"We will run in no debt we cannot pay, unless we are ill and it is impossible to help. Hal and I settled that long ago. So far we have managed, and now he is working too, I feel as rich as – rich."

"Exactly. Amy, if this old house were yours, what would you do with it?"

The answer was prompt and decided.

"Make it into a Home for Mill Girls."

"Whew! What in the world! Fairacres? The proudest old mansion in the country, or in this part of it! Are you beside yourself?"

"I should be with delight, if I could make that dream a reality."

"I gave you credit for more sense. But, business – that donkey. How much did Mr. Metcalf intend to pay for it?"

"I suppose the same as he did for Pepita. Seventy-five dollars – burro, harness, and all."

"At ten dollars a month, that would take you along well into next summer. Tell Hallam that I will keep the animal and allow him eight months' rent for it. That's giving you a half month, you see. Will you?"

"Yes, I'll tell him," answered she, with a catch in her voice. "Only I had hoped to take him home with me. It would have made such a delightful Christmas for us all. You don't know how much we love those pretty creatures."

"Pretty! Opinions differ."

"And would it be quite right to make any such arrangements, after having asked the superintendent to buy it, and he agreeing? Wouldn't he be the one to say something about it?"

"Amy, you're incorrigible. You're a radical. A thing is either absolutely right or it is absolutely wrong – according to your standard. You'll be in trouble as long as you live, for you'll find nobody else with such antiquated notions as yours. There are a great many things that are expedient."

"I hate expedient things. I like just the easy, simple 'no' and 'yes' that was my darling mother's rule. I'm glad I'm at least a birthright Friend."

Mr. Wingate was silent. He seemed to drop into a profound reverie, and the girl hesitated to disturb him, eager as she now was to be away. Finally, as she had made up her mind to speak, he did so himself.

"Amy, do you ever use the plain speech now?"

"Sometimes – between ourselves. For mother's sake we can never let it die."

"Will thee use it to me now and then? It was the habit of my boyhood. Salome was my oldest friend. We've played together in this very room, again and again. She was my good angel. Until – No matter. You are her child. Not like her at all in face or manner. She was always gentle, and shrank from giving pain. Truthful and puritanical as she was in her ideas, she had the tact, the knowledge to say things without hurting those whom she corrected. She corrected me often and often, when we were young, but she hurt me – never. Now, you – heigho!"

"Now, I hurt – thee. Of course. I speak first and think afterward. But does thee know, cousin Archibald, thee is the very queerest man I ever met?"

"Have you – has thee – known many?"

"Very few. Thee is so good on one side and so – so – not nice on the other. Like a half-ripened pear. But I am sorry for thee. I wish I could do thee good. Do I speak it as thee wishes?"

"Indeed, yes. It is music, even though the words are unflattering enough. Well, I'll not keep thee longer. And I don't ask you to call attention to this whim of mine by saying 'thee' in public," he remarked, himself falling back into the habit of their intercourse.

"No; if I say 'thee,' it is to be always, whenever I remember – like a bond to remind me I must be kind to thee for my mother's sake. If she did thee good, I must try to do thee good too."

"In what way?"

Amy reflected. The first, most obvious way, would be by cheering his solitude. Yet she hesitated. The thing which had come into her mind involved the desires of others also. She had no right, until she consulted them, to commit herself. Yet she disliked to leave this lonely old fellow, without trying to make him glad.

She sat down again in the chair from which she had risen and regarded him critically.

"Oh, cousin Archibald, if thee were only a little bit different!"

"Thee, too!" he laughed – actually laughed; and the action seemed to clear his features like a sunburst.

"Oh, of course. Well, it's this way. To-morrow's Christmas, isn't it?"

"So I've heard."

"And somebody – Teamster John – has sent Cleena 'the furnishing of a good dinner,' she told me. I don't know when we may have another such a meal, one that thee would think fit to eat. I'd like to ask thee to come and share it with us, instead of staying here alone, all grumpy with the gout. But it isn't my dinner, thee sees, and I'm going home to tell my people everything. About the picture and the donkey and all. If, after that, they agree with me that it would be nice to ask thee to spend the holiday with us, I'll bring thee word. If I do, will thee come?"

