Jack sat down stupefied on the bed. What had he given her, anyway? He thought intensely for a full minute.
"Great Scott! the pajamas!" And then Jack Sherrill rolled over on the bed, ignoring the damage to dress suit and violets, and, burying his face in the pillow, gave vent to a smothered yell.
There was a merry exchange of notes between Cambridge and New York during the next two weeks, and Rose had promised to wear any flowers–and only his–he might send her for the ball at Mrs. Fenlick's the middle of February, and for which Jack was coming on. It would occur during the last week of Rose's visit, and Jack thought that possibly–possibly,–well, he could n't define just what "possibly;" but it proved to be an infinitely absorbing one, and Jack felt it was "now or never" with him.
Mrs. Heath had claimed Rose as her guest for the last three weeks, and the days were filled with pleasures. On the Saturday before the ball, and a week before Rose was to return to Mount Hunger, two seats in a box at the opera had been sent in to Mrs. Heath from a friend.
"Look at these, Rose!" Mrs. Heath exclaimed, showing her the note. "Just exactly what you were wishing to hear, and we thought we could not arrange it for next week. That opera has been changed for to-day's matinée, and now you can hear both Lohengrin and Siegfried."
Rose clapped her hands. "I 've just longed to hear Lohengrin; Mrs. Ford and her son have played so much of it to me. I think it's perfectly beautiful."
"I 'm so sorry I can't go, dear; but I made a positive engagement for this afternoon and it must not be broken. But I 'll send round for Cousin Anna May. She does n't care much for the opera, but she will chaperone you. She 's not much of a talker either, so you can enjoy the music in peace. People chatter so abominably there."
From the moment the orchestra sounded the first notes of that pathetic and thrillingly appealing fore-word of the overture, Rose was lost to the world about her. She was glad of the darkness, glad no one could see or notice her intense absorption in the opening scene. Even when the lights were turned on between the acts, and the subdued murmur in the house rose to a confusing babble, she was living in the story of Elsa and her lover Knight. Elderly Cousin Anna May, seeing this, let her alone, thinking to herself:–"One has to be young to be so enthusiastic over this wornout theme."
The curtain fell; the house was brilliant with lights; confusion of talk, confusion of merry chat and laughter were all about Rose; but she sat unheeding, wondering if the element of evil would be turned into a factor of good. Her heart was aching with the intensity of feeling for the two lovers. Suddenly, a few words behind her arrested her attention. She sat with her back to the speakers–two girls in the next box, who had annoyed her more than once by their ceaseless, whispering gabble.
"I told Maude I did n't believe it."
"What did she say?"
"She said it was gospel truth."
"Do tell me what it was, I won't tell."
"Sure?"
"Not a soul."
"Promise?"
"Why, of course. They say he 's got oceans of money."
"Piles–. He 's got his mother's fortune and will have his father's. Besides, his Uncle Gray is a bachelor, and so Jack will have that, too. Maude says he 's the best catch in New York."
"I heard Sam say he was in an awfully fast set in college; but Sam likes him awfully well. Have you seen him?"
"Oh, yes, lots. Maude let me see him one night before dinner at Newport. I used to see him playing polo at the grounds. I think he 's fascinating–just like Lohengrin."
"But what was it? Hurry up, do."
"You 'll never tell?"
"Never."
The voice was slightly lowered–confused with the munching of Huyler's; and Rose, with hypersensitive hearing, could distinguish only a word or two, or a detached sentence.
"I don't think that's so awful. Sam does that, too, and he 's just as nice a brother as I want."
"Oh, I don't know anything about that; but I know it's true, for Maude said so." In the increasing confusion of talk in the house, the voices were suddenly raised, and Rose caught every word.
"I 'll ask Sam–" began the other, dropping her opera glass and stooping to pick it up.
"If you do, Minna Grayson, I 'll never speak to you again."
"Oh, I forgot–" laughed the other. "Tell us some more, it's awfully exciting."
"I won't either," said the other, in a huffy tone. Evidently, they were school-girls in for the matinée.
