Chronicles of Avonlea
Lucy Maud Montgomery

Part 3 out of 4

When Sara was sixteen Mrs. Adair, the wealthy aunt aforesaid, pounced down
on White Sands in a glamour of fashion and culture and outer worldliness.
She bombarded Old Man Shaw with such arguments that he had to succumb.
It was a shame that a girl like Sara should grow up in a place
like White Sands, "with no advantages and no education,"
said Mrs. Adair scornfully, not understanding that wisdom and knowledge
are two entirely different things.

"At least let me give my dear sister's child what I would have
given my own daughter if I had had one," she pleaded tearfully.
"Let me take her with me and send her to a good school for a few years.
Then, if she wishes, she may come back to you, of course."

Privately, Mrs. Adair did not for a moment believe that Sara
would want to come back to White Sands, and her queer old father,
after three years of the life she would give her.

Old Man Shaw yielded, influenced thereto not at all by Mrs. Adair's
readily flowing tears, but greatly by his conviction that
justice to Sara demanded it. Sara herself did not want to go;
she protested and pleaded; but her father, having become
convinced that it was best for her to go, was inexorable.
Everything, even her own feelings, must give way to that.
But she was to come back to him without let or hindrance
when her "schooling" was done. It was only on having this
most clearly understood that Sara would consent to go at all.
Her last words, called back to her father through her tears
as she and her aunt drove down the lane, were,

"I'll be back, daddy. In three years I'll be back.
Don't cry, but just look forward to that."

He had looked forward to it through the three long, lonely years
that followed, in all of which he never saw his darling.
Half a continent was between them and Mrs. Adair had vetoed
vacation visits, under some specious pretense. But every week
brought its letter from Sara. Old Man Shaw had every one of them,
tied up with one of her old blue hair ribbons, and kept in her
mother's little rose-wood work-box in the parlour. He spent every
Sunday afternoon re-reading them, with her photograph before him.
He lived alone, refusing to be pestered with kind help,
but he kept the house in beautiful order.

"A better housekeeper than farmer," said White Sands people.
He would have nothing altered. When Sara came back she was
not to be hurt by changes. It never occurred to him that she
might be changed herself.

And now those three interminable years were gone, and Sara was
coming home. She wrote him nothing of her aunt's pleadings and reproaches
and ready, futile tears; she wrote only that she would graduate
in June and start for home a week later. Thenceforth Old Man Shaw
went about in a state of beatitude, making ready for her homecoming.
As he sat on the bench in the sunshine, with the blue sea
sparkling and crinkling down at the foot of the green slope,
he reflected with satisfaction that all was in perfect order.
There was nothing left to do save count the hours until that beautiful,
longed-for day after to-morrow. He gave himself over to a reverie,
as sweet as a day-dream in a haunted valley.

The red roses were out in bloom. Sara had always loved those red roses--
they were as vivid as herself, with all her own fullness of life
and joy of living. And, besides these, a miracle had happened
in Old Man Shaw's garden. In one corner was a rose-bush which had
never bloomed, despite all the coaxing they had given it--"the
sulky rose-bush," Sara had been wont to call it. Lo! this summer had
flung the hoarded sweetness of years into plentiful white blossoms,
like shallow ivory cups with a haunting, spicy fragrance.
It was in honour of Sara's home-coming--so Old Man Shaw liked to fancy.
All things, even the sulky rose-bush, knew she was coming back,
and were making glad because of it.

He was gloating over Sara's letter when Mrs. Peter Blewett came.
She told him she had run up to see how he was getting on,
and if he wanted anything seen to before Sara came.

"No'm, thank you, ma'am. Everything is attended to.
I couldn't let anyone else prepare for Blossom. Only to think,
ma'am, she'll be home the day after to-morrow. I'm just filled
clear through, body, soul, and spirit, with joy to think
of having my little Blossom at home again."

Mrs. Blewett smiled sourly. When Mrs. Blewett smiled it
foretokened trouble, and wise people had learned to have sudden
business elsewhere before the smile could be translated into words.
But Old Man Shaw had never learned to be wise where Mrs. Blewett
was concerned, although she had been his nearest neighbour for years,
and had pestered his life out with advice and "neighbourly turns."

Mrs. Blewett was one with whom life had gone awry. The effect
on her was to render happiness to other people a personal insult.
She resented Old Man Shaw's beaming delight in his daughter's return,
and she "considered it her duty" to rub the bloom off straightway.

"Do you think Sary'll be contented in White Sands now?" she asked.

Old Man Shaw looked slightly bewildered.

"Of course she'll be contented," he said slowly. "Isn't it her home?
And ain't I here?"

Mrs. Blewett smiled again, with double distilled contempt
for such simplicity.

"Well, it's a good thing you're so sure of it, I suppose.
If 'twas my daughter that was coming back to White Sands,
after three years of fashionable life among rich, stylish folks,
and at a swell school, I wouldn't have a minute's peace of mind.
I'd know perfectly well that she'd look down on everything here,
and be discontented and miserable."

"YOUR daughter might," said Old Man Shaw, with more sarcasm
than he had supposed he had possessed, "but Blossom won't."

Mrs. Blewett shrugged her sharp shoulders.

"Maybe not. It's to be hoped not, for both your sakes, I'm sure.
But I'd be worried if 'twas me. Sary's been living among
fine folks, and having a gay, exciting time, and it stands
to reason she'll think White Sands fearful lonesome and dull.
Look at Lauretta Bradley. She was up in Boston for just a month
last winter and she's never been able to endure White Sands since."

"Lauretta Bradley and Sara Shaw are two different people,"
said Sara's father, trying to smile.

"And your house, too," pursued Mrs. Blewett ruthlessly.
"It's such a queer, little, old place. What'll she think of it after
her aunt's? I've heard tell Mrs. Adair lives in a perfect palace.
I'll just warn you kindly that Sary'll probably look down on you,
and you might as well be prepared for it. Of course, I suppose
she kind of thinks she has to come back, seeing she promised
you so solemn she would. But I'm certain she doesn't want to,
and I don't blame her either."

Even Mrs. Blewett had to stop for breath, and Old Man Shaw found
his opportunity. He had listened, dazed and shrinking, as if she were
dealing him physical blows, but now a swift change swept over him.
His blue eyes flashed ominously, straight into Mrs. Blewett's straggling,
ferrety gray orbs.

"If you're said your say, Martha Blewett, you can go,"
he said passionately. "I'm not going to listen to another such word.
Take yourself out of my sight, and your malicious tongue out
of my hearing!"

Mrs. Blewett went, too dumfounded by such an unheard-of outburst
in mild Old Man Shaw to say a word of defence or attack.
When she had gone Old Man Shaw, the fire all faded from his eyes,
sank back on his bench. His delight was dead; his heart was
full of pain and bitterness. Martha Blewett was a warped and
ill-natured woman, but he feared there was altogether too much
truth in what she said. Why had he never thought of it before?
Of course White Sands would seem dull and lonely to Blossom;
of course the little gray house where she was born would seem
a poor abode after the splendours of her aunt's home. Old Man Shaw
walked through his garden and looked at everything with new eyes.
How poor and simple everything was! How sagging and weather-beaten
the old house! He went in, and up-stairs to Sara's room.
It was neat and clean, just as she had left it three years ago.
But it was small and dark; the ceiling was discoloured, the furniture
old-fashioned and shabby; she would think it a poor, mean place.
Even the orchard over the hill brought him no comfort now.
Blossom would not care for orchards. She would be ashamed of her
stupid old father and the barren farm. She would hate White Sands,
and chafe at the dull existence, and look down on everything
that went to make up his uneventful life.

Old Man Shaw was unhappy enough that night to have satisfied
even Mrs. Blewett had she known. He saw himself as he thought
White Sands folk must see him--a poor, shiftless, foolish old man,
who had only one thing in the world worthwhile, his little girl,
and had not been of enough account to keep her.

"Oh, Blossom, Blossom!" he said, and when he spoke her name it
sounded as if he spoke the name of one dead.

After a little the worst sting passed away. He refused to believe
long that Blossom would be ashamed of him; he knew she would not.
Three years could not so alter her loyal nature--no, nor ten
times three years. But she would be changed--she would have
grown away from him in those three busy, brilliant years.
His companionship could no longer satisfy her.
How simple and childish he had been to expect it!
She would be sweet and kind--Blossom could never be anything else.
She would not show open discontent or dissatisfaction;
she would not be like Lauretta Bradley; but it would be there,
and he would divine it, and it would break his heart.
Mrs. Blewett was right. When he had given Blossom up
he should not have made a half-hearted thing of his sacrifice--
he should not have bound her to come back to him.

He walked about in his little garden until late at night,
under the stars, with the sea crooning and calling to him
down the slope. When he finally went to bed he did not sleep,
but lay until morning with tear-wet eyes and despair in his heart.
All the forenoon he went about his usual daily work absently.
Frequently he fell into long reveries, standing motionless
wherever he happened to be, and looking dully before him.
Only once did he show any animation. When he saw Mrs. Blewett
coming up the lane he darted into the house, locked the door,
and listened to her knocking in grim silence. After she
had gone he went out, and found a plate of fresh doughnuts,
covered with a napkin, placed on the bench at the door.
Mrs. Blewett meant to indicate thus that she bore him no malice
for her curt dismissal the day before; possibly her conscience
gave her some twinges also. But her doughnuts could not minister
to the mind she had diseased. Old Man Shaw took them up;
carried them to the pig-pen, and fed them to the pigs.
It was the first spiteful thing he had done in his life,
and he felt a most immoral satisfaction in it.

In mid-afternoon he went out to the garden, finding the new loneliness
of the little house unbearable. The old bench was warm in the sunshine.
Old Man Shaw sat down with a long sigh, and dropped his white head
wearily on his breast. He had decided what he must do. He would tell
Blossom that she might go back to her aunt and never mind about him--
he would do very well by himself and he did not blame her in the least.

He was still sitting broodingly there when a girl came up the lane.
She was tall and straight, and walked with a kind of uplift
in her motion, as if it would be rather easier to fly than not.
She was dark, with a rich dusky sort of darkness, suggestive of the bloom
on purple plums, or the glow of deep red apples among bronze leaves.
Her big brown eyes lingered on everything in sight, and little
gurgles of sound now and again came through her parted lips,
as if inarticulate joy were thus expressing itself.

