CHAPTER XXII.

A TROUBLED MIND.

'Tilda Jane and grampa were sitting out in front of the house. The spring months had passed, the apple-trees had blossomed, and the young apples had formed. With the changing season had come happier days for 'Tilda Jane. Little by little, as the weeks slipped by, a better understanding had arisen between her and "grampa."

He still gave way occasionally to terrible fits of temper and sullenness, but 'Tilda Jane understood him better now, and was quick to soothe and pacify him, or, if he was unmanageable, to keep out of his presence until he recovered.

Just now he was in an unusually amiable frame of mind,--a frame of mind so accommodating that it boded storms in the near future. However, 'Tilda Jane did not care. She accepted the present peace and was thankful.

She had dragged out his big rocking-chair for him to sit on, and had given him an evening paper to read, while she herself was curled up on her favourite seat on the door-step.

The old man was not inclined to read his paper, and dropping it on his knees he took off his glasses, put them in his pocket, and let his eyes wander to the apple-trees.

The river was flowing blue and open now, birds were singing, and all things betokened a fine summer.

"When you hear those robins sing, don't it feel as if there was a little string squeakin' inside o' you?" said 'Tilda Jane, gleefully.

Dillson made no reply, and seeing that he was in no mood for a sympathetic comparison of emotions, she diplomatically started another topic of conversation.

"I guess the birds make me glad, 'cause I'm so happy you let me bide with you, grampa--an' you've been so noble an' generous to lend me money to pay for the matron's shawl I took for Gippie. An' it was so kind in the lady-boards to write back that they was glad to get rid of me."

The old man laughed a toothless laugh at her whimsical view of the lady-boards' reply, but said nothing.

"I ain't told you much of my travels yet, grampa," she said, agreeably. "I've been so busy house-cleanin'. I guess you'd like to hear about Vanceboro."

The old man did not display any particular interest in Vanceboro, but having assured herself by a swift examination of his features that the subject was not disagreeable to him, she went on, "It's a great ole place. I'd like you to go there sometime, grampa. Such goings-on with them furriners! I saw one woman walkin' up and down wringin' her hands an' cryin' 'cause they wouldn't let her bring her ole mother into this nation."

She waited for her hearer to ask why the mother was forbidden to come where the daughter could enter, but he did not do so, and she continued, "She was a poor woman from Boston, an' her mother was a poor woman from Canada, an' they said if she come in 'twould be two poor women together, an' first thing they knowed they'd be both in the poorhouse. So her mother had to go back to Canada."

Dillson looked entirely uninterested in the case of the would-be immigrant, so, after a farewell announcement that sometimes as many as two hundred "furriners" went through Vanceboro in a single day, 'Tilda Jane passed on to another branch of her subject.

"It's a reg'lar jubilee, grampa, when the trains come in--a boy runnin' to a big bell an' ringin' it, an' people pourin' into the lunch-room, an' jus' chasin' the food into their mouths an' lookin' hunted-like, as if there was somethin' after them, an' some don't take time to go to the tables. They step up to the lunch-counter, which is shaped jus' like a moon when it ain't full. There's glass dishes on it, with oranges, an' bananas, an' cakes an' pies, an' sangwiches, an' a funny machine where you drop a nickel in a crack, an' if the hand points to five, or ten or fifteen, you get twenty-five cents' worth of candy, an' if you don't get candy you get good advice like as, 'You've been keepin' bad comp'ny, quit it or you will never prosper,' or 'You've run away from home, an' the perlice is on your track,' or 'Smokin is a bad thing for your health.'"

Grampa was not very much interested, so 'Tilda Jane tried something more startling.

"There's great talk of railroad accidents there. Men get killed awful. I heard a table-girl ask a brakeman how he could go on a train for fear he'd be hurt, an' he said he dassent stop to think, he had to take chances. I used to see 'em runnin' like cats on top o' them cars, slippery with snow an' ice. If you're inside one o' them cars, grampa, an' there's goin' to be a turnover, jus' grip hard on somethin' steady, 'cause then you're not so apt to get killed. I heard a conductor say that."

Grampa's travelling days were over, yet it pleased him to be talked to as if he were still a strong and active man, and he said, shortly, "I'm not likely to be going far from home."

"You don't know, grampa," she said, soothingly. "Some day when you get nice and well, I'd like to travel with you, but first you must be very quiet like one of Job's mice, an' not have anythin' gnawin' at you--I guess you've had lots of plague times in your life."

Grampa looked unheedingly beyond her to the apple-trees.

Her face was shrewd and puckered, and she was surveying him like a cunning little cat.

"Sometimes, grampa, I hear you fussin' in your sleep--moanin' an' cryin' like a poor dog what's lost her pups."

The old man turned and looked at her sharply.

She went on boldly, "Can I lie in my soft, warm bed up-stairs an' you a-sufferin'? No, I creepy, creepy down, to see if I can do anythin'."

"Don't you do that again," said the old man, his face becoming red. "You stay in your bed at night."

"All right, grampa," she said, meekly, "but I've heard things already."

"Things--what things?" he asked, sharply.

'Tilda Jane folded together the apron she was hemming, and getting up, opened a door of retreat behind her into the house.

"About losin' that money," she said, sadly. She paused, and as he neither spoke or made any motion to throw a crutch at her, she proceeded, "Grampa, I jus' know it's like a little pain hawk pickin' at your skin."

Grampa was still silent, painfully so, and she hurried on, "You haven't got much money, an' you have me an' the dogs to take care of. Now, grampa, won't you let me get some work to do outside to help us?" and she screwed her features into their most persuasive appearance.

Grampa had his head turned away over his shoulder, and when he after a long time twisted it around, 'Tilda Jane rose, and prudently and swiftly retired into the hall.

He must be in a rage. His face was fiery, and he was making a choking, spluttering sound in his throat,--a sound that only came from him in moments of agitation.

"Don't you--don't you," he stammered, "spy on me again, and bother your young head about things you know nothing of. Do you hear?" and he accentuated his remarks by a tap of his crutch on the door-step. "I've had a way all my life of talking over things in my sleep. And you've got enough to do at home. I'll not have you working for other people."

"All right, grampa," said 'Tilda Jane, submissively, and she made a step toward him. She had planned to fly through the hall to his bedroom, and remove his wash bowl and pitcher, for since she had come to the cottage he had broken several in his fits of rage.

But grampa was not angry in a violent way this time. "He's more bothered than mad," she murmured, dispiritedly, and she drew aside to allow him to pass by her into the house.

"The dew's falling," he muttered, as he went by her. "I'll go sit in the kitchen a spell."

'Tilda Jane went mournfully to sit under the trees on a wooden bench that grampa had had made for her. The two dogs curled themselves up at her feet, and with a sigh she picked up a writing pad beside her. It was almost too dark to see the lines, but she must finish a letter that she had begun to write to Hank.

His former custom had been to scratch a line to his father once in six months to say he was alive and well, but since 'Tilda Jane's arrival he had written every week, and had addressed his letters to her.

It was a great pleasure to the little girl to get these letters, and an equal pleasure to answer them. She related to him every occurrence of her daily life, all details of his father's conduct except disagreeable ones, and her letters always ended with an urgent request that he would come and visit them.

This evening she had as usual made an appeal at the end of her letter. "Dear Mr. Hank, it seems a long time sence the snow was on the ground. I guess if you knew how much we want to see you you'd come hurryin' home. The dogs send love, Gippie specially 'cause he knows you. Poacher says he'd be happy to make your acquaintance--and, Mr. Hank, your father's kind of worried about somethin'. I guess he'd like to see you."