"Oh, do; what did Maude say?"
"She said, 'No,'" chuckled the other triumphantly.
"But think of his money!'
"She said she did n't mind; she 's got money enough of her own, anyway, if she does skimp me on allowance ever since grandmamma died."
"I heard Sara say last Christmas when I was home for vacation, that he was perfectly devoted to that new girl the Clydes have taken up."
"Yes. Maude says it's one of his fads. She gives him six months more to get over it."
"Everybody says she is a perfect beauty. Sam says that Mrs. Fenlick says she is the most beautiful creature off of a canvas she has ever seen."
"Oh, Maude says Mrs. Fenlick raves over everything new. She, the girl, I mean, made a dead set at him a year ago when he happened to meet her up in the mountains. You know they had a riding-party last August. But now they say she seems to be setting her cap for Hazel's father–he has a million or two more than Jack, and she 's as poor as a church-mouse."
"I did n't know that,–poor?"
"Yes, awfully. Why, Maude says she's seen her selling berries for a living somewhere up in the mountains–oh, way back in them. People call them the Lost Nation, they 're so far back; and Maude says she wore patched shoes and an old calico dress–Sh!–Now we 're going to have that bridal march, is n't it dandy? It ought to be a part of the marriage ceremony, Maude says. I 'm so glad it's coming;–Tum, tum, ty tum–tum, tum, ty tum–here 's just one more candied violet–tum, tum, ty tum, tum, ty tum, ty ty tum, ty tum–Oh, look! Is n't Elsa just lovely–"
A burst of applause greeted the beautiful prima donna. Upon Rose's ears it fell like the thunder of a cataract, like the crash and roll of an avalanche. She stared at the exquisite scene before her with strained eyes. The music went on with all the troublous-sweet under-tones of love, and longing, and forever-parting. Not once did Rose stir until the curtain fell, then she turned to her companion:–
"Can we get out soon, Mrs. May? The air is a little close here."
"Certainly, my dear;" but to herself she said, "How intense she is. I 'm thankful I never was so strung up over music."
XXIV
"OLD PUT"
"Where 's Rose?" said the Doctor as he came in that Saturday evening, and heard no welcoming voice from the library or the stairs.
"She came home from the opera with a frightful headache and has gone to bed. She said she did n't want any dinner, but I have insisted upon her having some toast and tea," replied his wife.
"Humph!" growled the Doctor; "Our wild rose can't stand such hot-house atmosphere. When does the Fenlicks' ball come off?"
"Next Wednesday; it will be a superb affair. Rose showed me her card the other day, and if you will believe me, it's full, although Jack Sherrill gets the lion's share."
"How do you think things are coming on there, wifie?"
"Why, he's devoted to her whenever he can be; you know what Mrs. Pearsell told us about last summer, but–"
"But what?" said the Doctor, a little impatiently. "Generally, wifie, you can see prospective wedding-cake if two young people so much as look twice at each other."
Mrs. Heath laughed and nodded. "Yes, I know; but in just this case, I don't know. You can't tell anything by her–and I fear, hubbie, that Jack Sherrill is n't quite good enough for her."
"Not quite good enough for her!" The Doctor almost shouted in his earnestness. "Jack Sherrill not quite good enough for–"
"Sh–sh, dear!" His wife held up her hand in warning. "Someone might hear."
"Let 'em hear, then," growled the Doctor. "I say Rose is n't a bit too good for him.–Look here, wifie,–" he drew her towards him and down upon the arm of his easy-chair, "Jack's all right every time–do you understand? All right!"
"Ye-es," admitted his wife rather reluctantly. "I know he 's a great favorite of yours. But Mrs. Grayson says he 's in a very fast set at Harvard–
"Now look here, wifie, don't you let those women with their eternal hunger for gossip say anything to you about Jack. I tell you there is n't another fellow I know, who, placed as he is, can set up so many white stones to mark his short life's pathway as John Sherrill's only son. For heaven's sake, give him the credit for them. I know what I saw on Mount Hunger a year ago, and I know and believe what I see."
