Part 2

Her calmness reassured the stranger, and with a steady voice he replied: “You see, ma’am, your daughter and her husband have been neighbors of mine ever since they went to Illinois. There’s been an epidemic fever raging among us, and they both died of it. The last words your daughter said were, ‘Carry the children to my good mother.’ I’ve been wanting to come and see my old father, who lives about three miles from here, so I brought them along with me. It’s sorrowful news for you, ma’am, and I meant to have sort of prepared you for it; but somehow I lost my presence of mind, and forgot what I was going to say. But I’m glad to see you so sustained under it, ma’am.”

“I thank God that _these_ are left,” she replied; and she kissed the little faces that were upturned to hers with an expression that seemed to say they thought they should like their grandmother.

“I’m so glad you’re helped to take it so,” rejoined the stranger. “Your daughter always told me you was a woman that went straight ahead and did your duty, trusting the Lord to bring you through.”

“I am forgetting my duty now,” she replied. “You must be hungry and tired. If you’ll drive to Neighbor Harrington’s barn, he will take good care of your horse, and I will prepare your supper.”

“Thank you kindly, ma’am; but I must jog on to my old father’s, to take supper with him.”

Some boxes containing the clothing of the children and their mother were brought in; and, having deposited them, the stranger departed amid thanks and benedictions.

Mrs. Harrington had seen the wagon stop at Mrs. May’s door, and go off without the children. Being of an inquiring mind, she straightway put on her cape-bonnet, and went to see about it. She found her worthy neighbor pinning towels round the children’s necks, preparatory to their supper of brown bread and molasses, which they were in a great hurry to eat.

“Why who on earth have you got here!” exclaimed Neighbor Harrington.

“They are my daughter’s children,” replied Mrs. May. “Bless their little souls! if I’d have known they were coming, I’d have had some turnovers ready for them.”

“I guess you’ll find they’ll _make_ turnovers enough,” replied Mrs. Harrington smiling. “That boy looks to me like a born rogue. But where’s your daughter? I didn’t see any woman in the wagon.”

“The Lord has taken her to himself,” replied Mrs. May, in quivering tones.

“You _don’t_ say so!” exclaimed Neighbor Harrington, raising both hands. “Bless me! if I’d known that, I wouldn’t have come right in upon you so sudden.”

They sat down and began to talk over the particulars which the stranger had related. Meanwhile, the children, in hungry haste, were daubing their chins and fingers with molasses. The little four-year-old Jenny was the first to pause. Drawing a long breath, expressive of great satisfaction, she lisped out, “O Bubby! _larthiz_ top on bread! what _can_ be gooder?”

Robin, who was two years her senior, and felt as if he were as much as ten, gave a great shout of laughter, and called out, “O Granny! you don’t know how funny Sissy talks.”

Grandmother went with a wet towel to wipe their hands and faces, and when she heard what the little Tot had said, she could not help smiling, notwithstanding the heaviness of her heart. As for Neighbor Harrington, she laughed outright.

“You see they are just as well satisfied as they would have been with a dozen turnovers,” said she. “But this is a sad blow for you, Neighbor May; coming, too, just at the time when you were taking so much comfort in the thoughts of going to see your daughter; and it will be a pretty heavy load for a woman of your years to bring up these orphans.”

“O, it’s wonderful how the dispensations of Providence are softened for us poor weak mortals,” replied Mrs. May. “Only think what a mercy it is that I have these treasures left? Why, she looks so much like her dear mother, that I seem to have my own little Jenny right over again; and I can’t seem to realize that it isn’t so. You see, Neighbor Harrington, _that_ softens the blow wonderfully. As for bringing up the children, I have faith that the Lord will strengthen those who trust in him.”

“That’s just like you,” rejoined Neighbor Harrington. “You always talk in that way. You always seem to think that what happens is the best that _could_ happen. You’re pretty much like this little one here. If you don’t get tarts and turnovers, you smack your lips and say, ‘Lasses top on bread! what _can_ be gooder?’”