At the garden gate she saw the bent figure on the old bench,
and the next minute she was flying along the rose walk.

"Daddy!" she called, "daddy!"

Old Man Shaw stood up in hasty bewilderment; then a pair of girlish
arms were about his neck, and a pair of warm red lips were on his;
girlish eyes, full of love, were looking up into his, and a
never-forgotten voice, tingling with laughter and tears blended
into one delicious chord, was crying,

"Oh, daddy, is it really you? Oh, I can't tell you how good it
is to see you again!"

Old Man Shaw held her tightly in a silence of amazement
and joy too deep for wonder. Why, this was his Blossom--
the very Blossom who had gone away three years ago!
A little taller, a little more womanly, but his own dear Blossom,
and no stranger. There was a new heaven and a new earth for him
in the realization.

"Oh, Baby Blossom!" he murmured, "Little Baby Blossom!"

Sara rubbed her cheek against the faded coat sleeve.

"Daddy darling, this moment makes up for everything, doesn't it?"

"But--but--where did you come from?" he asked, his senses beginning
to struggle out of their bewilderment of surprise. "I didn't expect
you till to-morrow. You didn't have to walk from the station, did you?
And your old daddy not there to welcome you!"

Sara laughed, swung herself back by the tips of her fingers and danced
around him in the childish fashion of long ago.

"I found I could make an earlier connection with
the C.P.A. yesterday and get to the Island last night.
I was in such a fever to get home that I jumped at the chance.
Of course I walked from the station--it's only two miles
and every step was a benediction. My trunks are over there.
We'll go after them to-morrow, daddy, but just now I want to go
straight to every one of the dear old nooks and spots at once."

"You must get something to eat first," he urged fondly. "And there ain't
much in the house, I'm afraid. I was going to bake to-morrow morning.
But I guess I can forage you out something, darling."

He was sorely repenting having given Mrs. Blewett's doughnuts to the pigs,
but Sara brushed all such considerations aside with a wave of her hand.

"I don't want anything to eat just now. By and by we'll have a snack;
just as we used to get up for ourselves whenever we felt hungry.
Don't you remember how scandalized White Sands folks used
to be at our irregular hours? I'm hungry; but it's soul hunger,
for a glimpse of all the dear old rooms and places.
Come--there are four hours yet before sunset, and I want
to cram into them all I've missed out of these three years.
Let us begin right here with the garden. Oh, daddy, by what
witchcraft have you coaxed that sulky rose-bush into bloom?"

"No witchcraft at all--it just bloomed because you were
coming home, baby," said her father.

They had a glorious afternoon of it, those two children.
They explored the garden and then the house. Sara danced
through every room, and then up to her own, holding fast
to her father's hand.

"Oh, it's lovely to see my little room again, daddy. I'm sure
all my old hopes and dreams are waiting here for me."

She ran to the window and threw it open, leaning out.

"Daddy, there's no view in the world so beautiful as that curve
of sea between the headlands. I've looked at magnificent scenery--
and then I'd shut my eyes and conjure up that picture.
Oh, listen to the wind keening in the trees! How I've longed
for that music!"

He took her to the orchard and followed out his crafty plan
of surprise perfectly. She rewarded him by doing exactly what
he had dreamed of her doing, clapping her hands and crying out:

"Oh, daddy! Why, daddy!"

They finished up with the shore, and then at sunset they came back
and sat down on the old garden bench. Before them a sea of splendour,
burning like a great jewel, stretched to the gateways of the west.
The long headlands on either side were darkly purple, and the sun left
behind him a vast, cloudless arc of fiery daffodil and elusive rose.
Back over the orchard in a cool, green sky glimmered a crystal planet,
and the night poured over them a clear wine of dew from her airy chalice.
The spruces were rejoicing in the wind, and even the battered firs
were singing of the sea. Old memories trooped into their hearts
like shining spirits.

"Baby Blossom," said Old Man Shaw falteringly, "are you quite
sure you'll be contented here? Out there"--with a vague sweep
of his hand towards horizons that shut out a world far removed
from White Sands--"there's pleasure and excitement and all that.
Won't you miss it? Won't you get tired of your old father
and White Sands?"

Sara patted his hand gently.

"The world out there is a good place," she said thoughtfully,
"I've had three splendid years and I hope they'll enrich my whole life.
There are wonderful things out there to see and learn, fine, noble people
to meet, beautiful deeds to admire; but," she wound her arm about his
neck and laid her cheek against his--"there is no daddy!"

And Old Man Shaw looked silently at the sunset--or, rather, through
the sunset to still grander and more radiant splendours beyond,
of which the things seen were only the pale reflections, not worthy
of attention from those who had the gift of further sight.

VII. Aunt Olivia's Beau

Aunt Olivia told Peggy and me about him on the afternoon we
went over to help her gather her late roses for pot-pourri.
We found her strangely quiet and preoccupied. As a rule she
was fond of mild fun, alert to hear East Grafton gossip,
and given to sudden little trills of almost girlish laughter,
which for the time being dispelled the atmosphere of gentle
old-maidishness which seemed to hang about her as a garment.
At such moments we did not find it hard to believe--as we did
at other times--that Aunt Olivia had once been a girl herself.

This day she picked the roses absently, and shook the fairy petals
into her little sweet-grass basket with the air of a woman whose
thoughts were far away. We said nothing, knowing that Aunt Olivia's
secrets always came our way in time. When the rose-leaves were picked,
we carried them in and upstairs in single file, Aunt Olivia
bringing up the rear to pick up any stray rose-leaf we might drop.
In the south-west room, where there was no carpet to fade, we spread
them on newspapers on the floor. Then we put our sweet-grass baskets
back in the proper place in the proper closet in the proper room.
What would have happened to us, or to the sweet-grass baskets,
if this had not been done I do not know. Nothing was ever permitted
to remain an instant out of place in Aunt Olivia's house.

When we went downstairs, Aunt Olivia asked us to go into the parlour.
She had something to tell us, she said, and as she opened
the door a delicate pink flush spread over her face.
I noted it, with surprise, but no inkling of the truth came to me--
for nobody ever connected the idea of possible lovers or marriage
with this prim little old maid, Olivia Sterling.

Aunt Olivia's parlour was much like herself--painfully neat.
Every article of furniture stood in exactly the same place it
had always stood. Nothing was ever suffered to be disturbed.
The tassels of the crazy cushion lay just so over the arm
of the sofa, and the crochet antimacassar was always spread
at precisely the same angel over the horsehair rocking chair.
No speck of dust was ever visible; no fly ever invaded
that sacred apartment.

Aunt Olivia pulled up a blind, to let in what light could sift finely
through the vine leaves, and sat down in a high-backed old chair that had
appertained to her great-grandmother. She folded her hands in her lap,
and looked at us with shy appeal in her blue-gray eyes. Plainly she
found it hard to tell us her secret, yet all the time there was an air
of pride and exultation about her; somewhat, also, of a new dignity.
Aunt Olivia could never be self-assertive, but if it had been possible
that would have been her time for it.

"Have you ever heard me speak of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson?"
asked Aunt Olivia.

We had never heard her, or anybody else, speak of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson;
but volumes of explanation could not have told us more about him than did
Aunt Olivia's voice when she pronounced his name. We knew, as if it
had been proclaimed to us in trumpet tones, that Mr. Malcolm MacPherson
must be Aunt Olivia's beau, and the knowledge took away our breath.
We even forgot to be curious, so astonished were we.

And there sat Aunt Olivia, proud and shy and exulting and shamefaced,
all at once!

"He is a brother of Mrs. John Seaman's across the bridge,"
explained Aunt Olivia with a little simper. "Of course you don't
remember him. He went out to British Columbia twenty years ago.
But he is coming home now--and--and--tell your father,
won't you--I-- I--don't like to tell him--Mr. Malcolm MacPherson
and I are going to be married."

"Married!" gasped Peggy. And "married!" I echoed stupidly.

Aunt Olivia bridled a little.

"There is nothing unsuitable in that, is there?"
she asked, rather crisply.

"Oh, no, no," I hastened to assure her, giving Peggy a surreptitious
kick to divert her thoughts from laughter. "Only you must realize,
Aunt Olivia, that this is a very great surprise to us."
"I thought it would be so," said Aunt Olivia complacently.
"But your father will know--he will remember.
I do hope he won't think me foolish. He did not think
Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was a fit person for me to marry once.
But that was long ago, when Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was very poor.
He is in very comfortable circumstances now."

"Tell us about it, Aunt Olivia," said Peggy. She did not look at me,
which was my salvation. Had I caught Peggy's eye when Aunt Olivia said
"Mr. Malcolm MacPherson" in that tone I must have laughed, willy-nilly.

"When I was a girl the MacPhersons used to live across the road
from here. Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was my beau then. But my family--
and your father especially--dear me, I do hope he won't be very cross--
were opposed to his attentions and were very cool to him.
I think that was why he never said anything to me about getting
married then. And after a time he went away, as I have said,
and I never heard anything from him directly for many a year.
Of course, his sister sometimes gave me news of him.
But last June I had a letter from him. He said he was coming
home to settle down for good on the old Island, and he asked
me if I would marry him. I wrote back and said I would.
Perhaps I ought to have consulted your father, but I was afraid
he would think I ought to refuse Mr. Malcolm MacPherson."

"Oh, I don't think father will mind," said Peggy reassuringly.

"I hope not, because, of course, I would consider it my duty in any case
to fulfil the promise I have given to Mr. Malcolm MacPherson. He will
be in Grafton next week, the guest of his sister, Mrs. John Seaman,
across the bridge."

Aunt Olivia said that exactly as if she were reading it from
the personal column of the Daily Enterprise.

"When is the wedding to be?" I asked.

"Oh!" Aunt Olivia blushed distressfully. "I do not know the exact date.
Nothing can be definitely settled until Mr. Malcolm MacPherson comes.
But it will not be before September, at the earliest. There will be
so much to do. You will tell your father, won't you?"

We promised that we would, and Aunt Olivia arose with an air of relief.
Peggy and I hurried over home, stopping, when we were safely out
of earshot, to laugh. The romances of the middle-aged may be to them
as tender and sweet as those of youth, but they are apt to possess
a good deal of humour for onlookers. Only youth can be sentimental
without being mirth-provoking. We loved Aunt Olivia and were glad for
her late, new-blossoming happiness; but we felt amused over it also.
The recollection of her "Mr. Malcolm MacPherson" was too much for us
every time we thought of it.

