 Section 1 of New Chronicles of Rebekah by Kate Douglas-Wigan. 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 Sean McGahey, ducktapeguy.net. And Cibella Denton. New Chronicles of Rebekah by Kate Douglas-Wigan. First Chronicle, Jack-O-Lantern, Part 1. Miss Miranda Sawyer's Old Fashioned Garden was the pleasantest spot in Riverboro on a sunny July morning. The rich color of the brick house gleamed and glowed through the shade of the elms and maples. Luxuriant hop vines clambered up the lightning rods and water spouts, hanging their delicate clusters here and there in graceful profusion. Woodbine transformed the old shed and tool house to things of beauty, and the flower beds themselves were the prettiest and most fragrant in all the countryside. A row of dalleas ran directly around the garden spot. Dalleas, scarlet, gold, and variegated. In the very center was a round plot where the upturned faces of a thousand pansies smiled amid their leaves, and in the four corners were triangular blocks of sweet flocks, over which the butterflies fluttered unceasingly. In the spaces between ran a ride of portalaca and the searchums, while in the more regular, shell-bordered beds, goose spirea and ghillie flowers, mignonette, merry-golds, and clove pinks. Back of the barn and encroaching on the edge of the hay field was a grove of sweet clover whose white feathery tips fairly bent under the assaults of the bees, while banks of aromatic mint and thyme drank in the sunshine and sent it out again into the summer air, warm and deliciously odorous. The hollyhocks were Miss Sawyer's pride, and they grew in a stately line beneath the four kitchen windows, their tapering tips set thickly with gay satin circuits of pink or lavender or crimson. They grow something like steeples, thought little Rebecca Randall, who was weeding the bed, and the flat round flowers are like rosettes, but steeples wouldn't be studded with rosettes, so if you were writing about them in a composition you'd have to give up one or the other, and I think I'll give up the steeples. Gay little hollyhock lifting your head, sweetly rosetted, out from your bed. It's a pity the hollyhock isn't really little instead of steepling up to the window-top, but I can't say gay tall hollyhock. I might have it lined to a hollyhock in May, for then it would be small, but oh no, I forgot, it may it wouldn't be blooming, and it's so pretty to say that its head is sweetly rosetted. I wish the teacher wasn't away, she would like sweetly rosetted, and she would like to hear me recite, roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll. That I learned out of Aunt Jane's Byron, the rolls come booming out of it just like the waves at the beach. I could make nice compositions now, everything is blooming so, and it's so warm and sunny and happy outdoors. Miss Dearborn told me to write something in my thought book every single day, and I'll begin this very night when I go to bed. Rebecca Rowena Randall, the little niece of the Brick House ladies, and at present so journeying there for purposes of board, lodging, education, and incidentally such discipline and chastening as might ultimately produce moral excellence. Rebecca Randall had a passion for the rhyme and rhythm of poetry. From her earliest childhood, words had always been to her what dolls and toys are to other children, and now at twelve she amused herself with phrases and sentences and images as her schoolmates played with the pieces of their dissected puzzles. If the heroine of a story took a cursory glance about her apartment, Rebecca would shortly ask her Aunt Jane to take a cursory glance at her over-sewing or hemming. If the villain aided and abetted someone in committing a crime, she would before long request the pleasure of aiding and abetting in dishwashing or bed-making. Sometimes she used the borrowed phrases unconsciously. Sometimes she brought them into the conversation with an intense sense of pleasure in their harmony or appropriateness. For a beautiful word or sentence had the same effect upon her imagination as a fragrant nose-gay, a strain of music, or a brilliant sunset. How are you getting on, Rebecca Rowena, called a preemptory voice from within? Pretty good, Aunt Miranda. Only I wish flowers would ever come up as thick as this pigweed and plantain and sorrel. What makes weeds be thick and flowers be thin? I just happened to be stopping to think a minute when you looked out. You think considerable more than you weed, I guess, by appearances? How many times have you peeked into that hummingbird's nest? Why don't you work all to once and play all to once, like other folks? I don't know, the child answered, confounded by the question, and still more by the apparent logic back of it. I don't know, Aunt Miranda, but when I'm working outdoors such a Saturday morning as this, the whole creation just screams to me to stop it and come and play. Well, you needn't go if it does, responded her aunt sharply. It don't scream to me when I'm rolling out these donuts, and it wouldn't to you if your mind was on your duty. Rebecca's little brown hands flew in and out among the weeds as she sought rebelliously. Creation wouldn't scream to Aunt Miranda. It would know she wouldn't come. Scream on, thou bright and gay creation, scream. Tis not Miranda that will hear thy cry. Oh, such funny nice things come into my head out here by myself. I do wish I could run up and put them down in my thought book before I forget them, but Aunt Miranda wouldn't like me to leave off weeding. Rebecca was weeding the Holly Hawk bed when wonderful thoughts came into her head. Her aunt was occupied with the rolling pin, and the thoughts of her mind were common and thin. That wouldn't do because it's mean to Aunt Miranda, and anyway it isn't good. I must crawl under the syringa shade a minute. It's so hot and anybody has to stop working once in a while just to get their breath, even if they weren't making poetry. Rebecca was weeding the Holly Hawk bed when marvelous thoughts came into her head. Miranda was wielding the rolling pin, and thoughts at such times seemed to her as a sin. How pretty the Holly Hawk rosettes look from down here on the sweet smelly ground. Let me see what would go with rosetting. Aiding and abetting, petting, hensetting, fretting. There's nothing very nice, but I can make fretting do. Cheered by Rowena's petting, the flowers are rosetting, but Aunt Miranda's fretting doth somewhat cloud the day. Suddenly the sound of wagon wheels broke the silence, and then a voice called out, a voice that could not wait until the feet that belonged to it reached the spot. Miss Sawyer! Fathers got to drive over to North River Burrow on an errand, and please can Rebecca go too, as it's Saturday morning and vacation besides? Rebecca sprang out from under the syringa bush, eyes flashing with delight as only Rebecca's eyes could flash. Her face won luminous circle of joyous anticipation. She clapped her grubby hands and dancing up and down cried, May I Aunt Miranda? Can I Aunt Jane? Can I Aunt Miranda? I'm more than half through the bed. If you finish your weeding tonight before sundown, I suppose you can go, so long as Mr. Perkins has been good enough to ask you, responded Miss Sawyer reluctantly. Take off that gingham apron and wash your hands, clean it the pump. You ain't been out of bed, but two hours in your head looks as rough as if you slept in it. That comes from laying on the ground, same as a caterpillar. Smooth your hair down with your hands, and perhaps Emma Jane can braid it as you go along the road. Run up and get your second best hair ribbon out of your upper drawer and put on your shade hat. No, you can't wear your coral chain, jewelry ain't appropriate in the morning. How long does it take to be gone, Emma Jane? I don't know. Father's just been sent for her to see about a sick woman over to North River Burrow. She's got to go to the poor farm. This fragment of news speedily brought Miss Sawyer and her sister Jane as well to the door, which commanded a view of Mr. Perkins and his wagon. Mr. Perkins, the father of Rebecca's bosom friend, was primarily a blacksmith and secondarily a selectman and an overseer of the poor, a man therefore possessed of wide and varied information. Who is it that's sick, inquired Miranda? A woman over to North River Burrow. What's the trouble? Can't say. Stranger? Yes and no. She's that wild daughter of old Nate Perry that used to live up towards