The neighbors bade each other a smiling good-night. When Mrs. Harrington returned home, she told her husband the mournful news, and added, “Mrs. May don’t seem to feel it so much as I should think she would.” Yet the good grandmother dropped many tears on the pillow where those little orphans slept; and kneeling by their bedside, she prayed long and fervently for support and guidance in rearing the precious souls thus committed to her charge.

She had long been unused to children; and they did, as Neighbor Harrington had predicted, make plenty of turnovers in the house. Robin had remarkable gifts in that line. Endless were his variations of mischief. Sometimes the stillness of the premises was suddenly disturbed by a tremendous fluttering and cackling, caused by his efforts to catch the cockerel. The next thing, there was the cat squalling and hissing, because he was pulling her backward by the tail. Then he was seized with a desire to explore the pig’s sleeping apartment, and by that process let him out into the garden, and had the capital fun of chasing him over flowers and vegetables. Once when the pig upset little Sissy in his rounds, he had to lie down and roll in the mud himself, with loud explosions of laughter. Quiet little Jenny liked to make gardens by sticking flowers in the sand, but it particularly pleased him to send them all flying into the air, at the point of his boot. When the leaves were gay with autumn tints, she would bring her apron full and sit at grandmother’s feet weaving garlands for the mantel-piece; and it was Master Robin’s delight to pull them to pieces, and toss them hither and yon. It was wonderful how patiently the good grandmother put up with his roguish pranks. “O Robin, dear, don’t behave so,” she would say. “Be a good boy. Come! I want to see how fast you grow. Take off your boots, and Jenny will take off hers, and stand even, and then we’ll see which is the tallest.”

“O, I’m _ever_ so much taller. I’m almost a man,” responded Robin, kicking off his boots.

Honest little Jenny stood squarely and demurely while grandmother compared their heights. But roguish Robin raised himself as much as possible. To hide his mirth, he darted out of doors as soon as it was over, calling Jenny after him. Then he gave her a poke, that toppled her half over, and said, with a chuckle, “Sissy, I cheated grandmother. I stood tiptoe. But don’t you _tell_!”

But wild as Robin was, he dearly loved his grandmother, and she loved him better than anything else, excepting little Jenny. When Neighbor Harrington said, “I should think that boy would wear your life out,” she answered, with a smile: “I don’t know what I should do without the dear little creatures. I always liked to be called by my Christian name, because it sounds more hearty. There’s nobody to call me Jenny now. The little ones call me granny, and the neighbors call me old Mrs. Frank May. But I have a _little_ Jenny, and every time I hear her name called, it makes me feel as if I was young again. But what I like best is to hear her tuning up her little songs. The little darling sings like a robin.”

“Then she sings like _me_,” exclaimed her ubiquitous brother, who had climbed up to the open window, holding on by the sill. “I can whistle most any tune; _can’t_ I?”

“Yes, dear, you whistle like a quail,” replied his grandmother.

Satisfied with this share of praise, down he dropped, and the next minute they saw him rushing down the road, in full chase after a passing dog. Mrs. May laughed, as she said: “It seems as if he was in twenty places at once. But he’s a good boy. There’s nothing the matter with him, only he’s so full of fun that it _will_ run over all the time. He’ll grow steadier, by and by. He brought in a basket of chips to-day without upsetting them; and he never made out to do that before. He’s as bright as a steel button; and if I am only enabled to guide him right, he will make such a man as my dear husband would have been proud to own for a grandson. I used to think it was impossible to love anything better than I loved my little ones; but I declare I think a grandmother takes more comfort in her grandchildren than she did in her own children.”

“Well, you do beat all,” replied Mrs. Harrington. “You’ve had about as much affliction as any woman I know; but you never seem to _think_ you’ve had any trouble. I told my husband I reckoned you _would_ admit it was a tough job to bring up that boy, at your age; but it seems you don’t.”

“Why the fact is,” rejoined Mrs. May, “the troubles of this life come so mixed up with blessings, that we are willing to endure one for the sake of having the other; and then our afflictions do us so much good, that I reckon _they_ are blessings, too.”

“I suppose they are,” replied Mrs. Harrington, “though they don’t always seem so. But I came in to tell you that we are going to Mount Nobscot for huckleberries to-morrow; and if you and the children would like to go, there’s room enough in our big wagon.”

