Part 2

“Yes, dear,” said his sister absent-mindedly. She was drawing out the little round mahogany table. “I’m going to put on the pink china,” she announced, with a defiant toss of her dark head. The defiance was for the Honorable Stephen Jarvis.

“It’s beginning to pop!” cried Jimmy excitedly, as he drew the corn-popper back and forth on the hot griddles with a busy scratching sound.

“Don’t let it burn,” warned Barbara. “How would you like some little hot biscuits, Jimmy, and some strawberry preserves?”

“Strawberry ’serves?” he echoed. “I didn’t know we had any ’serves.”

“Well, we have. I’ve been saving ’em for—for your birthday, Jimmy.”

“Oh, I’m glad!” cried the little boy, redoubling his efforts. “See me work, Barb’ra. Don’t I work hard?”

“Yes, indeed, dear.” She hesitated, then added in a low voice, “You always will work hard; won’t you, Jimmy?”

The child watched her gravely while she shook the crisp white kernels into a bowl. He was thinking of her question.

“Do you think I’ll have to go to school much longer, Barb’ra?” he asked. “It takes such a long time to go to school.”

The girl wheeled sharply about.

“What put that notion into your head?” she demanded. “Of course you’ve got to go school till—till you’re educated—like father.” Her voice faltered a little, and a dark flush crept into her cheeks.

The boy’s eyes were on her face.

“Of course father was—he was sick, Jimmy, sick and unhappy. You don’t remember him as I do; but he——”

“Yes, I know,” the child said simply.

Then he threw his arms about Barbara and hugged her. He didn’t know why exactly, except that Barbara liked his rough boyish caresses. And he wanted to make her smile again.

She did smile, winking back the tears.

“I want you to study—hard, Jimmy,” she went on in a low tremulous voice; “and grow to be a good man—the best kind of a man. You must! I couldn’t bear it, if you——”

“Well, I won’t, Barb’ra,” promised the child gravely. He eyed his sister with a sudden flash of comprehension as he added stoutly, “You don’t have to worry ’bout me. I’m growin’ jus’ ’s fas’ ’s I can, an’ I know mos’ all my tables, ’ceptin’ seven an’ nine an’ some of eight.”

Barbara laughed, and there was the same odd ring of defiance in the sound. Then she opened a cupboard in the wall and took out a cake covered with pink icing.

Jimmy’s blue eyes grew wide with wonder. “What’s that?” he demanded.

Barbara was setting six small candles around the edge; last of all she planted one in the middle.

“You couldn’t guess if you tried,” she said gaily. “I just know you couldn’t. You’re such a dull boy.”

“I can guess, too!” cried Jimmy with a shout of rapture. “It’s a cake! It’s my birfday cake! An’ it’s got six candles on it an’ one to grow on. I ’member last year it had only five an’ one to grow on; but I growed that one all up. I want Peg to see it. Can I go out t’ the barn an’ get him? Can I, Barb’ra?”

The girl hesitated as she cast a troubled eye on the table set daintily with the pink china, and the few carefully cherished bits of old silver.

“You may ask Peg to come in and have supper with you, if you like,” she said slowly. “Just this once—because it’s your birthday.”

Jimmy didn’t wait for a second bidding; he dashed out of the back door with a boyish whoop, carefully studied from the big boys in school.

Peg (shortened from Peleg) Morrison had worked on the Preston farm for so many years that he appeared almost as much a part of the place as the shabby old house itself, or the rambling structures at its rear known indeterminately as “the barns.” He slept over the carriage-house, in quarters originally intended for the coachman. Here also he cooked handily for himself on a rusty old stove, compounding what he called “tried an’ tested receipts” out of a queer old yellow-leaved book bound in marbled boards, its pages written over in Peg’s own scrawling chirography.

“I wouldn’t part with that thar book for its weight in gold an’ di’mon’s,” he was in the habit of saying solemnly to Jimmy. “No, Cap’n, I reelly wouldn’t. I begun to write down useful inf’mation in it when I wasn’t much bigger’n you be now, an’ I’ve kep’ it up.”