moderation. You remember she ran away to work in the factory at Milltown and married a do-nothing fellow by the name of Jonathan Winslow? Yes, well, where is he? Why don't you take care of her? They ain't worked well in double harness. They've been roving around the country, living a month here and a month there wherever they could get work in house room. They quarreled a couple of weeks ago and he left her. She and the little boy kinda camped out in an old log and cabin back in the woods and she took in washing for a spell. Then she got terrible sick and ate expected to live. Who's been nursing her? inquired Miss Jane. Lizzie Ann Dennett that lives nearest neighbor to the cabin but I guess she's tired out being good Samaritan. Anyways, she sent word this morning that nobody can't seem to find John Winslow that there ain't no relations and the town's got to be responsible so I'm going over to see how the land lays. Climb in Rebecca. You and Emmy Jane crowd back in the cushion and all set forward. That's the trick. Now we're off. Dear, dear, sighed Jane Sawyer as the sisters walked back into the brick house. I remember once seeing Sally Perry at a meeting. She was a handsome girl and I'm sorry she's come to grief. If she'd kept on going to meeting and hadn't looked at the men folks she might have been earning an honest live in this minute said Miranda. Men folks are at the bottom of everything wrong in this world. She continued unconsciously reversing the verdict of history. Then we ought to be a happy and contented community here in Riverboro, replied Jane, as they're six women to one man. If it was 16 to one we'd all be the safer, responded Miranda Grimley putting the donuts in a brown crock in the cellar way and slamming the door. Jack-o'-lantern part two. The Perkins horse and wagon rumbled over the dusty country road and after a discreet silence maintained as long as human flesh could endure, Rebecca remarked sedately. It's a sad errand for such a shiny morning, isn't it, Mr. Perkins? Plenty of trouble in the world, Rebecca, shiny mornings and all, that good man replied. If you want a bed to lay on, a roof over your head and food to eat, you've got to work for them. If I hadn't elabored early and late, learned my trade and denied myself when I was young, I might have been a pauper laying sick in a logging cabin, instead of being an overseer over the poor and selectmen driving along to take the pauper to the poor farm. People that are mortgaged don't have to go to the poor farm, do they, Mr. Perkins, asked Rebecca, with a shiver of fear as she remembered her home farm at Sunnybrook and the debt upon it, a debt which had lain like a shadow over her childhood. Plus your soul, no, not unless they failed to pay up, but Sal Perry and her husband hadn't got far enough along in life to be mortgaged. You have to own something before you can mortgage it. Rebecca's heart bounded as she learned that a mortgage represented a certain stage in worldly prosperity. Well, said she, sniffing in the fragrance of the new moan hay and growing hopeful as she did so, maybe the sick woman will be better such a beautiful day, and maybe the husband will come back and make it up and say he's sorry, and sweet content will reign in the humble habitation that was once the scene of poverty, grief, and despair. That's how it came out in a story I'm reading. I ain't noticed that life comes out like stories very much, responded the pessimistic blacksmith, who, as Rebecca privately thought, had read less than half a dozen books in his long and prosperous career. A drive of three or four miles brought the party to a patch of land where many of the tall pines had been hewn the previous winter. The roof of the ramshackle hut was outlined against a background of young birches, and a rough path made in hauling the logs to the main road led directly to its door. As they drew near the figure of a woman approached, Miss Lysie Ann Dennett in a gingham dress with a calico apron over her head. Good morning, Mr. Perkins, said the woman, who looked tired and irritable. I'm real glad you came right over, for she took worse after I sent you word, and she's dead. Dead! The word struck heavy and mysteriously on the children's ears. Dead! And their young lives just begun, stretched on and on, all decked like hope in living green. Dead! And all the rest of the world reveling in strength. Dead! With all the daisies and buttercups waving in the field, and the men heaping the mown grass into fragrant cocks or tossing it into heavy laden carts. Dead! With the brooks tinkling after the summer showers, with the potatoes and corn blossoming, the birds singing for joy, and every little insect humming and chirping, adding its note to the blithe chorus of warm, throbbing life. I was all alone with her. She passed away suddenly just to break a day, said Lysie Ann Dennett. Her soul passed upward to its god just at the break of day. These words came suddenly into Rebecca's mind from a tiny chamber where such things were want to lie quietly until something brought them to the surface. She could not remember whether she had heard them at a funeral or read them in the hymn-book or made them up out of her own head, but she was so thrilled with the idea of dying just as the dawn was breaking that she scarcely heard Mrs. Dennett's conversation. I sent for Bula Day, and she'd been here and later out, continued the long-suffering Lysie Ann. She ain't got any folks, and John Winslow ain't never had any as far back as I can remember. She belongs to your town, and you'll have to bury her and take care of Jackie. That's the boy. He's seventeen months old, a bright little feller, the image of John, but I can't keep him another day. I'm all wore out, my own baby's sick, mother's rheumatism is extra bad, and my husband's coming home tonight from his week's work. If he finds a child of John Winslow's under his roof, I can't say what would happen. You'll have to take him back with you to the poor farm. I can't take him up there this afternoon, objected Mr. Perkins. Well, then, keep him over Sunday yourself. He's good as a kitten. John Winslow will hear of Sally's death sooner or later, unless he's gone out of the state altogether, and when he knows the boys at the poor farm, I kind of think he'll come and claim him. Could you drive me over to the village to see about the coffin, and would you children be afraid to stay here alone for a spell?" She asked, turning to the girls. Afraid? They both echoed uncomprehendingly. Lysian and Mr. Perkins, perceiving that the fear of a dead presence had not entered the minds of Rebecca or Emma Jane, said nothing but drove off together, counseling them not to stray far away from the cabin and promising to be back in an hour. There was not a house within sight, either looking up or down the shady road, and the two girls stood hand in hand, watching the wagon out of sight, then they sat down quietly under a tree, feeling all at once a nameless depression hanging over their gay summer morning spirits. It was very still in the woods, just the chirp of a grasshopper now and then, or the note of a bird or the click of a far distant mowing machine. We are watching, whispered Emma Jane. They watched when Grandpa Perkins, and then there was a great funeral and two ministers. He left two thousand dollars in the bank in a store full of goods and a paper thing you could cut tickets off of twice a year, and they were just like money. They watched with my little sister Mira, too, said Rebecca. You remember when she died and I went home to Sunnybrook Farm? It was wintertime, but she was covered with evergreen and white pinks, and there was singing. There won't be any funeral or ministers or singing here, will there? Isn't that awful? I suppose not, and oh, Emma Jane, no flowers, either. We might get those for her if there's nobody else to do it. Would you dare put them on her? asked Emma Jane in a hushed voice. I don't know, I can't tell. It makes me shiver, but of course we could do it if we were the only friends she had. Let's look into the cabin first and be perfectly sure that there aren't any. Are you afraid? No, I guess not. I looked at Grandpa Perkins, and he was just the same as ever. At the door of the hut Emma Jane's courage suddenly departed. She held back, shuddering, and refused either to enter or look in. Rebecca shuddered too, but kept on, drawn by an insatiable curiosity about life and death, an