judge. And to do him justice, he didn't look in the least like laughing. They lived right next door to us in Westville, Averill and her mother. Her father was dead, but they had his picture hanging in the sitting room. And Averill said her prayers to it every night. She said her mother thought she was saying them to God. But it was her father all the time, because she felt so much better acquainted with him. He died when Averill was four, so she remembers him. She is six now. They were dreadfully poor, poorer even than Aunt Mary Ellen and me, and goodness knows we were poor enough then. But Aunt Mary Ellen said they came of good stock, so she let me associate with them. Aunt Mary Ellen was pretty thick with Averill's mother herself. Averill's mother gave music lessons, and she always looked sad and tired. But Averill didn't look sad. No, sir. She was laughing all the time. I like a girl that laughs, don't you? I suppose it is pleasanter, conceded the judge. Averill is the prettiest girl in Westville. She has long brown curls and big brown eyes and a muscle like a Sullivan. She knocked Roger Mitchell clean over once, because he tried to kiss her. But she's a very ladylike girl for all that. I tell you I felt awful bad when I came away, and so did she. But of course we'll write. I can't write very well yet, and Averill can only print. I wrote her yesterday, and I know I spelled half the words wrong. I didn't like to ask Aunt Mary Ellen how to spell them for fish it laugh, because some of them were very affectionate. Look here, will you help me with my spelling when I'm writing to Averill? I will, if you will come and walk with me now and then in the lane, said the judge. Oh, I was expecting to do that anyway, said Peter comfortably. I'll come as often as you like. I think you are a very interesting person. Any time I'm not here and you want me, just come to the gap and whistle, and I'll come if I hear you. You can whistle, I suppose. I used to be able to, said the judge, who hadn't whistled since he was ten. The judge and Peter continued to walk in the lane for over an hour, deep in conversation. Marsden people wouldn't have believed their eyes if they had seen it. Jenkins did see it, and had to seek out the housekeeper to relieve his feelings. Yes, Mrs. Moody, as true as I stand here, the judge is walking out there with that little fellow from across the line, him that's never looked at a child for years. What do you think of it? Mrs. Moody looked sourly at Jenkins, to whom she accorded very scant approval. I think the judge is capable of attending to his own business, and if it pleases him to talk up with strangers after the way he used his own flesh and blood, I don't think it is any concern of yours or mine, Mr. Jenkins. It's just two years yesterday since Master Cecil died, said the unabashed Jenkins. Do you suppose the judge will ever make up with the widow and the little girl? No, he never will, said Mrs. Moody shortly. He's as bitter as ever against her, and an angel from heaven couldn't induce him to forgive her. Every day through that summer, the judge and Peter grew better friends. The judge never missed his morning walk now. Peter was generally on the boulder, or playing in the yard of the brown house. Jenkins declared that the judge was infatuated. They had long, absorbing conversations. Peter sought the judge's aid frequently in his epistolary struggles, and the judge learned more loving words than he had ever known were in the dictionary. Do you think sweetheart or darling is the tenderer word Peter once wanted to know? I should use them to and about, advised the judge gravely. Avril has sent you a kiss, said Peter, on another day. I wrote her about you and what good friends we were, and how you helped with the spelling, and that's why she sent it. If you will stoop down, I'll give it to you. For a moment the judge looked as if he meant to refuse. Then he stooped down and Peter gave him a hearty smack. Shall I tell Avril you send her a kiss back? He questioned blithely. No, said the judge. He said it with such a black frown that Peter looked at him curiously. Do you know, he said reflectively, there are times when it almost seems to me that you don't like Avril. I suppose it's a ridiculous idea, but it does seem so at times. How can I either like or dislike her when I've never seen her? said the judge, coldly. Well, that's what I say to myself when the idea comes to me, agreed Peter. Of course it's nonsense. Nobody could help liking Avril. Do you like her better than anyone else in the world? asked the judge. An older listener might have detected a wistful note in his voice. Of course I do. Then Aunt Mary Ellen, and then you. So I must be content with the third place, said the judge bitterly. The judge did not like third place nor second place. He wanted to be first. He had always wanted it with anybody he loved. Peter divined that the old man was hurt by his answer. He slipped his hand into the judges. You know, I think an awful lot of you. He said, looking up with his own winsome smile. I believe I'd like you better than Aunt Mary Ellen if it wasn't my duty to like her best. But you can see it is my duty, because she's bringing me up, and she isn't very well off, though not so poor as she was before cousin Mr Morrison died. It's very good of her to take so much trouble with me, and I'm bound to like her second best. But I do wish she'd stick to the one way of punishing me when I'm bad. She thinks out so many different ways I never know what to expect. Are you bad very often? queried the judge with a twinkle. Quite often, said Peter candidly. Aunt Mary Ellen says I'm awful stubborn. Aunt Mary Ellen is stubborn too, but she caused it determined. So of course there's bound to be trouble when we don't have the same opinion. But I tell you Aunt Mary Ellen is a fine woman, a very fine woman. One morning it rained so hard that the judge could not walk in the lane. When it cleared up in the afternoon, he salad forth, but no Peter was to be seen. The judge walked up and down the lane for some time. The blinds were down in the brown house, and there was no sign of life about it, except Peter's kitten basking contentedly on the platform of the new pump. Finally the judge whistled. He whistled several times without result, and was just turning away in disappointment when something crept reluctantly through the gap in the fence. The judge nearly whistled again in amazement. What was it? Who was it? It had Peter's head and face certainly, but below head and face was a blue-checked gingham dress and a girl's pinafore. Peter, is this you? demanded the astonished judge. Peter, read as a beat, nodded miserably, tried to thrust his hands into his pockets, and failed, because there were no pockets. What has happened? Aunt Mary Ellen and I had a difference of opinion this morning, explained Peter in anguish. It was about that porridge. I hate porridge, but Aunt Mary Ellen says, I've got to eat it or I'll never amount to anything. She won't give me anything else till I've finished a whole plate of porridge and there's always so much of it that then I'm not hungry for anything more. This morning I said firmly that I wouldn't eat it because there were sausages and I didn't want to be filled so full with porridge that there wouldn't be any room for sausages. Aunt Mary Ellen was very angry and she punished me by dressing me up in some girls' clothes that belonged to a niece of hers that visited her last summer. It's a brand new punishment and it's the worst yet. Just think if Avarel knew it. Aunt Mary Ellen went away this afternoon and when she was gone I hunted for my own clothes but she's locked them up. I was so ashamed that I thought I couldn't come to you when you whistled but then I thought it was my duty to come because I told you I'd always come when I heard you whistle. So I'm here, concluded Peter, hanging his head dejectedly like one disgraced forever. The judge looked indignant. Come right over to Elmcroft with me, he said, peremptorily. Peter looked scandalised. Not like this, he protested. Nobody will see you like that except my housekeeper and she won't see you like that for long. It's a shame. Come, I say. There are, there ought to be, some boys' clothes in my house somewhere. We'll see what can be done. Peter would have gone anywhere with anyone in the hope of getting rid of the shameful feminine garments. Mrs. Moody was presently amazed at the tableau which met her eye. Mrs. Moody, said the judge sternly, take this boy and see if you can find suitable clothes for him. When Mrs. Moody brought Peter back, the latter held his head erect once more. But the judge looked suddenly away from him with a peculiar expression on his grim face. An old memory once sweet, now bitter, came to him of a boy who wore that self-same velvet suit and lace collar long ago. The boy had not looked like the yellow-haired Peter. He had been dark and black-eyed like the judge himself. I feel lots better, announced Peter, but I'd like to know how you came to have a suit of clothes that fit me. Did you ever have a little boy? Yes, once. What became of him then, asked Peter, picking out a very comfortable chair and depositing himself in it. In his velvet and lace, with his fair curls and rosy face, he made a bright spot in the dim, stately room. He was as much at home there and fitted as harmoniously into his surroundings as if he had been on the old boulder in the lane. The judge noticed this and felt a certain satisfaction in it. He grew up and broke my heart, said the latter grimly. How did he break your heart? Listen, I will tell you, said the judge, as if he was talking to a person of his own age. I had one son. I idolized him and lavished everything on him. I never denied him a wish. I had great hopes, great ambitions for him. He repaid me with ingratitude and disobedience. He fell in love with a girl far beneath him, a wretched little music teacher. He married her, in defiance of my wishes, my commands. I told him never to darken my doors again. He did not. I never saw him again. He was killed in a railroad accident two years ago, but he died to me on the day he disobeyed me. You are worse than Aunt Mary Elnin, I do believe, said Peter tranquilly. She makes me eat porridge when I don't like it, but I'm sure she wouldn't try to prevent me from marrying anybody I wanted if I was old enough. I think that you did very wrong. Did your son have any little boys? No. He left a daughter, I believe. I don't know anything about her. At least, I mean, I've never seen her or her mother, and I never want to. I hate them both. The judge thumped his cane savagely on the floor. I'm sorry for that little girl if you hate her, because she has missed a splendid grandfather, said Peter. You would make a splendid grandfather, you know, if you had a little practice. How would you like to have me for your grandfather? asked the judge. I think I'd like it very much, but it can't be. Grandfathers have to be born. They might be adopted, mightn't they? We're in the judge. I wish you would adopt me as a grandfather. Wouldn't you like to come here and live? I could get you a pony and a Saint Bernard and everything you wanted. I think I'd like it, said Peter cautiously, but I don't know what Aunt Mary Ellen would say. Maybe she'd think with such a good aunt as her I don't need a grandfather, but she says I'm a terrible responsibility, so perhaps she'll be glad to get clear of me. I'll have a talk with your aunt about