Chapter 7

THE MILL FARM

Sylvia's sleep that night in Portland was profound. A sense of peace and safety had grown upon her from the time she took the train out of Boston with her new companion; and the next morning she awoke refreshed, in a chamber filled with sunlight.

She dressed and went down to the dining-room of the boarding-house where they were staying, and found her cousin standing by the window looking out on the fresh green of tall elms that shaded the quiet street.

"Well, well," he said, turning to meet her bright eyes. "Spring outside, and spring inside. You've had a good sleep, little one."

He held out both his hands, and Sylvia put hers into them.

"Dear me, I'm afraid it's noon," for now she noticed that breakfast had been served.

"No, we have time still to make the train I told Cap'n Lem to meet, and eat a little something into the bargain."

The speaker moved to the table and rang a bell.

"Oh, you've waited too long for your breakfast," said Sylvia.

"No, indeed! Been watching the orioles that are bringing up a family out in that tree. Busy times, I tell you. Makes me think of the day Calvin and I wanted to rob an oriole's nest,--hang-birds, we called them,--and a little girl with short curls and a sunbonnet wouldn't let us do it; a girl who'd stand only a little higher than your elbow."

"Mother?" asked Sylvia softly.

Jacob Johnson nodded, and they sat down to breakfast.

An hour later they were speeding along in the train nearing the town which was their destination.

"I never have been on a farm, Cousin Jacob," said Sylvia.

"'Tisn't much of a farm we have here," he replied. "Just enough to raise a living for ourselves and the stock in the winter. The chief business is fruit and vegetables for the summer folks. Cal--the owner of the place likes this part of the world for what time he can get off in summer, so he bought this little farm and hired me to run it. That was ten years ago. I wasn't enjoying the business I was at in those days, but I was just learning to think right about things then, and I knew I'd be shown something else if it was best, and so I was."

"What made you know it?" asked Sylvia.

Her companion smiled without looking at her. "How do you know the sun is shining this morning and the apple-trees are in blossom?"

"Why, I can see that."

"I saw, too, Sylvia. It's a great thing when you begin to see."

The girl observed her companion's half-averted face curiously. "Who lives with you at the farm?" she asked.

"My two helpers. Good Cap'n Lem Foster and his daughter-in-law, young Lem's widow. She's an excellent cook. Can you cook, little one?"

"I?" the girl laughed. "I can make Welsh rarebit."

Her companion patted her hand. "Sam Lacey brought you up, didn't he?" he remarked.

"You see we always boarded," went on Sylvia, "because father--well, it was better; he was contented if he could play cards and go to a show sometimes; and when he had had too much he always kept away from me--he was so good about that."

"Too much?" echoed her companion questioningly.

"Yes, of course he'd go out with the boys some nights, but they always kept him away from me until he was all right again."

The matter-of-fact tone gave the listener a pang. His big hand closed over the one he had been caressing. "You're in a prohibition state now," he remarked.

"Yes, I remember. I've heard father speak of it. I was just thinking of a verse he used to say:--

"'Johnny and Jane, Maiden and swain, Never had tasted a drop of champagne; Reason is plain, They lived in Maine, Where all the folks are obliged to drink rain.'"

"H'm. I wish they were," commented the other, regarding the black-clothed figure beside him. A thin veil was pinned to her hat in such a way as to cover the shortness of the soft curls. Her figure was erect, her coloring exquisite, her eyes innocent. She seemed to him like a jewel which had been set in base metal, carelessly guarded, and was now in danger of sinking into the mud of the highway. Laura's little girl!

He patted her hand again.

"Here we are," he said, as the train slackened and stood still. He took his own limp bag and Sylvia's plump, rubbed old one, and they moved down the aisle and out upon the platform.

"There's Lem." Jacob Johnson moved across the platform, and Sylvia followed him to where stood a two-seated wagon with a pair of strong horses. The driver leaned one arm on his leg as he looked passively at Sylvia. He wore a sweater and a felt hat, and had on blue overalls the color of his eyes. He was older than his employer, and a fringe of white whiskers surrounded his red, weather-beaten face.