"Well, I only hope he won't flirt with her–" began Mrs. Heath. Her husband interrupted her:
"Flirt with her!" The Doctor chuckled. "I'll warrant Jack won't do any flirting with her–it 'll be the other way round sooner than that! Just say good-night to Rose for me when you go up stairs, and tell her if she is n't down bright and early Sunday morning, I 'll prescribe for her."
But there was no need for the Doctor's prescription; for Rose was down for breakfast, and although white cheeks and heavy eyes caused the Doctor to draw his eyebrows together in a straight line over the bridge of his nose, nothing was said of there being any need for a prescription. But after breakfast he drew her into the library and placed her in an easy-chair before the blazing fire.
"There now," he said in his own kindliest tones, "sit there and dream while wifie makes ready for church, and after that you shall go with me for an official drive. The air will do you good. I can't send such white roses"–he patted her cheek–"back to Mount Hunger; what would mother say?"
To his amazement Rose buried her face in both hands; a half-suppressed sob startled him.
"Why, Rose-pose! What's the matter, little girl? Headachey–nerves unstrung–too much opera? Here, come into the office where we shan't be disturbed, and tell me all about it."
But Rose shook her head, lifted it from her hands, and smiled through the welling tears.
"I 'm a perfect goose, but–but–I believe I 'm getting just a little bit homesick for Mount Hunger, and I 'm not going to stay for Mrs. Fenlick's ball. I know mother needs me at home–I can just feel it in her letters, and I know I want–I want her."
"Don't blame you a bit, Rose,–but is n't this rather sudden? Any previous attacks?"
"No–and I know it seems dreadfully ungrateful to you and dear Mrs. Heath to say so, and it is n't that–I 'd love to be with just you two; but it's this dreadful feeling comes over me, and I know I ought to go."
"And go you shall, Rose," said the Doctor, emphatically, but oh! so kindly and understandingly. "Go back to all the dear ones there–and when you come again, don't give us the tail-end of your visit, will you?"
"Indeed, I won't," answered Rose, earnestly, "and if it were only you and Mrs. Heath, I 'd love to stay, but–but–"
"No need to say anything more, Rose, wifie and I understand it perfectly–" ("I wish the dickens I did!" was his thought)–"Tell wifie when she comes down, and meanwhile I 'll send round for the brougham and we 'll take a little drive in the Park before office hours."
Rose patted his hand, and her silence spoke for her.
"Here 's a pretty kettle of fish!" said the Doctor to himself as he went to the telephone. "I wish I could get to the bottom of it."
And thus it came about that a cool, dignified note, not expressive of any particular regret, was mailed to Cambridge on Sunday afternoon, and a long letter to Mount Hunger telling them to be sure to meet her on Tuesday at Barton's, and filled with wildly enthusiastic expressions of delight in anticipation of the home-coming. And on Tuesday afternoon, as the train sped onwards, following the curves of the frozen Connecticut, and the snow-covered mountains on the Vermont side began to crowd its banks, Rose felt a lightening of the heart and an uplifting of spirits.
The bitterness and shame and shock she had experienced, in consequence of that one little bite of the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, seemed to diminish with every mile that increased the distance between her and the frothing whirlpool of the great city's gayeties. All the way up, until the mountains loomed in sight, there had been hot, indignant protest in her thoughts. At first, indeed, it had been hatred.
"I hate it all–hate it, hate it!" she found herself saying over and over again after the good-byes had been said at the station, and Hazel and Mr. Clyde and Doctor Heath had supplied her with flowers and magazines for the long day's journey. It was all she could think or feel at the time; but soon the little pronoun changed, and the thought grew more bitter:
"I hate him! How could he–how dared he do as he did! Because I am poor, I suppose. Oh! I wish I could make him pay for it. I wish I could make him love me really and truly, and then just scorn him! But what a fool I am–as if he could love after what I heard–oh, why did I hear it! I wish I may never see his face again, and I wish I 'd stayed at home where I belong–I hate him!"–And so on "da capo" hour after hour, and the incessant chugetty-chug-chug of the express furnished the rhythmic, basal tone for the bitter motive.