it some of these days, said the judge, looking at Peter with affection at pride. But the judge's plans were upset, not by Aunt Mary Ellen, but by Peter himself. The next day Peter sat on the boulder and looked disapprovingly at the judge. What is the matter? inquired the latter anxiously. Peter's good opinion had come to be very precious to him. Matter enough, Peter's eyes and voice were reproachful. I think you might have told me that Avarelle was your granddaughter. Who told you? asked the judge angrily. Aunt Mary Ellen, she only found out lately. I don't think you've been fair at all. You let me talk about Avarelle and I'll let you help me with my letters. Do you suppose I'd have done that if I'd known you were hating her all the time? I'm sorry, said the judge humbly. Can't you forgive me? Yes, I can forgive you because I think so much of you. But I can never talk about Avarelle to you again and you needn't expect me to. And another thing, you needn't speak to Aunt Mary Ellen about that matter we were discussing. I can't adopt you for a grandfather because it wouldn't be fair to Avarelle. You ought to be her grandfather and it's my duty to think of her rights. Of course, if you feel like being a grandfather to us both, never interrupt at the judge, scowling blackly. I'll never have anything to do with that woman or her child. Peter, you don't understand. You can't understand. Well, it isn't a nice subject, conceded Peter. But I'll keep on feeling that way. We'll see what difference a year or two will make, said the judge to himself. But he did not have to wait so long. One September afternoon when the judge came in from a drive, Jenkins met him with a very sober face. There's trouble at the little house, sir. The boy has been badly hurt. He was run over by young Blair's automobile and he's been asking for you. Without a word, the judge went down the lane to the little brown house. He met the doctor at the door. How is he, whispered the judge. The doctor looked at him curiously. He had never seen Judge Raymond so moved before. There's no hope, he said. It's only a question of a very short time. I always knew that drunken Blair would wind up killing somebody, but the boy is quite conscious and wants to see you. He ushered the judge into the spotless little bedroom. A tall, plain-faced woman with deep, kindly eyes was bending over the bed where the little fellow lay. The pink was all gone from Peter's face, but the big, bright eyes looked out undauntedly. My boy, said the judge, his voice breaking into a sob. Peter smiled gallantly. I'm glad you've come, he said faintly. There's something very important I want to say to you and I guess there isn't much time. I wanted to see you about Avorelle. Aunt Mary Ellen says it's such a hard world for women. You see, Avorelle's my promised wife, and when I'm dead she'll be my promised widow, and I feel it's my duty to provide for her. Won't you be her grandfather, sir, just as much her grandfather as you'd have been mine? The thing he had never dreamed of saying came willingly, even eagerly, from the old man's lips. Yes, yes, I'll look after Avorelle and her mother too. They shall come and live with me. And you'll love her, won't you, persisted Peter, because it wouldn't be much use to do things for her if you didn't love her. I'll give her the love I would have given you, Peter. It's a promise, isn't it? Yes, it is a promise, said the judge. And whatever else might be said of Judge Raymond, his worst enemy could not have said that he ever broke a promise. I'm so glad. It's a great weight off my mind. Don't cry, dear Aunt Mary Ellen. You've been very good to me, and I'm sorry I was ever naughty about the porridge. Please be good to my kitten, and tell Avorelle, tell Avorelle. But the little knight's message to his lady went with him into the shadow. End of section 64. Section 65. The Life Book of Uncle Jesse Uncle Jesse. The name calls up the vision of him as I saw him so often in those two enchanted summers at Golden Gate, as I saw him the first time when he stood in the open doorway of the little low-weaved cottage on the harbor shore, welcoming us to our new domicile with the gentle unconscious courtesy that became him so well. A tall and gangly figure somewhat stooped, but suggestive of great strength and endurance. A clean-shaven old face deeply lined and bronzed. A thick mane of iron-gray hair falling quite to his shoulders, and a pair of remarkably blue, deep-set eyes which sometimes twinkled and sometimes streamed, but often are looked out seaward with a wistful quest in them. As of when seeking something precious and lost, I was to learn one day what it was for which Uncle Jesse looked. It cannot be denied that Uncle Jesse was a homely man. His spare jaws, rugged mouth, and square brow were not fashioned on the lines of beauty. But though at first sight you thought in plain, you never thought anything more about it, the spirit shining through that rugged tenement beautified it so wholly. Uncle Jesse was quite keenly aware of his lack of outward comeliness and lamented it, for he was a passionate worshipper of beauty and everything. He told Mother once that he'd rather like to be made over again and made handsome. Folks say I'm good, he remarked whimsically, but I sometimes wish the Lord had made me only half as good and put the rest of it into looks, but I reckon he knew what he was about as a good captain should. Some of us have to be homely or the pretty ones, like Miss Mary over there, wouldn't show up so well. I was not in the least pretty, but Uncle Jesse was always telling me I was, and I loved him for it. He told the fib so prettily and sincerely that he almost made me believe it, or the time being, and I really think he believed it himself. All women are lovely and have good report in his eyes, because of one he had loved. The only time I ever saw Uncle Jesse really angered was when someone in his hearing cast an aspersion on the character of a sure girl. The wretched man who did it fairly cringed when Uncle Jesse turned on him with lightning of eye and thunder cloud of brow. At that moment I no longer found it hard to reconcile Uncle Jesse's simple, kindly personality with the wild, adventurous life he had lived. We went to Golden Gate in the spring. Mother's health had not been good and her doctor recommended sea air and quiet. Uncle James, when he heard it, proposed that we take possession of a small cottage at Golden Gate to which he had recently fallen air by the death of an old aunt who had lived in it. I haven't been up to see it, he said, but it is just as Aunt Elizabeth left it and she was the pink of neatness. The key is in the possession of an old sailor living nearby. Jesse Boyd is the name, I think. I imagine you can be very comfortable in it. It is built right on the harbor shore, inside the bar, and it is within five minutes' walk of the outside shore. Uncle James' offer fitted in very opportunely with our Limp Family purse and we straight away betook ourselves to Golden Gate. We telegraphed to Jesse Boyd to have the house opened for us and one crisp spring day when a rollicking wind was scutting over the harbor and the dunes, whipping the water into white caps and washing the sand shore with long lines of silvery breakers. We alighted at the little station and walked the half mile to our new home, leaving our goods and chattels to be carted over in the evening by an obliging station agent's boy. Our first glimpse of Analispus Cottage was a delight to soul and sense. It looked so like a big, greasy shell stranded on the shore. Between it and the harbor was only a narrow strip of shingle and behind it was a gnarled and battered fur wood where the winds were in the habit of harping all sorts of weird and haunting music. Inside it was to prove even yet more quaint and delightful with its low, dark-beam sillings and square, deep-set windows by which, whether open or shut, sea breezes entered at their own sweet will. The view from our door was magnificent, taking in the big harbor and sweeps of purple hills beyond. The entrance of the harbor gave it its name, a deep narrow channel between the bar of sand dunes on the one side of a steep, high frowning red sandstone cliff on the other. We appreciated its significance the first time we saw a splendid golden sunrise flooding it, coming out of the wonderful sea and sky beyond and billowing through the narrow passage and waves of light, truly it was a golden gate through which one might sail to fairy lands forlorn. As we went along the path to our little house, we were agreeably surprised to see a blue spiral of smoke curling up from its big square chimney and the next moment Uncle Jesse. We were calling him Uncle Jesse half an hour after we met him, so it seemed scarcely worthwhile to begin with anything else. Came to the door. Welcome ladies, he said holding out a big hard but scrupulously clean hand. I thought you'd be feeling a bit tired and hungry maybe, so when I came over to open up I put on a fire and bird you up a cup of tea. I just delight in being neighborly, and tame often I have the chance. We found that Uncle Jesse's cup of tea meant veritable spread. He had aired the little dining room, set out the table daintily with Anne Elizabeth's China and linen. Known just where to put my hands on him, often and often helped old Miss Kennedy wash him. We were cronies her and me. I miss her terrible. And adorned it with Mayflowers, which as we afterward discovered, he had tramped several miles together. There was good bread and butter, store biscuits, a dish of tea fit for the gods on High Olympus, and a platter of the most delicious sea trout done to a turn. Thought they'd be tasty after traveling, said Uncle Jesse. Their freshest trout can be ma'am. Two hours ago they were swimming in Johnson's pond yonder. I caught them, yes ma'am. I thought about all I'm good for now, catching trout and caught occasional, but torn always so, not by no manner of means. I used to do other things, as you'd admit if you saw my life book. I was so hungry and tired that I did not then rise to the bait of Uncle Jesse's life book. I simply wanted to begin on those trout. Mother insisted that Uncle Jesse sit down and help us to eat the repast he had prepared, and he ascended without undue coaxing. Thank you kindly. It will be a real treat. I eat my meals alone, with the reflection of my ugly old fizz in a looking glass opposite for company. Tis an often I have the chance to sit down with two such sweet pretty ladies. Uncle Jesse's compliments looked bald enough on paper, but he paid them with such a gracious, gentle deliverance of tone. And look that the woman who received them felt that she was being offered a queen's gift in kingly fashion. He broke bread with us, and from that moment we were all friends together and forever. After we had eaten all we could, we left for an hour and listened to Uncle Jesse telling us stories of his life. If I talk too much you must just check me, he said seriously with a twinkle in his eyes. When I do get a chance to talk to anyone, I'm up to run on terrible. He had been a sailor from the time he was 10 years old, and some of his adventures had such a marvelous edge that I secretly wondered if Uncle Jesse were not drawing a rather long bow on our credulous expense. But in this, as I found later, I did him injustice. His tales were all literally true, and Uncle Jesse had the gift of the born storyteller whereby unhappy, far-off things can be