CHAPTER IX.

THE HAILSTORM.

WHAT an evening that was! It had only rained when Pecy came, but soon the rain turned to hail, which the wind drove rattling against the windows. It was a wild storm, and they had sent the poor child forth, perhaps to perish in it, simply because she was disagreeable and wanted to borry “an ambril to keep the milk dry.” Probably she had never held an “ambril” in her life, and could not resist the temptation to ask for one when the opportunity offered.

Preston went to the door and called to her, but she had run like a deer, and was already out of sight and hearing.

“It _is_ too bad,” said Lucy, “just look at those hailstones as big as robins’ eggs! Did that child have anything on her head?”

“Yes,” replied Mary, pacing the floor excitedly, “an old sunbonnet. But the hailstones will strike right through it. Don’t hailstones ever kill people?”

“Oh, don’t worry! It didn’t hail when we sent her out, or we wouldn’t have done it, of course. But she’s as tough as a pine-knot; ’twould take more than hailstones to kill _her_,” said Preston; and then he whistled to keep his courage up.

“Girls, if there’s an ‘ambril,’ let’s have it. I’m going to the ‘paster,’ wherever it is, to find her.”

And go he would and did, in spite of all remonstrances. He was gone a long while, and when he returned, the sky was clear again.

“Yes, I found her. _She’s_ all right. She had a quantity of ice-cream in her ‘milk-bucket’ to take home.”

“Did she row across the river?”

“Yes, and I stood and watched her safe over. I tell you she’s smarter than chain-lightning.”

He did not relate that he had found her crying bitterly, and that she had evidently suffered not only from fright but from wounded feeling. She had uttered no word of complaint, but her silent tears had given him a feeling of remorse he would never forget. He rose early next morning to caulk the old boat which lay useless in the barn. “Abbott” had promised to do it, but “Abbott” and the “Electric Light” were both inclined to forgetfulness, and all the hard tasks were sure to fall, sooner or later, on “the old man of the family.”

“I believe the concern is seaworthy now, and suppose we row across the river,” said he, when breakfast was despatched.

There were six little cries of ecstasy. It was “Dishes, take care of yourselves if you can;” and, as for food, the flies seemed disposed to take care of that.

It was a lovely morning, the atmosphere being particularly bright and clear after last night’s storm. Gorgeous red and gold butterflies hovered in the air, a robin in the front yard hopped along five steps, then stopped to look at the campers, and the eastern morning sun threw his shadow before him exactly his own size.

“It’s a perfect state of bliss to go rowing this morning,” exclaimed Mary, as they entered the boat.

“’Twas all we needed to make us perfectly happy,” remarked Sadie Patten, longing to repeat some poetry, but restrained by fear of Lucy.

The river Dee, though remarkably deep, was narrow and soon crossed.

“Let’s call on our Pancake friends before we go any farther. What say?” said Preston, helping the girls out of the boat.

It was just what he had come for; he wished to set his conscience at rest about Pecy; and the girls had understood and sympathized all the while, without a word being said.

“Yes, let’s call,” said they.

The Pancakes lived in a small red cottage. Somebody says, “A red house blushes for the man who painted it;” but this house had more to blush for than that,—dirt and disorder without and within. It was badly weather-stained, and the windows were half glass, half rags. Outside there were two old tubs, a rake with stumpy teeth, and a mop lying across some battered tin pans. The children around the door were as shaggy-headed as their playmate, a lame old dog; and indeed the only graceful object about the premises was the soft blue smoke, which was happy enough to escape from the miserable house through the low chimney.

Here dwelt the family of Pancakes. The father had once been a decent, though “queer” man, living in Kentucky; but his wife died, and her death seemed to turn his brain and make him “queerer” than ever. He married again, a miserable woman, belonging to the sort of people in the South called “Crackers;” and from that time he did not seem to care what became of him. After many wanderings he had settled at last at Old Bluff, declaring he would not move again. His wife could not read, and he had given up books himself, and had no wish to send his children to school or church. Pecy, the eldest, was his first wife’s daughter, and by far the brightest of them all; but the stepmother made her a perfect drudge, and the browbeaten child had scarcely a moment to herself, except in going to and from the “paster.” Her loiterings at Camp Comfort had already caused her several beatings. The family lived chiefly by hunting and fishing, had nothing to do with their neighbors, and of course sank lower and lower, and grew poorer and poorer, though to their credit it must be said that they had never yet been known to steal.

Half a dozen children stood staring at Preston as he knocked at the cottage door. It was opened after some time by Mrs. Pancake, who wore a blue and yellow calico gown, falling in straight lines to her ankles; and though her feet were bare, her head was covered by a monstrous pink sun-bonnet, shaped like a flour-scoop. She had a cup in her hand, and was stirring the contents with a yellow spoon.

“Good morning,” said Preston for his whole party, who were grouped about him in silence.

The woman did not return the greeting, and they all felt that their presence was not welcome.

“We came to inquire for your little girl. We hope she did not take cold last night in the rain; did she?”