over-mastering desire to know and feel and understand the mysteries of existence, a hunger for knowledge and experience at all hazards and at any cost. Emma Jane hurried softly away from the felt terrors of the cabin, and after two or three minutes of utter silence Rebecca issued from the open door her sensitive face, pale and woe-begone, the ever-ready tears raining down her cheeks. She ran toward the edge of the wood, sinking down by Emma Jane's side and covering her eyes, sobbed with excitement. Oh, Emma Jane, she hasn't got a flower, and she's so tired and sad-looking, as if she'd been hurt and hurt and never had any good times, and there's a weeny, weeny baby side of her. Oh, I wish I hadn't gone in. Emma Jane blanched for an instant. Mrs. Dennett never said there was two dead ones. Isn't that dreadful? But, she continued, her practical common sense coming to the rescue. You've been in once, and it's all over. It won't be so bad when you take in the flowers, because you'll be used to it. The golden rod hasn't begun to bud, so there's nothing to pick but daisies. Shall I make a long rope of them as I did for the schoolroom? Yes, said Rebecca, wiping her eyes and still sobbing. Yes, that's the prettiest, and if we put it all round her frame, the undertaker couldn't be so cruel as to throw it away, even if she is a pauper, because it will look so beautiful. From what the Sunday school lessons say, she's only asleep now, and when she wakes up she'll be in heaven. There's another place, said Emma Jane, in an orthodox and sepulchre whisper, as she took her ever-present ball of crochet-cotton from her pocket, and began to twine the white-weed blossoms into a rope. Oh, well, Rebecca replied, with the easy theology that belonged to her temperament. They simply couldn't send her down there with that little weeny baby, who'd take care of it. You know page six of the catechism says the only companions of the wicked after death are their father, the devil, and all the other evil angels. It wouldn't be any place to bring up a baby. Whenever and wherever she wakes up I hope she won't know that the big baby is going to the poor farm. I wonder where he is. Perhaps over to Mrs. Dennett's house. She didn't seem sorry a bit, did she? No, but I suppose she's tired, sitting up and nursing a stranger. Mother wasn't sorry when Grandpa Perkins died. She couldn't be, for he was cross all the time and had to be fed like a child. Why are you crying again, Rebecca? Oh, I don't know. I can't tell, Emma Jane. Only I don't want to die and have no funeral or singing and nobody's sorry for me. I just couldn't bear it. Die, Emma Jane responded sympathetically, but perhaps if we're real good and die young before we have to be fed they will be sorry. I do wish you could write some poetry for her as you did for Alice Robinson's Canary Bird, only still better, of course, like that you read me out of your thought-book. I could easy enough, exclaimed Rebecca, somewhat consoled by the idea that her rhyming faculty could be of any use in such an emergency. Though I don't know but what it would be kind of bold to do it. I'm puzzled about how people get to heaven after they're buried. I can't understand it a bit, but if the poetry is on her, what if that should go to? And how could I write anything good enough to be read out loud in heaven? A little piece of paper couldn't get to heaven. It just couldn't, asserted Emma Jane decisively. It would be all blown to pieces and dried up, and nobody knows that the angels can read writing anyway. They must be as educated as we are, and more so, too, to read, Rebecca. They must be more than just dead people. Else why should they have wings? But I'll go off and write something while you finish the rope. It's lucky you brought your crochet cotton, and I'm my lead pencil. In fifteen or twenty minutes she returned with some lines written on a scrap of brown wrapping paper. Standing soberly by Emma Jane, she said, preparing to read them aloud, they're not good, I was afraid your father'd come back before I finished, and the first verse sounds exactly like the funeral hymns in the church book. I couldn't call her Sally Winslow. It didn't seem nice when I didn't know her, and she is dead. So I thought if I said friend it would show she had somebody to be sorry. This friend of ours has died and gone from us to heaven to live. If she has sinned against thee, Lord, we pray thee, Lord, forgive. Her husband runneth far away, and knoweth not she's dead. O bring him back, air-tiz too late, to mourn beside her bed. And if perchance it can't be so, be to the children kind, the weenie one that goes with her, the other left behind. I think that's perfectly elegant, exclaimed Emma Jane, kissing Rebecca fervently. You are the smartest girl in the whole state of Maine, and it sounds like a minister's prayer. I wish we could save up and buy a printing machine. Then I could learn to print what you write, and we'd be partners, like Father and Bill Moses. Shall you sign it with your name like we do our school compositions? No, said Rebecca soberly. I certainly shan't sign it, not knowing where it's going, or who'll read it. I shall just hide it in the flowers, and whoever finds it will guess that there wasn't any ministers or singing or gravestone or anything. So somebody just did the best they could. Jack-O-Linner, Part 3 The tired mother with the weenie baby on her arm lay on a long carpenter's bench, her earthly journey over, and when Rebecca stole in and placed the flowery garland all along the edge of the rude beer, death suddenly took on a more gracious and benign aspect. It was only a child's sympathy, an intuition that softened the rigors of the sad moment, but poor, wild, sour windslow in her frame of daisies looked as if she were missed a little by an unfriendly world. Well, the weenie baby, whose heart had fallen asleep almost as soon as it had learned to beat, the weenie baby with Emma Jane's nose-gay of buttercups in its tiny wrinkled hand, smiled as if it might have been loved and longed for and mourned. We've done all we can now without a minister, whispered Rebecca. We could sing, God is ever good, out of the Sunday School Songbook, but I'm afraid somebody would hear us and think we were gay and happy. What's that? A strange sound broke the stillness, a gurgle, a yawn, a merry little call. The two girls ran in the direction from which it came, and there on an old coat in a clump of goldenrod bushes lay a child just waking from a refreshing nap. It's the other baby that Lizzie Ann Dennett told about, cried Emma Jane. Isn't he beautiful? exclaimed Rebecca. Come straight to me. And she stretched out her arms. The child struggled to its feet and tottered, wavering toward the warm welcome of the voice and eyes. Rebecca was all mother and her maternal instincts had been well-developed in the large family in which she was next to the eldest. She had always confessed that there were perhaps a trifle too many babies at Sunnybrook Farm, but nevertheless, had she ever heard it, she would have stood loyally by the Japanese proverb. Whether brought forth upon the mountain or in the field, it matters nothing. More than a treasure of 1,000 ryo, a baby precious is. You darling thing she crooned as she caught and lifted the child. You look just like a jack-o'-lantern. The boy was clad in a yellow cotton dress, very full and stiff. His hair was of such a bright gold and so sleek and shiny that he looked like a fair smooth little pumpkin. He had wide blue eyes full of laughter, a neat little vertical nose, a neat little horizontal mouth with his few neat little teeth showing very plainly, and on the whole, Rebecca's figure of speech was not so wide of the mark. Oh, Emma Jean, isn't he too lovely to go to the poor farm? If only we were married, we could keep him and say nothing and nobody would know the difference. Now that the Simpsons have gone away, there isn't a single baby in Riverboro and only one in Edgewood. It's a perfect shame, but I can't do anything. You remember Aunt Miranda wouldn't let me have the Simpson baby when I wanted to borrow her just for one rainy Sunday. My mother won't keep him, so it's no use to ask her. She says most every day she's glad we're grown up and she thanks the Lord there wasn't but two of us. And Mrs. Peter Miserve is too nervous, Rebecca went on, taking the village houses in turn and Mrs. Robinson is too neat. People don't seem to like any but their own