Father pooh-poohed incredulously at first, and, when we had convinced him,
guffawed with laughter. Aunt Olivia need not have dreaded any more
opposition from her cruel family.

"MacPherson was a good fellow enough, but horribly poor," said father.
"I hear he has done very well out west, and if he and Olivia have a notion
of each other they are welcome to marry as far as I am concerned.
Tell Olivia she mustn't take a spasm if he tracks some mud into her house
once in a while."

Thus it was all arranged, and, before we realized it at all, Aunt Olivia
was mid-deep in marriage preparations, in all of which Peggy and I
were quite indispensable. She consulted us in regard to everything,
and we almost lived at her place in those days preceding the arrival
of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson.

Aunt Olivia plainly felt very happy and important. She had always
wished to be married; she was not in the least strong-minded
and her old-maidenhood had always been a sore point with her.
I think she looked upon it as somewhat of a disgrace.
And yet she was a born old maid; looking at her, and taking all
her primness and little set ways into consideration, it was quite
impossible to picture her as the wife of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson,
or anybody else.

We soon discovered that, to Aunt Olivia, Mr. Malcolm MacPherson
represented a merely abstract proposition--the man who was
to confer on her the long-withheld dignity of matronhood.
Her romance began and ended there, although she was quite
unconscious of this herself, and believed that she was deeply
in love with him.

"What will be the result, Mary, when he arrives in the flesh
and she is compelled to deal with 'Mr. Malcolm MacPherson'
as a real, live man, instead of a nebulous 'party of the second part'
in the marriage ceremony?" queried Peggy, as she hemmed table-napkins
for Aunt Olivia, sitting on her well-scoured sandstone steps,
and carefully putting all thread-clippings and ravellings
into the little basket which Aunt Olivia had placed there
for that purpose.

"It may transform her from a self-centered old maid into a woman
for whom marriage does not seem such an incongruous thing," I said.

The day on which Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was expected
Peggy and I went over. We had planned to remain away,
thinking that the lovers would prefer their first meeting to
be unwitnessed, but Aunt Olivia insisted on our being present.
She was plainly nervous; the abstract was becoming concrete.
Her little house was in spotless, speckless order from top to bottom.
Aunt Olivia had herself scrubbed the garret floor and swept
the cellar steps that very morning with as much painstaking
care as if she expected that Mr. Malcolm MacPherson would
hasten to inspect each at once and she must stand or fall
by his opinion of them.

Peggy and I helped her to dress. She insisted on wearing
her best black silk, in which she looked unnaturally fine.
Her soft muslin became her much better, but we could not induce
her to wear it. Anything more prim and bandboxy than Aunt Olivia
when her toilet was finished it has never been my lot to see.
Peggy and I watched her as she went downstairs, her skirt held
stiffly up all around her that it might not brush the floor.

"'Mr. Malcolm MacPherson' will be inspired with such awe
that he will only be able to sit back and gaze at her,"
whispered Peggy. "I wish he would come and have it over.
This is getting on my nerves."

Aunt Olivia went into the parlour, settled herself in the old
carved chair, and folded her hands. Peggy and I sat down
on the stairs to await his coming in a crisping suspense.
Aunt Olivia's kitten, a fat, bewhiskered creature, looking as
if it were cut out of black velvet, shared our vigil and purred
in maddening peace of mind.

We could see the garden path and gate through the hall window,
and therefore supposed we should have full warning of the approach
of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson. It was no wonder, therefore,
that we positively jumped when a thunderous knock crashed
against the front door and re-echoed through the house.
Had Mr. Malcolm MacPherson dropped from the skies?

We afterwards discovered that he had come across lots and around the house
from the back, but just then his sudden advent was almost uncanny.
I ran downstairs and opened the door. On the step stood a man
about six feet two in height, and proportionately broad and sinewy.
He had splendid shoulders, a great crop of curly black hair, big,
twinkling blue eyes, and a tremendous crinkly black beard that fell
over his breast in shining waves. In brief, Mr. Malcolm MacPherson
was what one would call instinctively, if somewhat tritely,
"a magnificent specimen of manhood."

In one hand he carried a bunch of early goldenrod and smoke-blue asters.

"Good afternoon," he said in a resonant voice which seemed to take
possession of the drowsy summer afternoon. "Is Miss Olivia Sterling in?
And will you please tell her that Malcolm MacPherson is here?"

I showed him into the parlour. Then Peggy and I peeped
through the crack of the door. Anyone would have done it.
We would have scorned to excuse ourselves. And, indeed, what we
saw would have been worth several conscience spasms if we
had felt any.

Aunt Olivia arose and advanced primly, with outstretched hand.

"Mr. MacPherson, I am very glad to see you," she said formally.

"It's yourself, Nillie!" Mr. Malcolm MacPherson gave two strides.

He dropped his flowers on the floor, knocked over a small table,
and sent the ottoman spinning against the wall. Then he caught
Aunt Olivia in his arms and--smack, smack, smack! Peggy sank back
upon the stair-step with her handkerchief stuffed in her mouth.
Aunt Olivia was being kissed!

Presently, Mr. Malcolm MacPherson held her back at arm's length in his
big paws and looked her over. I saw Aunt Olivia's eyes roam over his
arm to the inverted table and the litter of asters and goldenrod.
Her sleek crimps were all ruffled up, and her lace fichu twisted half
around her neck. She looked distressed.

"It's not a bit changed you are, Nillie," said Mr. Malcolm
MacPherson admiringly. "And it's good I'm feeling to see you again.
Are you glad to see me, Nillie?"

"Oh, of course," said Aunt Olivia.

She twisted herself free and went to set up the table.
Then she turned to the flowers, but Mr. Malcolm MacPherson had
already gathered them up, leaving a goodly sprinkling of leaves
and stalks on the carpet.

"I picked these for you in the river field, Nillie," he said.
"Where will I be getting something to stick them in?
Here, this will do."

He grasped a frail, painted vase on the mantel,
stuffed the flowers in it, and set it on the table.
The look on Aunt Olivia's face was too much for me at last.
I turned, caught Peggy by the shoulder and dragged her out
of the house.

"He will horrify the very soul out of Aunt Olivia's body if he goes
on like this," I gasped. "But he's splendid--and he thinks
the world of her--and, oh, Peggy, did you EVER hear such kisses?
Fancy Aunt Olivia!"

It did not take us long to get well acquainted with
Mr. Malcolm MacPherson. He almost haunted Aunt Olivia's house,
and Aunt Olivia insisted on our staying with her most of the time.
She seemed to be very shy of finding herself alone with him.
He horrified her a dozen times in an hour; nevertheless, she was
very proud of him, and liked to be teased about him, too.
She was delighted that we admired him.

"Though, to be sure, he is very different in his looks from
what he used to be," she said. "He is so dreadfully big!
And I do not like a beard, but I have not the courage to ask him
to shave it off. He might be offended. He has bought the old
Lynde place in Avonlea and wants to be married in a month.
But, dear me, that is too soon. It--it would be hardly proper."

Peggy and I liked Mr. Malcolm MacPherson very much. So did father.
We were glad that he seemed to think Aunt Olivia perfection.
He was as happy as the day was long; but poor Aunt Olivia,
under all her surface pride and importance, was not.
Amid all the humour of the circumstances Peggy and I snuffed
tragedy compounded with the humour.

Mr. Malcolm MacPherson could never be trained to old-maidishness,
and even Aunt Olivia seemed to realize this. He never stopped
to clear his boots when he came in, although she had an
ostentatiously new scraper put at each door for his benefit.
He seldom moved in the house without knocking some of Aunt Olivia's
treasures over. He smoked cigars in her parlour and scattered
the ashes over the floor. He brought her flowers every day
and stuck them into whatever receptacle came handiest.
He sat on her cushions and rolled her antimacassars up into balls.
He put his feet on her chair rungs--and all with the most
distracting unconsciousness of doing anything out of the way.
He never noticed Aunt Olivia's fluttering nervousness at all.
Peggy and I laughed more than was good for us those days.
It was so funny to see Aunt Olivia hovering anxiously around,
picking up flower stems, and smoothing out tidies,
and generally following him about to straighten out things.
Once she even got a wing and dustpan and swept the cigar ashes
under his very eyes.

"Now don't be worrying yourself over that, Nillie," he protested.
"Why, I don't mind a litter, bless you!"

How good and jolly he was, that Mr. Malcolm MacPherson! Such songs
as he sang, such stories as he told, such a breezy,
unconventional atmosphere as he brought into that prim
little house, where stagnant dullness had reigned for years!
He worshipped Aunt Olivia, and his worship took the concrete form
of presents galore. He brought her a present almost every visit--
generally some article of jewelry. Bracelets, rings, chains,
ear-drops, lockets, bangles, were showered upon our precise
little aunt; she accepted them deprecatingly, but never wore them.
This hurt him a little, but she assured him she would wear
them all sometimes.

"I am not used to jewelry, Mr. MacPherson," she would tell him.

Her engagement ring she did wear--it was a rather "loud" combination
of engraved gold and opals. Sometimes we caught her turning it
on her finger with a very troubled face.

"I would be sorry for Mr. Malcolm MacPherson if he were not so much
in love with her," said Peggy. "But as he thinks that she is perfection
he doesn't need sympathy."

"I am sorry for Aunt Olivia," I said. "Yes, Peggy, I am.
Mr. MacPherson is a splendid man, but Aunt Olivia is a born old maid,
and it is outraging her very nature to be anything else.
Don't you see how it's hurting her? His big, splendid man-ways
are harrowing her very soul up--she can't get out of her little,
narrow groove, and it is killing her to be pulled out."

"Nonsense!" said Peggy. Then she added with a laugh,

"Mary, did you ever see anything so funny as Aunt Olivia sitting
on 'Mr. Malcolm MacPherson's' knee?"

It WAS funny. Aunt Olivia thought it very unbecoming to sit
there before us, but he made her do it. He would say,
with his big, jolly laugh, "Don't be minding the little girls,"
and pull her down on his knee and hold her there.
To my dying day I shall never forget the expression on the poor
little woman's face.