"Howdy, Thinkright," he said, nodding as the couple approached.

"How are you, Cap'n Lem? This is my little cousin, Miss Lacey."

"Glad to see ye, Miss Lacey. Ye've got hahnsome weather," observed the old man. "Mawdrate, too, to what it has ben. Apple-trees hev all bust out."

"Yes, you must have had a fresh trip in this morning," responded Thinkright, as he saw to having Sylvia's trunk and the bags put on the wagon. At last he climbed in beside his guest. A slap of the reins set the heavy horses trotting deliberately.

Cap'n Lem sat halfway around in his seat in order to converse on farm matters, and Sylvia enjoyed the spring beauty about her as they drove out of the little town and took the country road.

"How's the jedge?" asked the captain at last.

"He's well. Told me to tell you he'd be after you for lobsters before long."

The old man gave a toothless smile. "Miss Lacey smaht?" he inquired.

"I suppose so. I didn't see her this time."

Sylvia's eyes began to look startled and questioning. Old Lem met her gaze. "Ye've got the same name," he remarked curiously, as the fact occurred to him, "same as Miss Marthy. Miss Marthy ain't no kin to you, is she, Thinkright?"

"No, except through this child. This little girl is a link."

"The missin' link, eh?" returned Cap'n Lem. "Well, all I kin say is she don't look it," and his shoulders twitched with delight. "The missin' link," he repeated from time to time, the utterance being always followed by a fresh convulsion of mirth as his sea-blue eyes roved to the visitor's grave face.

"Do they come here, Cousin Jacob?" asked Sylvia uneasily, under cover of the rattle of the wagon, "Uncle Calvin and Aunt Martha?"

"Yes, sometimes."

"Will they be likely to, soon?" asked the girl, her face hardening.

Her cousin shook his head, and she saw compassion in his shining gaze.

"Don't fret about that," he said quietly. "Hot weather in the towns is a long way off yet."

"What'd the jedge say in the matter o' the new shed?" asked Lem, when he had somewhat recovered from the enjoyment of his joke.

"He said he thought we'd better have the old one shingled."

"Turrible short-sighted, that's what I say," grumbled the old man; "but he ain't ever fer branchin' out, the jedge ain't. Why didn't ye talk him over to it, Thinkright?"

"I didn't feel strongly about it. He'd do it if I urged him; but it's just as you say, he doesn't want to branch out. The place serves his purpose as it is, and while he owns it he'll keep it just as compact as it is now."

"What judge are you talking about?" asked Sylvia.

"Jedge Trent, of course," replied Cap'n Lem. "There hain't never ben a time when he wa'n't as sot as the everlastin' hills."

"Judge Trent is this child's uncle," said Jacob Johnson.

"No offense, no offense," remarked Cap'n Lem equably. "Seems if she's related to a lot o' folks," he added, and at this moment a team of colts came prancing around a curve in the road, trying their best with every nervous spring to escape their driver's control. Cap'n Lem's heavy horses shrank and shied, then as the others clattered by they resumed their steady gait. The old man turned and saw the white, fixed look in Sylvia's face.

"They wouldn't do nawthin'," he declared consolingly. "They're both powerful mawdrate hosses. Besides,"--the speaker stole a half-mischievous, half-shy look at her companion,--"Thinkright'll tell ye it's one o' the seven deadly sins to be skeered of anythin' that's in heaven above, or the earth beneath, or the sea that in them is."

The curving road was leading up a hill. The gray horses soon began to draw their burden at a walk, and when they reached the summit they stopped, for it was a time-honored observance for them to catch their breath at this point, as it was for the passengers, if strangers, to hold theirs.

The grandeur hitherto concealed by earth and forest suddenly broke into view. A limitless expanse of sea lay revealed, pierced by points of fir-crowned land that drove rock ledges into the liquid blue. Sylvia gazed fascinated at the snowy froth tossing itself against every gray point. Islands of varied shapes rose here and there, some tree-covered, some bare mounds of green, studding the rolling sapphire distances, and the girl's breast rose involuntarily to meet the untold miles of sparkling motion and the free, fresh, sunlit air. Her hands clasped together, and Jacob Johnson watched her white face with its wide eyes and mute lips.