“Vallable Information, by Peleg Morrison,” was the legend inscribed on its thumbed cover. Jimmy admired this book beyond words, and quite in private had started one of his own on pieces of brown paper accumulated in the attic chamber where he played on rainy days.

“Hello, Cap’n!” observed Peg with a genial smile, as the little boy thrust his yellow head in at the door of his quarters. “Say! I do b’lieve you’ve growed some since I seen you last. It must be them popcorn balls, I reckon. Pop-corn’s mighty tasty and nourishin’.”

“I haven’t eaten ’em—not yet!” said Jimmy breathlessly. “An’, Peg, I’ve got a birfday cake—an’ it’s got six candles on it, an’ one to grow on; an’—an’ it’s all pink on top; an’ Barb’ra, she’s made a whole lot of biscuits; an’ we’ve got some strawberry ’serves, an’—an’ we want you to come to supper; jus’ this once, ’cause it’s my birfday. Barb’ra said to tell you. An’ she’s put on the pink dishes, too!”

“Wall, now, Cap’n, that surely is kind of Miss Barb’ry. But you see I ain’t got my comp’ny clo’es on. M’ swallow-tail coat’s got the rear buttons off, an’ m’ high collar ’n boiled shirt’s to m’ wash-lady’s.”

Peg winked humorously at Jimmy, in token that his remarks were to be interpreted as being in a purely jocular vein.

“We don’t care ’bout clo’es—me an’ Barb’ra,” said Jimmy, grandly. “An’ I want you to see my cake wiv the candles burning. I’m goin’ to blow ’em out when we are all through wiv supper; then we’re goin’ to eat the cake.”

“Wall, now I’ll tell you, Cap’n. I’ll mosey in ’long ’bout time you get t’ the cake. I wouldn’t miss seein’ them candles blowed out fer anythin’. You c’n tell Miss Barb’ry I’m obleeged to her fer th’ invitation—mind you say Miss Barb’ry, Jimmy. ’Cause that’s manners, seein’ I’m hired man on this ’ere farm.”

“Does Barb’ra pay you lots o’ money?” asked Jimmy, with sudden grave interest.

Peg puckered up his mouth judicially.

“You don’t want t’ git in th’ habit o’ askin’ pers’nal questions, Cap’n,” he said, with a serious look in his kind old eyes. “‘Tain’t reelly p’lite, you know. An’ the’s times when it’s kind o’ embarrassin’ to answer ’em. But, in this ’ere case, I’m pertickler glad to tell you, Cap’n, that Barb’ry—I mean Miss Barb’ry—does pay me all I ask fur, an’ a whole lot besides. You see I hev special privileges here on this place that ain’t come by ev’ry day, an’ I value ’em—I value ’em highly. An’ that reminds me, Cap’n, that I’ve got a little present fer you, seein’ you’re six, goin’ on seven, an’ big an’ hefty fer your age. Jest you clap yer eyes onto that an’ tell me what you think of it. ’Tain’t what you’d call reelly val’able now; but you keep it fer—say fifty years an’ do what I’ve done with mine, an’ money won’t buy it f’om you.”

“Oh, Peg!” gasped Jimmy, in a rapture too deep and pervasive for words, “is it—a val’able inf’mation book?”

“That’s what it is, Cap’n,” chuckled Peg, holding off the book and gazing at it with honest pride. “Y’ see, I couldn’t find th’ mate to mine in looks; but this ’ere red cover beats mine all holler, an’ you see I’ve put ‘Vallable Information by James Embury Preston’ on it in handsome red letters. Take it, boy, an’ don’t put nothin’ into it ’at won’t be true an’ useful, is the prayer o’ Peg Morrison.”

The old man’s tone was solemn and his blue eyes gleamed suddenly moist in the midst of their network of wrinkles.