But, as the days went by and Mr. Malcolm MacPherson began
to insist on a date being set for the wedding, Aunt Olivia grew
to have a strangely disturbed look. She became very quiet,
and never laughed except under protest. Also, she showed
signs of petulance when any of us, but especially father,
teased her about her beau. I pitied her, for I think I
understood better than the others what her feelings really were.
But even I was not prepared for what did happen.
I would not have believed that Aunt Olivia could do it.
I thought that her desire for marriage in the abstract would
outweigh the disadvantages of the concrete. But one can never
reckon with real, bred-in-the-bone old-maidism.

One morning Mr. Malcolm MacPherson told us all that he was
coming up that evening to make Aunt Olivia set the day.
Peggy and I laughingly approved, telling him that it was high time
for him to assert his authority, and he went off in great good
humour across the river field, whistling a Highland strathspey.
But Aunt Olivia looked like a martyr. She had a fierce attack
of housecleaning that day, and put everything in flawless order,
even to the corners.

"As if there was going to be a funeral in the house," sniffed Peggy.

Peggy and I were up in the south-west room at dusk that evening,
piecing a quilt, when we heard Mr. Malcolm MacPherson
shouting out in the hall below to know if anyone was home.
I ran out to the landing, but as I did so Aunt Olivia came
out of her room, brushed past me, and flitted downstairs.

"Mr. MacPherson," I heard her say with double-distilled primness,
"will you please come into the parlour? I have something
to say to you."

They went in, and I returned to the south-west room.

"Peg, there's trouble brewing," I said. "I'm sure of it by
Aunt Olivia's face, it was GRAY. And she has gone down ALONE--
and shut the door."

"I am going to hear what she says to him," said Peggy resolutely.
"It is her own fault--she has spoiled us by always
insisting that we should be present at their interviews.
That poor man has had to do his courting under our very eyes.
Come on, Mary."

The south-west room was directly over the parlour and
there was an open stovepipe-hole leading up therefrom.
Peggy removed the hat box that was on it, and we both deliberately
and shamelessly crouched down and listened with all our might.

It was easy enough to hear what Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was saying.

"I've come up to get the date settled, Nillie, as I told you.
Come now, little woman, name the day."


"Don't, Mr. MacPherson," said Aunt Olivia. She spoke as a woman
who has keyed herself up to the doing of some very distasteful
task and is anxious to have it over and done with as soon
as possible. "There is something I must say to you.
I cannot marry you, Mr. MacPherson."

There was a pause. I would have given much to have seen
the pair of them. When Mr. Malcolm MacPherson spoke his voice
was that of blank, uncomprehending amazement.

"Nillie, what is it you are meaning?" he said.

"I cannot marry you, Mr. MacPherson," repeated Aunt Olivia.

"Why not?" Surprise was giving way to dismay.

"I don't think you will understand, Mr. MacPherson,"
said Aunt Olivia, faintly. "You don't realize what it means
for a woman to give up everything--her own home and friends and all
her past life, so to speak, and go far away with a stranger."

"Why, I suppose it will be rather hard. But, Nillie, Avonlea isn't
very far away--not more than twelve miles, if it will be that."

"Twelve miles! It might as well be at the other side of the world
to all intents and purposes," said Aunt Olivia obstinately.
"I don't know a living soul there, except Rachel Lynde."

"Why didn't you say so before I bought the place, then? But it's not
too late. I can be selling it and buying right here in East Grafton if
that will please you--though there isn't half as nice a place to be had.
But I'll fix it up somehow!"

"No, Mr. MacPherson," said Aunt Olivia firmly, "that doesn't
cover the difficulty. I knew you would not understand.
My ways are not your ways and I cannot make them over.
For--you track mud in--and--and--you don't care whether things
are tidy or not."

Poor Aunt Olivia had to be Aunt Olivia; if she were being burned at
the stake I verily believe she would have dragged some grotesqueness
into the tragedy of the moment.

"The devil!" said Mr. Malcolm MacPherson--not profanely or angrily,
but as in sheer bewilderment. Then he added, "Nillie, you
must be joking. It's careless enough I am--the west isn't
a good place to learn finicky ways--but you can teach me.
You're not going to throw me over because I track mud in!"

"I cannot marry you, Mr. MacPherson," said Aunt Olivia again.

"You can't be meaning it!" he exclaimed, because he was beginning
to understand that she did mean it, although it was impossible
for his man mind to understand anything else about the puzzle.
"Nillie, it's breaking my heart you are! I'll do anything--
go anywhere--be anything you want--only don't be going back
on me like this."

"I cannot marry you, Mr. MacPherson," said Aunt Olivia for
the fourth time.

"Nillie!" exclaimed Mr. Malcolm MacPherson. There was
such real agony in his tone that Peggy and I were
suddenly stricken with contrition. What were we doing?
We had no right to be listening to this pitiful interview.
The pain and protest in his voice had suddenly banished all
the humour from it, and left naught but the bare, stark tragedy.
We rose and tiptoed out of the room, wholesomely ashamed of ourselves.

When Mr. Malcolm MacPherson had gone, after an hour of useless pleading,
Aunt Olivia came up to us, pale and prim and determined, and told
us that there was to be no wedding. We could not pretend surprise,
but Peggy ventured a faint protest.

"Oh, Aunt Olivia, do you think you have done right?"

"It was the only thing I could do," said Aunt Olivia stonily.
"I could not marry Mr. Malcolm MacPherson and I told him so.
Please tell your father--and kindly say nothing more to me
about the matter."

Then Aunt Olivia went downstairs, got a broom, and swept up the mud
Mr. Malcolm MacPherson had tracked over the steps.

Peggy and I went home and told father. We felt very flat, but there
was nothing to be done or said. Father laughed at the whole thing,
but I could not laugh. I was sorry for Mr. Malcolm MacPherson and,
though I was angry with her, I was sorry for Aunt Olivia, too.
Plainly she felt badly enough over her vanished hopes and plans,
but she had developed a strange and baffling reserve which
nothing could pierce.

"It's nothing but a chronic case of old-maidism," said father impatiently.

Things were very dull for a week. We saw no more of
Mr. Malcolm MacPherson and we missed him dreadfully.
Aunt Olivia was inscrutable, and worked with fierceness
at superfluous tasks.

One evening father came home with some news.
"Malcolm MacPherson is leaving on the 7:30 train for the west,"
he said. "He has rented the Avonlea place and he's off.
They say he is mad as a hatter at the trick Olivia played on him."

After tea Peggy and I went over to see Aunt Olivia, who had
asked our advice about a wrapper. She was sewing as for
dear life, and her face was primmer and colder than ever.
I wondered if she knew of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson's departure.
Delicacy forbade me to mention it but Peggy had no such scruples.

"Well, Aunt Olivia, your beau is off," she announced cheerfully.
"You won't be bothered with him again. He is leaving on the mail
train for the west."

Aunt Olivia dropped her sewing and stood up. I have never
seen anything like the transformation that came over her.
It was so thorough and sudden as to be almost uncanny.
The old maid vanished completely, and in her place was a woman,
full to the lips with primitive emotion and pain.

"What shall I do?" she cried in a terrible voice. "Mary--Peggy--
what shall I do?"

It was almost a shriek. Peggy turned pale.

"Do you care?" she said stupidly.

"Care! Girls, I shall DIE if Malcolm MacPherson goes away!
I have been mad--I must have been mad. I have almost died of
loneliness since I sent him away. But I thought he would come back!
I must see him--there is time to reach the station before the train
goes if I go by the fields."

She took a wild step towards the door, but I caught her back
with a sudden mind-vision of Aunt Olivia flying bareheaded
and distraught across the fields.

"Wait a moment, Aunt Olivia. Peggy, run home and get
father to harness Dick in the buggy as quickly as he can.
We'll drive Aunt Olivia to the station. We'll get you there
in time, Aunty."

Peggy flew, and Aunt Olivia dashed upstairs. I lingered behind
to pick up her sewing, and when I got to her room she had her hat
and cape on. Spread out on the bed were all the boxes of gifts which
Mr. Malcolm MacPherson had brought her, and Aunt Olivia was stringing
their contents feverishly about her person. Rings, three brooches,
a locket, three chains and a watch all went on--anyway and anyhow.
A wonderful sight it was to see Aunt Olivia bedizened like that!

"I would never wear them before--but I'll put them all on now to show
him I'm sorry," she gasped, with trembling lips.

When the three of us crowded into the buggy, Aunt Olivia grasped
the whip before we could prevent her and, leaning out, gave poor
Dick such a lash as he had never felt in his life before.
He went tearing down the steep, stony, fast-darkening road in a fashion
which made Peggy and me cry out in alarm. Aunt Olivia was usually
the most timid of women, but now she didn't seem to know what fear was.
She kept whipping and urging poor Dick the whole way to the station,
quite oblivious to our assurances that there was plenty of time.
The people who met us that night must have thought we were quite mad.
I held on the reins, Peggy gripped the swaying side of the buggy,
and Aunt Olivia bent forward, hat and hair blowing back from her
set face with its strangely crimson cheeks, and plied the whip.
In such a guise did we whirl through the village and over the
two-mile station road.

When we drove up to the station, where the train was shunting
amid the shadows, Aunt Olivia made a flying leap from the buggy
and ran along the platform, with her cape streaming behind
her and all her brooches and chains glittering in the lights.
I tossed the reins to a boy standing near and we followed.
Just under the glare of the station lamp we saw Mr. Malcolm MacPherson,
grip in hand. Fortunately no one else was very near, but it would
have been all the same had they been the centre of a crowd.
Aunt Olivia fairly flung herself against him.

"Malcolm," she cried, "don't go--don't go--I'll marry you--
I'll go anywhere--and I don't care how much mud you bring in!"

That truly Aunt Olivia touch relieved the tension of the situation
a little. Mr. MacPherson put his arm about her and drew her back
into the shadows.

"There, there," he soothed. "Of course I won't be going.
Don't cry, Nillie-girl."

"And you'll come right back with me now?" implored Aunt Olivia,
clinging to him as if she feared he would be whisked away from
her yet if she let go for a moment.

"Of course, of course," he said.