“Thank you heartily,” replied Mrs. May. “It will be a charming frolic for the little folks. But pray don’t tell them anything about it to-night; if you do, Robin won’t sleep a wink, or let anybody else sleep.”

The sun rose clear, and the landscape, recently washed by copious showers, looked clean and fresh. The children were in ecstasies at the idea of going to the hill behind which they had so often seen the sun go down. But so confused were their ideas of space, that, while Jenny inquired whether Nobscot was as far off as Illinois, Robin asked, every five minutes, whether they had got there. When they were lifted from the wagon, they eagerly ran forward, and Robin’s voice was soon heard shouting, “O Granny! here’s lots o’ berries!” They went to picking green, red, and black ones with all zeal, while grandmother proceeded to fill her basket. When Mrs. Harrington came, she said, “O, don’t stop to pick here. We shall find them twice as thick farther up the hill.”

“I’ll make sure of these,” replied Mrs. May. “I’m of the old woman’s mind, who said she always took her comfort in this world as she went along, for fear it wouldn’t be here when she came back.”

“You’re a funny old soul,” rejoined Neighbor Harrington. “How young you look to-day!”

In fact, the morning air, the pleasant drive, the joyous little ones, and the novelty of going from home, so renovated the old lady, that her spirits rose to the temperature of youth, her color heightened, and her step was more elastic than usual.

When they had filled their baskets, they sat under the trees, and opened the boxes of luncheon. The children did their full share toward making them empty. When Robin could eat no more, he followed Joe Harrington into a neighboring field to examine some cows that were grazing. The women took out their knitting, and little Jenny sat at their feet, making hills of moss, while she sang about

A kitty with soft white fur, Whose only talk was a pleasant purr.

The grandmother hummed the same tune, but in tones too low to drown the voice of her darling. Looking round on the broad panorama of hills, meadows, and cornfields, dotted with farm-houses, her soul was filled with the spirit of summer, and she began to sing, in tones wonderfully clear and strong for her years,

“Among the trees, when humming-bees At buds and flowers were hanging,”

when Robin scrambled up the hill, calling out, “Sing something funny, Granny! Sing that song about _me_!” He made a motion to scatter Jenny’s mosses with his foot; but his grandmother said, “If you want me to sing to you, you must keep quiet.” He stretched himself full length before her, and throwing his feet up, gazed in her face while she sang:

“Robin was a rovin’ boy, Rantin’ rovin’, rantin’ rovin’; Robin was a rovin’ boy, Rantin’ rovin’ Robin.

“He’ll have misfortunes great and sma’ But ay a heart aboon them a’; He’ll be a credit till us a’; We’ll a’ be proud o’ Robin.”

“That means _me_!” he said, with an exultant air; and, turning a somerset, he rolled down the hill, from the bottom of which they heard him whistling the tune.

Altogether, they had a very pleasant day among the trees and bushes. It brought back very vividly to Mrs. May’s mind similar ramblings with Hatty Brown in the fields of Maine. As they walked slowly toward their wagon, she was looking dreamily down the long vista of her life, at the entrance of which she seemed to see a vision of her handsome friend Hatty pelting her with flowers in girlish glee. The children ran on, while older members of the party lingered to arrange the baskets. Presently Jenny came running back, and said, “Granny, there’s a carriage down there; and a lady asked me my name, and said I was a pretty little girl.”

“Pretty _is_ that pretty _does_,” replied the grandmother. “That means it is pretty to be good.” Then, turning to Mrs. Harrington, she asked, “Whose carriage is that?”

She answered, “It passed us last Sunday, when we were going to meeting, and husband said it belonged to Mr. Jones, that New York gentleman who bought the Simmes estate, you know. I guess that old lady is Mrs. Gray, his wife’s mother.”

“Mrs. _who_?” exclaimed her companion, in a very excited tone.

“They say her name is Gray,” replied Mrs. Harrington; “but what _is_ the matter with you? You’re all of a tremble.”

