Part 2

"Janey's close by here and grandma," said Lammy, presently, "so it won't be a bit lonesome for your father, and I was hoping to-day that he'd remember to tell Janey that you're going to be my sister now and come down and live at our house, for she'll be glad that mother and I won't be so lonesome as we've been at our home since she went to heaven. 'Cause you will stop with us, won't you?" he added earnestly as he saw Bird hesitate. "Mother's going to fix it just as soon as she gets word from your uncle. She didn't want to write, only dad said she'd ought to because of the law or something."

"I'll always love you, Lammy," said Bird, slowly, the tears gathering again, "and I never can like any place so much as this, and I'll never forget to-day and the red peonies and your covering up the ugly stones, but I've got to earn my living and I can't be a drag on anybody. I thought, you know, if there was enough left to get to a city,--New York, perhaps,--I might learn to paint quicker, and perhaps the man that wanted Terry to make pictures for wall-paper might tell me how," and then the poor child, tired and overcome with the long strain and the new loneliness, could keep up no longer, and, throwing her arms about Lammy's neck, sobbed, "Oh, take me somewhere out of sight, for I feel as if I was all falling--way down a--deep--well."

Poor little Bird! All that she knew of the great city was from the pictures in the papers and an occasional magazine, and it seemed to her so big and gay and busy that there must be some place in it for her, and now that night was coming, the country felt so empty and lonely to the little girl, faint from weariness, and with the door of all the home she had known closed upon her. For no one but Lammy had had time to really comfort her, and in her unhappiness God seemed to have taken her parents away and then hidden Himself. If only Aunt Jimmy had not had the spell just then and she could have laid her head on Mrs. Lane's motherly bosom, how different it might all have been. A carriage passed as they turned into the highway, and the clanking of the harness made Bird lift her head from Lammy's shoulder where she had hidden it, and looking up she met the eyes of a young girl who was sitting alone on the back seat of the handsome victoria. She was perhaps sixteen, or a little over,--the braids of pale golden hair were fastened up loosely behind,--and she was beautifully dressed; but it was not the clothes but her sweet face and wistful big gray eyes that made Bird look a second time, and then the carriage had passed by.

"How happy she must be," thought Bird.

"I'd rather walk than ride, and wear stubby shoes, or go barefoot, if I only had a brother so that I need not go alone," was what the other girl thought.

"That's Miss Marion Clarke that lives in the big stone house on the hill before you come to Northboro," quoth Lammy. "There's only one of her, and she can have everything she wants." Then he straightway forgot her. Bird did not, however, for there was something in the gray eyes that would not let themselves be forgotten.

By the time they reached the Lane farmhouse Bird was quiet again, though her eyes drooped with sleep, and Lammy was telling eagerly how next autumn they could perhaps go over to Northboro to school, for drawing was taught there, and, he confided to Bird what had never before taken the form of words, that he too longed to learn to draw, not flowers, but machinery and engines, such as pulled the trains over at the Centre.

As they came in sight of the house Lammy noticed that there was a strange team at the gate, a buggy from the livery-stable at the Centre, for quiet Lammy kept his eyes open, and knew almost every horse in the county. On the stoop a short, thick-set man, with a fat, clean-shaven face, and clad in smart black clothes, stood talking to Lammy's father.

Both men glanced up the road from time to time, and then Lammy noticed that the stranger held his watch in his hand, and he kept fidgeting and looking at it as if in a great hurry.

As the children entered the gate they heard Mr. Lane say, "Here she is now, but you can't catch that evenin' train from the Centre; you'll have to put over here until morning."

Bird gave a gasp and instinctively clutched Lammy's hand. Could this be some one from her uncle? Of course it was not he himself, for her father had been youngish, tall and slight, with fair hair, small feet and hands, while this man was all of fifty, and had a rough and common look in spite of his clothes that did not match his heavy boots and clumsy grimy hands.