Peggy got a chance home with a friend, and Aunt Olivia
and Mr. Malcolm MacPherson and I drove back in the buggy.
Mr. MacPherson held Aunt Olivia on his knee because there was no room,
but she would have sat there, I think, had there been a dozen
vacant seats. She clung to him in the most barefaced fashion,
and all her former primness and reserve were swept away completely.
She kissed him a dozen times or more and told him she loved him--
and I did not even smile, nor did I want to. Somehow, it did not
seem in the least funny to me then, nor does it now, although it
doubtless will to others. There was too much real intensity
of feeling in it all to leave any room for the ridiculous.
So wrapped up in each other were they that I did not
even feel superfluous.

I set them safely down in Aunt Olivia's yard and turned homeward,
completely forgotten by the pair. But in the moonlight, which flooded
the front of the house, I saw something that testified eloquently
to the transformation in Aunt Olivia. It had rained that afternoon
and the yard was muddy. Nevertheless, she went in at her front door
and took Mr. Malcolm MacPherson in with her without even a glance
at the scraper!

VIII. The Quarantine at Alexander Abraham's

I refused to take that class in Sunday School the first time I was asked.
It was not that I objected to teaching in the Sunday School. On the
contrary I rather liked the idea; but it was the Rev. Mr. Allan
who asked me, and it had always been a matter of principle with me
never to do anything a man asked me to do if I could help it.
I was noted for that. It saves a great deal of trouble and it
simplifies everything beautifully. I had always disliked men.
It must have been born in me, because, as far back as I can remember,
an antipathy to men and dogs was one of my strongest characteristics.
I was noted for that. My experiences through life only served
to deepen it. The more I saw of men, the more I liked cats.

So, of course, when the Rev. Allan asked me if I would consent
to take a class in Sunday School, I said no in a fashion
calculated to chasten him wholesomely. If he had sent his wife
the first time, as he did the second, it would have been wiser.
People generally do what Mrs. Allan asks them to do because they
know it saves time.

Mrs. Allan talked smoothly for half an hour before she mentioned
the Sunday School, and paid me several compliments. Mrs. Allan
is famous for her tact. Tact is a faculty for meandering around
to a given point instead of making a bee-line. I have no tact.
I am noted for that. As soon as Mrs. Allan's conversation came
in sight of the Sunday School, I, who knew all along whither it
was tending, said, straight out,

"What class do you want me to teach?"

Mrs. Allan was so surprised that she forgot to be tactful,
and answered plainly for once in her life,

"There are two classes--one of boys and one of girls--needing a teacher.
I have been teaching the girls' class, but I shall have to give
it up for a little time on account of the baby's health.
You may have your choice, Miss MacPherson."

"Then I shall take the boys," I said decidedly.
I am noted for my decision. "Since they have to grow
up to be men it's well to train them properly betimes.
Nuisances they are bound to become under any circumstances;
but if they are taken in hand young enough they may not grow up
to be such nuisances as they otherwise would and that will be
some unfortunate woman's gain." Mrs. Allan looked dubious.
I knew she had expected me to choose the girls.

"They are a very wild set of boys," she said.

"I never knew boys who weren't," I retorted.

"I--I-- think perhaps you would like the girls best,"
said Mrs. Allan hesitatingly. If it had not been for one thing--
which I would never in this world have admitted to Mrs. Allan--I might
have liked the girls' class best myself. But the truth was,
Anne Shirley was in that class; and Anne Shirley was the one living
human being that I was afraid of. Not that I disliked her.
But she had such a habit of asking weird, unexpected questions,
which a Philadelphia lawyer couldn't answer. Miss Rogerson had
that class once and Anne routed her, horse, foot and artillery.
_I_ wasn't going to undertake a class with a walking interrogation
point in it like that. Besides, I thought Mrs. Allan required
a slight snub. Ministers' wives are rather apt to think they
can run everything and everybody, if they are not wholesomely
corrected now and again.

"It is not what _I_ like best that must be considered,
Mrs. Allan," I said rebukingly. "It is what is best for those boys.
I feel that _I_ shall be best for THEM."

"Oh, I've no doubt of that, Miss MacPherson," said Mrs. Allan amiably.
It was a fib for her, minister's wife though she was. She HAD doubt.
She thought I would be a dismal failure as teacher of a boys' class.

But I was not. I am not often a dismal failure when I make up
my mind to do a thing. I am noted for that.

"It is wonderful what a reformation you have worked in that class,
Miss MacPherson--wonderful," said the Rev. Mr. Allan some weeks later.
He didn't mean to show how amazing a thing he thought it that
an old maid noted for being a man hater should have managed it,
but his face betrayed him.

"Where does Jimmy Spencer live?" I asked him crisply.
"He came one Sunday three weeks ago and hasn't been back since.
I mean to find out why."

Mr. Allan coughed.

"I believe he is hired as handy boy with Alexander Abraham Bennett,
out on the White Sands road," he said.

"Then I am going out to Alexander Abraham Bennett's on the White Sands
road to see why Jimmy Spencer doesn't come to Sunday school,"
I said firmly.

Mr. Allan's eyes twinkled ever so slightly. I have always insisted
that if that man were not a minister he would have a sense of humour.

"Possibly Mr. Bennett will not appreciate your kind interest!
He has--ah--a singular aversion to your sex, I understand.
No woman has ever been known to get inside of Mr. Bennett's
house since his sister died twenty years ago."

"Oh, he is the one, is he?" I said, remembering. "He is the woman
hater who threatens that if a woman comes into his yard he'll chase
her out with a pitch-fork. Well, he will not chase ME out!"

Mr. Allan gave a chuckle--a ministerial chuckle, but still a chuckle.
It irritated me slightly, because it seemed to imply that he
thought Alexander Abraham Bennett would be one too many for me.
But I did not show Mr. Allan that he annoyed me. It is always
a great mistake to let a man see that he can vex you.

The next afternoon I harnessed my sorrel pony to the buggy and drove
down to Alexander Abraham Bennett's. As usual, I took William Adolphus
with me for company. William Adolphus is my favourite among my six cats.
He is black, with a white dicky and beautiful white paws.
He sat up on the seat beside me and looked far more like a gentleman
than many a man I've seen in a similar position.

Alexander Abraham's place was about three miles along
the White Sands road. I knew the house as soon as I came
to it by its neglected appearance. It needed paint badly;
the blinds were crooked and torn; weeds grew up to the
very door. Plainly, there was no woman about THAT place.
Still, it was a nice house, and the barns were splendid.
My father always said that when a man's barns were bigger than his
house it was a sign that his income exceeded his expenditure.
So it was all right that they should be bigger; but it was
all wrong that they should be trimmer and better painted.
Still, thought I, what else could you expect of a woman hater?

"But Alexander Abraham evidently knows how to run a farm,
even it he is a woman hater," I remarked to William Adolphus
as I got out and tied the pony to the railing.

I had driven up to the house from the back way and now I was opposite
a side door opening on the veranda. I thought I might as well go to it,
so I tucked William Adolphus under my arm and marched up the path.
Just as I was half-way up, a dog swooped around the front corner
and made straight for me. He was the ugliest dog I had ever seen;
and he didn't even bark--just came silently and speedily on,
with a business-like eye.

I never stop to argue matters with a dog that doesn't bark.
I know when discretion is the better part of valour.
Firmly clasping William Adolphus, I ran--not to the door,
because the dog was between me and it, but to a big,
low-branching cherry tree at the back corner of the house.
I reached it in time and no more. First thrusting William Adolphus
on to a limb above my head, I scrambled up into that blessed tree
without stopping to think how it might look to Alexander Abraham
if he happened to be watching.

My time for reflection came when I found myself perched half way up
the tree with William Adolphus beside me. William Adolphus was quite
calm and unruffled. I can hardly say with truthfulness what I was.
On the contrary, I admit that I felt considerably upset.

The dog was sitting on his haunches on the ground below, watching us,
and it was quite plain to be seen, from his leisurely manner,
that it was not his busy day. He bared his teeth and growled
when he caught my eye.

"You LOOK like a woman hater's dog," I told him. I meant it
for an insult; but the beast took it for a compliment.

Then I set myself to solving the question, "How am I to get
out of this predicament?"

It did not seem easy to solve it.

"Shall I scream, William Adolphus?" I demanded of that
intelligent animal. William Adolphus shook his head.
This is a fact. And I agreed with him.

"No, I shall not scream, William Adolphus," I said.
"There is probably no one to hear me except Alexander Abraham,
and I have my painful doubts about his tender mercies.
Now, it is impossible to go down. Is it, then, William Adolphus,
possible to go up?"

I looked up. Just above my head was an open window with a tolerably
stout branch extending right across it.

"Shall we try that way, William Adolphus?" I asked.

William Adolphus, wasting no words, began to climb the tree.
I followed his example. The dog ran in circles about
the tree and looked things not lawful to be uttered.
It probably would have been a relief to him to bark if it hadn't
been so against his principles.

I got in by the window easily enough, and found myself in a bedroom
the like of which for disorder and dust and general awfulness I had
never seen in all my life. But I did not pause to take in details.
With William Adolphus under my arm I marched downstairs, fervently hoping
I should meet no one on the way.

I did not. The hall below was empty and dusty.
I opened the first door I came to and walked boldly in.
A man was sitting by the window, looking moodily out.
I should have known him for Alexander Abraham anywhere.
He had just the same uncared-for, ragged appearance that
the house had; and yet, like the house, it seemed that
he would not be bad looking if he were trimmed up a little.
His hair looked as if it had never been combed, and his whiskers
were wild in the extreme.

He looked at me with blank amazement in his countenance.

"Where is Jimmy Spencer?" I demanded. "I have come to see him."

"How did he ever let you in?" asked the man, staring at me.

"He didn't let me in," I retorted. "He chased me all over the lawn,
and I only saved myself from being torn piecemeal by scrambling
up a tree. You ought to be prosecuted for keeping such a dog!
Where is Jimmy?"

Instead of answering Alexander Abraham began to laugh in a
most unpleasant fashion.

"Trust a woman for getting into a man's house if she has made
up her mind to," he said disagreeably.

Seeing that it was his intention to vex me I remained cool and collected.

"Oh, I wasn't particular about getting into your house,
Mr. Bennett," I said calmly. "I had but little choice in the matter.
It was get in lest a worse fate befall me. It was not you or your
house I wanted to see--although I admit that it is worth seeing
if a person is anxious to find out how dirty a place CAN be.
It was Jimmy. For the third and last time--where is Jimmy?"