Mr. Wingate leaned back in his easy-chair and hugged his gouty foot for so long and so silently that Amy grew impatient and rose.

"Anyway, I must go home. I've been here ever so much later than I meant to stay. Good-by."

"Wait! How impetuous you – thee is. Well, I've received a great many invitations to dine, from the banquets of bank presidents down to the boiled dinners of my own workmen, but I doubt if I ever received one so honest and so honestly expressed."

"Will thee come, if thee is asked?"

"Yes; I'll come —if I'm asked. Don't thee bother to walk all the way back again, though. If by nine o'clock to-night I have heard nothing to the contrary, I shall understand that I am expected to dine with my tenants at 'Spite House.' At what hour, please?"

"On Christmas, dinner is usually at three o'clock. And, if thee pleases, it is no longer 'Spite' but 'Charity House.' My mother changed all that. Thee must not dishonor her wishes if thee loves her."

A wonderful, an almost beautiful change passed over the old man's face.

"Amy, thee speaks as if she were here still."

"She is to me. She always will be. Good-by."

She was gone, and the house seemed bigger and emptier after she had left it. But Archibald Wingate would not have had anybody know with what almost childish anxiety he waited the striking of the clock, as the hour of nine drew near. He had been judged a hard and bitter man. He was very human, after all. The small brown hand of his young cousin was pointing a new, strange way, wherein he might happily walk, and in secret he blessed her for it. But he was a man who liked his own will and to follow his own road still; though he might do his utmost to bend that road in the direction she had elected. Meanwhile, he would have his supper sent in and sitting at ease before his own hearth-blaze review many plans.

So he did, and after the supper a comfortable nap, from which he roused with a start, fancying the old clock in the hall was striking the hour.

"Eh? What? Is it nine already? That timepiece must be fast."

"It's only me, sir, Marshall, with a bucket of coals. And, if you please, there's a young person outside insists upon seeing you, sir. Am I to bid him go away until morning?"

In his disappointment the master's face really paled. Marshall noticed it and wondered, but he knew enough, sometimes, to hold his tongue. This seemed to him to be one of the times, and he therefore made no comment, nor even inquired for the master's health.

"No, don't send anybody away. I fancy that was never the custom at Fairacres, on Christmas Eve, be the visitor who he might. We'll not disturb the old ways, more than we can help. After all – Bid the messenger come in."

CHAPTER XXII.
TWO WANDERERS RETURN

The "young person" to whom Marshall referred in such contemptuous terms was Lionel Percival Jones. He so announced himself, as he was ushered into the presence of the great man.

"I've come to bring a letter from Amy Kaye."

"Indeed; would it not sound better if you said 'Miss Kaye,' or 'Miss Amy'? She is a kinswoman of mine."

Lionel Percival was astonished. He had prepared himself for this visit with the utmost care. He had oiled his curly auburn locks with a scented pomatum, and parted them rakishly in the middle. He wore his most aggressive necktie and his yellowest shoes, also his Sunday suit of clothes. With the exception of the necktie and the pomatum, he would not have attracted attention to himself anywhere, and so would have been well dressed. With these, he seemed to be all-pervading. He had instantly, by means of them, offended Mr. Wingate's taste, and put himself at disadvantage.

"Why, I'd just as lief say 'Miss,' but she's a mill girl, same as my own sister. I didn't go to mean no harm."

The mill owner winced. Then inquired: —

"Is there an answer expected?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. Wait here."

The master of Fairacres limped into the adjoining room and turned his back toward the door between, hiding his face from the lad's observation as he read.

"Humph! She left it open, which is correct enough with reliable messengers. Probably, though, he had the curiosity to read what she had to say," – in which he wholly wronged the bearer. But Mr. Wingate had yet to learn that even lads who attire themselves atrociously may still be true gentlemen at heart, and sin in taste through ignorance only.