brought vividly before the hearer and made to live again in all their pristine poancy. Mother and I laughed and shivered over Uncle Jesse's tales, and once we found ourselves crying, Uncle Jesse surveyed our tears with pleasure shining out through his face like an illuminating lamp. I like to make folks cry that way, he remarked. It's a compliment, but I can't do justice to the things I've seen and helped do. I've got them all jotted down in my lifebook, but I haven't got the knack of writing them out properly. If I had, I could make a great book. If I had the knack of hitting on just the right words and stringing everything together, proper on paper, but I can't. It's in this poor human critter. Uncle Jesse patted his breast sorrowfully, but he can't get it out. When Uncle Jesse went home that evening, Mother asked him to come often to see us. I wonder if you'd give that invitation if you knew how likely I'd be to accept it, he remarked whimsically, which is another way of saying, you wonder if I meant it, smiled Mother. I do must heartily and sincerely. Then I'll come. You'll likely be pestered with me at any hour, and I'd be proud to have you drop over and visit me now and then too. I live on that point yonder. Neither me nor my house is worth coming to see. It's only got one room and a loft and a stovepipe sticking out of the roof for a chimney. But I've got a few things lying around that I picked up in the queer corners I used to be poking my nose into. Maybe they'd interest you. Uncle Jesse's few little things turned out to be the most interesting collection of curios I had ever seen. His one neat little living room was full of them, beautiful, hideous, or quaint, as the case might be, and almost all having some weird or exciting story attached. Mother and I had a beautiful summer at Golden Gate. We lived the life of two children with Uncle Jesse as a playmate. Our housekeeping was of the simplest description, and we spent our hours rambling along the shores, reading on the rocks, or sailing over the harbor where Uncle Jesse's trim little boat. Every day we loved the simple soul true manly old sailor more and more. He was as refreshing as a sea breeze, as interesting as some ancient chronicle. We never tired of listening to his stories and his quaint remarks and comments were a continual delight to us. Uncle Jesse was one of those interesting and rare people who in the picturesque phraseology of the shore folks never speak but they say something. The milk of human kindness and the wisdom of the serpent were mingled in Uncle Jesse's position in delightful proportions. One day he was absent all day and returned at nightfall. Took a tram back yonder. Back yonder with Uncle Jesse might mean the station hamlet or the city a hundred miles away or any place between. To carry Mr. Kimball a mess of trout. He likes one occasional and all I can do for a kindness he did me once. I stayed all day to talk to him. He likes to talk to me, though he's an educated man, because he's one of those folks that got a talk or they're miserable and he finds listeners scarce around here. The folks fight shy of him because they think he's an infidel. He ain't that far gone exactly. Few men is I reckon. But he's what you might call a heretic. Heretics are wicked but they're mighty interesting. It's just that they've got sort of lost looking for God being under the impression that he's hard to find. Which he ain't never. Most of them blunder to him after a while I guess. I don't think listening to Mr. Kimball's arguments is likely to do me much harm. Mind you I believe what I was brought up to believe. It saves a vast of trouble and back of it all God is good. The trouble with Mr. Kimball is he's a little too clever. He thinks he's bound to live up to his cleverness and that it's smarter to thrash out some new way of getting to heaven than to go by the old track the common ignorant folks is traveling. But he'll get there sometime alright and then he'll laugh at himself. Nothing ever seemed to put Uncle Jesse out or depress him in any way. I've kind of contracted a habit of enjoying things. He remarked once when mother had commented on his invariable cheerfulness. It's got so chronic that I believe I even enjoy the disagreeable things. It's great fun thinking they can't last. Old rheumatism I says when it grips me hard you've got to stop aching sometime. The worse you are the sooner you'll stop. Perhaps I'm bound to get the better of you in the long run whether in the body or out of the body. Uncle Jesse seldom came to our house without bringing us something even if it were only a bunch of sweet grass. I favor the smell of sweet grass. He said it always makes me think of my mother. She was fond of it not that I knows on didn't know she ever saw any sweet grass. No it's because it has kind of a motherly perfume not too young you understand something kind of seasoned wholesome and dependable just like a mother. Uncle Jesse was a very early riser he seldom missed a sunrise. I've seen all kinds of sunrises come in through that there gate he said dreamily one morning when I myself had made a heroic effort at early rising and found him on the rocks halfway between his house and ours I've been all over and take it all in all I've never seen a finer sight than a summer sunrise out there beyond the gate a man can't pick his time for dying Mary just gotta go when the captain gives his sail in orders but if I could I'd go out when the morning comes in there at the gate I've watched it many times and thought what a thing it might be to pass out through that great white glory to whatever was waiting beyond on a sea that ain't mapped out on any earthly chart I think Mary I'd find lost Margaret there he had already sold her he rarely spoke of her but when he did his love for her trembled in every tone a love that had never grown faint or forgetful Uncle Jesse was 70 it was 50 years since last Margaret had fallen asleep one day in her father's story and drifted as was supposed for nothing was ever known certainly of her fate across the harbor and out of the gate to perish in the black thunder squall that had come suddenly that long ago afternoon but to Uncle Jesse those 50 years I walked the shore for months after that he said sadly looking to find her dear sweet little body but the sea never gave her back to me but I'll find her sometime I wish and I could tell you just how she looked but I can't I've seen a fine silvery miss hanging over the gate at sunrise that seemed like her and then again I've seen a white birch in the woods back yonder that made me think of her she had pale brown hair and a little white face and long slender fingers like yours I wake up in the night and hear the sea calling to me in the old way and it seems as if lost Margaret called in it and when there's a storm and the waves are sobbing and moaning I hear her lamenting among them and when they laugh on a gay day it's her laugh lost Margaret's sweet little laugh the sea took her from me but someday I'll find her Mary it can't keep us apart forever I had not been long at Golden Gate before I saw Uncle Jesse's life book as he quaintly called it he needed no coaxing to see it and he proudly said it was an old leather bound book filled with the record of his voyages and adventures I thought what a veritable treasure trove it would be to a writer every sentence was a nugget in itself the book was no literary merit Uncle Jesse's charm of storytelling filled him when it came to pen and ink he could only jot roughly down the outlines of his famous tales and both spelling and grammar were sadly a skew but I felt that if anyone possessing the gift outlines the tale of dangers staunchly faced and duties manfully done a wonderful story might be made from it pure comedy and thrilling tragedy were both lying hidden in Uncle Jesse's life book waiting for the touch of the magician's hand to waken the laughter and grief and horrors of thousands I thought of my cousin Robert Kennedy who juggled with words in a masterly fashion but complained that he found it hard to create incidents or characters here were both ready to his hand in the interest of his paper in the fall when the harbor lay black and sullen under November skies mother and I went back to town parting with Uncle Jesse regretfully we wanted him to visit us in town during the winter but he shook his head it's too far away Mary if lost Margaret called me I might not hear her there I must be there when my time comes he can't be very far off now I wrote often to Uncle Jesse through the winter and sent him books and magazines he enjoyed them and truly enough that none of them came up to his life book for real interest if my life book could be took and ripped by someone that know how it would beat them holler he wrote in one of his few letters to me in the spring we returned joyfully to Golden Gate it was as golden as ever and the harbor as blue the wind still roll up as gaily and sweetly and the breakers boomed outside the bar as of your all was in change save Uncle Jesse he had aged greatly and seemed frail and bent he had gone home from his first call on us mother cried Uncle Jesse will soon be going to seek last Margaret she said in June Robert came I took him promptly over to see Uncle Jesse who was very much excited when he found that Robert was a real writing man Robert wants to hear some of your stories Uncle Jesse I said tell him the one about the captain who went crazy and imagined he was the flying Dutchman this was Uncle Jesse's best story it was a compound of humor and horror and though I had laughed as heartily and shivered as fearsomely over it as Robert did other tales followed Uncle Jesse had told how his vessel had been run down by a steamer how he had been boarded by Mele pirates how his ship had caught fire how he had helped a political prisoner escape from a South American Republic he never said a boastful word but it was impossible to help seeing what a hero the man had been brave true resourceful unselfish skillful he sat there in his poor little room those things live again for us by a lift of the eyebrow a twist of the lip a gesture a word he painted some whole scene or characters so that we saw it as it was finally he lent Robert his life book Robert sat up all night reading it and came to the breakfast table in great excitement Mary this is a wonderful book if I could take it and garb it properly work it up into a systematic whole and string it suppose he would let me do it let you I think he would be delighted I answered and he was he was excited as a schoolboy over it at last his cherished dream was to be realized and his life book given to the world will collaborate said Robert you will give the soul and I the body oh we'll write a famous book between us Uncle Jesse and we'll get right to work Uncle Jesse was a happy man that summer he looked Robert talked everything over with Uncle Jesse but would not let him see the manuscript you must wait till it's published he said then you'll get it all at once in its best shape Robert delved into the treasures of the life book and used them freely he dreamed and brooded over lost Margaret until she became a vivid reality to him and lived in his pages as the book progressed it took possession of him and he worked at it with feverish concluding chapter of the book which the critics later on were pleased to call idyllic was modeled after my suggestions so that I felt as if I had a share in it too it was autumn when the book was