It was long after lunch time, and the train of thought had not changed, when Rose's eye fell upon the dainty basket Martin had placed in the rack.
"This is a pretty state of mind to go home to Martie in!" she said to herself, rising and taking down the basket. "I have n't eaten a good meal since last Saturday at lunch, and I 'm–why, I believe I 'm hungry!"
She opened the basket, and loving evidence of Minna-Lu's admiration tempted her to pick a little here and there–a stuffed olive or two, a roast quail, a delicate celery sandwich, a quince tart, a bunch of Hamburg grapes. Soon Rose was feasting on all the good things, and her harsh thoughts began to soften. How kind they all were! And they truly loved her–and what had they not done for her comfort and pleasure! Rose, setting her pretty teeth deep into a third quince tart, looked out of the window and almost exclaimed aloud at the sight. The vanguard of the Green Mountains closed in the upper end of the river-valley along which they were speeding. It was home that was behind all that! The thought still further softened her.
What? Carry her bitterness and disappointed pride back into that dear, peaceful home? Not she! "They shall never know–never!" she said to herself–"I 'm not Molly Stark for nothing, and there are others in the world beside Jack Sherrill." And so she continued to speak cold comfort to herself for the next four hours until the brakeman called "Barton's River!"
There beyond the platform was the old apple-green pung!–and yes! father and March and Budd and dear old Chi anxiously scanning the coaches.
Home at last! and such a home-coming! How busy the tongues were for a week afterwards! How wildly gay was Rose, who kept them laughing over the many queer doings of the metropolis, over Wilkins and Minna-Lu and Martin and Mrs. Scott! And how lovingly she spoke of Hazel's charming hospitality and of Mr. Clyde's thoughtfulness for her pleasure, although, as she mentioned his name, a wave of color mounted to the roots of her hair at the ugly thought that would intrude. Chi listened with all his ears, enjoying it with the rest; but once upstairs in his room over the shed, he would sit down on the side of his bed to ponder a little the gay doings of his Rose-pose among the "high-flyers," and then turn in with a sigh and a muttered:
"'T ain't Rose-pose. I knew how 't would be.–There 's a screw loose somewhere; but she's handsome!–handsome as a picture, 'n' I 'd give a dollar to know if she 's cut that other one out."
"Valentines seem kind of scarce this year," he remarked rather grimly, a few days after her arrival, as late in the afternoon, he returned from Barton's with little mail and no boxes of flowers. "It's the sixteenth day of February, but it might be Fast Day for all that handful of mail would show for it!" He placed the package on Mrs. Blossom's work-table at which Rose was sitting busy with some sewing. They were alone in the room.
Rose laughed merrily. "Goodness, Chi! you want us to have more than our share. We had a perfect deluge last year when Hazel was here; you know it makes a difference without her. You said yourself that there was a good deal of bulk, but it was pretty light weight–don't you remember?"
Chi elevated one bushy eyebrow. "I ain't forgot; but I don't know about it's bein' any Deluge--it appeared to me it was a Shadrach, Meshach, 'n' Abednego kind of a business–" He gave the back log a kick that sent the sparks up the chimney in a grand pyrotechnic show. "Seems as if I could see those posies, now, a-shrivellin' in the fireplace. Never thought you treated those innocent things quite on the square, Rose-pose!"
Rose's head was bent low over her work. Chi went on, bracing himself to the self-imposed task of enlightening her:–
"I don't want to meddle, Rose, in anybody's business, but it ain't set well with me ever since–the way you treated those roses; 'n', after all, we 're both members of the Nobody's Business But Our Own Society, 'n' if anybody 's goin' to meddle, perhaps I 'm the one. I 've thought a good many times you would n't have been quite so harsh with 'em, if you had n't overlooked this in your flare-up–" He drew out of his breast pocket a card–Jack 's–with the verse on the back. "Read that, 'n' see if you ain't dropped a stitch somewhere that you can pick up in time." He handed her the card.
