Chapter 2

Jimmy took up another handful. Yes, there was a faint shine to it; it began to look precious.

"Well, there's a heap of it anyway. It goes ever so far down," said he, thrusting in a stick.

"It's from ten to twelve feet deep," replied Nate, proud of his knowledge; "and see how long and wide!"

"_I_ don't see how they ever ground up rocks so fine," said Kyzie. "Exactly like sand. And it stretches out so far that you'd think 'twas a sand beach by the sea,--only there isn't any sea."

"Well, it's just as good as a beach anyway," said Nate. "Just as good for picnics and the like of that. When there's anything going on, they get out the brass band and have fireworks and bring chairs and benches and sit round here. I tell you it's great!"

"There are lots of benches here now," remarked Edith. "And what's that long wooden thing?"

"That's a staging. That's where they have the brass band sit; that's where they send up the fireworks."

"Oh, I hope they'll have fireworks while we're here, and picnics."

"Of course they will. They're always having 'em. And I heard somebody say they're talking of a barbecue."

Edith clapped her hands. She did not know what a barbecue might be, but it sounded wild and jolly.

"What a long stretch of mud-puddle right here by the tailings," said Kyzie.

Nate laughed. "It _is_ a damp spot, that's a fact!"

They all wondered what he was laughing at. "I guess there used to be water here once," said Jimmy at a venture. "There's water here now standing round in spots. And,--why, it's _fishes_!"

Lucy stooped all of a sudden and picked up a dead fish.

"Ugh! I never caught a fish before!" But next moment she threw it away in disgust.

"How did dead fishes ever get into this mud-puddle?" queried Edith.

"Well, they used to live in it before it dried up," replied Nate. "Fact is, this is a _lake_!"

Everybody exclaimed in surprise; and Kyzie said:--

"It doesn't seem possible; but then things are so queer up here that you can believe almost anything."

"Really it is a lake. It's all right in the winter, and swells tremendously then; but this is a dry year, you know, and it's all dried up." Kyzie forgave the lake for drying up, but pitied the fishes. Edith thought Castle Cliff was "a funny place anyway."

"What little bits of houses! Did they dry up too?"

"Oh, those are just the cabins and bunk-houses that were built for the miners, ever so long ago when the mine was going. Fixed up into cottages now for summer boarders. Do you want to see the mine?"

They went around behind the shaft-house and beyond the old saw-mill.

"O my senses!" cried Edith, "is that the old gold mine, that monstrous great thing? Isn't it horrid?"

They all agreed that it was "perfectly awful and dreadful," and that it made you shudder to look into it; and that they were glad baby Eddo was safely out of the way. The mine was a deep, irregular chasm, full of dirty water and rocks. It had a hungry, cruel look; you could almost fancy it was waiting in wicked glee to swallow up thoughtless little children.

"It doesn't seem as if anybody could ever have dug for gold in that horrid ditch," exclaimed Kyzie.

"You'd better believe they did, though," said the young guide. "They used to get it out in nuggets, cart-loads of it."

He was not quite sure of the nuggets, but liked the sound of the word.

"Yes, cart-loads of it. I tell you 'twas the richest mine in the whole Cuyamaca Mountains."

"Too bad the gold gave out," said Kyzie, gazing regretfully into the watery depths.

"But it didn't give out! Why, there's gold enough left down there to buy up the whole United States! They lost the vein, that's all"

"The vein? What's a vein?" asked Edith.

"Well, you see," replied the guide, "gold goes along underground in streaks; they call it veins. The miners had to stop digging here because they lost track of the streak. But they'll find it again."

"How do _you_ know?" asked Jimmy-boy, who thought Nate was putting on too many airs.

"Because Mr. Templeton said so. They've sent for Colonel Somebody from I--forget where. He's a splendid mining engineer, great for finding lost veins. He'll be here next week and bring a lot of men."

"Whoop-ee!" cried Jimmy, "he'll find the vein and things, and we'll be having gold as plenty as blackberries!"

"Just what I was talking about yesterday when you laughed," broke in Lucy. "I said I'd go down in a bucket; don't you know I did?"

Edith was gazing spellbound at the yawning chasm.

"Look at those rickety steps! The men will get killed! 'Twill all cave in!"

"No danger," said Nate, "there are walls down there, stone walls, papa says, that keep it all safe."