“Wal, yes, she done took a fever cold,” replied the woman crossly, pointing to a bunch of straw on the floor, whereon lay a child smelling at a rag rolled in tar. It was Pecy, and she immediately covered her face.

“Can we do anything for her?” asked Lucy; and Lucy’s manner was very sweet when she chose. Pecy had never happened to hear her voice sound like this; and something—perhaps it was surprise—caused her to shake with convulsive sobs.

“I dun know,” replied the woman, stirring vigorously with the spoon. “I’m mixing mandrake and ’lasses. I _’lowed_ she’d get wet goin’ to the pastur’ in the rain; but she won’t mind _me_, sevin’ (excepting) I licks her.”

“What a home, and what a mother!” thought the campers.

“Would you like to have us bring her some lemons and sugar?” asked Preston.

There was a quick stirring of the bundle of rags on the floor, and Pecy’s rough head and flushed face appeared for a moment above the surface.

“We are all sorry you are sick, Pecy,” continued Preston; “we didn’t know those hailstones were coming, or we would have kept you at our house.” This was as near a confession as he chose to make; and, closing the subject, “Now we’ll go back and get the lemons and sugar. Good-by, Pecy.”

“Did you ever in all your life!” exclaimed Sadie, when they were safely in the boat again. Words seemed utterly powerless to express the astonishment, pity, and disgust of the whole party. “I’m so glad you thought of the lemons, Preston,” said Lucy.

For there was an unspoken feeling with her and all the rest, of responsibility for the little creature they had thoughtlessly ill-treated. Was there anything more they could do for her? They “wondered she didn’t die and done with it in such a home. Perhaps her mother would kill her with her doses.” Yes; but who had driven her out without mercy into the storm? If she _should_ die, would Camp Comfort be free from blame?

They hastened back with ten lemons,—all they had of yesterday’s purchase,—and their entire stock of sugar and flour. Not a word of thanks did they receive or expect; but the look of joy on Pecy’s dusky face was reward enough.

“Oh, _she’s_ all right,” said Preston. “A little sore throat, that’s all. And tar won’t hurt her, or mandrake either.—There, now, spread your parasols, for the sun’s coming out. Shall we row up stream or down?”

The next Saturday evening Mary Gray was sitting at her mother’s feet, looking wistfully in her face. She had come home to stay over Sunday, and had just been repeating in a sweet, clear voice, and with unusual feeling, the “verse” she was to speak at Sabbath School concert:—

“God wants the happy-hearted girls, The loving girls, the best of girls, _The worst of girls_! He wants to make the girls his pearls, And so reflect his holy face, And bring to mind his wondrous grace, That beautiful the world may be, And filled with love and purity. God wants the girls.”

“I think that is just lovely, mamma. Only it doesn’t seem somehow as if He could, you know! Not _the worst of girls_!” Then interrupting herself,—“Mamma, are there any heathen in America?”

“Yes, my daughter, I fear there are. But why do you ask? You can never have seen any?”

“Yes, mamma, I have seen them. They live at Old Bluff. Their name is Pancake. They don’t belong anywhere, and they haven’t been there long. Preston says Queen Victoria ought to take care of them, but I suppose she hasn’t heard of them yet, and they are growing up heathen. Why, mamma, they can’t read, and don’t go to church; they fish Sundays, and dig worms and shoot ducks.”

And Mary went on with a graphic story of Pecy, one of “the worst of girls,” and the bother they had had with her at Camp Comfort. When it came to the adventure in the hailstorm, Mrs. Gray looked pained.

“I knew you wouldn’t like it, mamma, when they clapped her out. She got sick, too, and we all went to see her, and carried lemons and sugar, and she was well in a day or two. But, oh, such a house, and such a mother! Preston says she thinks the earth stands still, and the sun moves round it! Her husband knows more; but what I was going to ask you is,—Well, you remember those Chinese babies——”

Mary found it difficult to proceed.

“Yes, dear, I remember.”

“You said I wanted to please Mrs. Lee, and make her and the girls think I was generous. That was true; I know I did, and it has made me ashamed ever since,” said Mary, a pink blush creeping over her forehead.

Her mother saw it, and wondered if anything in all this naughty world is more innocent than a child’s blush? She was sure there is nothing half so fair.

“Well, dear, go on.”

“So I was thinking——Are these Pancake heathen almost as bad as the Chinese, mamma?”

“Yes, quite as bad, I should say.”

“Well, then, couldn’t I give them all my July pin-money, and not let anybody know it? That would make up for the Chinese babies; and I know I should feel better.”

“Are you in sober earnest, Mary?”

“Yes, mamma, I’ve thought and thought about it. I’m in real earnest this time, and I don’t want to be ‘_seen of men_.’ Do you understand, mamma?”

“Yes, dear, I understand. But you wanted new gloves and new music.”

“I know it, but I don’t care. I can wait. I’ve thought it all over, and I shan’t be sorry this time. Are you willing?”

“Perfectly willing.”

Mrs. Gray considered a moment. “I will consult with Mr. Lee or Miss Pike about this family. They are both very wise in such matters; and if they approve you _shall_ give something to the little girl. And I promise you, Mary, nobody shall know who gives it.”