“The’s folks in this world,” he went on soberly, “‘at would be mighty glad if they had a book like that, full o’ tried an’ tested rules—fer conduct, as well as fer hoss liniment an’ pies an’ cakes. In the front page o’ mine I put down more’n twenty years ago, ‘Never promise anythin’ that you ain’t willin’ to set ’bout doin’ the nex’ minute.’ That’s a good sentiment fer man or beast. Ye c’n turn to a rule fer mos’ anythin’, f’om what to do fer a colt ’at’s et too much green clover, up to how to set on a jury. But I’ve took my time to it, an’ ain’t never wrote anythin’ down jus’ t’ fill paper. Now you trot along, Cap’n; an’ I’ll be with you before you git them candles blowed out.”

“I—I’d like to shake hands, Peg,” said Jimmy fervently. “I’m too big an’ hefty to kiss people for thank you. But I like this book better’n anyfing—I mean anything.”

He put out his small brown hand on which babyish dimples still lingered, and the old man grasped and shook it solemnly.

“You’re more’n welcome, Cap’n!” he said heartily. “An’ thinkin’ y’ might like to set down a few sentiments I got you a bottle o’ red ink an’ a new steel pen. I like red ink m’self. It makes a handsome page.”

“I never s’posed I’d have a whole bottle of red ink,” said Jimmy, with a rapturous sigh of contentment filled to the brim and running over. “Don’t forget to come and see my cake,” he called out as the old man convoyed him to the foot of the stairs with a nautical lantern.

“I’m goin’ right back up to put on m’ swallow-tail,” Peg assured him. “You’ll see me in ’bout half an hour.”

Barbara knit her fine dark brows a little over the birthday book with its quaint inscription.

“I shouldn’t like you to suppose that was the way to spell valuable information,” she said crisply. “Suppose we put another card over this one, dear. I’ll write it for you.”

Jimmy pondered this proposal in silence for a few minutes, then he shook his head.

“I want my book to be ’zactly like Peg’s,” he said firmly. “It’s a val’able inf’mation book; that’s what it is.”

He kept it by him all the while they were eating their supper off the pink and white china Grandfather Embury brought from foreign parts, while the seven candles cast bright lights and wavering shadows across the table on the boy’s rosy little face and the girl’s darker beauty.

“Peg’s comin’ in’s soon’s he puts on his swallow-tail,” said Jimmy placidly. “I like Peg better’n anybody, ’ceptin’ you, Barb’ra. He’s so durned square.”

“You shouldn’t say such words, Jimmy,” Barbara said, with a vexed pucker between her brows. “You must remember that you are a gentleman.”

“So is Peg a gentleman,” said Jimmy, valiantly ready to do battle for his friend. “An’ he says durned.”

Barbara shook her head impatiently at the child.

“If you say that word again, Jimmy,” she threatened, “I shall be obliged to forbid you going out to the barn at all.”

“I guess you don’t mean that, Barb’ra,” the little boy said firmly. “Course I have to go out to the barn; but I promise I won’t say durned ’cept when I plough.”

A sound of hard knuckles cautiously applied to the back kitchen door announced Mr. Morrison, attired in his best suit of rusty black, his abundant iron-gray hair, ordinarily standing up around his ruddy, good-humored face like a halo, severely plastered down with soap and water.

“Good-evenin’, Cap’n,” he said ceremoniously, “I hope you fin’ yourself in good health on this ’ere auspicious occasion, sir; an’ you, too, Miss Barb’ry, as a near relation of the Cap’n’s. I hope I see you well an’—an’ happy, ma’am.”

“See my cake, Peg,” shouted Jimmy, capering wildly about the old man. “See the candles!”

Peg pretended to shade his eyes from the overpowering illumination. “Wall, now, I mus’ say!” he exclaimed. “If that ain’t wo’th coverin’ ten miles o’ bad goin’ t’ see. That cert’nly is a han’some cake, Miss Barb’ry, an’ the Cap’n here tells me you made it.”

Barbara smiled, rather sadly.

“Yes,” she said, “I made it. If you’ll blow out the candles now, Jimmy, I’ll cut it and we’ll each have a piece.”