Rose looked up surprised, but with burning cheeks. She took the card, read the verse, turned it over on the name side, and rose from her chair. Every particle of color had left her face. She went over to the fireplace, and, bending, dropped the little piece of pasteboard upon the glowing back-log.
"The sentiment belongs with the roses, Chi; don't let's have any more Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego business–I 'm tired of it." She spoke indifferently; then, resuming her seat, called out in a cheery voice:
"Martie, won't you come here a minute, and see if I have put on this gore right?"
"I 'll come, dear."
Chi, nonplussed, irritated, repulsed, set his teeth hard and abruptly left the room.
Outside in the shed he clenched his fist and shook it vigorously at the closed door of the long-room: "–By George Washin'ton!" he muttered, "I 'll make you pay up for that, Rose Blossom. You can't come any of your high-flyers' games on me– Just you put that in your pipe and smoke it! Thunderation! what gets into women and girls, sometimes?" He seized the milk-pails from the shelf and hurried to the barn nearly running down Cherry in his wrathful excitement.
"Look out there, Cherry! You 're always getting round under foot!" he said, harshly, and stumbled on, regaining his balance, only to be met by Budd in the barn.
"Just clear out now, Budd! I ain't goin' to stand your foolin'. Let alone of that stanchion," he roared. "Always worryin' the cow if she looks once at you sideways. Get up, there–" His right boot helped the amazed cow forwards into the stall, and the milk drummed into the pail as if the poor creature were being milked by a dummy-engine with more pressure of steam on than it could well stand.
Budd flew into the woodshed and found Cherry still standing, in a half-dazed condition, where Chi had left her. They compared notes immediately to the detriment and defamation of Chi's character. Then they carried their budget of woe to their mother.
"Chi is worried, children; you must n't mind if he is a little cross now and then. He feels dreadfully about the prospect of this war, as we all do, and that's his way of showing it."
"Well, if he's going to be so cross at us, I wish he 'd clear out an' go to war!" retorted Budd, smarting under the unjust treatment.
"I 'm only afraid he will if we have one," said Mrs. Blossom, sadly. "But, oh, I hope and pray we may be spared that!"
But Budd continued to grumble, and Cherry to be suspiciously sniffy, until their father's return; and then at the supper table they listened greedily to all the talk of their elders, that had for its absorbing theme the prospective war.
As the spring days lengthened, and the sun drew northward, the tiny cloud on the country's peaceful horizon grew larger and darker, until it cast its shadow throughout the length and breadth of the land, and men's faces grew stern and troubled and women prayed for peace.
With the lengthening days Chi showed signs of increasing restlessness. "It ain't any use, Ben," he said, one soft evening in early May, as the family, with the exception of the younger children, sat on the porch discussing the latest news, "I 've got to go."
"Oh, Chi!" broke from Mrs. Blossom and Rose. They cried out as if hurt. Mr. Blossom grasped Chi's right hand, and March wrung the other.
"I can't stand it," he went on; "we 've been sassed enough as a nation, 'n' some of us have got to teach those foreigners we ain't goin' to turn the other cheek just coz we're slapped on one. When I wasn't higher than Budd, my great-grandfather–you remember him, Ben, lived the other side of the Mountain–put his father's old Revolution'ry musket (the one, you know, Rose-pose, as I 've used in the N.B.B.O.O.) into my hands, 'n' says: 'Don't you stand no sass, Malachi Graham, from no foreigners.–Just shoot away, 'n' holler, "Hands off" every time, 'n' they 'll learn their lesson easy and early, 'n' respect you in the end.' And I ain't forgot it."
"Chi," Mrs. Blossom's voice was tremulous, "you won't go till you 're asked, or needed, will you?"