"Jimmy is not here," said Mr. Bennett gruffly--but not quite
so assuredly. "He left last week and hired with a man
over at Newbridge."

"In that case," I said, picking up William Adolphus, who had been
exploring the room with a disdainful air, "I won't disturb you
any longer. I shall go."

"Yes, I think it would be the wisest thing," said Alexander Abraham--
not disagreeably this time, but reflectively, as if there was some
doubt about the matter. "I'll let you out by the back door.
Then the--ahem!--the dog will not interfere with you.
Please go away quietly and quickly."

I wondered if Alexander Abraham thought I would go away with a whoop.
But I said nothing, thinking this the most dignified course of conduct,
and I followed him out to the kitchen as quickly and quietly as he could
have wished. Such a kitchen!

Alexander Abraham opened the door--which was locked--just as a buggy
containing two men drove into the yard.

"Too late!" he exclaimed in a tragic tone. I understood that something
dreadful must have happened, but I did not care, since, as I fondly
supposed, it did not concern me. I pushed out past Alexander Abraham--
who was looking as guilty as if he had been caught burglarizing--
and came face to face with the man who had sprung from the buggy.
It was old Dr. Blair, from Carmody, and he was looking at me as if
he had found me shoplifting.

"My dear Peter," he said gravely, "I am VERY sorry to see you here--
very sorry indeed."

I admit that this exasperated me. Besides, no man on earth,
not even my own family doctor, has any right to "My dear Peter" me!

"There is no loud call for sorrow, doctor," I said loftily.
"If a woman, forty-eight years of age, a member of the Presbyterian
church in good and regular standing, cannot call upon one of her
Sunday School scholars without wrecking all the proprieties,
how old must she be before she can?"

The doctor did not answer my question. Instead, he looked
reproachfully at Alexander Abraham.

"Is this how you keep your word, Mr. Bennett?" he said.
"I thought that you promised me that you would not let anyone
into the house."

"I didn't let her in," growled Mr. Bennett. "Good heavens,
man, she climbed in at an upstairs window, despite the presence
on my grounds of a policeman and a dog! What is to be done
with a woman like that?"

"I do not understand what all this means," I said addressing
myself to the doctor and ignoring Alexander Abraham entirely,
"but if my presence here is so extremely inconvenient to all concerned,
you can soon be relieved of it. I am going at once."

"I am very sorry, my dear Peter," said the doctor impressively,
"but that is just what I cannot allow you to do. This house
is under quarantine for smallpox. You will have to stay here."

Smallpox! For the first and last time in my life, I openly lost
my temper with a man. I wheeled furiously upon Alexander Abraham.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I cried.

"Tell you!" he said, glaring at me. "When I first saw you it
was too late to tell you. I thought the kindest thing I could
do was to hold my tongue and let you get away in happy ignorance.
This will teach you to take a man's house by storm, madam!"

"Now, now, don't quarrel, my good people," interposed the
doctor seriously--but I saw a twinkle in his eye.
"You'll have to spend some time together under the same
roof and you won't improve the situation by disagreeing.
You see, Peter, it was this way. Mr. Bennett was in town yesterday--
where, as you are aware, there is a bad outbreak of smallpox--
and took dinner in a boarding-house where one of the maids was ill.
Last night she developed unmistakable symptoms of smallpox.
The Board of Health at once got after all the people who were
in the house yesterday, so far as they could locate them, and put
them under quarantine. I came down here this morning and explained
the matter to Mr. Bennett. I brought Jeremiah Jeffries to guard
the front of the house and Mr. Bennett gave me his word of honour
that he would not let anyone in by the back way while I went
to get another policeman and make all the necessary arrangements.
I have brought Thomas Wright and have secured the services of another
man to attend to Mr. Bennett's barn work and bring provisions
to the house. Jacob Green and Cleophas Lee will watch at night.
I don't think there is much danger of Mr. Bennett's taking
the smallpox, but until we are sure you must remain here, Peter."

While listening to the doctor I had been thinking.
It was the most distressing predicament I had ever got into
in my life, but there was no sense in making it worse.

"Very well, doctor," I said calmly. "Yes, I was vaccinated a month ago,
when the news of the smallpox first came. When you go back through
Avonlea kindly go to Sarah Pye and ask her to live in my house during
my absence and look after things, especially the cats. Tell her to give
them new milk twice a day and a square inch of butter apiece once a week.
Get her to put my two dark print wrappers, some aprons, and some changes
of underclothing in my third best valise and have it sent down to me.
My pony is tied out there to the fence. Please take him home.
That is all, I think."

"No, it isn't all," said Alexander Abraham grumpily.
"Send that cat home, too. I won't have a cat around the place--
I'd rather have smallpox."

I looked Alexander Abraham over gradually, in a way I have,
beginning at his feet and traveling up to his head.
I took my time over it; and then I said, very quietly.

"You may have both. Anyway, you'll have to have William Adolphus. He is
under quarantine as well as you and I. Do you suppose I am going to have
my cat ranging at large through Avonlea, scattering smallpox germs
among innocent people? I'll have to put up with that dog of yours.
You will have to endure William Adolphus."

Alexander Abraham groaned, but I could see that the way I had looked
him over had chastened him considerably.

The doctor drove away, and I went into the house, not choosing to
linger outside and be grinned at by Thomas Wright. I hung my coat up
in the hall and laid my bonnet carefully on the sitting-room table,
having first dusted a clean place for it with my handkerchief.
I longed to fall upon that house at once and clean it up,
but I had to wait until the doctor came back with my wrapper.
I could not clean house in my new suit and a silk shirtwaist.

Alexander Abraham was sitting on a chair looking at me.
Presently he said,

"I am NOT curious--but will you kindly tell me why the doctor
called you Peter?"

"Because that is my name, I suppose," I answered, shaking up a cushion
for William Adolphus and thereby disturbing the dust of years.

Alexander Abraham coughed gently.

"Isn't that--ahem!--rather a peculiar name for a woman?"

"It is," I said, wondering how much soap, if any, there was
in the house.

"I am NOT curious," said Alexander Abraham, "but would you mind
telling me how you came to be called Peter?"

"If I had been a boy my parents intended to call me Peter in honour
of a rich uncle. When I--fortunately--turned out to be a girl
my mother insisted that I should be called Angelina. They gave
me both names and called me Angelina, but as soon as I grew
old enough I decided to be called Peter. It was bad enough,
but not so bad as Angelina."

"I should say it was more appropriate," said Alexander Abraham,
intending, as I perceived, to be disagreeable.

"Precisely," I agreed calmly. "My last name is MacPherson,
and I live in Avonlea. As you are NOT curious, that will be
all the information you will need about me."

"Oh!" Alexander Abraham looked as if a light had broken in on him.
"I've heard of you. You--ah--pretend to dislike men."

Pretend! Goodness only knows what would have happened to Alexander Abraham
just then if a diversion had not taken place. But the door opened
and a dog came in--THE dog. I suppose he had got tired waiting
under the cherry tree for William Adolphus and me to come down.
He was even uglier indoors than out.

"Oh, Mr. Riley, Mr. Riley, see what you have let me in for,"
said Alexander Abraham reproachfully.

But Mr. Riley--since that was the brute's name--paid no attention
to Alexander Abraham. He had caught sight of William Adolphus curled
up on the cushion, and he started across the room to investigate him.
William Adolphus sat up and began to take notice.

"Call off that dog," I said warningly to Alexander Abraham.

"Call him off yourself," he retorted. "Since you've brought that cat
here you can protect him."

"Oh, it wasn't for William Adolphus' sake I spoke," I said pleasantly.
"William Adolphus can protect himself."

William Adolphus could and did. He humped his back, flattened his ears,
swore once, and then made a flying leap for Mr. Riley. William Adolphus
landed squarely on Mr. Riley's brindled back and promptly took fast hold,
spitting and clawing and caterwauling.

You never saw a more astonished dog than Mr. Riley. With a yell of
terror he bolted out to the kitchen, out of the kitchen into the hall,
through the hall into the room, and so into the kitchen and round again.
With each circuit he went faster and faster, until he looked
like a brindled streak with a dash of black and white on top.
Such a racket and commotion I never heard, and I laughed until
the tears came into my eyes. Mr. Riley flew around and around,
and William Adolphus held on grimly and clawed. Alexander Abraham
turned purple with rage.

"Woman, call off that infernal cat before he kills my dog,"
he shouted above the din of yelps and yowls.

"Oh, he won't kill min," I said reassuringly, "and he's going
too fast to hear me if I did call him. If you can stop the dog,
Mr. Bennett, I'll guarantee to make William Adolphus listen to reason,
but there's no use trying to argue with a lightning flash."

Alexander Abraham made a frantic lunge at the brindled streak
as it whirled past him, with the result that he overbalanced
himself and went sprawling on the floor with a crash.
I ran to help him up, which only seemed to enrage him further.

"Woman," he spluttered viciously, "I wish you and your fiend of a cat
were in--in--"

"In Avonlea," I finished quickly, to save Alexander Abraham from
committing profanity. "So do I, Mr. Bennett, with all my heart.
But since we are not, let us make the best of it like sensible people.
And in future you will kindly remember that my name is
Miss MacPherson, NOT Woman!"

With this the end came and I was thankful, for the noise
those two animals made was so terrific that I expected
the policeman would be rushing in, smallpox or no smallpox,
to see if Alexander Abraham and I were trying to murder each other.
Mr. Riley suddenly veered in his mad career and bolted into a dark
corner between the stove and the wood-box, William Adolphus
let go just in time.

There never was any more trouble with Mr. Riley after that.
A meeker, more thoroughly chastened dog you could not find.
William Adolphus had the best of it and he kept it.

Seeing that things had calmed down and that it was five o'clock I
decided to get tea. I told Alexander Abraham that I would prepare it,
if he would show me where the eatables were.

"You needn't mind," said Alexander Abraham. "I've been in the habit
of getting my own tea for twenty years."

"I daresay. But you haven't been in the habit of getting mine,"
I said firmly. "I wouldn't eat anything you cooked if I starved
to death. If you want some occupation, you'd better get some salve
and anoint the scratches on that poor dog's back."