The little boy climbed up in his chair.

“I have to sit down when I blow,” he said seriously, and sent the first current of air across the table from his puckered lips. “One of ’em’s out!” he announced triumphantly.

“Give it to ’em agin, Cap’n!” cried Peg. “Give ’em a good one. That’s right! Now the nigh one’s gone; but that off candle’s a sticker. I dunno whether you’ll fetch that one or not, Cap’n.”

The child drew in a mighty breath, his puffed cheeks flushing to a brilliant scarlet, and blew with all his might, the flame of the one lighted candle waned, flared sidewise, and disappeared, leaving a light wreath of smoke behind.

“There! I blowed ’em out, all by myself,” he exulted. “I’ve got a strong wind in my breaf, haven’t I, Peg?”

“I declar’, I’d hate to have you try it on the roof o’ the barn, Cap’n. The loose shingles’d fly, I bet,” Peg assured him jocularly.

Barbara was cutting the cake, her troubled eyes bent upon her task. Mr. Morrison glanced at her anxiously.

“I seen a rig hitched out t’ the side door this afternoon,” he said slowly. “‘Twant a—a sewin’-machine agent; was it, Miss Barb’ry?”

“No,” said the girl shortly; her look forbade further questions.

“I’ll tell you who ’twas, Peg,” said Jimmy sociably, as he began to nibble the edges of his slice of cake. “It was the Hon’rable Stephen Jarvis. An’ his horse’s tail is cut off short so’t it can’t switch ’round, an’ it makes him cross. I guess it would make me some cross, too, if I was a horse. Wouldn’t it make you, Peg?”

“I reckon’t would, Cap’n,” said the old man, fetching a heavy sigh for no apparent reason. He turned to Barbara, whose red lips were set in an expression of haughty reserve.

“If I’d ’a’ knowed ’twas the Hon’rable Stephen Jarvis fer certain,” he went on, with an effort after careless ease of manner, “I b’lieve I’d ’a’ took the opportunity to talk over crops with him fer a spell. We’re goin’ to have a first-rate crop o’ buckwheat this year, an’ winter wheat’s lookin’ fine. The’d ought to be plenty of apples, too. I pruned the trees in the spring an’ manured ’em heavy last fall.”

Barbara gazed steadily at the table. She did not answer.

“I was thinkin’ some o’ plantin’ onions in the five acre field this year,” went on Peg, an agitated tremor in his voice. “They’re a heap o’ work, onions is, what with weedin’ ’em an’ cultivatin’ ’em; but the’s big money in ’em; white, red, an’ yellow sorts. What would you say to onions, Miss Barb’ry?”

“There’s no use,” said the girl, “of our planting—anything.” She turned her back abruptly on pretence of pulling down a window shade. “I’ll speak to you to-morrow—about the work.”

III

AFTER Jimmy had said his prayers and was tucked up in bed, tired but happy, the book of “Vallable Information” under his pillow, Barbara sat for awhile by the open window in the dusk of the April night. The wind had gone down since sunset, and in the stillness she could hear the “peepers,” singing in the distant marshes, and the soft roar of the river, filled to its brim with the melted snows from the hills. Something in the sound of the swollen river and the gleam of a single star, seen dimly between drifting clouds, brought the remembrance of other April nights to Barbara’s mind.

Her thoughts went back to the day when her father, then a proud, handsome man in his prime, had brought his new wife to the farm. Her own passionately mourned mother seemed strangely forgotten in the joy of the home-coming and the girl had resented it in the dumb, pathetic fashion of childhood. After a little, though, she had come to love the gentle creature who had won her father’s heart. There followed a few happy years, regretfully remembered through a blur of tears, when the little mother, as Barbara learned to call her, filled the old house to overflowing with sunshine. Then on an April night when the river lifted up its plaintive voice in the stillness that fell after a wild, windy day, Jimmy came, and the little mother went—hastily, as if summoned out of the dark by some voice unheard by the others. Barbara remembered well the night of her going, and of how, with a last effort, she had lifted the tiny baby and placed him in her own strong young arms.