For a moment Bird forgot the story of her father's boyhood that he had so often told her, forgot that fifteen years and a different mother separated him from his half-brothers, and when Mr. Lane called her, as she tried to slip in at the side door after Lammy, saying, "Come here, Bird, this is your Uncle John O'More come from New York," she could only keep from falling by an effort, and stood still, nervously twisting her hands in the skirt of her black frock without being able to speak a word, while Twinkle seated himself at her feet looking anxiously, first at the stranger, then at Mr. Lane, with his head cocked on one side.

II

HER UNCLE JOHN

"Got a start? Didn't expect to see me here, did you? else maybe you never knew you had an Uncle John," said the stranger, by way of greeting, taking Bird roughly, but not unkindly, by the shoulders and looking her full in the face. Then, noticing how pale she was and that her eyes were red with crying, he let her go with a pat of his heavy hand that shook her through and through, saying, half to her and half to Mr. Lane, "Go along in now and get your supper. You look done up, and I wouldn't object to a bite myself since I've got to hang around over night; been chasing round after you since morning, and those sandwiches I got at that tumble-down ranch at what they call the Centre were made up of last year's mule-heel. They ain't gone further'n here yet," he added, striking his chest that was covered by a showy scarf, emphatically.

Bird began to breathe more freely to know he was going away in the morning. Her father had told her in one of the long sleepless nights of his illness about his two half-brothers, one in Australia, as far as he knew, and the other in New York. Their mother had been a strong, black-eyed, south-country lass, but his mother, the wife of his father's later years, was a gentle, fair-haired, English girl, the governess in the family to which his father was steward. At her death when he was a lad of about fifteen, family differences arose, and he had gone to his mother's people until he finally came to America with this brother John.

John was sturdy and coarse-grained; Terence delicate and sensitive. They soon parted, and in the years between the artist had written occasionally to his brother, but kept him in ignorance of his poverty. Yet, in spite of knowing it all, Bird was bitterly disappointed in her uncle. She built hopes about him, for did he not live in New York, and there were schools where painting was taught in that magical city, also the man lived there who wanted the wall-papers. Ah, if her uncle had only been different, he might have asked her to visit him or perhaps even have known the wall-paper man himself.

But this uncle seemed an impossibility and fairly repelled her, so that to get out of his sight was all she desired. Presently she went into the house, and, after carefully dusting her plain, little, black straw hat and laying it on the sofa in the best room, she covered her new dress with Mrs. Lane's gingham apron that hung on its usual peg and fell to work at helping Lammy with the supper.

Now Bird was a clever little housewife while Lammy was very clumsy at the work, so that in a few minutes they were both absorbed and chatting quite cheerfully, never dreaming of the conversation that was going on in the north porch. Only the white-curtained windows of the best room could hear it, and they were shut tight.

"Now, Mr. Lane, since the youngster's gone in, I guess we might as well get right down to business. I've shown you my papers and proofs, and there's no special use rubbing it into her that her father was a dead failure clear from the start, and that the sticks of furniture he left and the few dollars banked or coming from his work 'll only square up his accounts and leave the kid on the world, so to speak. I own I'm clean flabbergasted myself, for I thought he was a man of some property through his wife, for when he wrote, his letters were chuck full of high ideas for the girl here."

Joshua Lane fidgeted miserably on the edge of his chair, and if ever a man longed for the presence and ready tongue of his wife, it was he.

"I suppose that's one way o' lookin' at it," he assented after a while, "but mebbe in some way he didn't flat out so much as it looks. He never gave an ill word to any one, and Bird here's as smart and talkable and writes a fist as good as the seminary principal over to Northboro, all through his teachin', so no wonder she set a store by him. As to leavin' the child on the world, she'll never feel the hurtin' edge of it while mother and Joshua Lane's got roof and bite. I told O'More so, and I reckon it eased him considerable."

"Smart, is she?" echoed the other; "that's a mercy. Girls have to get a move on them nowadays in the city, and if they can't start in at type-writing or something when they're sixteen or so, they get shoved out of the race as leftovers by a new lot before they've earned their ten a week. I've got a good job now, but I've had to hustle for it and keep a lively step, too. That's why it goes hard to lose two days' time on this business. I was mighty afraid when I saw what a forsaken hole this was that the girl might be green as the grass, and n. g. altogether. No, I didn't mean any offence," he said, as he noticed Joshua's face flush at his reference to the pretty hillside village, "but I've never had a use for the country. Give me streets with a push of people and a lively noise and trolleys going by at night to remind you yer alive, if you don't sleep straight through.