He meant "galleries," but had forgotten the word.

"Well, I don't care if there are five hundred stone walls, I guess the men could drown all the same!" said Edith. "That water ought to be let out, Nate Pollard! If the colonel is coming next week why don't they let out the water this very day and give the place a chance to dry off."

She spoke in a tone of the gravest anxiety, as if she understood the matter perfectly, and felt the whole care of the mine. Indeed, the mine had become suddenly very interesting to all the children. It certainly looked like a rough, wild, frightful hole; nothing more than a hole; but if there were gold down there in "nuggets," why, that was quite another matter; it became at once an enchanted hole; it was as delightful as a fairy story.

"I hope it's true that they've sent for that colonel," said Kyzie.

"Of course it's true," replied Nate, who did not like to have his word doubted.

"I s'pose there are buckets 'round here. Oh, aren't you glad we came to Castle Cliff?" said Lucy, pirouetting around Jimmy.

"Bab will be glad, too," she thought. For Lucy never could look forward to any pleasure without wishing her darling "niece" to share it with her.

"Well, I guess we've seen everything there is to see," remarked Nate, who had now told all he knew and was ready to go.

While they still wandered about, talking of "tailings" and "nuggets," they were startled by the peal of a bell.

"Twelve o'clock! Two minutes ahead of time though," said Nate, taking from his pocket a handsome gold watch which Jimmy had always admired.

"What bell is that? Where is it?" they all asked. "And what is it ringing for?"

"It's on top of the schoolhouse and it's ringing for noon. 'Twill ring again in the evening at nine o'clock. But I can tell 'em they ought to set it back two minutes."

"A nine o'clock bell? Why, that's a _curfew_ bell! How romantic!" cried Kyzie. She had read of "the mellow lin-lan-lone of evening bells," but had never heard it. "Let's go to the schoolhouse."

As luncheon at the Templeton House would not be served for an hour yet, they kept on to the hollow where the schoolhouse stood. It was a small, unpainted building in the shade of three pine trees.

"Just wait a minute right here," said Edith, the young artist, unstrapping her kodak. "I want a snap-shot at it. Stand there by that tree, Jimmum. Put your foot out just so. I wish you were barefooted!"

Just then, as if they had overheard the wish, two little boys came running down the hill, and one of them was barefooted. Moreover, when Kyzie asked if they would stand for a picture, they consented at once.

"My name's Joseph Rolfe," said the elder, twitching off his hat, "and his name,"--pointing to his companion with a chuckle,--"his name is Chicken Little."

"No such a thing! Now you quit!" retorted the younger lad in a choked voice, digging his toes into the dirt, "quit a-plaguing me! My name's Henry Small and you know it!"

While Edith was busy taking their photographs, Kyzie thanked the urchins very pleasantly. They both gazed at her with admiration.

"See here," said Joe Rolfe, twitching off his hat again very respectfully, "Are you going to keep school in the schoolhouse? I wish you would!"

At this remarkable speech Jimmy and Edith fell to laughing; but Kyzie only blushed a little, and smiled. How very grown-up she must seem to Joe if he could think of her as a teacher! She was now a tall girl of fourteen, with a fine strong face and an earnest manner. She was beginning to tire of being classed among little girls, and it was delightful to find herself looked upon for the first time in her life as a young lady. But she only said:--

"Oh, no, Joe, people don't teach school in summer! Summer is vacation."

"Well, but they do sometimes," persisted Joe; "there was a girl kep' this school last summer. She called it 'vacation school.' But we didn't like her; she licked like fury."

"So she did," echoed Chicken Little, "licked and pulled ears. Kep' a stick on the desk."

And with these last words both the little boys took their leave, running up hill with great speed, as if they thought that standing for a picture had been a great waste of time.

"That Chicken boy is the biggest cry-baby," said Nate. "The boys like to plague him to see him cry. Joe Rolfe has some sense."

As the little party walked on, Miss Katharine turned her head more than once for another look at the schoolhouse.

"Wouldn't it be fun, Edy, to teach school in there and ring that 'lin-lan-lone bell' to call in the scholars? I'd make you study botany harder'n you ever did before."

"No, thank you, Miss Dunlee," replied Edith, courtesying. "You'll not get me to worrying over botany. I studied it a month once, but when I go up in the mountains I go to have a good time."