“Love—him—dear,” whispered the failing voice. Then she had smiled once, as if with a great content, and was gone.

Jimmy’s voice broke sleepily through these bitter-sweet memories.

“Barb’ra!” he called, “are you there? I forgot somethin’.”

“What did you forget, dear?” asked the girl, going to his bed.

“I love you, Barb’ra!” murmured the little boy, snuggling his hand in hers.

She stooped to kiss him all warm and sweet with sleep. Then drew the blankets closer about his shoulders.

“It was—a—a—letter,” the drowsily-sweet little voice went on. “I—forgot——”

“Jimmy,” said Barbara the next morning, as she brushed the child’s yellow hair, “what was it you said last night about a letter?”

“Oh, I bringed—no, I brought a letter home to you in my coat pocket, and I forgot to give it to you.”

“It isn’t in either of your pockets, dear. I looked there last night. Try and think what you did with it.”

The little boy looked troubled.

“The man gave it to me, an’ it was blue. An’ he said it was f’om way out west, an’ he asked me who did you know out west; an’ I said I didn’t know; but I’d ask you. I put it in my pocket.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t anything important,” Barbara said slowly, “but——”

“No, I guess it wasn’t,” agreed Jimmy placidly. “Say, Barb’ra, can I have two popcorn balls to take to school?”

“But what do you suppose became of the letter?” persisted Barbara. “Which pocket did you put it in?”

Jimmy eyed the small garment uncertainly.

“It was in this one,” he decided; “I ’member I put the letter in my pocket an’ it stuck out, ’cause it was too long.”

“Did you come straight home from the post-office?” demanded Barbara. “Did you, Jimmy?”

Jimmy reflected.

“I walked along,” he said, “an’ ’nen I looked in through the fence to see the deer an’ the shiny blue round things—you know, Barb’ra, when the sun shines you c’n see——”

“I know,” said the girl, with a touch of impatience.

“An’ ’nen I saw the horse wiv a short tail come out, an’ I p’tended I was drivin’ an’ goin’ awful fast! But I couldn’t trot real fas’ because the m’lasses spilled. I had to stop an’ lick it off lots of times.”

“Why, Jimmy!” said the girl rebukingly.

“Wiv my fingers,” explained Jimmy mildly. “You know you have to do something when it comes out all bubbles ’round the edge; an’—an’ ’nen I——”

“You must have dropped the letter somewhere along the road,” interrupted his sister.

“Uh-huh! I guess I did,” assented the culprit. “But I didn’t mean to, Barb’ra. Truly I didn’t.”

His lip quivered as he looked up at her stormy face.

The girl controlled herself with an effort.

“Of course you didn’t mean to, darling,” she said, kissing the rosy mouth, which had begun to droop dolefully at the corners. “Perhaps it was just an advertisement, anyway, and not worth bothering over. I’ll walk along with you and see if we can find it.”

But the letter, snugly hidden under a clump of unfolding fern, gave no token of its presence as the two walked slowly past it, their eyes searching the road and the tangled growths on either side.

Barbara walked swiftly to the post-office, after she had left Jimmy at the schoolhouse. It had occurred to her that someone might have returned the missing letter to the office.

Al Hewett, when questioned, shook his head.

“Nope,” he said, “the’ ain’t nobody brought it here. ’Course I’d ’a’ saved it fer you if they had. I remember the letter all right, I happened to notice the postmark. It was fo’m Tombstone, Arizony. Know anybody out there?”

The girl shook her head. “Was there any printing—or—writing on the envelope?” she asked.

“Not that I recall,” said Mr. Hewlett, mindful of his official state. “Of course you understan’ with the amount of mail we handle in this office that we couldn’t be expected to notice any one letter in pertickler. I’m real sorry, Barb’ra,” he added, with genuine good feeling. “Jimmy’s pretty small t’ deliver mail. He’s a nice little shaver, though. Anythin’ in the line o’ groceries to-day?”