finished Robert went back to town but my mother and I decided to stay at Golden Gate all winter we loved the spot and besides I wished to remain for Uncle Jesse's sake he was failing all the time and after Robert went the excitement of the book making was passed he failed still more rapidly his tramping expeditions were over and he seldom went out in his boat neither did he talk a great deal he liked to come over and sit silently for hours at our seaward window looking out wistfully toward the gate with his swiftly whitening head leaning on his hands the only keen interest he still had was in Robert's book he waited and watched impatiently for its publication I want to live till I see it he said just that long then I'll be ready to go he said it would there were times when I doubted sadly if he would hang on as the winter wore away he grew frailer and frailer but ever he looked forward to the coming of spring and the book his book transformed and glorified one day in young April the book came at last Uncle Jesse had gone to the post office faithfully every day for a month expecting it but this day he was too feeble to go and I went for him the book was there it was called simply the life book of Jesse Boyd and on the title page the names of Robert Kennedy and Jesse Boyd were printed as collaborators I shall never forget Uncle Jesse's face as I handed it to him I came away and left him reading it oblivious to all else all night the light burned in his window and I looked out across the sands to it and pictured the delight of the old man pouring over the printed pages whereon his own life was portrayed I wondered how he would like the ending the ending I suggested I was never to know after breakfast I went over to Uncle Jesse's house taking some little delicacy mother had cooked for him it was an exquisite morning full of delicate spring tints and sounds the harbor was sparkling and dimpling like a girl the winds were playing hide and seek grogishly among the stunted furs and the silver flashing gulls were soaring over the bar beyond the gate was a shining wonderful sea when I reached the little house on the point I saw the lamp still burning wainly in the window a quick alarm struck my heart without waiting to knock he was lying on the sofa by the window with the book clasped to his heart his eyes were closed and on his face was the look of the most perfect piece in happiness the look of one who has long sought and found at last we could not know what hour he had died but somehow I think he had his wish and went out when the morning came in through the golden gate out on the shining tide his spirit was lost and he had died but he was at last he had died but somehow he had died but he was at last he had died but he had gone outside of the bar and found at last he had died but he was in the window by the window where he had died Janie's visitor Mr. and Mrs. Franklin had gone to town early in the morning, leaving many charges with Aunt Rebecca and Janie. They did not expect to be back before dark, and Aunt Rebecca and Janie were to keep house. Now, Janie, you must be a very good girl and do just as Aunt Rebecca tells you, said Mrs. Franklin. Don't let the hens scratch up my pansy bed, Rebecca, and don't leave the house alone. Now, for a good time, laughed Aunt Rebecca when they had gone. And she and Janie had it. Janie always liked to be left to keep house with Aunt Rebecca. Auntie was so jolly and kind and knew just what little girls liked. They made some molasses taffy and pulled it. Then Janie helped Aunt Rebecca shell the peas for dinner and was told a delightful fairytale as a reward. Then they had their dinner and what fun it was. Just the two of them sitting at the big table. It makes me feel so nice and grown up, said Janie. After the dishes were washed, Aunt Rebecca said, do you think you can keep house by yourself for a little while? I want to go back to the clearing and pick a few raspberries. We can't both go because somebody must watch the hens. I'll sit out in the hammock and watch them, said Janie. I've got my new storybook to read. I do think keeping house is such fun, Auntie. When Aunt Rebecca came out with her son bonnet on and a pail in her hand, Janie was curled up in the hammock deeply absorbed in the fortunes of the beautiful Princess Lollipop. I may not be back in time for tea at the usual hour, Janie, said her aunt. So I have put your supper on the dining room table. You can eat it when you get hungry. Now, don't forget that you must watch the hens as well as read about your princess. Janie promised and Aunt Rebecca departed. The Lollipop adventures were very fascinating. The hens behaved themselves well and the minutes flew by so swiftly that very soon it was four o'clock. I believe I'm hungry, said Janie to herself. And as Auntie hasn't come home, I'll go in and get my tea. She sprang out of the hammock and ran around to the kitchen door. Much to her surprise, a man was standing there. He was very tall and dark, and his clothes were worn and dusty and didn't seem to fit him very well either. His black hair was closely cropped and his eyes were hollow and restless. Just above one of them was a very peculiar scar. He gave a start when Janie popped around the corner and his hand went furtively to his pocket. Good afternoon, said Janie politely. She did not know him at all, but it would never do to forget her good manners. Good afternoon, returned the visitor, looking down at her with an odd expression. He spoke roughly and he still looked suspiciously at the corner around which she had come. I suppose you want to see father or Aunt Rebecca, said Janie gravely. If it is father, you can't because he and mother went to town today and won't be back until night. But if it's Aunt Rebecca, you can if you wait a little while. She's back in the clearing, picking raspberries. Is it Aunt Rebecca? The man allowed himself a grin smile. I guess it is Aunt Rebecca as much as anyone, he said. I thought so, said Janie confidently. Gentlemen are always coming to see Aunt Rebecca. Well, come in and sit down, please. I can talk to you until she comes, that is, if you'd like to have me. She added, looking doubtfully up in the dark face. It softened a little as she spoke. He turned and followed her into the kitchen. Yes, I guess I would. It's so long since I've talked to a little girl, though, that maybe I've forgotten how you look like one I used to know. How long do you think it'll be before your Aunt Rebecca comes back? Well, I'm afraid it'll be a good while yet. Not much before sunset, but you mustn't sit down here. When people come to see Aunt Rebecca, she always takes them into the parlor. This way, please. The man followed this time with a smile on his face. Janie ushered him into the parlor, pointed to an easy chair and pulled up the blinds. Then she sat down in front of him. Did you ever read the story of the Princess Lollipop? She asked gravely. No, I don't think I ever did, said the visitor. It's a lovely story, said Janie with a sigh. I've been out in a hammock all afternoon reading it. Do you like fairy stories? Well, I haven't read any for a good spell. I used to read them long ago to a little girl. Janie looked at him curiously, wondering what made his voice quiver like that. Was she your little girl? She asked softly. The man nodded. Yes, she was just about your age. She had big blue eyes and long brown curls just like you. She she died a long time ago. Janie slid from her chair, went across the room and put her hand in his. Oh, I'm so sorry. I'm really, truly sorry for you. And you have no little girl at all now? No, none at all. That must be dreadful. Would you like me to be your little girl just while you're here? I guess so. Well then, you may lift me up on your knee and I'll kiss you. That's the way father does when I'm his little girl. Yes, that's right. I guess you used to lift your own little girl like that. Or you wouldn't know her so well. What was her name? Minnie. That's a pretty name. Mine is Elizabeth Jane Franklin, but everybody calls me Janie. And you may too. Now I'll kiss you again. Your whiskers are a little in my way, but you're a very nice man, I think. You look tired. Did you walk far? All right, smart ways, admitted the man. Dear me, then I expect you're hungry. Are you kinder that way? Janie slid down. So am I. Aunt Rebecca put my supper all ready for me on the dining room table. But of course, they won't be enough for two, so I must get something more. You'll excuse me if I leave you alone for a few minutes, won't you? Oh, certainly. Don't mention it, said her visitor politely. I think he's a real nice man, said Janie to herself as she trotted around the pantry. I like him very much, but he's very shabby. It's a wonder he didn't dress up a little when he came to see Aunt Rebecca. They all do. Tea is ready now, she announced, reappearing at the parlor door. She put her hand in his and led him out through the hall. I expect you'll think I've been a dreadful long time, but I had to hunt about a good bit and climb on chairs to get the case down. Aunt Rebecca puts them away so carefully. Now you sit here, please. This is Father's chair. Will you please excuse me giving you a steel knife and fork? I looked for the silver ones, but they weren't in the sideboard drawer. I suppose Aunt Rebecca has put them somewhere else. Don't mention it, said her guest again. Janie climbed into her chair and looked at him gravely. Will you say grace? She asked the dark face opposite her turned crimson. I guess I'm out of practice. He said, Grimly, it's a good spell since I've done that. You'll have to excuse me. Then I must say it myself, said Janie, reflectively. And I'm not sure that I know just how, but it would never do to have our tea without some kind of grace. Now fold your hands just as I do and bow your head and I'll do the best I can. You won't mind if I make mistakes, will you? Not at all, said the man reassuringly. Janie shut her eyes. Dear God, please bless to our use the food we are going to, I mean, about to eat and forgive all our sins for Jesus sake. Amen. There, that's a great deal. Like Father says, if not exactly now, please help yourself because my arms aren't long enough to reach across the table to you. I'll help myself was the answer and he did. Janie thought he must be very hungry indeed. She was hungry herself. So the meal was a silent one. When it was over, her guests arose. Are you sure you have had enough? Asked Janie politely. Then we can go back to the parlor. Well, I guess if you'll excuse my going right away after meal time, I'll be moving on. There's so many people anxious to see me that I can't stay long in one place, you know, but aren't you going to wait and see Aunt Rebecca? Asked Janie in surprise. Well, no, I shall have to deny myself that pleasure. You can tell her how sorry I was. He hesitated a moment and then took a clumsy parcel wrapped in a newspaper out of his pocket and handed it to her. Give that to your father when he comes home, little girl, and don't open it until he does. Is it a present? Asked Janie. Well, no, not exactly. He answered with a grim smile, but you can tell him he wouldn't have got it if it hadn't been for you. Now, will you kiss me goodbye before I go? Of course, the man stooped and lifted her in his arms. For a minute, he held her closely and kissed her forehead. Then he put her gently down. Goodbye, little girl, he said huskily, and God bless you. Half an hour later, Aunt Rebecca came home