The exceptional beauty of the May day caused even Cap'n Lem to expend silent approval on the familiar scene. He waited for a longer period than usual before he clucked to the horses, and they began a cautious descent of the winding road, their heavy hind-quarters braced almost against the wagon in their experience of sundry rolling stones.

"Hahnsome weather, surely," he remarked.

"I've never, never dreamed of anything like it," ejaculated Sylvia, and relapsed into dumbness.

Her host smiled, well pleased.

As the road descended to a level it approached the water of a small bay whose sheltered reaches watered a luxuriant evergreen growth among which appeared an occasional birch. These adorned the sloping bank, interspersed with rock, and turned the blue depths to green as they leaned toward the water as if in the effort to catch their own lovely reflections.

"We'll get out here and walk up to the house, Cap'n," said Thinkright. "Tell Mrs. Lem we'll be there by supper time. We had our luncheon on the road."

Sylvia took the hand her host offered in silence, and jumped out of the wagon. Cap'n Lem clucked to the horses again, and they rattled away.

"Why does he call you Thinkright?" the girl asked abruptly, as her companion paused on a clearing in the grassy bank to let her view the picture before them.

Jacob Johnson smiled. "They rather like nicknames in this part of the world," he answered. "I didn't realize how much I used the expression until all the neighbors began to label me. I knew I was always trying to be on the mental watch, and what is much in the mind will out, I suppose. How do you like this basin? We think it very pretty."

Apparently it was an inland lake that lay at their feet, sparkling and rippling in the triumphant fullness of the tide. At the point where the curving shore ran out to sea stood a large deserted tide mill on posts, midway in the water. Its shuttered windows looked like eyes closed against the surrounding beauty, and seemed protesting against the witnesses of its failure. Twice every day, like a tumultuous rushing river the tide poured water into the spacious basin, until its ripples clambered ten feet toward the eagerly bending trees, and later the capricious flood rushed back to the bosom of the sea. There had been enormous power at work under the old mill. What was lacking that it had fallen into disuse and closed its eyes upon an unappreciative world?

"It's a picturesque place, eh, Sylvia?" Thinkright repeated his question as she gazed and kept silence.

"Yes," she replied, "but the view above was--there aren't words."

"True;" her companion nodded. "You see a farm wouldn't do well at such a height, so we have to come down to shorter views and shorter distances; but it's a great thing to know that all the grandeur is there. We've seen it, and we know we've seen it, and we can't forget it; it's an inspiration to us. It takes a lot of wisdom to sail out on that ocean you saw up there, to avoid the ledges and to manage wisely in the winds; but to sail or row about on this basin is within the power of most landlubbers. Nature's always reading us life lessons, Sylvia, always."

"I'm not one of the afraid kind," returned the girl, with a toss of her head. "I only wish I had a chance to go out on that ocean."

"Yes, I know. On the stage, for instance," returned her companion. "The ledges and the squalls have no terrors for you."

"I hope I have some brains and some common sense," she answered.

Thinkright laid a kind hand on her shoulder. "It's perfectly true that neither ledge nor wind could harm you if you knew why. Daniel was safe in the lions' den, but it was because he knew why."

At the touch of his hand the girl shrunk away, and he instantly dropped it. Her blue eyes met his now, dark and cold. "I have found that you don't always think right," she said. "Why did you deceive me?"

Her companion looked at his watch.

"We'd better be walking along," he remarked, and they entered a well-worn path just wide enough for two that led through the woods, but kept close to the small salt lake, whose shining blue shimmered between the branches.

"I haven't deceived you, little one," he answered.

"You knew that nothing would have induced me to be a guest at Judge Trent's farm," declared the girl hotly.

"What's the difference?" asked her companion mildly. "You were eating his bread in Boston."

Sylvia's cheeks flushed. "I--I"--she hesitated, "I wasn't going to do it long."