This was the note: —

"Dear Cousin Archibald Wingate: My father and Hallam will be very happy to have thee dine with us to-morrow, Christmas Day. Cleena says that dinner will be served at three o'clock. If thee knew her as well as I do, thee would understand that she means not a minute before nor one afterward. If thee pleases, I would rather not have any 'business' talk of any sort to-morrow. I would like it to be a day of peace, as my mother always kept it for us. Thee may meet some other guests, but we will try to make thee happy.

"Good night,
"Amy."

It was a very cheerful and smiling old gentleman who returned to the room where Lionel Percival waited for the reply, a brief but stately acceptance of the invitation; for since Amy had set him the example, the mill owner considered that she regarded such formality essential.

Then he called in Marshall and bade him see that the messenger had a bit of supper before his return walk, which proceeding made the valet stare, and the boy feel exceedingly proud. It would be something of which to boast among his comrades at the mill.

The morning proved a cloudless one, mild and merciful to such as suffered from gout, and Mr. Wingate drove himself to "Charity House" in his own little phaeton. He felt this was an occasion when Marshall's too solicitous attentions might be in the way. He held a debate with himself, before setting off, whether he should or should not add to the feast from his own larder, and he decided against so doing by the simple test of "put yourself in his place."

But there was plenty and to spare. Teamster John did nothing by halves. Those who have least of this world's goods are always the most generous. Cleena had prepared each dish with her best skill and waited upon her guests with smiling satisfaction. Afterward, in the kitchen, she and John discussed the strange reunion of their "betters," and Cleena speculated upon it in her own fashion: —

"Sure, there's never fish, flesh, nor fowl could withstand the loving ways of me little colleen. And to hear them talkin' together, like lambs in the field. Them – "

"I never heerd lambs talkin'," observed John, facetiously.

"Then it's deaf ye've been belike. Oh, me fathers, if here doesn't come me own Gineral – Napoleon – Bonyparty! Where have ye been avick, avick?" she demanded, pushing hastily back from the board and hurrying out of doors. "Well, it's proof o' yer sense ye comes back in due time for a bit o' the nicest turkey ever was roast. But it's shamefaced ye be, small wonder o' that! Howsomever, it's a day o' good will. Come by. Wash up, eat yer meat, an' give thanks. To-morrow —I'll settle old scores. Come by."

Yet when Fayette entered the kitchen and learned from John who were the guests in the dining room beyond, he scowled and would have gone away again. However, he had forgotten Cleena. That good woman, having received her prodigal back, did not intend to relinquish him. She saw his frown, his hasty movement, and shutting the door put her back against it.

"You silly omahaun! If your betters forgives an' eats the bread o' peace, what's you to be settin' such a face on the matter? Come by. Be at peace. There's the blessed little hunchback eatin' cranberry sauce cheek by jowl with her 'boss,' an' can't you remember the Child was born for such as you, me poor silly lad? Come by."

Fayette "came by" at last, silently and because he was half famished, and could not resist the savory odors of the tempting food Cleena offered him. Yet in his heart there was still anger and evil intent; and though he was amazed to find Mary Reese a guest at the Kayes' table, as well as their "mortal enemy," Mr. Wingate, he made no further comment, and as soon as the meal was over retreated without a word to his chamber and shut the door.

"It's like he might ha' just stepped out yesternight, he drops into ways so quick," said Cleena.

"But he's not the same lad. He'll give somebody trouble before long. You do wrong, woman, to harbor him. He's vindictive and dangerous."

The trustful Cleena laughed the teamster to scorn.

"Faith, give a dog a bad name an' he'll earn it. Let the lad be. In old Ireland we call such the 'touched of God.' We judge not, an' that's the size of a man – how he betreats the helpless ones. Put that in your pipe an' smoke it."

Surely, John thought, there was a deal of good sense and heart kindness in this stalwart daughter of Erin. He was Yankee himself, to the backbone; yet, as he pushed back from the table, satisfied and at ease, he pulled from his pocket a small paper parcel. It was his Christmas gift for his hostess, and intended to suggest many things. She was bright enough to comprehend his meaning, if she chose. Would she? She gave no sign, if she did, as she unrolled the package and placed its contents – a small flag of Ireland and its mate, in size, of the United States – behind the kitchen clock, where the blended colors made a bit of gayety upon the whitewashed wall.