babies, observed Emma Jean. Well, I can't understand it, Rebecca answered. A baby's a baby, I should think. Whosoever it is, Mr. Born is coming back Monday. I wonder if she'd like it. She has nothing to do out of school and we could borrow it all the time. I don't think it would seem very gentile for a young lady like Mrs. Dearborn who boards around to take a baby from place to place, objected Emma Jean. Perhaps not, agreed Rebecca despondently, but I think if we haven't got any private babies in Riverboro, we ought to have one for the town and all have a share in it. We've got a town hall and a town lamp post and a town watering trough. Things are so uneven. One house like mine at Sunnybrook, brim full of children and the very next one empty. The only way to fix them right would be to let all the babies that ever are belong to all the grown up people that ever are. Just divide them up, you know? If they'd go round. Oh, I have a thought. Don't you believe Aunt Sarah Cobb would keep him? She carries flowers to the graveyard every little while and once she took me with her, there's a marble cross and it says, sacred to the memory of Sarah Ellen, beloved child of Sarah and Jeremiah Cobb, aged 17 months. Why that's another reason? Mrs. Dennett says this one is 17 months. There's five of us left at the farm without me, but if we were only nearer to Riverboro, how quick mother would let in one more? We might see what father thinks and that would settle it, said Emma Jane. Father doesn't think very sudden, but he thinks awful strong. If we don't bother him and find a place ourselves for the baby, perhaps he'll be willing. He's coming now. I hear the wheels. Lizzie Ann Dennett volunteered to stay and perform the last rites with the undertaker and Jack O'Lantern with his slender wardrobe tied in a bandana handkerchief was lifted into the wagon by the reluctant Mr. Perkins and jubilantly held by Rebecca in her lap. Mr. Perkins drove off as speedily as possible, being heartily sick of the whole affair and thinking wisely that the little girls had already seen and heard more than enough of the seamy side of life that morning. Discussion concerning Jack O'Lantern's future was prudently deferred for a quarter of an hour and then Mr. Perkins was mercilessly pelted with arguments against the choice of the poor farm as a place of residence for a baby. His father is sure to come back sometime, Mr. Perkins, urged Rebecca. He couldn't leave this beautiful thing forever and if Emma Jane and I can persuade Mrs. Cobb to keep him a little while, would you care? No. On reflection Mr. Perkins did not care. He merely wanted a quiet life and enough time left over from the public service to attend to his blacksmith's shop. So instead of going home over the same road by which they came, he crossed the bridge into Edgewood and dropped the children at the long lane which led to the Cobb house. Mrs. Cobb and Sarah to the whole village sat by the window looking for Uncle Jerry who would soon be seen driving the noon stage to the post office over the hill. She always had an eye out for Rebecca too forever since the child had been a passenger on Mr. Cobb's stagecoach making the eventful trip from her home farm to the brick house and river borough in his company. She had been a constant visitor and the joy of the quiet household. Emma Jane too was a well-known figure in the lane but the strange baby was in the nature of a surprise. A surprise somewhat modified by the fact that Rebecca was a dramatic personage and more liable to appear in conjunction with curious outriders, comrades and retainers than the ordinary river borough child. She had run away from the two stern discipline of the brick house on one occasion and had been persuaded to return by Uncle Jerry. She had escorted a wandering organ grinder to their door and begged the lodging for him on a rainy night. So on the whole there was nothing amazing about the coming procession. The little party toiled up to the hospitable door and Mrs. Cobb came out to meet them. Rebecca was spokesman. Emma Jane's talent did not lie in eloquent speech but it would have been a valiant and a fluid child indeed who could have usurped Rebecca's privileges and tendencies in this direction. Language being her native element and words of assorted sizes springing spontaneously to her lips. Aunt Sarah dear, she said, plumping jack-o-lantern down on the grass as she pulled his dress over his feet and smoothed his hair becomingly. Will you please not say a word till I get through as it's very important you should know everything before you answer yes or no. This is a baby named Jackie Winslow and I think he looks like a jack-o-lantern. His mother has just died over to North Riverboro all alone accepting for Miss Lizzie Ann Dennett. And there was another little weenie baby that died with her and Emma Jane and I put flowers around them and did the best we could. The father, that's John Winslow, quarreled with the mother. That was Sal Perry on the moderation road and ran away and left her. So he doesn't know his wife and the weenie baby are dead and the town has got to bury them because they can't find the father right off quick and Jackie has got to go to the poor farm this afternoon. And it seems an awful shame to take him up to that lonesome place with those old people that can't amuse him. And if Emma Jane and Alice Robinson and I take most all the care of him we thought perhaps you and Uncle Jerry would keep him just for a little while. You've got a cow and a turnip bedstead, you know? She hurried on insinuatingly. And there's hardly any pleasure as cheap as more babies where there's ever been any before for baby carriages and trundle beds and cradles don't wear out and there's always clothes left over from the old baby to begin the new one on. Of course, we can collect enough things to start Jackie so he won't be much trouble or expense. And anyway, he's past the most troublesome age and you won't have to be upnights with him and he isn't afraid of anybody or anything as you can see by his jest sitting there laughing and sucking his thumb though he doesn't know what's going to become of him. And he's just 17 months old like dear little Sarah Ellen in the graveyard and we thought we ought to give you the refusal of him before he goes to the poor farm and what do you think about it? Because it's near my dinner time and Aunt Miranda will keep me in the whole afternoon if I'm late and I've got to finish weeding the Holly Hawk bed before sundown. Jack-o'-lantern part four. Mrs. Cobb had enjoyed a considerable period of reflection during this monologue and Jackie had not used the time unwisely offering several unconscious arguments and suggestions to the matter under discussion lurching over on the green sword and riding himself with a chuckle kicking his bare feet about and delighted the sunshine and groping for his toes with arms too short to reach them. The movement involving an entire upsetting of equilibrium followed by more chuckles. Coming down the last of the stone steps Sarah Ellen's mother regarded the baby with interest and sympathy. Poor little might, she said, that doesn't know what he's lost and what's going to happen to him. Seems to me we might keep him a spell till we're sure his father's deserted him for good. Want to come to Aunt Sarah, baby? Jack-o'-lantern turned from Rebecca and Emma Jane and regarded the kind-faced gravely. Then he held out both his hands and Mrs. Cobb, stooping, gathered him like a harvest. Being lifted into her arms he at once tore her spectacles from her nose and laughed aloud. Taking them from him gently she put them on, again, and set him in the cushioned rocking chair under the lilac bushes beside the steps. Then she took one of his soft hands in hers and patted it and fluttered her fingers like birds before his eyes and snapped them like castanets, remembering all the art she had lavished upon Sarah Ellen aged 17 months, years and years ago. Motherless baby and babyless mother bring them together to love one another. Rebecca knew nothing of this couplet but she saw clearly enough that her case was won. The boy must be hungry. When was he fed last? Asked Mrs. Cobb. Just stay a second longer while I get him some morning's milk. Then you run home to your dinners and I'll speak to Mr. Cobb this afternoon. Of course we can keep the baby for a week or two till we see what happens. Land, he ain't going to be any more trouble than