CHAPTER XIV.

HOME, SWEET HOME.

'Tilda Jane was in a quandary. She had boarded the train for Ciscasset, she sat up very straight and apparently very composed--her outward demeanour gave not a hint of the turmoil within. In reality she was full of trouble. She had not a cent of money in her pocket, and her new familiarity with the workings of the Maine Central Railway assured her that it did not carry passengers for nothing.

What was she to do? She pulled the little tippet more closely around Gippie's shoulders. She had taken it from her own, for it was absolutely necessary for him to have another covering now that the shawl was gone. Perhaps he would be taken away from her. She had noticed that it was not a customary thing for people to travel with dogs. His head and tail were plainly visible--this tippet was not like the voluminous shawl.

Lucas had not offered her money, and she had not liked to ask him for it. Perhaps he had not thought about it. Perhaps if he did think of it, he supposed that he was doing enough to get her to Nicatoos--and there was the conductor entering the other end of the car. She must do something, and deliberately rising from her seat, she slipped Gippie under her arm, and made her way out to the platform of the fast moving train.

It was quite dark now. She gave one side glance at the white, silent country they were passing through, then stepped into the lighted car ahead.

"This is a smoking-car, young girl," observed some one, haughtily.

'Tilda Jane had dropped into the first seat she came to, which happened to be beside a very stout and very dignified gentleman who had a cigar in his mouth, and who was reading a newspaper.

She looked round, saw that there were a number of men in the car--no women, no children, and that the atmosphere was a hazy blue.

"Smoke don't bother me," she said, almost scornfully. What was a breath of smoke compared with her inward discomposure over her pecuniary difficulties?

"I'm in a little trouble," she said, brusquely, "I ain't got money to buy a ticket."

The gentleman gazed at her suspiciously. "I have no money for beggars," he said, and he turned his broad back squarely on her.

'Tilda Jane, for one so obstinate, was strangely sensitive. With her face in a flame of colour, she rose. Had any one else heard the insult? No, not a man in the car was looking her way.

"I'm a poor little girl," she breathed over the gentleman's substantial shoulder, "but I'm no beggar. I guess I work as hard as you do. I wanted you to lend me a dollar or so to be sent back in a letter, but I wouldn't take it now--no, not if you crawled after me on your hands an' knees like a dog holdin' it in your mouth," and precipitately leaving him, she sauntered down the aisle.

The gentleman turned around, and with an amazed face gazed after her. Stay--there she was pausing by the seat in which was his son. Should he warn him against the youthful adventuress? No, he was old enough to take care of himself, and he settled back in his corner and devoted himself to his paper.

The only person in the last seat in the car was a lad of seventeen or eighteen who was neither reading nor smoking, but lounging across it, while he suppressed innumerable yawns. He was very handsome, and he looked lazy and good-natured, and to him 'Tilda Jane accordingly addressed herself. She had hesitated, after the rebuff she had received, to apply to any of those other men with their resolved, middle-aged or elderly faces. This lad she was not at all afraid of, and resting Gippie on the arm of his seat, she stared admiringly at him.

He straightened himself. Here was something interesting, and his yawns ceased.

"Well, miss, what can I do for you?" he inquired, mischievously, as she continued to stare at him without speaking.

He would lend her the money, she knew it before she asked him. There was something else in her mind now, and her little sharp eyes were full of tears.

"Is anything the matter with you?" he asked, politely.

She could not answer him for a few seconds, but then she swallowed the lump in her throat and ejaculated, "No, sir, only you are so pretty."

"Pretty!" he repeated, in bewilderment.

"Yes," she said in low, passionate, almost resentful tones, "you ain't got no 'casion for those blue eyes an' that yeller hair. I wish I could take 'em away from you. I'd 'a' been 'dopted if I had 'em. I wouldn't be standin' here."

"Won't you sit down?" he asked, courteously, and with a flattered air. He was very young, and to have a strange child melt into tears at the sight of his handsome face was a compliment calculated to touch even an older heart than his.

'Tilda Jane, with a heavy sigh, seated herself beside him. "I'm kind o' put out," she said, languidly, "you must s'cuse me."

After her interest in him, he could do nothing less than murmur a civil inquiry as to the cause of her concern.

"I've been tryin' to borrer money," she replied, "an' I was 'sulted."