She pursed her pretty mouth as she spoke. Her sister Katharine was by far the best botanist in her class, and was always tearing up flowers in the most wasteful manner. Worse than that, she expected Edith to do the same thing and learn the hard names of the poor little withered pieces.

"You don't love flowers as well as I do, Kyzie, or you couldn't abuse them so!"

This is what she often said to her learned sister after Kyzie had made "a little preach" about the beauties of botany.

As they entered the hotel for luncheon, Kyzie was still thinking of the schoolhouse and the sweet-toned bell and the singular speech of Joe Rolfe, about wanting her for a teacher. What came of these thoughts you shall hear later on.

"Well, I declare, I forgot all about that zebra kitty," said Edith. "What will the knitting-woman think of such actions?"

IV

THE "KNITTING-WOMAN"

The "knitting-woman" met Edith at the dining-room door after luncheon, and said to her rather sharply:--

"Well, little girl, I thought you liked kittens?"

"I do, Mrs.--madam, I certainly do," replied Edith feeling guilty and ashamed. "But Nate Pollard took us to see the gold mine and the schoolhouse and we've just got back."

"Oh, that's it! I thought 'twas very still around here--I missed the noise of the _boyoes_.--You don't know what I mean by boyoes," she added, smiling. "I picked up the word in Ireland. I'm always picking up words. It means _boys_."

"I understand; oh, yes."

"Well, 'twas a little trouble to me, your not coming when I expected you; but you may come this afternoon. I'll be ready in ten minutes."

"Yes, madam, thank you."

Edith ran to her mother laughing. "Oh, mamma, she is the queerest woman! Calls boys _boyoes_! I must go to see her kitten whether I want to or not--in just ten minutes! I wish I could take Kyzie with me; would you dare?"

"Certainly not. Katharine has not been invited. And don't make a long call, Edith."

"No, mamma, I'll not even sit down. I'll just look at the zebra kitty and come right away."

Mrs. Dunlee smiled. If there were many pets at Number Five it was not likely that Edith would hasten away. "Remember, daughter, fifteen minutes is long enough for a call on an entire stranger. You don't wish to annoy Mrs. McQuilken; but if you should happen to forget, you'll hear this little bell tinkle, and that will remind you to leave."

Number Five was a very interesting room, about as full as it could hold of oddities from various countries, together with four cats, a canary, and a mocking-bird.

"If you had come this morning you would have seen Mag, that's the magpie," said Mrs. McQuilken. "She's off now, pretty creature. She likes to be picking a fuss with the chickens."

The good lady had been knitting, but she dropped her work into the large pocket of her black apron, and moved up an easy-chair for her guest. Edith forgot to take it. Her eyes were roving about the room, attracted by the curiosities, though she dared not ask a single question.

"That nest on the wall looks odd to you, I dare say," said Mrs. McQuilken. "The twigs are woven together so closely that it looks nice enough for a lady's work-bag, now doesn't it?"

Edith said she thought it did.

"Well, that's the magpie's nest. She laid seven eggs in it once. I keep it now for her to sleep in; it's Mag's cot-bed."

Edith's eyes, still roving, espied a handsome kitty asleep on the lounge. It must be the zebra kitty because of its black and dove-colored stripes. Most remarkable stripes, so regular and distinct, yet so softly shaded. The face was black, with whiskers snow-white. How odd! Edith had never seen white whiskers on a kitten. And then the long, sweeping black tail!

Mrs. McQuilken watched the little girl's face and no longer doubted her fondness for kittens.

"I call her Zee for short. Look at that now!" And Mrs. McQuilken straightened out the tail which was coiled around Zee's back.

"Oh, how beautifully long!" cried Edith.

"Long? I should say so! There was a cat-show at Los Angeles last fall, and one cat took a prize for a tail not so long as this by three-quarters of an inch! And Zee only six months old!"

The kitty, wide awake by this time, was holding high revel with a ball of yarn which the tortoise-shell cat had purloined from her mistress's basket.

"Dear thing! Oh, isn't she sweet?" said Edith, dropping on her knees before the graceful creature.

Mrs. McQuilken enjoyed seeing the child go off into small raptures; Edith was fast winning her heart.

"Does your mother like cats?" she suddenly inquired.

"Not particularly," replied Edith, clapping her hands, as Zee with a quick dash bore away the ball out of the very paws of the coon cat. "Mamma thinks cats are cold-hearted," said she, hugging Zee to her bosom. "She says they don't love anybody."