just as Mr. and Mrs. Franklin drove in at the gate. Why, what brings you home so early? cried Aunt Rebecca. I didn't look for you for hours yet. Well, we didn't expect to be home this early ourselves, answered Mr. Franklin, but we heard some news over at Valley Ford that made us rather anxious, seeing that we'd left you and Janie here all alone. The notorious Dick Crawford escaped from the penitentiary at Wilmington three weeks ago. He's a tough character. They haven't been able to recapture him so far, but I think that he can't elude them much longer. He's hiding around the country somewhere and it was rumored that he was heading for these parts. So I thought we'd better come right home. In her excitement over the bundles and parcels in the big wagon, Janie forgot all about her mysterious visitor until the family were seated around the tea table. Then she remembered him. Oh, Aunt Rebecca, I forgot to tell you, there was a man here to see you this afternoon. He stayed a good while and I got him his tea and then he said he had to go and I was to tell you how sorry he was. Who was it? Asked Aunt Rebecca. I don't know. He didn't tell me his name, but he was a real nice man. He said he had a little girl like me once and oh, yes, he gave me that parcel on the sideboard for you father and said to tell you if it hadn't been for me, you wouldn't have got it. What did he mean? Do you think Mr. Franklin got up and opened the parcel with a puzzled air. Then he gave an exclamation that brought everyone around him. There lay a dozen silver spoons as many knives and forks and a purse. Why those are our spoons exclaimed Janie. How did they come there? Mr. Franklin and his wife and Aunt Rebecca looked at each other. Janie said her father. When did that man come and what did he look like? Janie told her story and he was tall and black looking. She finally concluded and had such a funny mark over his left eye like a big three cornered cut and he looked so tired and dusty. That was Dick Crawford said Mr. Franklin in a husky voice. There is an adult to think of the risk you ran and there are $50 in that purse. I left it in the sideboard drawer. Wouldn't escape for you. I'm sure he wouldn't have hurt anyone. cried Janie indignantly. He was a real nice kind man and I promise I'd be his little girl in place of his own. She died long ago. Bless your dear little heart. I suppose even Dick Crawford has a good spot left in his nature yet and you found it. It's a curious story and we can't be too thankful it has turned out as well as it has. But this is the last of leaving you home alone. I'll never do it again. Well, I think he was as nice as could be said Janie staunchly and she thinks so yet. And of section 66 section number 67 of uncollected short stories of L.M. Montgomery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Barry Howarth, Brisbane, Australia. Uncollected short stories of L.M. Montgomery by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Section 67 in the home of her mother by L.M. Montgomery. Catherine Taylor sprang out of the automobile under the poplars of the lawn, ignoring the outstretched hand of the man who had been her companion for the afternoon. She had always hated to touch that hand. It was so plump, so remorseless, so prosperous. In short, so expressive of the personality of its owner. Yet she had allowed Richard Harvey to propose to her during their ride. And although she had not yet accepted him, about nine tenths of her mind was made up to do so. It was because of the remaining troublesome one tenth that she had asked him to wait a week for his answer. Harvey had agreed with some ill concealed surprise. He had not expected that she would ask for delay. He knew perfectly well that she was not in love with him, but he had no doubt that she would marry him. Moreover, Catherine knew he had no doubt. She went slowly upstairs to her room and sat wearily down by the window. Clasping her hands on her lap, she gazed frowningly out at the sharp blue sky over the treetops. In the high, clear light of the window, she did not look so young as in the poplar shadow of the lawn. There were fine lines and the clear paleness of her skin. The large gray eyes were tired and in the heavy, glossy black hair that framed her face, a gray hair was visible. Yet she was very beautiful. Richard Harvey, when he decided that the time had come to marry, had passed in critical mental review all the eligible women of his acquaintance and had concluded that for beauty of face, distinction of manner and taste in dress, none could compete with Catherine Taylor. What sort of a soul might be pent up within that beautiful body he neither knew nor questioned. It was enough that she would do him credit as the bearer of his name and the mistress of his house. And he thought Catherine was a very lucky young woman to fill the bill so perfectly. Some might have asked for a trifle more in the way of youth and freshness, and perhaps in appreciation of the gifts and graces of Richard Harvey, but he was satisfied with good looks and good breeding and good birth. Though, to be sure, Catherine's mother was said to have been a country nobody, of whom the other members of her husband's family had always been ashamed. It was even said that Catherine Taylor had a grandmother living who had once taken in washing. This, Richard Harvey put down as probably an envious falsehood. At any rate, the obnoxious grandmother was never seen or heard of in the Taylor set. And certainly the tailors were beyond criticism. All things considered, Richard Harvey could not understand why Catherine should have asked for that extra week. A little bit of bluff to enhance the value of her yes when it does come, he reflected, with a smile of amusement as he drove home. Just as Richard Harvey smiled thus amusedly, Catherine Taylor was wondering drearily if, after all, old maidenhood, even in her aunt's house and circle, could be worse than marrying the said Richard Harvey. She sprang up and paced the room restlessly. For the first time in her life, she felt weak. She wished there was someone to whom she could turn for advice. Someone to give me strength, she said impatiently. Strength either to refuse Richard Harvey or marry him. Either seems equally hard, but to whom can I turn? To whom indeed? Aunt Isabel? Catherine smiled bitterly, thinking of that worldly, ambitious woman. There was little doubt what Mrs. Blair Taylor's advice, urgent advice, would be if it were asked. Mrs. Blair Taylor would think her niece no better than an imbecile to dream that there could be any question of refusing Richard Harvey and his millions. Mrs. Blair Taylor felt sore enough already over the fact that Catherine, with all her beauty and advantages, was still unmarried at 30. Her uncle Blair? Again Catherine smiled, this time amusedly to think of her uncle Blair advising anybody, why he had never in his life been able to decide for himself what necktie he should wear. Catherine felt suddenly desolate and lonely. She was at the crossways of life. Everything depended on the path she chose now, and in this hour of her need, there was not a soul to whom she could go, sure of wise, disinterested counsel. She had not even the memory of an old love to guide her, for she had never loved. On the one side was the hateful, useless life of the passe society woman. On the other, a brilliant existence as the share of Richard Harvey's career and wealth. All Catherine's tastes and ambitions inclined her to the latter, but deep down in her consciousness, some lofty, instinctive ideal struggled with the influences of education and environment. If mother had lived, she said longingly. And then came a sudden thought of that old grandmother up in the country, her mother's mother whom she had never seen, whom she had been told was a poor, uneducated old woman. She knew nothing of her beyond the few contemptuous references she had in her childhood, heard Mrs. Blair Taylor make. Catherine knew that her father was supposed to have made a shocking misaliance when he had married Lynn Cameron in some little farming settlement where he had wandered in a vacation, and that was almost all she did know of her parents, both of whom had died in her babyhood. She had a picture of her father, a handsome man whom she was accounted to resemble strongly, but of her mother she had nothing, not even a line of her handwriting or a trinket she had worn. She had never cared to ask Aunt Isabella about her, and all Uncle Blair seemed to be able to say was that Lynn was a nice little woman, and he couldn't see why the family had kicked up such a fuss because Alan had married her. Of course she was poor. She taught a district school and her mother took in washing, they said, before Alan married her. Uncle Blair had conceded reluctantly, and it was to this old mother who had so disgraced herself by taking in washing that Catherine's thoughts now persistently turned. This woman was nearer to her in the ties of flesh than any living creature. What if I were to go to her and tell her my difficulty? Is it possible she might help me to decide wisely? The next morning Catherine Taylor paused at the pine-guarded gate of a little garden before the house where, as she had been told at the country station, old Mrs. Cameron lived. It was a tiny grey house with square windows, winkling through a veil of honeysuckle vines. Niled old apple trees stretched motherly arms, white and pink with blossoms about it. The little garden was trim and sweet and fresh with springtime air and winds and flowers. As Catherine opened the gate, a woman came around the house, followed by a big white and yellow cat. They met in the centre of the hard moist red path with its border of clamshells. Catherine, looking at the woman, saw an elusive, indefinable resemblance to herself in bearing an expression and knew that this was the old grandmother she had come to seek. The realisation brought a shock of surprise for old Mrs. Cameron was not at all the bent, aged personage Catherine had unconsciously been expecting to see. She was not very old, certainly no more than sixty-seven or eight. She had a tall, slender, erect figure with sloping shoulders. She wore a dress of lilac hued print made in some quaint old-fashioned way and a crisp, capacious gingham apron. She was bare-headed and the shadow of the apple-bows fell on her soft, crimped, greyish hair, which was combed down and twisted over her ears in the style of an elder day. She had a white knitted shawl over her shoulders and at the curve of her arm she carried a tiny, furry grey morsel of a kitten. Her face was fresh and clear-cut with lines, but no deep wrinkles. Her mouth was shrewd and humorous with firm corners, but her eyes captured Catherine and justified the impulse which had led her to seek this woman for counsel and help. So deep and steady and kindly were they, the eyes of a woman who had suffered much and learned much and won through struggle to victory and peace. Into those eyes, as they looked on the tall, trim, fashionably gowned young woman before her, came a wonderful expression of maternity. She gently placed the kitten on the grass and held out her hand before Catherine had spoken. You are my grandchild, Catherine, she said, and I am glad to see you. You have been long in coming, but I have always known that Lynn's daughter would come to me sometime. Catherine took the outstretched hand, but the next moment they were in each other's arms. A flood of affection, such as