a wax doll. I guess he ain't been used to much attention and that kind's always the easiest to take care of. At six o'clock that evening Rebecca and Emma Jane flew up the hill and down the lane again, waving their hands to the dear old couple who were waiting for them in the usual place, the back piazza where they had sat so many summers in a blessed companionship, never marred by an unloving word. Where's Jackie, called Rebecca breathlessly, her voice always outrunning her feet? Go up to my chamber both of you if you want to see, smiled Mrs. Cobb, only don't wake him up. The girls went softly up the stairs into Aunt Sarah's room. There, in the turned up bedstead that had been so long empty, slept Jack-o-lantern in a blissful unconsciousness of the doom he had so lately escaped. His nightgown and pillowcase were clean and fragrant with lavender, but they were both as yellow as saffron for they had belonged to Sarah Ellen. I wish his mother could see him, whispered Emma Jane. You can't tell. It's all puzzly about heaven and perhaps she does, said Rebecca as they turned reluctantly from the fascinating scene and stole down into the piazza. It was a beautiful and happy summer that year and every day it was filled with blissful plays and still more blissful duties. On the Monday after Jack-o-lantern's arrival in Edgewood, Rebecca founded the Riverborough Ants Association. The ants were Rebecca, Emma Jane, Alice Robinson, and Minnie Smelly. All of the first three promised to labor for and amuse the visiting baby for two days a week. Minnie Smelly, who lived at some distance from the cobs, making herself responsible for Saturday afternoons. Minnie Smelly was not a general favorite among the Riverborough girls and it was only in an unprecedented burst of magnanimity that they admitted her into the rites of fellowship. Rebecca, hugging herself secretly at the thought that as Minnie gave only the leisure time of one day a week, she could not be called a full ant. There had been long and bitter feuds between the two children during Rebecca's first summer in Riverborough but since Mrs. Smelly had told her daughter one more quarrel would invite a punishment so terrible that it could only be hinted at vaguely and Miss Miranda Sawyer had remarked that any niece of hers who couldn't get along peaceable with the neighbors had better go back to the seclusion of a farm where there weren't any. Hostilities had been veiled and a suave and diplomatic relationship had replaced the former one, which had been wholly primitive, direct, and barbaric. Still, whenever Minnie Smelly, flaxen-haired, pink-nosed and ferried-eyed, indulged in fluent conversation, Rebecca, remembering the old fairy story, could always see toads hopping out of her mouth. It was really very unpleasant because Minnie never could see them herself and what was more amazing, Emma Jane perceived nothing of the sort, being almost as blind, too, to the diamonds that fell continually from Rebecca's lips, but Emma Jane's strong point was not her imagination. A shaky perambulator was found in Mrs. Perkins' wonderful attic. Shoes and stockings were furnished by Mrs. Robinson. Miss Jane Sawyer knitted a blanket and some shirts. There's a reserve, though too young for an aunt, coaxed from her mother some dresses and nightgowns, and was presented with a green paper certificate allowing her to wheel Jackie up and down the road for an hour under the supervision of a full aunt. Each girl under the Constitution of the Association could call Jackie hers for two days in the week, and great, though friendly, was the rivalry between them, as they washed, ironed, and sewed for their adored nephew. If Mrs. Cobb had not been the most amiable woman in the world, she might have had difficulty in managing the aunts, but she always had Jackie to herself the earlier part of the day and after dusk at night. Meanwhile, Jack-Olantern grew healthier and heartier and jollier as the week slipped away. Uncle Jerry joined the little company of worshipers and slaves, and one fear alone stirred in all their hearts, not, as a sensible and practical person might imagine, the fear that the Recreant Father might never return to claim his child, but, on the contrary, that he might do so. October came at length with its cheery days and frosty nights, its glory of crimson leaves and its golden harvest of pumpkins and ripened corn. Rebecca had been down by the Edgewood side of the river, and had come up across the pastures for a good night-play with Jackie. Her literary labors had been somewhat interrupted by the joys and responsibilities of Vice Motherhood, and the thought-book was less frequently drawn from its hiding-place under the old Hamo in the barn-chamber. Mrs. Cobbs stood behind the screen-door with her face pressed against the wire-netting, and Rebecca could see that she was wiping her eyes. All at once the child's heart gave one prophetic throb, and then stood still. She was like a harp that vibrated with every wind of emotion, whether from another's grief or her own. He looked down the lane, around the curve of the stone wall, red with woodbine, the lane that would meet the stage-road to the station. There, just mounting the crown of the hill and about to disappear on the other side, strode a stranger-man, big and tall, with a crop of reddish curly hair showing from under his straw hat. A woman walked by his side, and perched on his shoulder, wearing the most radiant and triumphant mean, as joyous in leaving Edgewood as he had been during every hour of his sojourn there, with jack-a-lantern. Rebecca gave a cry in which maternal longing and helpless, hopeless jealousy strode for supremacy. Then with an impetuous movement she started to run after the disappearing trio. Mrs. Cobb opened the door hastily, calling after her, Rebecca, Rebecca, come back here. You mustn't follow where you haven't any right to go. If there had been anything to say or do, I'd have done it. He's mine, he's mine, stormed Rebecca. At least he's yours in mine. He's his father's, first of all, faltered Mrs. Cobb. Don't let's forget that, and we'd ought to be glad and grateful that John Winslow's come to his senses and remembered he's brought a child into the world and ought to take care of it. Our loss is his gain, and it may make a man of him. Come in, and we'll put things away, all neat, before your Uncle Jerry gets home. Rebecca sank in a pitiful little heap on Mrs. Cobb's bedroom floor and sobbed her heart out. Oh, Aunt Sarah, where shall we get another jack-o'-lantern, and how shall I break it to Emma Jane? What if his father doesn't love him, and what if he forgets to strain the milk or lets him go without a snap? That's the worst of babies that aren't private. You have to part with them sooner or later. Sometimes you have to part with your own, too, said Mrs. Cobb sadly, and though there were lines of sadness in her face, there was neither rebellion nor repining, as she folded up the sides of the turned-up bed-stead, preparatory to banishing it a second time to the attic. I shall miss Sarah Ellen more never. Still, Rebecca, we mustn't feel to complain. It's the Lord that giveth, and the Lord that taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord. CHAPTER II of THE NEW CRONICLES OF REBECCA The New Chronicles of Rebecca by Kate Douglas Wigan, Second Chronicle, Daughters of Zion. Abijah Flagg was driving over to wear him on an errand for Old Squire Winship, whose General Troy Boy and Farmer's assistant he had been for some years. He passed Emma Jane Perkins's house slowly, as he always did. She was only a little girl of thirteen, and he a boy of fifteen or sixteen, but somehow, for no particular reason, he liked to see the sun shine on her thick braids of reddish-brown hair. He admired her china-blue eyes, too, and her amiable, friendly expression. He was quite alone in the world, and he always thought that if he had anybody belonging to him, he would rather have a sister like Emma Jane Perkins than anything else within the power of Providence to bestow. When she herself suggested this relationship a few years later, he cast it aside with having changed his mind in the interval, but that story belongs to another time and place. Emma Jane was not to be seen in garden, field, or at the window, and Abijah turned his gaze to the large brick house that came next on the other side of the quiet village street. It might have been closed for a funeral. Neither Miss Miranda