"I deny it!" exclaimed Mrs. McQuilken, indignantly. "Tell your mother to make a study of cats and she'll know better."

Edith looked rather frightened. "Yes'm, I'll tell her."

"They have very deep feelings and folks ought to know it. Now, listen, little girl. I had two maltese kittens once. They were sisters and loved each other better than any girl sisters _you_ ever saw. One of the kittens got caught in a trap and we had to kill her. And the other one went round mewing and couldn't be comforted. She pined away, that kitty did, and in three days she died. Now I know that for a fact."

"Poor child!" said Edith, much touched. "_She_ wasn't cold-hearted, I'll tell mamma about that."

"Well, if she doesn't like 'em perhaps it wouldn't do any good; but while you're about it you might tell her of two tortoise-shell cats I had. They were sisters too. Whiff had four kittens and Puff had one and lost it. And the way Whiff comforted Puff! She took her right home into her own basket and they brought up the four kittens together. Wasn't that lovely?"

"Oh, wasn't it, though?" said Edith. "Cats have hearts, I always knew they did."

"That shows you're a sensible little girl," returned the old lady approvingly. "But you haven't told me yet what your name is?"

"Edith Dunlee."

"I knew 'twas Dunlee--that's a Scotch name; but I didn't know about the Edith. Well, Edith, so you've been to see the gold mine? Pokerish place, isn't it? I hear they're going to bring down the engine from the big plant and try to start it up again."

Edith had no idea what she meant by the "big plant," so made no reply. Mrs. McQuilken went back to the subject of cats.

"Did you know the Egyptians used to worship cats? Well, sometimes they did. And when their cats died they went into mourning for them."

"How queer!"

"It does seem so, but it's just as you look at it, Edith. Cats are a sight of company. I didn't care so much about them or about birds either when my husband was alive and my little children, but now--"

Again she paused, and this time she did not go on again. Some one out of doors laughed; it was Jimmy Dunlee, and the mocking-bird took up the merry sound and echoed it to perfection.

"Doesn't that seem human?" cried Mrs. McQuilken. And really it did. It was exactly the laugh of a human boy, though it came from the throat of a tiny bird.

"My little boys, Pitt and Roscoe, liked to hear him do that," said Mrs. McQuilken.

Edith observed that she did not say "my boyoes." "Pitt, the one that died in Japan, doted on the mocking-bird. The other boy, Roscoe, was all bound up in the canary."

"Does the canary sing?"

"Yes, he's a grand singer. Just you wait till he pipes up. You'll be surprised. But you remember what I was saying a little while ago about your mother? That zebra kitty--"

Before she could finish the sentence Edith heard the warning tinkle of the tea-bell, and sprang up suddenly, exclaiming: "Good-by, Mrs.--good-by, _madam_, I must go now. You've been very kind, thank you. Good-by."

And out of the door and away she skipped, leaving her hostess, who had not heard the bell, to wonder at her haste. "She went like a shot off a shovel," said the good lady, taking up her knitting-work. "She seemed to be such a well-mannered little girl, too! What got into her all at once? She acted as if she was 'possessed of the fox.'"

This is a common expression in Japan, and naturally Mrs. McQuilken had caught it up, as she had caught up other odd things in her travels. She was something of a mocking-bird in her way, was the captain's widow.

"I've taken quite a fancy to Edith," she added, "a minute more and I should have offered to give her the zebra kitty. But there, I shouldn't want to make a fuss in the family. That woman, her mother, to think of her talking so hard about cats! She doesn't _look_ like that kind of a woman. I'm surprised."

Edith ran back to her mother breathless.

"Oh, mamma, I was having such a good time! And she didn't appear to be 'annoyed,' she talked just as fast all the time! But the bell rang while she was saying something and I had to run."

"Had to run? I hope you were not abrupt, my child?"

"Oh, no, mamma, not at all. I said 'good-by' twice, and thanked her and told her she had been very kind. That wasn't abrupt, was it? But oh, that kitty's tail! I forget how many inches and a quarter longer than any other kitty's tail in this state! And they are not cold-hearted,--I mean cats,--I promised to tell you."

Here followed an account of the two cat-sisters, who loved each other better than girl-sisters.

"And think of one of them dying of grief, the sweet thing! Human people don't die of grief, do they, mamma?"