she had never felt for any human being, rushed into Catherine's heart for this plain old woman with the wise eyes. Oh, Grandmother, she said simply, like a child, I have come to get you to tell me what to do. There, there, Mrs. Cameron padded the girl's shoulder. We'll have a big talk by and by. You're tired now and hungry. It's pretty near dinner time. You'll just be resting while I get it, dearie. I haven't very long to stay this time, said Catherine regretfully. I ran away. Nobody knew I was coming. I'll have to be back this evening. Oh, well, we'll make the most of the time while you can be here. Said Mrs. Cameron, stooping to pick up the kitten again. It's wonderful how well two people can get acquainted in an afternoon if they do nothing else. Come in, dearie. Come right upstairs. When they reached the little landing, lighted by a narrow window before which hung shelves filled with blossoming plants, Mrs. Cameron turned to a door at the right. The spare room is over there, she said. But I'm going to take you in here. There's never been anybody but myself in this room for 30 years. Catherine found herself in a long, narrow room with a ceiling so low that she could touch it with her hand. The bare, beautifully white floor was spread with round braided mats. There was a window seat of some dark polished wood and over it hung white muslin curtains. A little round table near it held a work basket, a few books and a blue and white striped jar. The bureau was high and black with shining brass draw handles. The low bed was covered with a blue and white Irish chain quilt and the snowy pillow slips were trimmed with knitted lace. The walls were hung with diamond patterned paper in shades of faded pink. On one of them hung a pale blue muslin dress with tiny sprays of rose buds in it. Do you know whose room this is? asked Mrs. Cameron. My mother's answered Catherine unhesitatingly. Yes, I kept it just as it was when she lived here. That's her dress on the wall, the one she was wearing when she met your father. She was very fond of this room. She used to sit on that window board there and so and read. I've never been able to believe that she is dead. She was so full of life and spirits. When I come here, I always feel as if she were here, too. I wish I had a picture of her, but she never had any taken. She had a kind of prejudice against getting her picture taken. Her father was just the same and her that was so pretty and clever as she was pretty. I guess Mrs. Cameron turned and laid a hand on Catherine's shoulder. They haven't told you much about your mother. Nothing, nothing, murmured Catherine, her eyes full of tears. I'm just as glad. I'm just as glad. It'll be all for me to tell and I can tell it better than anyone else. You don't look like her. You look more like me than her, but more like your father than either of us. He was a handsome man and a good man. I never had anything against him. If he'd lived, you wouldn't have been 30 years coming to see me. Why, Catherine, when you were a baby, I was just a young woman, only 38. It seems just like the other day, dearie, when your mother wrote me from England, telling me you were born and longing for the time when she could bring you to show me. But she never was to come. Three months after that, just three months, she died. Well, dearie, I'll go down and get dinner. You just rest yourself. Lie down on the bed if you like. I'll leave the kitten with you for company. Ain't he a dear thing? Left alone, Catherine took off her hat and coat and brushed her hair before the little oval mirror, which must have so often reflected her mother's face. Then she went about the room, looking at everything lovingly and reverently. She buried her face in the fragrant folds of the muslin gown. She sat on the window seat and turned over the yellow pages of the books on the table. Finally, she dropped into the little rocker by the bed and laid her head on the pillow, which had last been pressed by her mother's head. The kitten swarmed up her dress and curled itself up in her lap, making an absurdly loud noise of purring for so small a creature. Little flecks of sunshine fell dancing about her through the close, crowding apple trees outside. For the first time her mother seemed real to her. The world and the vanities thereof seemed very unholdsome and far away. It was profanation to think of Richard Harvey in this maiden chamber, where only the highest and holiest of virgin dreams must enter. Catherine felt as if she had received a re-baptism of youth, as if she had come into her own and her own had received her gladly. It was as if this life were her natural habitat and the life she had lived for 30 years, an alien existence spent in a quest that never gave completion or satisfaction. I've got home, she said simply. Oh, why did I never find the way here before? After dinner, the two women spent a beautiful afternoon. Mrs Cameron took Catherine everywhere, over house and garden and orchard, everywhere her mother had been. The history of everything was told in the gracious, simple words of one who loved these things. Catherine heard all the idyllic story of her mother's wooing. Your father fell in love with her at first sight when he saw her in church one day. She was only 18, Catherine, just my little girl. I hadn't even begun to think of her getting married. She was so pretty and girlish. She had curly brown hair and big brown eyes, and she was a little, little thing, like a bird or flower. Two months from the day he saw her in church, they were married. This is the maple tree here they were married under. It is old and half dead now, but I would never have it touched. It was the fall then, and it was all red and yellow. I remember seeing the light fall through it on Lin's white dress in spots like blood. I didn't like to see it. It seemed to me like a bad omen, though I think it is foolish to believe in things like that. Lind was so happy that day. But I felt dreadful. I felt far worse than if she'd been marrying a poor man. It seemed as if she was going out of my life altogether, and I couldn't see how I was ever going to get along without her. We'd always been so much to each other. Her father died before she was born. He never saw his little daughter. Lind was his name, and I gave it to her. I was desperate poor in them days. I ain't so poor now. My brother, who died when Lind was ten years old, left me enough to live on. But then all I had to keep us with the bit of rent for a little piece of land my husband had owned, and what I earned doing washing and day's work for my neighbours. But we got along, and was so happy. It's no matter if a body's poor if she's got something to love. Often I just sit here and think over and over about those old days, and all the fun we had. Planning, and talking, and working together. Lind taught school the year before your father came. She was that proud the night she brought her first quarter's salary home to me. Nothing would do her, but I must get a silk dress. I'd never had one. I had to let her have her own way, and it was the dress I wore when she was married. I never wore it again. I'll show it to you. Lind and I made it together, and there's one place under a ruffle where there's a little blood stain she made one day she pricked her finger with her needle. After they were married, your father took her to England, and they had a perfectly happy year. Lind wrote me every week, come up to her room, and I'll show you her letters. You can read them while I'm getting tea. Sitting on the old window seat of her mother's room, Catherine read her mother's letters. They stirred her to the very depths of her being, especially those in which that little unknown mother had written about her baby. All my thoughts are poetry, dear mother, since baby came. Linda Taylor had written in one letter. She is so sweet and good, and her eyes are going to be grey like yours and Alan's. I love her best when she is asleep and better still when she is awake. Someday she will be a woman. It makes my heart stand still to think of it. You and I both know now what it is to be a woman. You in your old knowledge and I in my new. And it is so beautiful to be a woman. But when I think of my little baby being one. Oh, my heart stands still. I pray much for her. But all I dare to pray for is that she may be very wise in the law of all things simple and good and true. Nothing else matters, I think. Oh, I hope my little baby will never be false to her birthright of womanhood. Will you give me this one letter to keep, grandmother? Catherine asked when Mrs Cameron rejoined her. Yes, dearie, when I'm gone you shall have them all. But I want the rest to keep as long as I live. Come down to tea now. I've made the little cakes your mother always was so fond of. Lin's cakes, we always call them. You needn't worry a might over getting to the station. Pete Harding's just been in a neighbour's son. And he's going to drive you over. Your train doesn't leave till nine o'clock, so we'll have a lovely evening. In the spring twilight they sat on the front door steps, hand in hand. The kitten slept on Mrs Cameron's lap, and the white and yellow cat sat gravely at her feet. Down below the garden was a little shallow pond whose waters were silver and pearl and glimmer. All around it grew slender willows, and in it the frogs were singing a sweet melancholy chorus. The moon shone down through the tall pines at the gate. Catherine told her story and the old grandmother listened in silence. He is a rich man and he is in the midst of a successful career, concluded Catherine. All my friends wish me to marry him. If I do not, things will not be very pleasant for me. There was so much to be said for it, so much that seemed to override any objection I could make. I have never loved, but I had my ideal of love, and I knew I should be false to it if I married Richard Harvey. I could not decide what to do, so I came to you to ask you to help me. Your mother wouldn't have done it, dearie, was all Mrs Cameron said. No, I know she wouldn't, and her daughter will not do it either. I came to you for advice, but I do not need it now. This day and my mother's letters have shown me what path I must take, the only path I can take, no matter what it may hold for me of difficulty and loneliness. I shall never marry Richard Harvey. Maybe you won't find the right path so hard and lonely after all, dearie. The right path is always easier to walk in than the wrong one, when all is said and done. Aunt Isabelle will cast stumbling blocks and thwart it for a while, I expect, said Catherine, smiling through her tears. May I come and live with you through the summer, Grandmother, until she has become resigned to my folly? Yes, dearie, come and stay with me as long and as often as you like. As long as I live, I'll be always here and always heart glad to see you. You can have your mother's room. But I hear Peter's buggy rumbling over the log bridge. Are you sure you've got plenty on, dearie? These spring nights have awful heavy dues. The two women took leave of each other at the gate under the pines with a long, silent arm clasp. There was a great peace in the hearts of both. End of Section 67. Section number 68 of Uncollected Short Stories of L. M. Montgomery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org recording by Lola Janey of Virginia. Uncollected Short Stories of L. M. Montgomery by Lucy Maude Montgomery. Florey's Sacrifice. It is a fortunate thing that I have pretty hair, said