"Of course, knowing nothing of the circumstances before I left, I couldn't quite fix a plan,--might have had to wait around and see to that mill property if it hadn't vamoosed, but as it is, I don't see why Bird shouldn't go right back with me to-morrow morning. I've got three lively boys besides a poor little crippled feller,--them and the city sights 'll cheer her up. It's different from what I thought to find, and I don't owe Terry any favours of purse or tongue, but I've no girls, and blood's thicker 'n water even though the English streak is heatin' to an all-through Irishman,--but let that go. I'll give her some schooling until she's fit age to choose her trade, or if she's tasty looking, get in some good shop, and she can ease her way along meantime in minding little Billy or helping the woman out. For I'd have you know that though I've a good job, and there's always meat in the pot, we're plain people of no pretence. I've money in a land company, though, that'll soon give us our own home and not so far out either but what a gun would shoot into the Bowery."

John O'More's speech poured out so rapidly that it almost stunned Joshua Lane. When he pulled himself together, he gasped: "Did you say that you calkerlate to take Bird away from us and to-morrow at that? I'll have to go down to Aunt Jimmy's, I reckon, and call mother to onct," but as he started from his chair "mother" appeared, coming up the road in the buggy clucking vigorously to the old gray horse, excitement written in every line of her homely, lovable face.

As she pulled up the horse at the gate, an entirely unnecessary labour as for the past ten years he had never willingly gone past it, Joshua, wearing a white, scared look upon his usually placid face, greeted her with: "Sakes alive, Lauretta Ann, I'm wonderful put out; it never rains but it pours; an' 's if there wasn't enough trouble for one day, Bird's uncle, John O'More, has turned up. He's a rough, drivin', quick-tongued sort o' chap, like the travellin' man that sold us the horse-rake that had fits of balking and tearin' up the medder, and when I complained, he said, says he, 'Why, certainly, I forgot it had the plough combination,--I had oughter asked you an extry five on it.'"

"Nonsense, Joshua Lane, nobody's going to carry Bird off under our very noses, uncle or no uncle; I'll soon settle that! But talking of pourin' rain,--it's certainly let drive on us this day, for your Aunt Jimmy's had a stroke; and though she can't move she can speak her mind still, and isn't for lettin' folks in or havin' things done for her as she ought. I've left Dinah Lucky with her, and I've stopped at Doctor Jedd's and told him to hurry down, but the time has come when you've just got to assert yourself willy-nilly. It's you, not me, as is her eldest nephew and kin, and while I'm more'n willing to do the work, you've got to show some spunk. Now jist you git into a biled shirt and your good coat and go down and stand off the neighbours that, now she can't stir, 'll all be wrigglin' and slippin' through that door like eels in the mill sluice when the gate's up. I'll soon settle that O'More."

Joshua, much relieved, obediently went into the house, while Mrs. Lane, after looking into the kitchen to be sure that supper was progressing, smoothed her Sunday dress that she had donned that morning for the funeral, opened the windows of the best room to impress her visitor with its green carpet and cabinet organ, and asked John O'More to come in.

"Thanks, Mrs. Lane I take it, but I guess I'll stay out here,--had enough of shut-up places in that train to-day, besides some ladies object to smoke in the house."

Before she could speak a word or even notice the long cigar that was sticking out of his mouth in the direction of his left eye, he had plunged into the subject at the exact point where it had been dropped. "Now as to Bird, Mrs. Lane; your husband and I have tongue-threshed things out, and he can repeat the same to you. I know just how things stand, so nuff said about what's past. I travel in the west and Canada for a steady house, and I'm away a good deal; now Bird can be company for my wife as my kids are all boys. I'll give her schoolin', a trade, and a shove along on the road in a couple of years. I wouldn't do less for any kin of my own, and I kind o' take to her."