"I ain't goin' to wait to be asked, Mis' Blossom; I 'd rather be on hand to be refused. That's my way. So I thought I 'd be gettin' down along this week–"
"This week!" Rose interrupted him with a cry and a half-sob. "Oh, Chi! dear old Chi! must you go? What if–what if–" Rose's voice broke, and Chi gulped down a big lump, but answered, cheerily:
"Well, Rose-pose, what if? Ain't I Old Put? 'n' ain't you Molly Stark? 'n' ain't Lady-bird Barbara Frietchie?–There, just read that–" he handed a letter to March, who gave it back to him, saying, in a husky voice, that it was too dark to read.
"Well, then we 'll adjourn into the house, 'n' light up.–There now," he said, as he lighted the lamp and set it on the table beside March, "here's your letter, Markis, read ahead."
March read with broken voice:
4 EAST –TH STREET, NEW YORK,
May 5, 1898.
DEAR FRIEND CHI,–I never thought when I joined the N.B.B.O.O. Society, that I 'd have to be really brave about real war;–and now dear old Jack is going off to Cuba with Little Shaver and all those cow-boys,–and it's dreadful! Uncle John is about sick over it, for, you know, Jack is all he has. Papa is going to keep the house open all summer; he says there is no telling what may happen.
We have made no plans for the summer, for our hearts are so heavy on Jack's account–his last year in Harvard, too! He told me to tell you he would find out if there is a chance for you in the new cavalry regiment he has joined. He looked so pleased when I told him; he read your letter, and I told him how you wanted to go with him, and he said: "Dear old Chi, I'd like to have him for my bunkie"–and told me what it meant. He told me to tell you to be prepared for a telegram at any moment.
I must stop now; papa wants me to go out with him. Give my love to all, and tell Mother Blossom and Rose I will write them more particulars in a few days.
If you come to New York, you know a room will be ready for you in the home of your
Loving friend,
HAZEL CLYDE.
There was silence for a while in the room; then Mr. Blossom spoke:
"How are you going, Chi?"
"I 'm goin' to jog along down with Fleet, 'n' take it kind of easy–thought I 'd cross the Mountain, 'n' strike in on the old post-road; 'n' follow on down by old Ticonderogy,–I 've always wanted to see that,–then across to Saratogy 'n' Albany, 'n' foller the river. You can't go amiss of New York if you stick to that."
Again there was a prolonged silence. Chi hemmed, and moved uneasily on his chair, while he fumbled about in his trousers' pocket. He pulled out a piece of crumpled, yellow paper.
"S'pose I might just as well make a clean breast of it." He tried to laugh, but it was a failure. "Jack's telegram came along last night, 'n' I thought, maybe I 'd better be gettin' my duds together to-night, Mis' Blossom, as 't will be a mighty early start–before any of you are up," he added, hastily.
The two women broke down then, and Mr. Blossom and March followed Chi out to the barn.
The household, save for the younger children, was early astir–before sunrise. Mrs. Blossom had prepared a hearty breakfast, and Rose was rolling up a few pairs of her father's stockings to put in the netted saddle-bag which Chi was wont to use in hunting.
"Tell March to call Chi, Rose," said her mother. "His breakfast is ready, I hear him in the barn."
Rose ran out in the dawning light to find her father and March just coming towards the house.
"Why, where 's Chi?" she cried.
For answer, her father pointed to the woodlands. She looked just in time to see in the soft gray of the early morn the horse and rider rise to the three-railed fence that separated the pasture from the woodlands. He was following the trail he had indicated to Jack–"through the woods 'n' acre or two of brush, 'n' then some pretty steep sliding down the other side, 'n' a dozen rods or so of swimmin', 'n' a tough old clamber up the bank–"
Some ten days afterward, late on a warm afternoon in May, there rode into New York City by the way of the Bronx and Harlem, a middle-aged man on a bright bay horse. The animal's gait was a noticeable one, a long, loping gallop, that covered the ground in a manner that roused the admiration of the drivers on the speedway. The tall, loose-jointed body of the rider apparently loped along with the horse–their movements were identical. The saddle was an old-fashioned cavalry one of the early sixties. A netted saddle-bag and a rolled rubber coat were fastened to the crupper. A light-weight hunting rifle was slung on a strap over the man's shoulder. At the northern entrance to the Park he drew rein beside a mounted policeman.