Florey Wood, as she brushed out the long, glistening strands. For I certainly have nothing else to recommend me personally. She was the commonplace child of the Wood family. Lillian was a beauty and Josie was clever and Laura was expected to do wonderful things in music. But no one ever predicted a career for Florey. She was plain and quiet and never led her classes. To be sure, she had some merits, even gifts. She was sweet-tempered and a general favorite in a quiet, unobtrusive way. She was mother's girl and to her fell naturally all the little household duties that a beauty or a musician rarely concerned herself with. As she said, she had one beauty, her hair. It was magnificent. And as she was only a flesh and blood girl in her teens, I'm not going to say that she did not feel a certain little thrill of vanity at the admiration it always excited. It was very thick and long with a natural ripple and gloss and was of that perfect reddish gold so rarely found and never simulated. Florey was proud of her crown of glory. She gave it the most careful attention and would never allow a lock of it to be cut. Mr. Wright, the proprietor of the hair goods store on Waymouth Street, always looked at it longingly. Once he said to her, Miss Florey, if you ever want to get rid of that wig of yours, let me know, won't you? Hair of that color is worth a great deal. Florey had laughed gaily enough sell her hair indeed. Her one compensation for snubbed nose and freckles. She would as soon as thought of selling her head. It had been planned for a long time in the wood household that Mrs. Wood should make a visit to her sister in the old home. The woods were not rich and such journeys were few and far between, especially for the mother. But now it really seemed as if her visit was to be made at last. She expected to be gone for a month and was looking forward to it with great delight. But finally, Mrs. Wood began to feel doubtful about it. And one afternoon she told Florey with a little sigh that she had decided not to go after all. She would wait until next year. My mother, I thought it was all decided long ago, exclaimed Florey. What is the matter? Well, I'm afraid we can't afford it very well. The trip would cost fifty dollars, you know. And that seems a great deal of money to spend on pleasure. Your father has some bills to meet and Lillian must have a new dress for Mabel Lloyd's wedding. You see, we didn't know when we made our plans that Mabel was going to be married and Laura really needs a new violin. So many things seem to be needed. And I have given up the idea of going home for this year. In spite of herself, Mrs. Wood sighed again. She was more disappointed than she would acknowledge. It is too bad, thought Florey. Mother really needs the change for she's looking very tired and thin and she has been disappointed so often. I wish I knew some way to send her, but it is impossible. Later in the day, Florey went downtown on an errand and as she found herself in front of Mr. Wright's store, she suddenly stopped feeling the shock of a new idea which had darted into her mind on the headlong way new ideas have. She recalled what Mr. Wright had said about her hair. Could she sell it? No, she decided as she hurried on. It was preposterous to think of. But the question would not stay decided. It kept popping up again and again. She walked up on High Street in a brown study bumping against comers and goers unheedingly and holding an animated thought dialogue with herself. I simply could not. That's all. There's no use in thinking of such a thing. I should look a fright, but mother's not well and she needs change and rest. If I could only make up my mind to do it, but it's the only beauty I have. It would grow out again in time and the money would do mother so much good. And and it's nothing but vanity that is the matter with you, Florey would. Florey roused herself out of her reflections long enough to attend to her errand, then turned back opposite. Mr. Wright's, she paused irresolubly. The window was full of long switches of hair, brown and black and golden. But there was not one so long or so beautiful as her own. She hesitated a moment longer and then walked boldly in. Mr. Wright twinkled at her genealogy from behind the counter. Good afternoon, Miss Florey. Anything in my line today? Mr. Wright said, Floy, very fast and very breathlessly. Were you really in earnest that day when you said you would buy my hair if I ever wanted to sell it? Most certainly I was. I have coveted that hair of yours ever since I saw it. And what would you give me for it? Mr. Wright took the end of the braid in his fingers and held it out admiringly. Poor Florey winced. It almost seems as if it were gone already. Well, said Mr. Wright, it is of so rare a color that I will give you fifty dollars for it. She gasped just the sum she needed. It was like a storybook. Mr. Wright, you may have it. She said desperately, I want fifty dollars very much just now. But oh, do hurry and cut it up before I change my mind. And the next minute, Florey, biting her lips to keep back her tears was whisked off into Mr. Wright's inner sanctum to come out a few minutes later with very red eyes, a roll of bills in her hand and all her golden glory gone. She walked around town for a while to cool off her eyes, as she said when she went home, stalked into the sitting room and dropped the roll of bills into her mother's lap. Florey Wood, what have you been doing to yourself? Where is your hair? Gasp, Lillian. My dear child began Mrs. Wood. But Florey interrupted her. It's all right, mother. Mr. Wright said he would give me fifty dollars for my hair and that is just what you wanted. So I thought I would accept the offer and you are to go straight to Aunt Jenny's for your visit. Mrs. Wood would have sacrificed her visit ten times over rather than have Florey part with her hair. But she was a woman wise in her generation. And since the mischief was irreparably done, there was nothing for her to do now but show her appreciation of the motive that had prompted the girl's sacrifice. It was very good and unselfish of you, my dear. How can I ever thank you by going to Aunt Jenny's and coming home again? Well and strong. Don't worry a bit about my hair. It will grow again and it will be long enough by the time I am a young lady and want to come out. Don't you remember that old Aunt Lucinda used to say that what went to brains in other girls went to hair in me? So perhaps I may grow clever now and astonish you all. Mrs. Wood put the money away with the little trembling of her lips. She knew what it had cost Florey in spite of her lighthearted banter. For the eyes were not quite cooled off even yet. You look off right, said Lillian. Nobody will know you and all the girls will poke fun at you. How could you do it, child? Florey walked to the mirror and examined herself critically. I don't look as bad as I expected, she said, running her fingers through her short locks. In spite of your assertion, Lill, I think short hair is decidedly becoming to me and in a short time I shall have a crop of little golden ringlets all over my head that will drive you frantic with envy. I am not going to say that Florey did not have more than a little cry in secret over her hair. But they were all forgotten by the time Mrs. Wood came home again, looking years younger. Everybody declared and so well and strong that the girl felt more than repaid. Moreover, by that time, the clipped hair had grown into the predicted crop of little golden ringlets as fine and soft and glistening as silk and so becoming that Florey gaily declared that she was tempted to keep her hair short for the rest of her life. I don't feel half so much like a heroine as I did, she said, laughingly to her mother. If it had made a scarecrow of me, there might have been some merit in giving up my hair. But when it had resulted in such an improvement, I really can't take any credit at all. But Mrs. Wood had a different opinion. End of Section 68. Section 69 of Uncollected Short Stories of L. M. Montgomery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jamie Church. Uncollected Short Stories of L. M. Montgomery. By Lucy Maud Montgomery. A baking of ginger snaps. I believe this plum cake must be done. There's nothing comes off on the straw anyhow. Bessie, come and see what you think. The speaker held the oven door partly open and a warm, plummy odor streamed out. The girl who was filling tart shells at the table came over and peered in. Yes, I should say it was, Alma. You'd better take it out and then help me with the tarts. That's all we have to cook, isn't it? Yes, unless Aunt Clem takes a notion to have something more made at the last minute, it would be just like her. Bessie shrugged her shoulders and went back to her tarts. She was a very pretty girl, slender and graceful, with a straight, feminine nose and long, lashed, round eyes. Her fair hair curled around her blue veined brow and her pink and white skin was rather too ripely flushed with the heat. Alma was the taller of the two and some thought her the prettier. Her hair was dark and shining as brown nuts. Her eyes were deep gray with a certain undercurrent of roguishness in their depths. And when she smiled, the most delicious dimples started into unsuspected being in her round cheeks and the corners of her mouth. Both girls were enshrouded in kitchen aprons of dark blueprint, rather becoming and dainty with their wide frills, a waste of material which Aunt Clem considered rank extravagance. Alma had just gone into the pantry with her plum cake when Aunt Clem entered the kitchen. She was a handsome, dignified old lady with snowy curls and keen dark eyes. Both of her nieces stood in awe of their imperious aunt for her undeniable kindness to them was mingled with a great deal of scrutinizing and, as it seemed to them, unjust severity. Bessie, who was perched at the edge of the table, slipped quickly down, hoping her aunt had not seen her in such an undignified position and wondering uneasily what could be keeping Alma so long in the pantry? What if she were up to anything Aunt Clem would disapprove of? There is something else I want you to make, said Aunt Clem. I forgot to tell you this morning. But thinking of my old schoolmate, I have remembered that when we were girls together she was exceedingly fond of ginger snaps. So I want you girls to make some of your very best. Be sure and have them thin and crisp and don't burn them. I shall go and take a nap now. You may call me when dinner is ready. As soon as Aunt Clem disappeared, Alma emerged cautiously from the pantry. What were you up to in there? demanded Bessie. I expected Aunt Clem would march in to inspect our cookery and I was in mortal terror that you were doing something that would make her cross. That would be too bad for she is unusually good humorant this morning. Well, admitted Alma, when I went in I saw the dish we took the jam for the Washington pies out of and there was a little left. So I began to eat some. And it was so good I couldn't stop. I was eating all the time she was here. Although I expected nothing else but that she would come in and catch me at it. Did you hear what she said about the ginger snaps? Asked Bessie. It's too mean you'll have to make them Al for I never have good luck with them. I'll get the dinner while you are at it. I was relieved to find it was only ginger snaps said Alma getting briskly to work. It might have been pound cake or something it