"But we don't want you to take her, and I reckon she don't either, for--" put in Mrs. Lane, almost bursting with suppressed speech.

"Excuse me, one moment more, madam," he continued, removing his cigar and speaking rather more slowly, "I judge that you object to her going to-morrow; now I can't stop around here, and it's an expensive trip. Seein' the city 'll be a change, and she'll soon settle down all right."

"But we don't want her to go at all," Mrs. Lane almost shrieked; "we want her to live with us!"

"As what, for instance?" queried O'More, growing more Irish in his speech, "a kind of a charity help, or had you intentions of adopting her by the law? If so, and she wishes, I'll stand in the way of nothing but a change of her name, to which I'd object."

Mrs. Lane was struck dumb. She had no idea of making a servant of Bird, but on the other hand she knew that legal adoption would mean to give Bird a like share with her own boys, and as what little they had, or might expect, came from her husband's people, this she could not promise at once.

"I meant--to treat her just like my little girl that died--but"--poor Mrs. Lane got more and more mixed up--"I haven't asked Joshua about the adoptin' business--it's so lately happened, we'd not got that far, you see."

"Yes, mum, I see," said the fat man, drawing his lips together shrewdly, "yourself has a warm heart, but others, yer own boys likely, may give it a chill some day, and then where's Bird? No, mum, the girl 'll have an easier berth with her own, I fancy, and not have to bend her back drawin' and fetchin' water, either,--we've it set quite handy."

This was said with withering sarcasm for, unfortunately, at that moment, Bird could be seen lugging in a heavy water bucket from the well, something she had been warned not to do, and yet did unthinkingly, for to-day she walked as in a dream.

Mrs. Lane saw that in reality she was helpless, unless she appealed to Bird herself, and to rouse the child's sensitive spirit she knew would be not only foolish but wicked, so for once Lauretta Ann Lane sat silent and with bowed head, only saying with a choking voice, "I will tell her after--supper--and you'll let--us write--to her, I suppose, and have her--back to visit if she gets piney for Lammy,--they've been like twin brother and sister ever since Janey died."

"I will that, ma'am, and I'll say more; if within the year she don't content herself and settle down and grieves for yer, and yer see it clear in that time to adopt her fair and square, and guarantee to do by her as I will,--you'll get the chance."

O'More stretched his legs, stiff with sitting, and jerked his half-burned cigar into the bushes, while at the same moment Oliver and Nellis, Lammy's big brothers who worked in Milltown, rode up on their wheels and the bell rang for supper.

* * * * *

No one but Bird ever knew what Mrs. Lane said to her that night, during the sad hours that she held the child in her arms in the great rocking-chair that had soothed to sleep three generations of Lane babies. Perhaps it soothed poor Bird, too, only she did not know it then; yet she fell asleep, after a storm of crying, with her arms around Twinkle, the terrier, as soon as Mrs. Lane had put her to bed, promising to come back from Aunt Jimmy's early in the morning to awaken her, for her uncle was to take the nine o'clock train from the Centre.

As Mrs. Lane collected, in a valise, the few clothes that made up Bird's wardrobe, she felt broken-hearted indeed, but she could not but realize that if the little girl must go, the quicker the better, and who knew what might turn up, for Mrs. Lane was always hopeful. But Lammy, poor boy, could not see one bright spot in the darkness. It was with difficulty that his father could keep the child, usually so gentle, from flying at O'More; he stormed and begged and finally, completely exhausted, fled to the stuffy attic where he fell asleep, pillowed by some hard ears of seed corn.

Next morning when Bird awoke, she had forgotten and felt much better for her long sleep, but when she sat up and looked at the strange room, it all came back. One thought mingled with the dread of parting,--she was going to New York; there was where the wall-paper man lived and people learned things. Hope was strong in her also, and never did she doubt for a moment but what she could win her way and come back some day to her friends if she could only find the right path.

