Chapter 13

A NEW HOME IN RICE CORNER.

Very different this time was Mary's ride with Mr. Knight from what it had been some months before, and after brushing away a few natural tears, and sending back a few heart-sighs to the loved ones left behind, her spirits rallied, and by the time they reached the borders of Rice Corner, there was such a look of quiet happiness on her face that even Mr. Knight noticed it.

"I'll be hanged if I know what to make of it," said he. "When you rid with me afore, I thought you was about as ugly favored a child as I ever see, and now you look full as well as they'll average. What you been doin'?"

"Perhaps it's because I've had my teeth out," suggested Mary, and Mr. Knight, with another scrutinizing look in her face, replied, "Wall, I guess 'tis that. Teeth is good is their place, but when they git to achin', why, yank 'em out."

So saying, he again relapsed into silence, and commenced whipping at the thistle tops and dandelions. As they rode on, Mary fancied that the country looked pleasanter and the houses better, than in the region of the poor-house; and when a sudden turn of the road brought into view a beautiful blue sheet of water, embosomed by bright green hills, her delight knew no bounds. Springing up and pointing towards it, she exclaimed, "Oh, please stop a moment and look. Isn't it lovely! What is it?"

"That? Oh, that's nothing but 'Pordunk Pond, or as folks most generally call 'em, seem' there's two, North and South Pond."

"But it's big enough to be a lake, isn't it?" asked Mary.

"Why, yes," returned her companion. "It's better than five miles long, and a mile or so wide, and in York State I s'pose they'd call it a lake, but here in old Massachusetts we stick to fust principles, and call all things by their right names."

"How far is the pond from Mrs. Mason's?" asked Mary, casting longing glances towards the distant sandy beach, and the graceful trees which drooped over the water's edge.

"It's farther back than 'tis there, 'cause it's uphill all the way," said Mr. Knight, "but here we be at Miss Mason's,--this house right here," and he pointed to a neat, handsome cottage, almost hidden from view by the dense foliage which surrounded it.

There was a long lawn in front, and into the carriage road on the right of it Mr. Knight turned, and driving up to a side door; said to Mary, "Come, jump down, for my foot is so lame I don't believe I'll get out. But there's your chest. You can't lift that. Hallo, Judith, come 'ere."

In answer to this call, a fat, pleasant-looking colored woman appeared in the doorway, and as if fresh from the regions of cookdom, wiped the drops of perspiration from her round jolly face.

"Here, Judith," said Mr Knight, "help this gal lift her traps out."

Judith complied, and then bidding old Charlotte to "get up," Mr. Knight drove away, leaving Mary standing by the kitchen door.

"Come in and sit down," said Judith, pushing a chair towards Mary with her foot. "It's as hot here as oven, but I had crambry sass and ginger snaps, and massy knows what to make this morning, and I got belated; but set down and make yourself to home."

Mary took the proffered seat, and then Judith left the room for a few moments, saying when she returned, that as Mrs. Mason was still suffering from a headache, she could not see Mary until after dinner. "And," continued Judith "she told me to entertain you, but I don't know what to say, nor do first. Harry died just a week to a day before he was to be married, and so I never had any little girls to talk to. Can't you think of something to talk about? What have you been used to doing?"

"Washing dishes," was Mary's reply, after glancing about the room, and making sure that on this occasion there were none to wash.

"Wall," answered Judith, "I guess you won't have that to do here; for one night when some of the neighbors were in, I heard Miss Mason tell 'em that she got you to read to her and wait on her. And then she said something about your not having an equal chance with your sister. You hain't but one, now t'other's dead, have you?"

Mary replied in the negative, and Judith continued: "Wall, now, you've got over the first on't, I reckon you'se glad the baby's dead, for she must have been kind of a bother, wasn't she?"

Instantly Mary's thoughts flew back to an empty cradle, and again a little golden head was pillowed upon her breast, as often in times past it had been, and as it would never be again. Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed, "Oh, Allie, Allie! I wish she hadn't died."

Judith looked on in amazement, and for want of something better to do, placed a fresh stick of wood in the stove, muttering to herself. "Now I never! I might of knew I didn't know what to say. What a pity Harry died. I'll give her that big ginger snap the minute it's baked. See if I don't."

Accordingly, when the snap was done, Judith placed it in Mary's hands, bidding her eat it quick, and then go up and see the nice chamber Mrs. Mason had arranged for her.

"If you please," said Mary, rapidly shifting the hot cake from one hand to the other,--"if you please, I had rather go up now, and eat the cake when it is cool."