"Long may they wave!" cried the donor.

"Troth, I'm not seein' no wavin'. They're best as they be, with the timepiece betwixt. Each in its place, as the Lord wills, an' mine's here. So here I bides till I'm no longer wanted."

"It's a biggish house," quoth the undismayed suitor. "There's room in it for me, too, I cal'late."

But if Cleena heard this remark she ignored it, passing swiftly into the dining room to remove the dishes of the first course, and substituting the luxury of a basket of fruit which she had accumulated somehow, as only herself could have explained.

Maybe there is no trivial thing that so greatly helps to bridge over a trying situation as good breeding. The breeding which is really good, out of the inner life: kindness and the reluctance to inflict pain. It was such breeding that enabled the oddly assorted company at that Christmas dinner table to pass the hours of their intercourse not only in peace, but with absolute enjoyment.

Finally, when the elders pushed back their chairs, Mr. Kaye proposed that Amy should sing some of the old-time ballads familiar to the childhood of both himself and his kinsman. So Hallam took out his mother's guitar and tuned it, and his sister placed herself beside him.

"Ah, how well I remember that little instrument," cried Mr. Wingate, "and the commotion it caused among the Friends. Music used to be the most 'worldly' and undesirable thing, but they are more tolerant now. Give us 'Lang Syne,' youngsters. It's the song for the day and – this hour."

It was. They sang it lustily, and Amy was amazed to hear how finely that deep voice of their cousin could fill in the pauses of her own treble, sweet but not strong. Then there was "Annie Laurie," and "Edinboro' Toon," and "Buy my Caller Herrin'," and others; till Cleena drew John to the door to listen and applaud, forgetting for once the big pile of dishes standing unwashed upon her kitchen table.

"For, aye, it's a time o' peace, thank God. An' her that has gone is among us never a doubt I doubt. What's a bit o' idlin' when a sight for saints is afore ye? If Fayetty, now – "

But Fayette was not there. Neither was he in his own room when Cleena sought him there. He had left it while she was off guard and had made his escape unseen. Forces of good and evil were tormenting him: the struggle to do right and please these good friends, and the greater yearning to seek the wrong path to revenge.

Yet, after all, what was this poor human waif to these happier folk? So he asked himself as he sneaked away in the twilight which hid his departure.

Had Amy heard the question, she would have answered it promptly: "Much, Fayette. Everybody one knows is something to one's self."

But she did not even hear of his brief visit, for, having discovered his fresh defection, Cleena decided to keep the matter to herself.

It was getting quite late when Archibald Wingate drove away from "Charity House" toward Fairacres, and as he went he pondered of many things. Once or twice he fancied he saw a lurking shadow in the road, that was not due to either bush or tree which bordered it. But he thought little of the matter, so engrossed was he with the recollections of the evening.

"Queer, what a pleasant time I had. Yet we are all, practically, enemies. Each side feels that the other side has been at fault. Anyway, I seem to hear Salome saying: 'Judge not my children by the mistakes of their parents.' Nor will I; of that I am resolved. I'll give even that top-lofty lad, Hallam, a fair show, by and by. I must test him a little longer first, then I'll begin. That is, if he's made of the right stuff. As for Amy, she's a witch. She's wheedled the heart right out of me with her bright, unflinching, honest eyes. Talked to me about getting up a 'club' for the mill folks. 'The right sort of club, with books and pictures and everything helpful.' The saucebox! and she earning the mighty wage of two-fifty per week. Well, all in good course. I haven't toiled a lifetime to attain my object, then relinquish it without a little enjoyment of it; though, after all, possession isn't everything. The struggle was about as enjoyable as the result. But I succeeded! I am master of Fairacres, of Ardsley Mills, of half all Ardsley township. The old family is still on top. But, I'll buy Cuthbert's great picture and burn it up – sometime. Hmm. Wonder where that visionary Frederic Kaye is, of whose unpractical schemes I am reaping the benefit. Odd – buried himself in California, so to speak, and the only visible proofs that he had ever reached that happy land are a couple of braying burros. – Hello! hello, I say! Who's that? What's up?"