would have taken ages to make Aunt Clem is quite capable of it. But these won't take long. I'll just make the big square panful. That will be plenty. Alma had just put her pan full of satiny golden brown circles in the oven when a knock came at the front door. That's Mrs. Simmons. I know her knock said Alma you go best. I'm all over flower. Bessie went to the open front door on the step stood a chubby little woman with a cup of brown sugar in her hand. Good morning, dearie. I suppose you're busy as a bee just now and won't thank the old woman for bothering you. But I'll not keep you a minute. Not a minute says I to myself this morning. Now I'll just run over to Clementinies with that cup of brown sugar I borrowed a spell ago. And just as I was putting on my hat, Fanny Robinson runs in and asked me if I'd take a note up to you for her. So here it is, dearie, and it ought to excuse the old woman for bothering you. She handed it to Bessie with a significant smile. The girl crimsoned as she took it. She and Fanny Robinson's brother, George, had been going together for so long that the neighbors viewed it as a settled affair, although no one was certain. For Bessie was impervious to hints and nobody dared ask Aunt Clem anything about it. Just as Bessie unfolded her note, Alma came through the hall to preserve her sister from falling helplessly into Mrs. Simmons' clutches. I hear you aren't going to have company today. Quality folks from town. Insinuated Mrs. Simmons, I suppose you're tired getting ready for them. I said to Josiahs as I, what in the world is going to happen that Clem and Tinney is having company? It did seem so surprising. Are they Clem and Tinney's relations? Aunt Clem expects two of her cousins, said Alma composedly, and a Mrs. Roscoe, a lady whom Aunt Clem went to school with. She hasn't seen her for years, and they used to be great friends. Mrs. Simmons looked lingeringly past Alma at the parlor door. She would have liked very much to have gone in and seen if the plush set was uncovered, and heard if Aunt Clem deemed the occasion worthy of her rarely displayed old silver and eggshell china together with several minor details. With Bessie alone she could have managed to get in. But she stood considerably in awe of Alma, so with a rather disappointed farewell she took her departure. What made you tell her who Aunt Clem was expecting? reproached Bessie. That is just what the old thing came for, to pry and peer around, and she'll tell everything far and wide. Well, she would have made up a lot and told if I hadn't, said Alma, so it is just as well she should know the truth. I knew she wouldn't go till she found out something. What is in your note, Bessie? Fanny wants us to go over to tea tomorrow afternoon. You know that young Rogers, who is such a friend of George's, is there for his holidays. Do you think Aunt Clem will let us go? I'll tell you, said Alma, dimpling with delight over the possible pleasure. She is in good humor today. And if everything goes well and the tea is all right, she will be quite willing for us to go. We'll ask her after they. My goodness. What is that I smell? Oh, Bessie. They rushed frantically into the kitchen. It was filled with pungent smoke. Alma whipped open the oven door and then dropped in a disconsolate heap on the floor beside it. Oh, Bess, they are utterly ruined. What will Aunt Clem say? No ginger snaps for tea. And she will be furious over the waste. We can give up all idea of going to Fanny's. Oh, I wish Mrs. Roscoe had never been heard of. Bessie had retained sufficient presence of mind to close the door and prevent the telltale odor from permeating the house. Now she set the pan on the table and looked ruefully at the blackened ginger snaps. Oh, Alma, isn't it mean? What shall we do? Alma was not of a nature to yield tamely to despair. She picked herself up. If we could only keep Aunt Clem from finding it out, Bess. But she would know there were no ginger snaps, and that would be just as bad. No, I could mix another pan full right up and have them ready before she could suspect. Can't we hide them? That's it, said Bessie delightedly, put them in the pig's barrel. That would never do. Aunt Clem would be sure to see them, and even if she could forgive us for spoiling them, she never would for hiding it on her. Let's put them in those burdock's back of the house. My goodness, no, counter argued Bessie. Aunt Clem was hunting for eggs there last night, and she's liable to go any time again. Well, let us take them down to the brook and hide them in that old ratten stump no one will ever find them. Come on then, said Bessie resolutely, we have got to be quick. Here are four or five real good ones in this end of the pan, not burnt a bit. Shall we save them? No, bring all the unlucky things along, answered Elma, unconsciously voicing the decree of fate. Here, put them in my apron. Now, come. They slipped guiltily out of the house, climbed to the fence, and hurried down the sloping pasture field beyond. At the foot of the hill in a strip of woodland ran a brook. The girls reached it, breathless. Here is just what we want, said Bessie, stopping before a decayed stump. It's all hollow. Pile them in, El. So there. Now, pile some brush over the top. I guess those ginger snaps will never trouble anyone again. That stump is on George's land. Said Elma as they went back. If you should ever find them. But he couldn't, of course. It is only my guilty conscience. I must hurry with a fresh baking, for if there is any delay Aunt Clem will suspect. She is so given to suspecting things. Elma mixed up the new supply while Bessie set the table, nor would she budge from beside the oven until they were done to a brown nicety. Then she put them away in a tin box in the pantry and ate her dinner. The afternoon was in all respects a pleasant one. The expected guests came. The tea was a decided success. And when Mrs. Roscoe helped herself to her third ginger snap, she said, I see, Clem and Tina, that you have not forgotten my old partiality. These ginger snaps are simply delicious. Did you make them? Why, no, it was my niece. She is quite a good cook. I'm so glad you like them. Both girls felt assured that their morrow's pleasure was certain. After her visitors had gone, Aunt Clem said, Well, my dears, you really did very well today. I must say I was very much pleased, especially about the ginger snaps. Here Bessie nudged Elma to intimate that this was the golden moment for preferring her request. So Elma plucked up Heart of Grace and was rewarded by so kind and cordial a permission that, remembering the deceit practiced in regard to the ginger snaps, her conscience smoked her severely. Nevertheless, it did not spoil her next day's pleasure. Both girls enjoyed themselves to the utmost. The afternoon was fine and the much wondered about Mr. Rogers proved charming. He seemed particularly interested in Elma, who was looking very pretty in her white gown with a spray of yellow honeysuckle in her dark hair. The conversation was enjoyably smooth until they went out to tea. A plate of ginger snaps was on the table and Bessie and Elma exchanged significant glances when it was passed. Then, with a thrill of horror, Elma became conscious that George was speaking. What was he saying? Ginger snaps. That reminds me, mother. I forgot to tell you. Fred and I found a whole store of ginger snaps and an old stump down by the brook yesterday. Why, George, said his mother, ginger snaps in a stump. What joke are you silly boys up to now? Elma turned pale and caught Bessie's hand convulsively under the table. Both girls felt a chill premonition of coming disaster. Those fatal ginger snaps. Even Aunt Clem's wrath would have been preferable to this. Quite calmly, George went on. No joke at all. It is the sober truth. Fred and I were trouting up the brook yesterday and we came to that spring below the sheet pasture on the other farm, just about dinner time. We stopped to have a drink and a rest. Fred was sitting against an old, rotten stump. And just as he said that he was fearfully hungry and wished he had something to eat, he leaned back. And upon my word, if that stump didn't collapse and outtumbled a whole lot of ginger snaps, you needn't laugh. It is the sober truth. But George, who would go and put ginger snaps in a stump down there? That is just the mystery. Neither of us could explain it. But they were nearly all burnt black, except five that were just right. They were the best ginger snaps I ever tasted in my life. Fred declared that if he could find the girl who made them, we agreed that it must be a girl. He'd marry her. Just at this point an awful thing occurred. Bessie laughed. It was not a spontaneous ripple that might have passed for a disinterested amusement, but a horrible, self-conscious little giggle that tried to smuggle out of sight as if ashamed of its very existence. Alma shot a furious glance at her and poor Bessie made matters worse by blushing crimson. Then Fred definitely turned the talk into another channel. But the girl's pleasure in the day was gone. Alma felt the worse of the two, since she was the most involved. She felt sure that George would never rest until he had ferreted out the truth. Perhaps he suspected it now, and then Mr. Rogers would know. Why this should disturb her so, she did not ask herself. George and Fred walked home with the girls in the twilight. Presently, George and Bessie lagged behind while Alma and Fred walked ahead through the cool green lanes. It was a still, dim night. A few luminous stars blinked in and out in the sky. A full moon was rising redly in a hill gap. The girl held her white skirt daintily up from the damp road and walked directly along, the honeysuckle and wrapping her with a faint moving atmosphere of sweetness. Once or twice, from far behind came a sound of hearty laughter, which made Alma glance over her shoulder uneasily. What was George laughing at? Surely Bessie could never be telling him. She rather mistrusted her sister under the influence of George's persuasive tongue. Alma and Fred waited at the gate until George and Bessie came up, and the two young men went off down the road. Alma pounced like a vindictive fate on Bessie before she was fairly within the gate. Bessie, you mean thing! Did you go and tell George about those ginger snaps? Oh, Al, don't be cross. I couldn't help it. Bessie, you're the biggest goose I ever saw. But, Al, he guessed all about it. He really did. He said he knew we had something to do with it when he heard me laugh at tea time. He wouldn't give me any peace till I told him the whole thing. He'll tell Fred Rogers, moaned Alma. I don't see why you'd mind that, said innocent Bessie. He is only a stranger. But George will torment us about those wretched ginger snaps as long as we live. Oh, it's all right for you, said Alma, petulantly. You didn't make the things or suggest hiding them in a stump. Oh, it's an awful muddle. But it is comical. And Alma's shoulders shook with laughter. She possessed a sense of humor. Fred, I found out about the ginger snaps. Left George, when he was safely out of earshot, I knew those sly pusses were at the bottom of it. And it was Alma made them. They were frightened of their aunt. She is a regular old tartare, you know, and hid them, so she might not know. Well, Fred, my boy, are you going to do what you said? Mary the girl who made those ginger snaps? I am, if I can win her, said Fred decidedly. End of section 69. Recording by Jamie Church