nor Miss Jane Sawyer sat at their respective windows knitting, nor was Rebecca Randall's gypsy face to be discerned. Ordinarily that will of the wispish little person could be seen, heard, or felt wherever she was. The village must be a bed, I guess, mused Ajayba, as he neared the Robinson's yellow cottage, where all the blinds were closed, and no sign of life showed on porch or in shed. No, taint neither, he thought again, as his horse crept cautiously down the hill, for from the direction of the Robinson's barn chamber there floated out into the air certain burning sentiments set to the tune of Antioch. The words, to a lad brought up in the Orthodox faith, were quite distinguishable. Even the most religious youth is stronger on first lines than others, but Ajayba pulled up his horse and waited till he caught another familiar verse beginning. Miss Rebecca carried in the air, and I can hear Emma Jane's alto, say to thy charge and hold not that go south, and hold not that go south. Land, ain't they smart, see, saw, and up and down in that part they learnt and sing in school. I wonder what they're acting out, singing hymn tunes up in the barn chamber. Some of Rebecca's doons all be bound. Get up, Alec! Alec pursued his serene and steady trot up the hills, on the edge wood side of the river. Till at length he approached the green common where the old Tory Hill meeting-house stood, its white paint and green blinds showing fair and pleasant in the afternoon sun. Both doors were open, and as Ajayba turned into the Wareham Road, the church melodian peeled out the opening bars of the missionary hymn, and presently a score of voices sent the good old tune from the choir loft out to the dusty road. Land, exclaimed Abijah under his breath. They're added up here, too. That explains it all. There's a missionary meeting at the church, and the girls weren't allowed to come, so they held one of their own. I'll bait you, it's the liveliest of the two. Abijah flags shrewd Yankee guesses were not far from the truth, though he was not in possession of all the facts. It will be remembered by those who have been in the way of hearing Rebecca's experiences in Riverborough that the Reverend and Mrs. Birch returned missionaries from the Far East, together with some of their children, all born under Syrian skies, as they always explained to interested inquirers, spent a day or two at the brick house and gave parlor meetings in native costume. These visitors, coming straight from foreign lands to the little main village, brought with them a nameless enchantment to the children, and especially to Rebecca, whose imagination always kindled easily. The romance of that visit had never died in her heart, and among the many careers that dazzled her youthful vision was that of converting such Syrian heathens as might continue in idle worship after the Birch's efforts in their behalf had ceased. She thought at the age of eighteen she might be suitably equipped for storming some minor citadel of Mohammedanism, and Mrs. Birch had encouraged her in the idea, not it is to be feared, because Rebecca showed any surplus of virtue or Christian grace, but because her gift of language, her tact and sympathy, and her musical talent seemed to fit her for the work. It chanced that the quarterly meeting of the main missionary society had been appointed just at the time when a letter from Mrs. Birch to Miss Jane Sawyer suggested that Rebecca should form a children's branch in Riverboro. Mrs. Birch's real idea was that the young people should save their pennies and divert a gentle stream of financial aid into the parent fund, thus learning early in life to be useful in such work, either at home or abroad. The girls themselves, however, read into her letter no such modest participation in the conversion of the world, and wishing to affect an organization without delay, they chose an afternoon when every house in the village was vacant, and seized upon the Robinson's Barn Chamber as the place of meeting. Rebecca, Alice Robinson, Emma Jane Perkins, Candace Millican, and Persis Watson, each with her hymnbook, had climbed the ladder leading to the haymow, a half hour before a jibaflag had heard the strains of daughters of Zion floating out to the road. Rebecca, being an executive person, had carried, besides her hymnbook, a silver call bell and pencil and paper. An animated discussion regarding one of two names for the society, the junior heralds, or the daughters of Zion, had resulted in a unanimous vote for the latter, and Rebecca had been elected president at an early stage of the meeting. She had modestly suggested that Alice Robinson, as the granddaughter of a missionary to China, would be much more eligible. No, said Alice, with entire good nature. Whoever is elected president, you will be, Rebecca, you're that kind, so you might as well have the honor. I'd just as leaves be secretary anyway. If you should want me to be treasurer, I could be, as well as not, said Persis Watson suggestively. For you know, my father keeps China banks at his store, ones that will hold as much as two dollars if you will let them. I think he'd give us one if I happen to be treasurer. The three principal officers were thus elected at one fell swoop and with an entire absence of that red tape which commonly renders organizations so tiresome. Candice Millican suggesting that perhaps she'd better be vice president as Emma Jane Perkins was always so bashful. We ought to have more members, she reminded the other girls. But if we had invited them the first day, they'd have all wanted to be officers, especially Minnie Smelly. So it's just as well not to ask them till another time. Is Thurza Mazzerve too little to join? I can't think why anybody named Mazzerve should have called a baby Thurza, said Rebecca, somewhat out of order, though the meeting was carried on with small recognition of parliamentary laws. It always makes me want to say, Thurza Mazzerve, heaven preserver, Thurza Mazzerve, do we deserve her? She's little, but she's sweet and absolutely without guile. I think we ought to have her. Is guile the same as guilt, inquired Emma Jane Perkins? Yes, the president answered, exactly the same, except one is written and the other spoken language. Rebecca was rather good at imbibing information and a master hand at imparting it. Written language is for poems and graduations and occasions like this, kind of like a best Sunday go to meeting dress that you wouldn't like to go blueberrying in for fear of getting it spotted. I'd just as leaves get guile spotted as not, confirmed the unimaginative Emma Jane. I think it's an awful foolish word. But now we're all named and our officers elected. What do we do first? It's easy enough for Mary and Martha Birch. They just play at missionarying because their folks work at it. Same as living, and I used to make believe be blacksmiths when we were little. It must be nicer missionarying in those foreign places, said Perces, because on Africa's shores and India's plains and other spots where Satan reigns, that's father's favorite hymn. There's always a heathen bowing down to wood and stone. You can take away his idols if he'll let you and give him a Bible and the beginning's all made. But who'll we begin on? Jethro Small? Oh, he's entirely too dirty and foolish besides, exclaimed Candice. Why not Ethan Hunt? He swears dreadfully. He lives on nuts and is a hermit, and it's a mile to his camp through the thick woods. My mother will never let me go there, objected Alice. There's Uncle Tut Judson. He's too old. He's most a hundred and deaf as a post, complained Emma Jane. Besides, his married daughter is a Sabbath school teacher. Why doesn't she teach him to behave? I can't think of anybody just right to start on. Don't talk like that, Emma Jane. And Rebecca's tone had a tinge of reproof in it. We are a cooperated body named the Daughters of Zion. And of course, we've got to find something to do. Foreigners are the easiest. There's a Scotch family at North Riverboro, an English one in Edgewood, and one Cuban man at Milken's Mills. Haven't foreigners got any religion of their own? Inquired purses curiously. Yes, I suppose so. Kind of a one, but foreigners' religions are never right. Ours is the only good one. This was from Candice, the deacon's daughter. I do think it must be dreadful being born with a religion and growing up with it, and then finding out it's no use and all your time wasted. Here, Rebecca