The shadow which had dogged the track of the mill owner's phaeton had suddenly become a reality. His horse was seized, forced backward, the horsewhip wrenched from its socket, and before he could defend himself Mr. Wingate's head and shoulders felt the cuts of the whip, delivered in swift and furious intensity.

"Hold on! hold – on! What – who – stop, stop, s-t-o-p! You're killing me! What's wanted? It's murder —murder!"

And again after another visitation of stripes, that awful cry of "mur-der!"

The word holds its own horror. No one can thus hear it shouted, in the stillness of the night, unmoved. It affected even the ferocious assailant of the lonely old man, and arrested his further blows.

"Murder." That meant death, prison, everything that was hateful. Even to Fayette's dull brain there penetrated some realization of what his present deed implied. For this was he who had waylaid an "enemy" on the highroad and beaten him into unconsciousness.

Then he remembered his own wrongs, and his anger flamed afresh.

"Thought you could do all the lickin', did ye? How many times did you have me thrashed? What did you care if the man who thrashed me 'bout killed me? What was I, only 'Bony,' out o' the poor farm! Ugh, you old rascal! Take that, and that, and that. Huckleberries! but it's fun to settle such scores."

The old horse which Mr. Wingate drove stood quiet in the road, else the matter might have had a different ending; for had she run and dragged her now helpless master, he would surely have been killed. As it was, she did not move, so there was nothing to deaden the sound of the sharp blows Fayette administered; and in the silence of the place and night this sound carried far.

It reached the ears of a foot passenger, toiling up the mill road toward Fairacres and quickened his pace. So that when the half-wit finally paused for breath, he felt himself caught by his collar and heard a stern voice demanding: —

"What's this? Hold! Stop! This —here, in Ardsley?"

Fayette looked up. The man who had gripped him was much taller than he, and seemed in that dim light a giant for strength. The capture brought back all those visions of punishment and the prison. In a twinkling the agile lad had writhed himself free from his short coat and leaped away into the darkness.

The newcomer heard a sound of retreating footsteps and mocking laughter, then turned his attention to the injured man in the phaeton.

"An old fellow, too, he seems. Hello! Are you alive? Hey! Can't you speak? That's serious."

The stranger's actions were alert and decided. He gently raised the bent figure of the unconscious Mr. Wingate to as comfortable a position as he could, stepped into the vehicle, and took up the reins.

"If nothing is changed, the nearest house is old Fairacres. But I didn't look for such a home-coming. Get up there, nag!"

Not since the days of her youth had the sorrel mare been forced into such a pace as then. The rescuer drove for life and death, and as if all turnings of the old road were familiar to him. Nor did he slacken rein until he reached the front door of the mansion, and sung out in a voice to wake great echoes: —

"Hello, there! Come out! A man in distress!"

This hello reached the stable, where Fayette was loosing Balaam, and roused that intelligent beast to speak his opinion concerning these disturbances of his rest.

Marshall, hurrying to answer the imperative demand at the front door, heard the burro's bray of protest, though he paid it small attention then, because of the nearer demand. Holding his candle high above his head, he slid back the bolts and peered out, but the sight which met his gaze set him trembling like an aspen.

"Why – my land! Master, what – what's happened? Have they murdered you out of hand? Ah, but my mind misgave me how 'twould be. To think it – to think it!"

"Hush! Put down the candle. Give a lift; he's powerful heavy. Is this your master?"

The servant retreated. This might be the very person who had done the mill owner such terrible injury. He would put his own precious anatomy out of harm's reach.

"Oh, you fool! Come back. You're safe. Leave that door open. I'll bring him in myself. Make way there – quick!"

Marshall tried to barricade the entrance to the room beyond the hall by means of his own plump body, and was promptly kicked aside, as the stranger strode past him, bearing the unconscious man upon his shoulder, very much as if he had been a bag of meal.

"Is this your master?"

"Y-ye-s. Who – are you – ordering – "

"Hot water – lights – a doctor – everything —at once. I'm Frederic Kaye."