"You shan't do it here a day longer than you wish to," returned Thinkright. "Now, child, suppose a case. Suppose your Uncle Calvin and your Aunt Martha had shown you perfect love instead of indifference, how would you have felt toward them?"

"Loved them, of course, and been thankful." Sylvia's angry eyes grew moist.

"That would have been a happier state of mind than what you have now, wouldn't it?"

"Of course." All the girl's sore spots were aching. "Why do you ask such a question?"

"Just to remind you of the fact. Now why should you let them make you lose the joy of being loving and thankful?"

"Why--how unreasonable! I can't help it, of course."

"Yes, you can. It's wonderful, Sylvia, but yes, you can. Think of being able to get out of the heat and turmoil of resentment and anger into the kingdom of heaven! You know where Jesus said it was?"

"No, I don't."

"Within you. The kingdom of heaven is within you."

"I guess not," returned Sylvia, with heaving breast. "Father always said there was plenty of old Adam in me, and I know it isn't human nature to be loving toward people that have treated me as they did."

"No, indeed it isn't. Your only chance is in finding out that you have a higher nature inherited from our Father in heaven, who the Bible declares is Love. When you allow that nature to have sway you will, as somebody has beautifully put it, 'think God's thoughts after him.' You will think mercifully and lovingly of your uncle and aunt, and forgive them as you would be forgiven. That way lies happiness."

The girl raised her blue eyes to his curiously. "So you consider it thinking right to live in a sort of a fools' paradise?"

Her companion smiled at her and his eyes shone. "I leave it to you if it isn't better than yours," he returned. "You believe in God, don't you, Sylvia?"

She cast down her glance. "I've thought lately sometimes that I'd like to; but he's so far away, on the outest edge of the universe."

"Why, what's the name of the place he lives in?"

"Heaven, I suppose."

"Well, where did I just remind you is the kingdom of heaven?"

Sylvia shrugged her shoulders. Thinkright's voice had again that tone that tapped at her heart as at a closed door, and instinctively she resisted it.

"Within you, little child," went on her companion, after a waiting pause. "God far away? 'Nearer than hands and feet,' Sylvia, 'nearer than hands and feet.'"

"I don't understand anything of what you're saying," returned the girl abruptly.

"Well, isn't this a pretty path?" asked Thinkright, looking about them. "It seems only yesterday that all these evergreens were loaded with snow." As he spoke, a song-sparrow near by poured out a flood of melody.

"Ah!" exclaimed the girl, her eyes glistening.

"Oh, if you like birds you are going to enjoy the Mill Farm. We have a very respectable choir in these woods. Now we could keep on in this path past the mill, 'way out to the end of the peninsula, but we don't this time; instead we turn right here and then"--the speaker waved his hand up a gentle incline, at the head of which stood an oblong white house with green blinds; "that's the Mill Farm."

"Judge Trent's farm." Sylvia's eyes met those of her host. "Why did you deceive me?" she repeated, gazing at him while they stood still in the soft grass.

Thinkright brought the knuckles of one of his hands into the hard palm of the other. "I asked you to come to the farm, didn't I? You were not thinking kindly of Judge Trent then; you were wasting your time thinking wrong about his wrong doings. If I'd said come and be your uncle's guest at the Mill Farm instead of at the Young Woman's Christian Association, you'd have questioned and doubted some time probably, and we might not have caught that evening train to Portland, and it was best for me to get home."

Sylvia bit her lip.

"Now there isn't one thing to do but think right," went on her host kindly, "and you'll be happy as a girl should be. You believe there's satisfaction in slapping back, and it galls you because you can't. It's the greatest mistake you can imagine. The satisfaction of slapping back only leads on to greater complications and final disaster in a logical sequence. Now, I'm not penniless, my little cousin. Just at present you're my guest."

"Oh, am I really, Cousin Thinkright?" cried the girl eagerly.

"Surely you are."

"Then I can begin to have a good time right off," she exclaimed, her white cheeks flushing as she took his arm in her relief.

He smiled as they walked slowly up the incline. "Always have a good time," he said. "The daughter of a great King should hide her head in shame if she admits any other thought."