sighed, chewed a straw and looked troubled. Well, that's your punishment for being a heathen, retorted Candice, who had been brought up strictly. But I can't for the life of me see how you can help being a heathen if you're born in Africa, persisted purses, who was well named. You can't, Rebecca was clear on this point. I had that all out with Mrs. Birch when she was visiting Aunt Miranda. She says they can't help being heathen, but if there's a single mission station in the whole of Africa, they're accountable if they don't go there and get saved. Are there plenty of stages and railroads, asked Dallas, because there must be dreadfully long distances and what if they couldn't pay the fare? That part of it is so dreadfully puzzly, we mustn't talk about it please, said Rebecca, her sensitive face quivering with the force of the problem. Poor little soul, she did not realize that her superiors in age and intellect had spent many a sleepless night over that same accountability of the heathen. It's too bad the Simpsons have moved away, said Candice. It's so seldom you can find a really big, wicked family like that to save with only Claire Bell and Susan good in it. And numbers count for so much, continued Alice. My grandmother says if missionaries can't convert about so many in a year, the board advises them to come back to America and take up some other work. I know, Rebecca corroborated. And it's the same with revivalists at the Centennial Picnic in North Riverboro. Revivalists sat opposite to Mr. Ladd and Aunt Jane and me and he was telling about his wonderful success in Manger last winter. He'd converted 130 in a month, he said, or about four and a third a day. I'd just finished fractions. So I asked Mr. Ladd how the third of a man could be converted. He laughed and said it was just the other way that the man was a third converted. Then he explained that if you were trying to convince a person of his sin on a Monday and couldn't quite finish by sundown, perhaps you wouldn't want to sit up all night with him and perhaps he wouldn't want you to. So you'd begin again on Tuesday and you couldn't just say which day he was converted because it would be two thirds on Monday and one third on Tuesday. Mr. Ladd is always making fun and the board couldn't expect any great things of us girls, new beginners, suggested Emma Jane who was being constantly warned against tautology by her teacher. I think it's awful rude anyway to go write out and try to convert your neighbors, but if you borrow a horse and go to Edgewood Lower Corner or Millican's Mills, I suppose that makes it foreign missions. Would we each go alone or wait upon them with a committee as they did when they asked Deacon Tuttle for a contribution for the new hearse? Asked Pursus. Oh, we must go alone, decided Rebecca. It would be much more refined and delicate. Aunt Miranda says that one man alone could never get a subscription from Deacon Tuttle and that's the reason they sent a committee. But it seems to me Mrs. Birch couldn't mean for us to try and convert people when we're none of us even church members except Candace. I think all we can do is to persuade them to go to a meeting and Sabbath school or give money for the hearse or the new horse sheds. Now let's all think quietly for a minute or two who's the very most heathenish and reprehensibleist person in Riverboro? After a very brief period of silence, the words Jacob Moody fell from all lips with entire accord. You are right, said the President Tursley. And after singing hymn number 274 to be found on the 66th page, we will take up the question of persuading Mr. Moody to attend divine service for the minister's Bible class. He not having been in the meeting house for low these many years. Daughter of Zion, the power that hath saved thee extolled with the harp and the timbrel should be. Sing without reading, if you please, omitting the second stanza, hymn 274 to be found on the 66th page of the new hymn book or on page 32 of Emma Jane Perkins' old one. It is doubtful if the Reverend Mr. Birch had ever found in Syria a person more difficult to persuade than the already gospel-hardened Jacob Moody of Riverboro. Tall, gaunt, swarthy, black-bearded his masses of grizzled, uncombed hair and the red scar across his nose and cheek added to his sinister appearance. His tumble-down house stood on a rocky bit of land back of the Sawyer pasture, and the acres of his farm stretched out on all sides of it. He lived alone, ate alone, plowed, planted, sowed, harvested alone, and was more than willing to die alone, unwept, unhonored, and unsung. The road that bordered upon his field was comparatively little used by anyone, and notwithstanding the fact that it was thickly set with choke-cherry trees and blackberry bushes, it had been for years practically deserted by the children. Jacob's red astrakhan and granny-garland trees hung thick with apples, but no Riverboro or Edgewood's boy stole them, for terrifying accounts of the fate that had overtaken one urchin in times agon had been handed along from boy to boy, protecting the moody fruit far better than any police patrol. Perhaps no circumstances could have extenuated the old man's surly manners or his lack of all citizenly graces and virtues, but his neighbors commonly rebuked his present way of living and forgot the troubled past that had brought it about. The sharp-tongued wife, the unloving and disloyal sons, the daughter's hapless fate, and all the other sorry tricks that fortune had played upon him, at least that was the way in which he had always regarded his disappointments and griefs. This, then, was the personage whose moral rehabilitation was to be accomplished by the daughters of Zion. But how? Who will volunteer to visit Mr. Moody, blandly asked the president. Visit Mr. Moody. It was a wonder the roof of the barn chamber did not fall. It did indeed echo the words, and in some way make them sound more grim and satirical. Nobody will volunteer, Rebecca Rewain of Randall, and you know it, said Emma Jane. Why don't we draw lots, when none of us wants to speak to him, and yet one of us must? This suggestion fell from Persis Watson, who had been pale and thoughtful ever since the first mention of Jacob Moody. She was fond of Granny Garland's. She had once met Jacob. And as to what befell, well, we all have our secret tragedies. Wouldn't it be wicked to settle it that way? It's gamblers that draw lots. People did it in the Bible ever so often. It doesn't seem nice for a missionary meeting. These remarks fell altogether upon the president's bewildered ear the while, as she always said in compositions, the while. She was trying to adjust the ethics of this unexpected and difficult dilemma. It is a very puzzly question, she said thoughtfully. I could ask Aunt Jane if we had time, but I suppose we haven't. It doesn't seem nice to draw lots, and yet how can we settle it without? We know we mean right, and perhaps it will be. Alice, take this paper and tear off five narrow pieces, all different lengths. At this moment, a voice from a distance floated up to the haymow, a voice saying plaintively, will you let me play with you girls? Halda has gone to ride, and I'm all alone. It was the voice of the absolutely without guile Thursam reserve, and it came at an opportune moment. If she is going to be a member, said Purses, why not let her come up and hold the lots? She'd be real honest and not favor anybody. It seemed an excellent idea, and was followed up so quickly that scarcely three minutes ensued before the guileless one was holding the five scraps in her hot little palm, laboriously changing their places again and again until they looked exactly alike and all rather soiled and wilted. Come, girls, draw, commanded the president. Thursam, you mustn't chew gum at a missionary meeting. It isn't polite nor holy. Take it out and stick it somewhere till the exercises are over. The five daughters of Zion approached the spot so charged with fate and extending their trembling hands one by one. Then after a moment's silent clutch of their papers, they drew nearer to one another and compared them. Emma Jane Perkins had drawn the short one, becoming, thus, the destined instrument for Jacob Moody's conversion to a more singly manner of life. She looked about her despairingly, as if to seat some painless and respectable method of self-destruction. Do let's draw over again, she pleaded. I'm the worst of all of us. I'm sure to make a mess