Without answering, Mrs. May hurried forward with a degree of agility that surprised them all. She paused in front of an old lady very handsomely dressed in silver-gray silk. She looked at the thin, sharp features, the dull black eyes, and the wrinkled forehead. It was _so_ unlike the charming vision she had seen throwing flowers in the far-off vista of memory! She asked herself, “_Can_ it be she?” Then, with a suppressed, half-embarrassed eagerness, she asked, “Are you the Mrs. Gray who used to be Hatty Brown?”

“That was formerly my name,” replied the lady, with dignified politeness.

She threw her arms round her neck, nothing doubting, and exclaimed: “O Hatty! dear Hatty! How glad I am to see you! I’ve been thinking of you a deal to-day.”

The old lady received the embrace passively, and, readjusting her tumbled cape, replied, “I think I’ve seen your face somewhere, ma’am, but I don’t remember where.”

“What! don’t you know _me_? Your old friend, Jenny White, who married Frank May?”

“O yes, I remember. But you’ve changed a good deal since I used to know you. Has your health been good since I saw you, Mrs. May?”

This response chilled her friend’s heart like an east wind upon spring flowers. In a confused way, she stammered out, “I’ve been very well, thank you; and I hope you have enjoyed the same blessing. But I must go and see to the children now. I thought to be sure you’d know me. Good by.”

“Good by, ma’am,” responded the old lady in gray.

The carriage was gone when Mrs. Harrington and her party entered the big wagon to return home. Mrs. May, having made a brief explanation of her proceedings, became unusually silent. It was a lovely afternoon, but she did not comment on the beauty of the landscape, as she had done in the morning. She was kind and pleasant, but her gayety had vanished. The thought revolved through her mind: “Could it be my shabby gown? Hatty always thought a deal of dress.” But the suspicion seemed to her mean, and she strove to drive it away.

“Meeting that old acquaintance seems to make you down-hearted,” remarked Mrs. Harrington; “and that’s something new for _you_.”

“I _was_ disappointed that she didn’t know me,” replied Mrs. May; “but when I reflect, it seems very natural. I doubt whether I should have known _her_, if you hadn’t told me her name. I’m glad it didn’t happen in the morning; for it might have clouded my day a little. I’ve had a beautiful time.”

“Whatever comes, you are always thankful it wasn’t something worse,” rejoined Mrs. Harrington. “Little Jenny is going to be just like you. _She_’ll never be pining after other people’s pies and cakes. Whatever she has, she’ll call it ‘Lasses top on bread! What _can_ be gooder?’ Won’t you, Sissy?”

“Bless the dear little soul! she’s fast asleep!” said her grandmother. She placed the pretty little head in her lap, and tenderly stroked back the silky curls. The slight cloud soon floated away from her serene soul, and she began to sing. “Away with melancholy,” and “Life let us cherish.” As the wagon rolled toward home, people who happened to be at their doors or windows said: “That is old Mrs. Frank May. What a clear, sweet voice she has for a woman of her years!”

Mrs. May looked in her glass that night longer than she had done for years. “I _am_ changed,” said she to herself. “No wonder Hatty didn’t know me!” She took from the till of her trunk a locket containing a braid of glossy black hair. She gazed at it awhile, and then took off her spectacles, to wipe from them the moisture of her tears. “And _this_ is my first meeting with Hatty since we exchanged lockets!” murmured she. “If we had foreseen it then, could we have believed it?”

The question whether or not it was a duty to call on Mrs. Gray disturbed her mind considerably. Mrs. Harrington settled it for her off-hand. “She did not ask you to come,” said she; “and if she’s a mind to set herself up, let her take the comfort of it. Folks say she’s a dreadful stiff, prim old body; rigid Orthodox; sure that everybody who don’t think just as she does will go to the bad place.”

These words were not uttered with evil intention, but their effect was to increase the sense of separation. On the other hand, influences were not wanting to prejudice Mrs. Gray against her former friend, whose sudden appearance and enthusiastic proceedings had disconcerted her precise habits. When the Sewing-Society met at her son-in-law’s house, she happened to be seated next to an austere woman, of whom she inquired, “What sort of person is Mrs. Frank May?”