"Not often, Edith. Such instances have been known, but they are very rare."

"Well," struck in wee Lucy, who had been listening to the touching story, "well, I guess some folks would! Bab would die for grief of me, and I would die for grief of Bab; we _said_ we would!"

She made this absurd little speech with tears in her eyes; but Kyzie and Edith dared not laugh, for mamma's forefinger was raised. Mamma never allowed them to ridicule the friendship of the two little girls, who had made believe for more than a year that they were "aunt" and "niece." The play might be rather foolish, but the love was very sweet and true.

Lucy had been thinking all day of Barbara and longing for her arrival. A full hour before it was time for the stage she went a little way up the mountain with Jimmy, and they took turns gazing down the winding, dusty road through a spy-glass. "I shan't wait here any longer. What's the use?" declared Jimmy.

"She's coming! she's coming! I saw her first!" was Lucy's glad cry. And she ran down the mountain in haste, though the stage, a grayish green one, was just turning a curve at least a mile away.

"Well, you _have_ been parted a good while," said Uncle James, as the two dear friends met and embraced on the coach steps; "a day and a half!"

"I'd have 'most died if I'd waited any longer," said Aunt Lucy, putting her arm around her niece and leading her up the gravel path with the pink "old hen and chickens" on either side.

The little girls were entirely unlike, and the contrast was pleasant to see. Lucy was very fair, with light curling hair:--

"Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds That ope in the month of May."

Bab was quite as pretty, but in another way. She had brilliant dark eyes and straight dark hair with a satin gloss. She was half a head shorter than her "auntie," though their ages were about the same. People liked to see them together, for they were always sociable and happy, and loved each other "dearilee."

"Oh, Bab," said wee Lucy, "I had such a _loneness_ without you!"

"I had a loneness too, Auntie Lucy. Seemed as if the time never would go."

And then the dark head and the fair head met again for more kisses, while both the mammas looked on and said, in low tones and with smiles, as they always did:--

"How sweet! Now we shall hear them singing about the place like two little birds."

This was Tuesday. The days went on happily until Thursday afternoon, when "the Dunlee party," which always included the Hales and Sanfords, set forth up the mountain for a sight of the famous "air-castle." Of course Nate was with them, but this time not as a guide; the guide was Uncle James.

The road, though rather steep, was not a hard one. Mr. Dunlee had his alpenstock, and Uncle James walked beside him, holding little Eddo by the hand. Bab and Lucy, or "the little two," as Aunt Vi called them, were side by side as usual, and Lucy had asked Bab to repeat the story of "Little Bo-Peep" in French, for Nate wanted to hear it. Bab could speak French remarkably well.

"Petit beau bouton A perde ses moutons, Il ne sais pas que les a pris. O laissez les tranquille! Ils se retournerons, Chacun sa queue apres lui."

Mrs. Dunlee and Kyzie were just behind the children, and while Bab was repeating the verse Kyzie said in a low tone:--

"Oh, mamma, let me walk with you all the way, please. There's something I want to talk about."

She looked so earnest that Mrs. Dunlee wondered not a little what it was her eldest daughter had to say.

V

THE AIR-CASTLE

"A vacation school, Katharine? And pray what may that be?"

Kyzie's cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining. She held her mother's hand and talked fast, though plainly she did not feel quite at her ease.

"Why, mamma, you've certainly heard of vacation schools--summer schools? They're very common nowadays. In the summer, you know; so that college people can go to them, and business people."

"Ah! Like the one at Coronado Beach? Now I understand. But it didn't occur to me that my little daughter would know enough to teach college people!"

"Now, mamma, don't laugh at me! Of course I mean children, the little ignorant children right around here," making a sweeping gesture toward the cottages and "bunk houses" that dotted the country lower down the mountain, "I know enough to teach little children, I should hope, mamma."

"Possibly!"

Mrs. Dunlee's tone was so doubtful that her daughter felt crushed.

"Possibly you may know enough about books; but book-knowledge is not all that is required in a teacher. Could you keep the children in order? Would they obey you?"

The little girl's head drooped a little.

"Let me see, you are only fourteen?"

"Fourteen last April, mamma. But everybody says, don't you know, that I'm very large for my age."

She tried to speak bravely, but the look of quiet amusement on her listener's face made it rather hard for her to go on.