Alexander Abraham said something that I prudently did not hear.
Seeing that he had no information to hand out I went on an exploring
expedition into the pantry. The place was awful beyond description,
and for the first time a vague sentiment of pity for Alexander Abraham
glimmered in my breast. When a man had to live in such surroundings
the wonder was, not that he hated women, but that he didn't hate
the whole human race.

But I got up a supper somehow. I am noted for getting up suppers.
The bread was from the Carmody bakery and I made good tea and
excellent toast; besides, I found a can of peaches in the pantry which,
as they were bought, I wasn't afraid to eat.

That tea and toast mellowed Alexander Abraham in spite of himself.
He ate the last crust, and didn't growl when I gave William Adolphus
all the cream that was left. Mr. Riley did not seem to want anything.
He had no appetite.

By this time the doctor's boy had arrived with my valise.
Alexander Abraham gave me quite civilly to understand that there was
a spare room across the hall and that I might take possession of it.
I went to it and put on a wrapper. There was a set of fine
furniture in the room, and a comfortable bed. But the dust!
William Adolphus had followed me in and his paws left marks
everywhere he walked.

"Now," I said briskly, returning to the kitchen,
"I'm going to clean up and I shall begin with this kitchen.
You'd better betake yourself to the sitting-room, Mr. Bennett,
so as to be out of the way."

Alexander Abraham glared at me.

"I'm not going to have my house meddled with," he snapped.
"It suits me. If you don't like it you can leave it."

"No, I can't. That is just the trouble," I said pleasantly.
"If I could leave it I shouldn't be here for a minute.
Since I can't, it simply has to be cleaned. I can tolerate
men and dogs when I am compelled to, but I cannot and will not
tolerate dirt and disorder. Go into the sitting-room."

Alexander Abraham went. As he closed the door, I heard him say,
in capitals, "WHAT AN AWFUL WOMAN!"

I cleared that kitchen and the pantry adjoining.
It was ten o'clock when I got through, and Alexander Abraham
had gone to bed without deigning further speech. I locked
Mr. Riley in one room and William Adolphus in another and went
to bed, too. I had never felt so dead tired in my life before.
It had been a hard day.

But I got up bright and early the next morning and got a
tiptop breakfast, which Alexander Abraham condescended to eat.
When the provision man came into the yard I called to him
from the window to bring me a box of soap in the afternoon,
and then I tackled the sitting-room.

It took me the best part of a week to get that house in order,
but I did it thoroughly. I am noted for doing things thoroughly.
At the end of the time it was clean from garret to cellar.
Alexander Abraham made no comments on my operations, though he
groaned loud and often, and said caustic things to poor Mr. Riley,
who hadn't the spirit to answer back after his drubbing
by William Adolphus. I made allowances for Alexander Abraham
because his vaccination had taken and his arm was real sore;
and I cooked elegant meals, not having much else to do, once I
had got things scoured up. The house was full of provisions--
Alexander Abraham wasn't mean about such things, I will say
that for him. Altogether, I was more comfortable than I
had expected to be. When Alexander Abraham wouldn't talk I
let him alone; and when he would I just said as sarcastic
things as he did, only I said them smiling and pleasant.
I could see he had a wholesome awe for me. But now and then
he seemed to forget his disposition and talked like a human being.
We had one or two real interesting conversations. Alexander Abraham
was an intelligent man, though he had got terribly warped.
I told him once I thought he must have been nice when he was a boy.

One day he astonished me by appearing at the dinner table with his
hair brushed and a white collar on. We had a tiptop dinner that day,
and I had made a pudding that was far too good for a woman hater.
When Alexander Abraham had disposed of two large platefuls of it,
he sighed and said,

"You can certainly cook. It's a pity you are such a detestable
crank in other respects."

"It's kind of convenient being a crank," I said.
"People are careful how they meddle with you. Haven't you
found that out in your own experience?"

"I am NOT a crank," growled Alexander Abraham resentfully.
"All I ask is to be let alone."

"That's the very crankiest kind of crank," I said.
"A person who wants to be let alone flies in the face of Providence,
who decreed that folks for their own good were not to be let alone.
But cheer up, Mr. Bennett. The quarantine will be up on Tuesday
and then you'll certainly be let alone for the rest of your
natural life, as far as William Adolphus and I are concerned.
You may then return to your wallowing in the mire and be as dirty
and comfortable as of yore."

Alexander Abraham growled again. The prospect didn't seem to cheer him
up as much as I should have expected. Then he did an amazing thing.
He poured some cream into a saucer and set it down before
William Adolphus. William Adolphus lapped it up, keeping one eye
on Alexander Abraham lest the latter should change his mind.
Not to be outdone, I handed Mr. Riley a bone.

Neither Alexander Abraham nor I had worried much about the smallpox.
We didn't believe he would take it, for he hadn't even seen the girl
who was sick. But the very next morning I heard him calling me from
the upstairs landing.

"Miss MacPherson," he said in a voice so uncommonly mild that it gave
me an uncanny feeling, "what are the symptoms of smallpox?"

"Chills and flushes, pain in the limbs and back, nausea and vomiting,"
I answered promptly, for I had been reading them up in a
patent medicine almanac.

"I've got them all," said Alexander Abraham hollowly.

I didn't feel as much scared as I should have expected.
After enduring a woman hater and a brindled dog and the early
disorder of that house--and coming off best with all three--
smallpox seemed rather insignificant. I went to the window
and called to Thomas Wright to send for the doctor.

The doctor came down from Alexander Abraham's room looking grave.

"It's impossible to pronounce on the disease yet," he said.
"There is no certainty until the eruption appears.
But, of course, there is every likelihood that it is the smallpox.
It is very unfortunate. I am afraid that it will be difficult
to get a nurse. All the nurses in town who will take smallpox
cases are overbusy now, for the epidemic is still raging there.
However, I'll go into town to-night and do my best.
Meanwhile, at present, you must not go near him, Peter."

I wasn't going to take orders from any man, and as soon as the doctor
had gone I marched straight up to Alexander Abraham's room with some
dinner for him on a tray. There was a lemon cream I thought he could
eat even if he had the smallpox.

"You shouldn't come near me," he growled. "You are risking your life."

"I am not going to see a fellow creature starve to death,
even if he is a man," I retorted.

"The worst of it all," groaned Alexander Abraham, between mouthfuls
of lemon cream, "is that the doctor says I've got to have a nurse.
I've got so kind of used to you being in the house that I don't
mind you, but the thought of another woman coming here is too much.
Did you give my poor dog anything to eat?"

"He has had a better dinner than many a Christian," I said severely.

Alexander Abraham need not have worried about another woman coming in.
The doctor came back that night with care on his brow.

"I don't know what is to be done," he said. "I can't get a soul
to come here."

"_I_ shall nurse Mr. Bennett," I said with dignity.
"It is my duty and I never shirk my duty. I am noted for that.
He is a man, and he has smallpox, and he keeps a vile dog;
but I am not going to see him die for lack of care for all that."

"You're a good soul, Peter," said the doctor, looking relieved, manlike,
as soon as he found a woman to shoulder the responsibility.

I nursed Alexander Abraham through the smallpox, and I didn't mind
it much. He was much more amiable sick than well, and he had the disease
in a very mild form. Below stairs I reigned supreme and Mr. Riley
and William Adolphus lay down together like the lion and the lamb.
I fed Mr. Riley regularly, and once, seeing him looking lonesome,
I patted him gingerly. It was nicer than I thought it would be.
Mr. Riley lifted his head and looked at me with an expression in his
eyes which cured me of wondering why on earth Alexander Abraham was
so fond of the beast.

When Alexander Abraham was able to sit up, he began to make up for
the time he'd lost being pleasant. Anything more sarcastic than that man
in his convalescence you couldn't imagine. I just laughed at him,
having found out that that could be depended on to irritate him.
To irritate him still further I cleaned the house all over again.
But what vexed him most of all was that Mr. Riley took to following
me about and wagging what he had of a tail at me.

"It wasn't enough that you should come into my peaceful home and turn
it upside down, but you have to alienate the affections of my dog,"
complained Alexander Abraham.

"He'll get fond of you again when I go home," I said comfortingly.
"Dogs aren't very particular that way. What they want is bones.
Cats now, they love disinterestedly. William Adolphus has never
swerved in his allegiance to me, although you do give him cream
in the pantry on the sly."

Alexander Abraham looked foolish. He hadn't thought I knew that.

I didn't take the smallpox and in another week the doctor came out
and sent the policeman home. I was disinfected and William Adolphus
was fumigated, and then we were free to go.

"Good-bye, Mr. Bennett," I said, offering to shake hands in a
forgiving spirit. "I've no doubt that you are glad to be rid of me,
but you are no gladder than I am to go. I suppose this house
will be dirtier than ever in a month's time, and Mr. Riley will
have discarded the little polish his manners have taken on.
Reformation with men and dogs never goes very deep."

With this Parthian shaft I walked out of the house, supposing that I
had seen the last of it and Alexander Abraham.

I was glad to get back home, of course; but it did seem queer
and lonesome. The cats hardly knew me, and William Adolphus
roamed about forlornly and appeared to feel like an exile.
I didn't take as much pleasure in cooking as usual,
for it seemed kind of foolish to be fussing over oneself.
The sight of a bone made me think of poor Mr. Riley. The neighbours
avoided me pointedly, for they couldn't get rid of
the fear that I might erupt into smallpox at any moment.
My Sunday School class had been given to another woman,
and altogether I felt as if I didn't belong anywhere.

I had existed like this for a fortnight when Alexander Abraham
suddenly appeared. He walked in one evening at dusk, but at
first sight I didn't know him he was so spruced and barbered up.
But William Adolphus knew him. Will you believe it, William Adolphus,
my own William Adolphus, rubbed up against that man's trouser leg
with an undisguised purr of satisfaction.

"I had to come, Angelina," said Alexander Abraham. "I couldn't
stand it any longer."

"My name is Peter," I said coldly, although I was feeling ridiculously
glad about something.

"It isn't," said Alexander Abraham stubbornly. "It is Angelina for me,
and always will be. I shall never call you Peter. Angelina just
suits you exactly; and Angelina Bennett would suit you still better.
You must come back, Angelina. Mr. Riley is moping for you,
and I can't get along without somebody to appreciate my sarcasms,
now that you have accustomed me to the luxury."

"What about the other five cats?" I demanded.