"Come, then," said Judith; and leading the way, she conducted Mary up the staircase, and through a light, airy hall to the door of a small room, which she opened, saying "Look, ain't it pretty?"

But Mary's heart was too full to speak, and for several minutes she stood silent. With the exception of her mother's pleasant parlor in Old England, she had never before seen any thing which seemed to her so cosy and cheerful as did that little room, with its single bed, snowy counterpane, muslin curtains, clean matting, convenient toilet table, and what to her was fairer than all the rest, upon the mantel-piece there stood two small vases, filled with sweet spring flowers, whose fragrance filled the apartment with delicious perfume. All this was so different from the bare walls, uncovered floors, and rickety furniture of the poor-house, that Mary trembled lest it should prove a dream, from which erelong she would awake.

"Oh, why is Mrs. Mason so kind to me?" was her mental exclamation; and as some of our readers may ask the same question, we will explain to them that Mrs. Mason was one of the few who "do to others as they would others should do to them."

Years before our story opens, she, too, was a lonely orphan, weeping in a dreary garret, as ofttimes Mary had wept in the poor-house, and it was the memory of those dark hours, which so warmed her heart towards the little girl she had taken under her charge. From Jenny we have learned something of her history. Once a happy, loving wife, surrounded by wealth and friends, she had thought the world all bright and beautiful. But a change came over the spirit of her dream. Her noble husband died,--and the day succeeding his burial, she was told that their fortune, too, was gone. One by one, as misfortune came upon her, did her fashionable friends desert her, until she was left alone, with none to lean upon except the God of the widow and fatherless, and in Him she found a strong help for her dark hour of need. Bravely she withstood the storm, and when it was over, retired with the small remnant of her once large fortune to the obscure neighborhood of Rice Corner, where with careful economy she managed to live comfortably, besides saving a portion for the poor and destitute. She had taken a particular fancy to Mary, and in giving her a home, she had thought more of the good she could do the child, than of any benefit she would receive from her services as waiting maid. She had fully intended to go for Mary herself; but as we already know, was prevented by a severe headache, and it was not until three o'clock in the afternoon, that she was even able to see her at all. Then, calling Judith, she bade her bring the little girl to her room, and leave them alone.

Judith obeyed, charging Mary to "tread on tiptoe, and keep as still as a mouse, for Miss Mason's head ached fit to split."

This caution was unnecessary, for Mary had been so much accustomed to sick persons that she knew intuitively just what to do and when to do it and her step was so light, her voice so low, and the hand which bathed the aching head so soft and gentle in its touch, that Mrs. Mason involuntarily drew her to her bosom, and kissing her lips, called her her child, and said she should never leave her then laying back in her easy chair, she remained perfectly still, while Mary alternately fixed her hair, and smoothed her forehead until she fell into a quiet slumber, from which she did not awake until Judith rang the bell for supper, which was neatly laid out in a little dining parlor, opening into the flower garden. There was something so very social and cheering in the appearance of the room, and the arrangement of the table, with its glossy white cloth, and dishes of the same hue, that Mary felt almost as much like weeping as she did on the night of her arrival at the poor-house. But Mrs. Mason seemed to know exactly how to entertain her; and by the time that first tea was over, there was hardly a happier child in the world than was Mary.

As soon as Mrs. Mason arose from the table, she, too, sprang up, and taking hold of the dishes, removed them to the kitchen in a much shorter space of time than was usually occupied by Judith. "Git away now," said that lady as she saw Mary making preparations to wash the cups and saucers. "I never want any body putterin' round under my feet. I always wash and wipe and scour my own things, and then I know they are done."

Accordingly, she returned to Mrs. Mason, who, wishing to retire early, soon dismissed her to her own room, where she for some time amused herself with watching the daylight as it gradually disappeared from the hills which lay beyond the pond. Then when it all was gone, and the stars began to come out, she turned her eyes towards one, which had always seemed to her to be her mother's soul, looking down upon her from the windows of heaven. Now, to-night there shone beside it a smaller, feebler one, and in the fleecy cloud which floated around it, she fancied she could define the face of her baby sister. Involuntarily stretching out her hands, she cried, "Oh, mother, Allie, I am so happy now;" and to the child's imagination the stars smiled lovingly upon her, while the evening wind, as it gently moved the boughs of the tall elm trees, seemed like the rustle of angels' wings. Who shall say the mother's spirit was not there to rejoice with her daughter over the glad future opening so brightly before her?