"To borrow money--then you are short of funds?"

"Yes, sir," she said, calmly, "I'm a-travellin', but I ain't got no money to pay for me nor for this dog, an' his head an' tail shows this time, an' he'll be nabbed."

"Where are you going?" asked the lad.

"To Ciscasset, sir, if I ever get there. I'm beginnin' to think there ain't no such place."

"I assure you there is, for I live in it myself."

"Do you?" she ejaculated, with a flash of interest. "Do you know a man by the name of Hobart Dillson?"

"Rather--he was my father's bookkeeper for years. We pension him now," he added, grandly, and with a wish to impress.

'Tilda Jane was not impressed, for she did not know what a pension was.

"What kind of a feller is he?" she asked, eagerly.

"Oh, a sort of tiger--might be in a cage, you know, but we haven't got one big enough."

"You mean he gets mad easy?"

"Never gets un-mad. Always stays so. Is a regular joke, you know. Going to visit him?"

"I'm goin' to be his housekeeper," said 'Tilda Jane, with dignity.

The lad cast a rapid and amused glance over her small resolved figure, then taking his handkerchief from his pocket, turned his face to the window, and coughed vigorously.

"I can fight, too," she added, after a pause, "but--" slowly, "I sha'n't fight him."

The lad did not turn around except to throw her one gleam from the corner of a laughing eye, until she ejaculated uneasily, "There comes the conductor--are you a-goin' to lend me some money?"

His face reappeared--quite sober now. "Well, young lady, I am not a capitalist, but I think I can raise you a loan. How much do you want--that is, where did you come on?"

"I come on at Nicatoos, an' I've another dog in the baggage-car."

"Travelling with two dogs," he murmured, "and short of funds. You have courage!"

"I like some animiles better'n some people," observed 'Tilda Jane, sententiously.

"Your sentiment does you credit," he replied, gravely, and as the conductor approached, he held out his hand. "I pay for this little girl and her dog in the baggage-car."

"That's a fine hound you've got," the conductor observed, civilly, to 'Tilda Jane.

"Yes, sir," she replied, meekly. "I hope he ain't scared o' the train."

"He don't like it much, but some of the boys have been playing with him. Why--" and he drew back in surprise, "you're the obstinate young one I pointed out to the inspector the other day. Here--you needn't pay," and he put in her hand the money her new friend had just given him. "There was a great racket about you. You needn't have run away from Vanceboro--if you'd spoken the truth, you'd saved yourself and us a lot of trouble. However, I guess they'll be glad to hear you're all right."

"I'll be 'bliged if you'll give my respecks to Mr. Jack," she said, steadily.

"I'll do it," said the conductor, "and tell him you've picked up another dog," and with a wink at her companion, he passed on.

"Accep' my thanks," she said, after a time, handing the loose change in her lap to the lad.

"Keep it," he replied, generously. "I don't want it."

A grim flash like a streak of lightning passed over her dark face, and he added, hastily, "As a loan, of course. You may need money for your dogs. Old Hobart will begrudge them a bone, I assure you."

She thanked him, and thoughtfully tied the money in a corner of her handkerchief.

"Now if his son were home, he would be different. Hank is a rattling, good-natured sort of a fellow. No principle, you know, but not a tiger by any means."

"I'll thank you, sir, to keep a stiff tongue when you're talkin' of Hank Dillson," observed 'Tilda Jane, severely. "He's done me favours, an' you'd better keep your tongue off his father, too. If you're dyin' to pitch into some one, pitch into that selfish ole tub a-readin' that big paper up there. He turned his back on me when I hinted round him for the loan of a dollar or so."

"And I'll thank you to keep a stiff tongue when you speak of that gentleman," said the lad, smartly, "for he's my father."

"Your father!" echoed 'Tilda Jane, in astonishment.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Did he once have blue eyes an' curly hair?"

"I believe so. He's a good-looking man yet."

"He's a--" began 'Tilda Jane, hurriedly, then she stopped short. "Law me--I'll never learn to forgive folks before the sun goes down; I'm gettin' wickeder an' wickeder. What's your name, sir? I'll want to send you this money soon's I earn some."

"My name is Datus Waysmith, and my father is the biggest lumber merchant on the Ciscasset River."