Alexander Abraham sighed.

"I suppose they'll have to come too," he sighed, "though no
doubt they'll chase poor Mr. Riley clean off the premises.
But I can live without him, and I can't without you.
How soon can you be ready to marry me?"

"I haven't said that I was going to marry you at all,
have I?" I said tartly, just to be consistent.
For I wasn't feeling tart.

"No, but you will, won't you?" said Alexander Abraham anxiously.
"Because if you won't, I wish you'd let me die of the smallpox.
Do, dear Angelina."

To think that a man should dare to call me his "dear Angelina!" And to
think that I shouldn't mind!

"Where I go, William Adolphus goes," I said, "but I shall give away
the other five cats for--for the sake of Mr. Riley."

IX. Pa Sloane's Purchase

"I guess the molasses is getting low, ain't it?"
said Pa Sloane insinuatingly. "S'pose I'd better drive up
to Carmody this afternoon and get some more."

"There's a good half-gallon of molasses in the jug yet,"
said ma Sloane ruthlessly.

"That so? Well, I noticed the kerosene demijohn wasn't very hefty
the last time I filled the can. Reckon it needs replenishing."

"We have kerosene enough to do for a fortnight yet."
Ma continued to eat her dinner with an impassive face, but a
twinkle made itself apparent in her eye. Lest Pa should see it,
and feel encouraged thereby, she looked immovably at her plate.

Pa Sloane sighed. His invention was giving out.

"Didn't I hear you say day before yesterday that you were out of nutmegs?"
he queried, after a few moments' severe reflection.

"I got a supply of them from the egg-pedlar yesterday," responded Ma, by a
great effort preventing the twinkle from spreading over her entire face.
She wondered if this third failure would squelch Pa. But Pa was not
to be squelched.

"Well, anyway," he said, brightening up under the influence of a sudden
saving inspiration. "I'll have to go up to get the sorrel mare shod.
So, if you've any little errands you want done at the store, Ma, just make
a memo of them while I hitch up."

The matter of shoeing the sorrel mare was beyond Ma's province,
although she had her own suspicions about the sorrel mare's
need of shoes.

"Why can't you give up beating about the bush, Pa?" she demanded,
with contemptuous pity. "You might as well own up what's
taking you to Carmody. _I_ can see through your design.
You want to get away to the Garland auction. That is what is
troubling you, Pa Sloane."

"I dunno but what I might step over, seeing it's so handy.
But the sorrel mare really does need shoeing, Ma," protested Pa.

"There's always something needing to be done if it's convenient,"
retorted Ma. "Your mania for auctions will be the ruin
of you yet, Pa. A man of fifty-five ought to have grown out
of such a hankering. But the older you get the worse you get.
Anyway, if _I_ wanted to go to auctions, I'd select them as
was something like, and not waste my time on little one-horse
affairs like this of Garland's."

"One might pick up something real cheap at Garland's,"
said Pa defensively.

"Well, you are not going to pick up anything, cheap or otherwise,
Pa Sloane, because I'm going with you to see that you don't. I know
I can't stop you from going. I might as well try to stop the wind
from blowing. But I shall go, too, out of self-defence. This
house is so full now of old clutter and truck that you've brought
home from auctions that I feel as if I was made up out of pieces
and left overs."

Pa Sloane sighed again. It was not exhilarating to attend
an auction with Ma. She would never let him bid on anything.
But he realized that Ma's mind was made up beyond the power of
mortal man's persuasion to alter it, so he went out to hitch up.

Pa Sloane's dissipation was going to auctions and buying things
that nobody else would buy. Ma Sloane's patient endeavours of
over thirty years had been able to effect only a partial reform.
Sometimes Pa heroically refrained from going to an auction for six months
at a time; then he would break out worse than ever, go to all that took
place for miles around, and come home with a wagonful of misfits.
His last exploit had been to bid on an old dasher churn for five dollars--
the boys "ran things up" on Pa Sloane for the fun of it--and bring
it home to outraged Ma, who had made her butter for fifteen years
in the very latest, most up-to-date barrel churn. To add insult
to injury this was the second dasher churn Pa had bought at auction.
That settled it. Ma decreed that henceforth she would chaperon Pa
when he went to auctions.

But this was the day of Pa's good angel. When he drove up to the door
where Ma was waiting, a breathless, hatless imp of ten flew into the yard,
and hurled himself between Ma and the wagon-step.

"Oh, Mrs. Sloane, won't you come over to our house at once?" he gasped.
"The baby, he's got colic, and ma's just wild, and he's all black
in the face."

Ma went, feeling that the stars in their courses fought
against a woman who was trying to do her duty by her husband.
But first she admonished Pa.

"I shall have to let you go alone. But I charge you, Pa, not to bid
on anything--on ANYTHING, do you hear?"

Pa heard and promised to heed, with every intention
of keeping his promise. Then he drove away joyfully.
On any other occasion Ma would have been a welcome companion.
But she certainly spoiled the flavour of an auction.

When Pa arrived at the Carmody store, he saw that the little yard of
the Garland place below the hill was already full of people. The auction
had evidently begun; so, not to miss any more of it, Pa hurried down.
The sorrel mare could wait for her shoes until afterwards.

Ma had been within bounds when she called the Garland
auction a "one-horse affair." It certainly was very paltry,
especially when compared to the big Donaldson auction of a month ago,
which Pa still lived over in happy dreams.

Horace Garland and his wife had been poor. When they died
within six weeks of each other, one of consumption and one
of pneumonia, they left nothing but debts and a little furniture.
The house had been a rented one.

The bidding on the various poor articles of household gear put up
for sale was not brisk, but had an element of resigned determination.
Carmody people knew that these things had to be sold to pay the debts,
and they could not be sold unless they were bought. Still, it was
a very tame affair.

A woman came out of the house carrying a baby of about eighteen months
in her arms, and sat down on the bench beneath the window.

"There's Marthy Blair with the Garland Baby," said Robert Lawson
to Pa. "I'd like to know what's to become of that poor young one!"

"Ain't there any of the father's or mother's folks to take him?" asked Pa.

"No. Horace had no relatives that anybody ever heard of.
Mrs. Horace had a brother; but he went to Mantioba years ago,
and nobody knows where he is now. Somebody'll have to take
the baby and nobody seems anxious to. I've got eight myself,
or I'd think about it. He's a fine little chap."

Pa, with Ma's parting admonition ringing in his ears, did not
bid on anything, although it will never be known how great
was the heroic self-restraint he put on himself, until just
at the last, when he did bid on a collection of flower-pots,
thinking he might indulge himself to that small extent.
But Josiah Sloane had been commissioned by his wife to bring
those flower-pots home to her; so Pa lost them.

"There, that's all," said the auctioneer, wiping his face,
for the day was very warm for October.

"There's nothing more unless we sell the baby."

A laugh went through the crowd. The sale had been a dull affair,
and they were ready for some fun. Someone called out,
"Put him up, Jacob." The joke found favour and the call
was repeated hilariously.

Jacob Blair took little Teddy Garland out of Martha's arms and
stood him up on the table by the door, steadying the small chap
with one big brown hand. The baby had a mop of yellow curls,
and a pink and white face, and big blue eyes. He laughed
out at the men before him and waved his hands in delight.
Pa Sloane thought he had never seen so pretty a baby.

"Here's a baby for sale," shouted the auctioneer.
"A genuine article, pretty near as good as brand-new. A real
live baby, warranted to walk and talk a little. Who bids?
A dollar? Did I hear anyone mean enough to bid a dollar?
No, sir, babies don't come as cheap as that, especially
the curly-headed brand."

The crowd laughed again. Pa Sloane, by way of keeping on
the joke, cried, "Four dollars!"

Everybody looked at him. The impression flashed through the crowd
that Pa was in earnest, and meant thus to signify his intention
of giving the baby a home. He was well-to-do, and his only son
was grown up and married.

"Six," cried out John Clarke from the other side of the yard.
John Clarke lived at White Sands and he and his wife were childless.

That bid of John Clarke's was Pa's undoing. Pa Sloane could
not have an enemy; but a rival he had, and that rival was
John Clarke. Everywhere at auctions John Clarke was wont
to bid against Pa. At the last auction he had outbid Pa
in everything, not having the fear of his wife before his eyes.
Pa's fighting blood was up in a moment; he forgot Ma Sloane;
he forgot what he was bidding for; he forgot everything except
a determination that John Clarke should not be victor again.

"Ten," he called shrilly.

"Fifteen," shouted Clarke.

"Twenty," vociferated Pa.

"Twenty-five," bellowed Clarke.

"Thirty," shrieked Pa. He nearly bust a blood-vessel in his shrieking,
but he had won. Clarke turned off with a laugh and a shrug, and the baby
was knocked down to Pa Sloane by the auctioneer, who had meanwhile been
keeping the crowd in roars of laughter by a quick fire of witticisms.
There had not been such fun at an auction in Carmody for many a long day.

Pa Sloane came, or was pushed, forward. The baby was put into his arms;
he realized that he was expected to keep it, and he was too dazed
to refuse; besides, his heart went out to the child.

The auctioneer looked doubtfully at the money which Pa laid mutely down.

"I s'pose that part was only a joke," he said.

"Not a bit of it," said Robert Lawson. "All the money won't
bee too much to pay the debts. There's a doctor's bill,
and this will just about pay it."

Pa Sloane drove back home, with the sorrel mare still unshod,
the baby, and the baby's meager bundle of clothes. The baby
did not trouble him much; it had become well used to strangers
in the past two months, and promptly fell asleep on his arm;
but Pa Sloane did not enjoy that drive; at the end of it;
he mentally saw Ma Sloane.

Ma was there, too, waiting for him on the back door-step as he drove
into the yard at sunset. Her face, when she saw the baby,
expressed the last degree of amazement.

"Pa Sloane," she demanded, "whose is that young one, and there
did you get it?"

"I--I-- bought it at the auction, Ma," said Pa feebly.
Then he waited for the explosion. None came. This last exploit
of Pa's was too much for Ma.

With a gasp she snatched the baby from Pa's arms, and ordered him
to go out and put the mare in. When Pa returned to the kitchen
Ma had set the baby on the sofa, fenced him around with chairs
so that he couldn't fall off and given him a molassed cooky.

"Now, Pa Sloane, you can explain," she said.


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