of it till I get kind of trained in. Rebecca's heart sank at this frank confession, which only corroborated her own fears. I'm sorry, Emmy dear, she said, but our only excuse for drawing lots at all would be to have it sacred. We must think of it as a kind of sign, almost like God speaking to Moses in the burning bush. Oh, I wish there was a burning bush right here, cried the distracted and recalcitrant missionary. How quick I'd step into it without even stopping to take off my garnet ring. Don't be such a scare, Cat, Emma Jane, exclaimed Candice bracingly. Jacob Moody can't kill you, even if he has an awful temper. Trot right along now before you get more frightened. Shall we go cross lots with her, Rebecca, and wait at the pasture gate? Then whatever happens, Alice can put it down in the minutes of the meeting. In these terrible crisis of life, time gallops with such incredible velocity that it seemed to Emma Jane only a breath before she was being dragged through the fields by the other daughters of Zion, the guileless little Thurza panting in the rear. At the entrance to the pasture, Rebecca gave her an impassioned embrace and whispering, whatever you do, be careful how you lead up, lifted off the top rail and pushed her through the bars. Then the girls turned their backs reluctantly on the pathetic figure, and each sought a tree under whose friendly shade she could watch and perhaps pray until the missionary should return from her field of labor. Alice Robinson, whose compositions were always marked 96 or 97 to 100, symbolizing such perfection as could be attained in the mortal world of Riverboro, Alice, not only daughter, but scribe of Zion, sharpened her pencil and wrote a few well-chosen words of introduction to be used when the records of the afternoon had been made by Emma Jane Perkins and Jacob Moody. Rebecca's heart beat tumultuously in her gingham dress. She felt that a drama was being enacted and though unfortunately she was not the central figure, she had at least a modest part in it. The short lot had not fallen to the properist daughter that she quite realized, yet would any one of them succeed in winning Jacob Moody's attention in engaging him in pleasant conversation and finally in bringing him to a realization of his mistaken way of life? She doubted, but at the same moment, her spirits rose at the thought of the difficulties involved in the undertaking. Difficulties always spurred Rebecca on, but they daunted poor Emma Jane who had no little thrills of excitement and wonder and fear and longing to sustain her lagging soul. That her interview was to be entered as minutes by a secretary seemed to her the last straw. Her blue eyes looked lighter than usual and had the glaze of china saucers. Her usually pink cheeks were pale, but she pressed on determined to be a faithful daughter of Zion and above all to be worthy of Rebecca's admiration and respect. Rebecca can do anything she thought with enthusiastic loyalty and I mustn't be any stupider than I can help or she'll choose one of the other girls for her most intimate friend. So, mustering all her courage, she turned into Jacob Moody's door yard where he was chopping wood. It's a pleasant afternoon, Mr. Moody. She said in a polite but horse whisper, Rebecca's words lead up, lead up, ringing in clarion tones through her brain. Jacob Moody looked at her curiously. Good enough, I guess, he growled, but I don't never have time to look at afternoons. Emma Jane seated herself timorously at the end of a large log near the chopping block, supposing that Jacob, like other hosts, would pause in his tasks and chat. The block is kind of like an idol, she thought. I wish I could take it away from him and then perhaps he'd talk. At this moment Jacob raised his axe and came down on the block with such a stunning blow that Emma Jane fairly leaped into the air. You better look out, Sissy, or you'll get chips in the eye, said Moody, grimly going on with his work. The daughter of Zion sent up a silent prayer for inspiration, but none came, and she sat, silent, giving nervous jumps in spite of herself whenever the axe fell upon the log Jacob was cutting. Finally the host became tired of his dumb visitor and leaning on his axe he said, "'Look here, sis, what have you come for? "'What's your errand? "'You want apples, or cider, or what? "'Speak up or get out, one or two other.' Emma Jane, who had wrung her handkerchief into a clammy ball, gave it a last despairing wrench and faltered, "'Wouldn't you like? "'Haven't you better? "'Don't you think you ought to be more constant "'at meeting in Sabbath school?' Jacob's axe almost dropped from his nerveless hand and he regarded the daughter of Zion with unspeakable rage and disdain. Then, the blood mounting in his face, he gathered himself together and shouted, "'You take yourself off that log "'and out of this dooryard double-quick, "'you impertinent sanctumist young one. "'You just let me catch Bill Perkins' child "'trying to teach me where I shall go at my age. "'Scuttle, I tell you, and if I see your pious "'Canton little mug inside my fence again "'on such business I'll chase you down the hill "'and set the dog on you. "'Scoot, I tell you.' Emma Jane obeyed orders summarily, "'taking herself off the log, out the dooryard "'and otherwise scuttling and scooting down the hill "'at a pace never contemplated even by Jacob Moody, "'who stood, regarding her flying heels "'with a sardonic grin. "'Down she stumbled, the tears coursing over her cheeks "'and mingling with the dust of her flight, "'blighted hope, shame, fear, rage, "'all tearing at her bosom in turn, "'till with a hysterical shriek she fell over the bars "'and into Rebecca's arms, outstretched to receive her. "'The other daughters wiped her eyes "'and supported her almost fainting form, "'while Thurza, thoroughly frightened, "'burst into sympathetic tears and refused to be comforted. "'No questions were asked, "'for it was felt by all parties "'that Emma Jane's demeanor was answering them "'before they could be framed. "'He threatened to set the dog on me,' she wailed presently, "'when, as they neared the Sawyer pasture, "'she was able to control her voice. "'He called me a pious Canton young one, "'and he said he'd chase me out of the dooryard "'if I ever came again, "'and he'll tell my father I know he will "'for he hates him like poison.' "'All at once the adult point of view dawned upon Rebecca. "'She never sawed until it was too obvious to be ignored. "'Had they done wrong in interviewing Jacob Moody? "'Would Aunt Miranda be angry as well as Mr. Perkins? "'Why was he so dreadful, Emmy?' she questioned tenderly. "'What did you say first? "'How did you lead up to it?' "'Emma Jane sobbed more convulsively "'and wiped her nose and eyes "'impartially as she tried to think. "'I guess I never led up at all, not a mite. "'I didn't know what you meant. "'I was sent on an errand, "'and I went and done it the best I could.' "'Emma Jane's grammar always lapsed "'in moments of excitement. "'And then Jake roared at me like Squire Windship's bowl, "'and he called my face a mug. "'You shut up that secretary book, Alice Robinson. "'If you write down a single word, "'I'll never speak to you again. "'And I don't want to be a member. "'Another minute for fear had drawn another short lot. "'I've got enough of the daughter's a Zion "'to last me the rest of my life. "'I don't care who goes to meetin' and who don't.' "'The girls were at the Perkins Gate by this time, "'and Emma Jane went sadly into the empty house "'to remove all traces of the tragedy from her person "'before her mother should come home from the church. "'The others wended their way slowly down the street, "'feeling that their promising missionary branch "'had died almost as soon as it had budded. "'Goodbye,' said Rebecca, "'swallowing lumps of disappointment and chagrin, "'as she saw the whole inspiring plan break and vanish "'into thin air like an iridescent bubble. "'It's all over, and we won't ever try it again. "'I'm going in to do overcasting as hard as I can "'because I hate that the worst. "'Aunt Jane must write to Mrs. Birch "'that we don't want to be home missionaries. "'Perhaps we're not big enough anyway. "'I'm perfectly certain it's nicer to convert people "'when they're yellow or brown or any color but white, "'and I believe it must be easier to save their souls "'than it is to make them go to meeting. "'End of Second Chronicle, Daughters of Zion.'"