“Not to-day,” said Barbara, her cheeks flushing.

Then she looked up with sudden determination. “Is your father here?” she asked, in a low voice. “If he is—I’d like to see him.”

“Pa’s in the back room makin’ up accounts,” the younger Hewett informed her. “I’ll call him, if you say so.—Pa!”

“No; don’t, please,” objected Barbara hastily. “I’ll go and speak to him there.”

But Mr. Abram Hewett had already appeared in answer to the summons and was advancing briskly behind a counter gay with new prints and ginghams. His face stiffened at sight of Barbara, and he darted an impatient look at his son.

“Could I speak with you—just a moment, Mr. Hewett?” asked Barbara, in a low, determined voice, “on business?”

The man coldly scrutinized the flushed face the girl lifted to his.

“If it was ’bout the balance o’ that account o’ yours——” he began, “I was just lookin’ it over, ’long with some others like it. You c’n come in here.”

Barbara followed his short, bent figure, her heart beating heavily. But she had found a remnant of her vanished self-possession by the time Mr. Hewett had climbed to the high stool behind the long-legged desk, which represented the financial centre of the establishment. “Well?” he said interrogatively, fixing his lowering regard upon her.

Barbara glanced at the two fly-specked legends which flanked the desk on either side, reading respectively, “My time is money; don’t steal it,” and “This is my busy day.”

“I didn’t come to finish paying that bill to-day,” she said, a flush of shame mounting to her forehead. “But the hens are beginning to lay now, and——”

“Eggs is cheap an’ plentiful,” demurred Mr. Hewett, with unconcealed impatience. “I couldn’t agree t’ allow ye much on eggs.”

“It wasn’t the bill I came to see you about,” said Barbara, with a proud look at him. “I shall pay it in money as soon as I possibly can.”

“Oh!” interjected Mr. Hewett. Then he added sharply “Humph!” drumming meanwhile on the lid of his desk to denote the lapse of unfruitful minutes.

Barbara still hesitated, while she strove to find words to introduce the difficult business she had in mind.

Mr. Hewett cleared his throat suggestively.

“There’s a mortgage on the farm,” she said slowly, “and we’re going to lose it, unless——”

“Unless you pay up,” suggested Mr. Hewett briskly. “Yes; jes’ so. I’ve been wonderin’ how you managed to hang on to it s’ long’s you have.”

“I’ve worked,” said Barbara, in a low, tense voice. “I’ve worked early and late, ever since father died, and before that. But—there was unpaid interest, and interest on that; and last year the apples failed, and so——”

“He’s goin’ to foreclose on ye. Yes, yes; exac’ly. I s’pose likely Jarvis holds the mortgage?”

“Yes,” said Barbara breathlessly. “But if I only had a little more time I could manage it—somehow. I must keep the farm for Jimmy. I promised father he should have it.”

Mr. Hewett was silent, his plump face drawn into the semblance of a dubious smile.

“I’ve come to ask you to take up the mortgage for me, and give me more time to pay it. Will you do it?” asked Barbara, avoiding the man’s look.

Mr. Hewett shifted his gaze to the ink-well, around the edge of which a lean black fly was crawling dispiritedly.

“W’y, no,” he said decidedly. “I shouldn’t like to interfere; I couldn’t do it.”

“Why couldn’t you?” demanded Barbara. “If we have a good apple year, I could pay the mortgage in two years. It doesn’t cost us much to live.”

“If it’s a good apple year, apples’ll be a drug on the market,” Mr. Hewett prophesied gloomily. “Nope! I’m sorry; but I guess you’ll have to let Jarvis foreclose on ye. I shouldn’t like to run up against Jarvis, y’ know.”

“But—there’s Jimmy!” The girl’s voice rang out in a sharp cry.

“Put the boy in an institootion, or bind him out,” advised Mr. Hewett, drumming impatiently on the lid of his desk. “The’s folk a-plenty that wouldn’t mind raisin’ a healthy boy to work.”

Barbara turned swiftly.