“I don’t know her,” was the reply. “She goes to the Unitarian meeting, and I have no acquaintance with people of that society. I should judge she was rather light-minded. When I’ve passed by her house, I’ve often heard her singing songs; and I should think psalms and hymns would be more suitable to her time of life. I rode by there once on Sunday, when I was coming home from a funeral, and she was singing something that sounded too lively for a psalm-tune. Miss Crosby told me she heard her say that heathens were just as likely to be saved as Christians.”

“O, I am sorry to hear that,” replied Mrs. Gray. “She and I were brought up under the Rev. Mr. Peat’s preaching, and he was sound Orthodox.”

“I didn’t know she was an acquaintance of yours,” rejoined the austere lady, “or I wouldn’t have called her light-minded. I never heard anything against her, only what she said about the heathen.”

Mrs. May, having revolved the subject in her straightforward mind, came to the conclusion that Neighbor Harrington’s advice was not in conformity with the spirit of kindness. “Since Mrs. Gray is a stranger in town, it is my place to call first,” said she. “I will perform my duty, and then she can do as she pleases about returning the visit.” So she arrayed herself in the best she had, placed the children in the care of Mrs. Harrington, and went forth on her mission of politeness. The large mirror, the chairs covered with green damask, and the paper touched here and there with gold, that shimmered in the rays of the setting sun, formed a striking contrast to her own humble home. Perhaps this unaccustomed feeling imparted a degree of constraint to her manner when her old friend entered the room, in ample folds of shining gray silk, and a rich lace cap with pearl-colored ribbons. Mrs. Gray remarked to her that she bore her age remarkably well; to which Mrs. May replied that folks told her so, and she supposed it was because she generally had pretty good health. It did not occur to her to return the compliment, for it would not have been true. Jenny was now better-looking than Hatty. Much of this difference might be attributed to her more perfect health, but still more it was owing to the fact that, all their lives long, one had lived to be ministered unto, and the other to minister. The interview was necessarily a formal one. Mrs. Gray inquired about old acquaintances in Maine, but her visitor had been so long absent from that part of the country that she had little or nothing to tell, and all she had struggled through meanwhile would have been difficult for the New York lady to realize. The remark about her light-mindedness was constantly present in Mrs. Gray’s mind, and at parting she thus expressed the anxiety it occasioned: “You say you have a great deal to do, Mrs. May, and indeed you must have, with all the care of those little children; but I hope you find time to think about the salvation of your soul.”

Her visitor replied, with characteristic simplicity: “I don’t know whether I do, in the sense I suppose you mean. I have thought a great deal about what is right and what is wrong, and I have prayed for light to see what was my duty, and for strength to perform it. But the fact is, I have had so much to do for others, that I haven’t had much time to think about myself, in _any_ way.” Then, with some passing remark about the vines at the door, the old ladies bade each other good-by.

When Mrs. Harrington was informed of the conversation, she said, in her blunt way: “It was a great piece of impertinence in her. She’d better take care of her own soul than trouble herself about yours.”

“I don’t think so,” replied Mrs. May. “I believe she meant it kindly. She don’t seem to me to be stern or proud. But we’ve been doing and thinking such very different things, for a great many years, that she don’t know what to say to _me_, and I am just as much puzzled how to get at _her_. I reckon all these things will come right in another world.”

During the summer she often saw Mr. Jones’s carriage pass her house, and many a time, when the weather was fine, she placed fresh flowers on the mantel-piece, in a pretty vase which Hatty had given her for a bridal present, thinking to herself that Mrs. Gray would be likely to ride out, and might give her a call. When autumn came, she filled the vase with grasses and bright berries, which she gathered in her ramblings with the children. Once, the carriage passed her as she was walking home, with a little one in either hand, and Mrs. Gray looked out and bowed. At last a man came with a barrel of apples and a message. The purport of it was, that she had gone with her daughter’s family to New York for the winter; that she intended to have called on Mrs. May, but had been poorly and made no visits.

Winter passed rapidly. The children attended school constantly; it was grandmother’s business to help them about their lessons, to knit them warm socks and mittens, to mend their clothes, and fill their little dinner-kettle with provisions. The minister, the deacon, and the neighbors in general felt interested to help the worthy woman along in the task she had undertaken. Many times a week she repeated, “How my path is strewn with blessings!”