Downstairs all was confusion. Joshua Lane had come from Aunt Jimmy's to take O'More over to the judge's house to sign some papers. A man had followed him up to say Dr. Jedd felt the old lady was worse. Mrs. Lane was giving Bird a thousand directions and warnings that she couldn't possibly remember, and in the middle of it all Lammy, looking straight before him and dumb as an owl, his eyes nearly closed from last night's crying, drove around in the business wagon to take the travellers to the station, four good miles away.

"Here's my card, so you'll know where I hang out," said John O'More, as he stepped into the wagon, holding out a bit of printed pasteboard to Joshua Lane, "and if you need anything in my line, I'll let you in on the square." On one corner was the picture of a horse's head, on the other a wagon, and the letters read, "John O'More with Brush & Burr, Dealers in Horses, Vehicles of all Kinds, Harness & Stable Fixings." Then they drove away, Bird keeping her eyes fixed on Twinkle who Lammy had settled in the straw at their feet.

"To think she was going and I was so put about I never asked the address," sighed Mrs. Lane, adjusting her glasses and looking at the card. "For goodness sakes, Joshua, _do_ you suppose he's a horse-jockey? I sort of hoped he might be in groceries, or coal or lumber,--something solid and respectable. What would poor Terry say?"

"I really don't know, Lauretta Ann," sighed Joshua, whose slow nature was showing the wear, tear, and hurry of the last few days; "but he's Terry's brother, not ourn. It takes all kinds of fellers to make up a world, and I _hev_ met honest horse-jockeys, and then again I haven't. I wished I'd thought to ask him the bottom price for a new chaise; ourn is so weak every time you cross the ford I'm afeared you'll spill through the bottom into the water," and Joshua turned on his heel and went in to a belated breakfast, while his wife jerked remarks at the chickens she made haste to feed, about the heartlessness of all men, which she didn't in the least mean.

* * * * *

They had ten minutes or so to wait for the train when they reached the Centre, and, after taking her valise to be checked and buying the ticket, O'More returned to the wagon for Bird. For the first time she remembered that she had not asked about Twinkle and perhaps he might need a ticket. Making a brave effort to get out the name that choked her, yet too considerate to use the plain Mr., she said: "Uncle John,--you won't mind if I take Twinkle with me, will you? He's very clean and clever; I love him dearly and he was so good to Terry when he was sick."

O'More was the bustling city man now, and whatever sentiment had swayed him the night before was slept away. He gave a glance at the dog and shook his head in the negative.

"That's a no account little yaller cur. If your aunt will let you keep a pup, there's always a litter around the stable you can pick from, though they're more'n likely to fall off the fire-escape."

The tears came to Bird's eyes, but she blinked them back; but not before Lammy saw them. "I'll keep Twinkle all safe for you--till--you come a-visiting," he said in a shaky voice, reading her wish.

Then the train came around the curve and stopped at the big tank to drink.

"Come along," called O'More.

"Oh, I've forgotten my paint-box and bundle!" said Bird, running back to get the precious portfolio that had been wrapped in the horse blanket.

"Your what?" said O'More, "paint-box! Just you leave that nonsense to your chum along with the dog. You've had enough of paints and painting for your vittles; I'm going to see you stick to bread and meat," and, waving his hand good-by to Lammy, he flung him a silver dollar, that missing the wagon rolled in the dirt.

For a moment the sickening disappointment tempted Bird to turn and run down the track, anywhere so long as she got away; then her pride came to her aid, and, stretching out her hands to her playmate, she cried, "Keep them safe for me, oh, Lammy, please do!"

"You bet I will, don't you fret!" he called back.

Then she followed her uncle quietly to the cars, and her last glimpse, as the train entered the cut, was of Lammy, seated in the old wagon with Twinkle at his side, the box and the portfolio clasped in his arms, and a brave smile on his face.

III

AUNT JIMMY

For a few minutes Lammy sat looking after the vanishing train. Then he carefully wrapped the paint-box and portfolio in the blanket again, and, patting Twinkle, who was quivering with excitement and looking into his face with a pitiful, pleading glance, he put the dog down in the straw again, saying, "We can't help it, old fellow; we've just got to stand it until we can fix up some way to get her back."