"Can you tell me if I 'm on the right track to this house?"
He took a card from the pocket of his dusty blue flannel shirt and handed it to the policeman.
The city guardian nodded assent. "But you can't take that gun along with you; you 're inside city limits and liable to arrest."
"'Gainst the law, hey? Well, I 've come from a pretty law-abiding state, 'n' ain't goin' to get into rows with you fellers–" He laid a brown, knotty, work-roughened finger on the policeman's immaculate blue coat–"I 'd trust that color as far as I could see. Where shall I leave the rifle?"
The city guard unbent as the kindly voice yielded such undefiant obedience to his demand. "You can leave it with me now,–I 'm off my beat by seven, and live over east of this–" he handed back the card–"and I 'll leave it at the house if you 're going to be there."
"All right, that 'll suit me. Yes, I 'm goin' to put up there for a day or two, maybe."
"Off on a hunting trip?"
"You bet–goin' on a big, old, U.S.A. hunt for a lot of darned foreigners in Cuby."
The policeman held out his hand and grasped the stranger's. "You're one of them?"
"Yes, I come down to join a cavalry regiment. Jack Sherrill, he belongs, too. Great rider–can't be beat. Ever seen him round here on Little Shaver?"
The policeman smiled. "No, but I 'd like to see you again–"
"Maybe you will; but I 'd better be getting along before sundown,–'gainst the law to ride this horse a piece through those woods?" He pointed into the Park.
"Oh, no, that's all right. Keep along till you come to Seventieth Street, and inquire; and then turn into Fifth Avenue–east–and you're there."
"Much obliged. Like to show you a trail or two up in Vermont when you come that way. Get, Fleet." The animal set forward into a long, loping gallop.
The brilliant, light green of the May foliage was enhanced by the level rays of the setting sun, as the man turned his horse into Fifth Avenue and drew rein to a rapid walk. Many a one paused to look at him as he paced over the asphalt. He was looking up at the mansions of the Upper East Side. Soon he halted at the corner of a side street and gazed up at the first house, the end of which, with the conservatory, was on the Avenue, but the entrance on the side street. "That's the place," he spoke to himself,–"don't see a hitchin'-post handy, so I 'll just have to tie up to this electric light stand. Iron, by thunder!–Well, there ain't any risk so long as 't isn't lit, 'n' there ain't a tempest."
Leaving his horse firmly tied to the standard he stepped up on the low, broad stoop of "Number 4," and looked for the bell. Not finding any he knocked forcibly on the carved iron grill that protected the plate-glass doors.
The great doors flew open, and a face–"blacker 'n thunder"–as the man said to himself, scowled on the interloper.
"Wha' fo' yo' come hyar, yo'–" He got no further. A horny hand was extended, and a cheery voice, that broke into a laugh, spoke the assuaging words:
"Guess you 're Wilkins, ain't you? I 've heard Lady-bird tell 'bout you till I feel as if we 'd been pretty well acquainted goin' on nigh two year now."
By this time Wilkins' face was one broad beam. He slapped his free hand on his knee:
"Yo 's Mister Chi, for sho'–dere ain't no need yo' tellin'. Yo' jes' come straight in, Mister Chi; Marse John an' little Missy jes' gone fo' ah drive in de Park. Dey 'll be in any minute. Yo' room 's all ready, an' little Missy put de flow'rs in fresh dis yere mornin'–''Case,' she say, 'Wilkins, dere ain't no tellin' when Chi's comin'.'"
"Sho'," Chi interrupted him, brushing the back of his hand hastily across his eyes. "I can't come in now, Wilkins, coz I 've got to stay here 'n' watch my horse–I 'll sit here on the steps a spell 'n' cool off till Mr. Clyde gets home, 'n' he 'll help me see to puttin' up Fleet for the night. His legs are a little mite swollen near the hocks, 'n' I 'm goin' to rub him down myself."