"Is he?" she said, wistfully, "an' have you got more family?"

"Yes, I have a mother as pretty as a picture, and three sisters."

"An' you have a nice room with a fire that ain't boxed up, an' you sit round, an' no other folks come in, an' no bells ring for you to get up and do somethin'?"

"We have loads of rooms in our house," said the lad, boastfully. "It's the biggest one in Ciscasset. You'll soon find out where we live. Here we are most in--Iceboro next, then home," and he flattened his face against the glass.

Outside in the dark night, bright lights appeared, danced over the snowy country, then disappeared. The train was running through the outskirts of a prosperous town.

"Is Ciscasset a nice place?" asked 'Tilda Jane, wistfully.

"Slowest old place that ever was. I'd like to live in Bangor or Portland. There's something going on there. We've nothing but a river, and mills, and trees, and hills--not a decent theatre in the place."

'Tilda Jane did not know what a theatre was, and discreetly held her peace.

"I say--here we are!" exclaimed the boy. "I hope mamma will have a good supper."

A shadow overspread 'Tilda Jane's face, and seeing it, the boy said, impulsively, "Stop here a minute--I want to speak to papa," and he rushed away.

The little girl sat still. They were going more slowly now, and all the men in the car were standing up, putting on coats and warm caps. She had no wrap, but her dress was thick, and hugging Gippie closer, she felt that she should not suffer from the cold.

The boy was making an animated appeal to his father, who was asking him short, quick questions. At last he gave him a brief, "Very well!" and the boy ran back to 'Tilda Jane.

"Papa says you can ride with us. I told him you had no one to meet you, and it would be cold comfort wandering about alone to find your way. He used to think a lot of Dillson, but you'd better not talk to him."

'Tilda Jane trailed slowly after her guide through the crowd of people leaving the train, and passing through the lighted stone station to the yard outside. Here were drawn up a number of sleighs. The boy led her to the handsomest one.

"Jump up on the box with Jenks," he said in a whisper. "Curl down under the rug, and I'll bring dog number two. He'll run behind, won't he?"

"I guess so," replied 'Tilda Jane, with an equally mysterious whisper, and she slipped down under the soft bearskin robe.

In two minutes the boy came back, leading Poacher by a small rope. "I'll just tie him behind," he said, "to make sure. He's all right--and here's papa."

He stood aside, while his dignified parent got into the sleigh. 'Tilda Jane, from her high seat, looked around once. The lumber merchant and his son were down in a black valley of soft, smothering furs, Poacher was running agreeably behind, and Gippie was snug and warm in her lap.

No one spoke during the drive, and they glided swiftly through the snowy town. 'Tilda Jane had a confused vision of lighted shops with frosty windows, of houses with more sober illuminations, then suddenly they were stealing along the brink of a long and narrow snow-filled hollow. This was the Ciscasset River, still held by its winter covering. She thought she heard a murmur of "rotten ice" behind her as the lumber merchant addressed his son, and she was enough a child of the State to know that a reference to the breaking up of the ice in the river was intended.

Presently they dashed up a long avenue of leafless, hardwood trees to a big house on the hill. A hall door was thrown open, and within was a glimpse of paradise for the homeless orphan. Softly tinted lights in the background illuminated and made angelically beautiful the white dresses and glowing faces of a lady and three little girls who stood on the threshold with outstretched arms.

The father and son welcomed to these embraces had forgotten 'Tilda Jane, and as the sleigh slowly turned and went down the cold avenue, tears streamed silently down her cheeks.

"Where am I to take you?" suddenly asked the solemn coachman beside her.

"To Hobart Dillson's," she said, in a choking voice.

Nothing more was said, she saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing of her immediate surroundings. She had once been taken to a circus, and the picture now before her mind was that of a tiger pacing back and forth in his cage, growling in a low monotonous tone, always growling, growling at a miserable child shrinking outside.

"That there is Dillson's cottage, I think," said the coachman at last.

'Tilda Jane roused herself. Through her blurred vision a small house wavered at the end of a snowy path. She wiped her eyes hastily, thanked the man, and, slipping from her high seat, ran behind the sleigh and untied Poacher.

The man turned his sleigh and glided slowly out of sight. She stood watching him till he disappeared, then, followed by her two dogs went reluctantly up the path.