Outpost

CHAPTER XXVII. CHAPTER XXVII. TEDDY FINDS A NEW PATRON. TEDDY, dragging his heavy feet up the stairs in the stifling September twilight, paused suddenly to listen to a murmur of voices in his mother's room. Some one was speaking; and the pure, clear tone sent a thrill through his veins like the shock of an electric battery. No voice but one had ever sounded like that to him; and, springing up the remaining stairs, Teddy threw open the door of the chamber, and looked eagerly about it. The one for whom he looked was not there; but, instead, a lady, whose fragile loveliness reminded him so strangely of the little sister as she had looked in her long days of convalescence, that he stood still, staring dumbly. "An' where's yer manners, Teddy Ginniss? Couldn' ye see the lady forenenst ye, widout starin' like a stuck pig?-It's dazed he is, ma'am, wid seein' the likes uv yees in this poor place." "Come here, Teddy; I am waiting to see you," said the lady. And again the pure, silvery tones tingled along Teddy's nerves with a sharp, sweet thrill. "O ma'am! are you her mother?" cried he breathlessly. "Yes, I am her mother, and have come to see you, who loved her so well, and your good mother, who cared for her when she was motherless"— The sweet voice faltered, and Teddy broke in,— "And you needn't be afraid to say the worst that can be said, ma'am. I've said it all before; and you can't hate me worse than I hate myself." "Hate you, my poor boy? I only pity you; for I have heard, and can see, how much you suffer. I cannot wonder that you should love her so well; and, when you knew who she was, I dare say you were meaning to restore her, so soon as you could bring yourself to it." "Indeed I was, ma'am. I can take God to witness that I was," said Teddy solemnly, his eyes brimming, and his face working with the strong emotion he tried so hard to subdue. "I am sure of it; and I love you more for the love you bore her than I blame you for the fault that love led you into." She paused a moment; and then the insatiate mother pride and love burst out, demanding sympathy. "She was a lovely child, wasn't she, Teddy?" asked she with a tremulous smile. The boy's rough face lighted, as if by reflection from her own, as he replied,— "O ma'am! it's so good of you to let me talk about her! There was never another like her in all the world, I believe. I used to take her walking Sundays, and look at all the children we met (some of them rich folks' children, and dressed all out in their best); but there was never one could hold a candle to my little sister. Oh! and I hope you'll forgive me that word, ma'am; for I know it's no business I had ever to call her so, or think of her so; but I was so proud of her!" "I don't need to forgive you, Teddy. It shows how much you loved her; and that is what I like to think best." "But if you please, ma'am, will you tell me what is doing about looking for her?" asked Teddy eagerly. "Very little now," answered the lady sadly. "The police traced Giovanni, the Italian organ-grinder, to the station, where he took the cars for the West. At Springfield, a man answering to his description, with a little girl, staid all night; and next day the child danced-in the streets." The mother's face grew deadly pale as she said the last words, and she paused a moment. Teddy turned away his head, and Mrs. Ginniss groaned aloud. Mrs. Legrange went on hurriedly:— "Where they went afterwards is not yet discovered; but they are looking everywhere. It seems so strange"— She fell into a momentary revery, thinking, as she thought so many, many times in every day, how hard and strange it seemed that no clew could be found to her lost darling beyond the terrible day that saw her dancing in the public streets,—an ignominy, that, to the lady's sensitive mind, seemed almost equivalent to death. Perhaps it would have been kinder had her husband and cousin told her the worst they knew or suspected, and allowed her to mourn her child as dead. The acute detective in whose hands the new clew had been placed had not only traced the fugitives to Springfield, as Mrs. Legrange had said, but had ascertained at what hour they left the hotel for the railway-station. It was impossible, however, to discover for what point the Italian had purchased tickets, as the station-master had no recollection of him, and the baggage-master was sure he had seen "no sich lot" as was described to him. And, from Springfield, a man may take passage to almost any point in the Union. One startling fact remained, and upon this fact the whole report of the detective turned. The train leaving Springfield for Albany upon the night when Giovanni left that town, encountered, at a certain point, another train, which, by some incomprehensible stupidity, was supposed to have passed that point half an hour before. Consequences as usual,—frightful loss of life; a game of give and take in the newspapers, as to who should bear the blame, finally resulting in a service of plate to one party, and a donation in money to the other; several lawsuits brought by enterprising widowers who demand consolation for the loss of their wives; by other men, who, having skulked the draft, now found themselves minus both legs and glory; by spinsters whose bandboxes had been crushed, and by young ladies whose beauty had suffered damage from broken noses and scattered teeth. But, among all these sufferers, not one remembered seeing an Italian organ-grinder with a little girl until, at the very last, a small boy was found, who averred, that, on the morning after the disaster, he had seen a sort of box, with a little creature chained to the top of it, floating down the river; and that the little creature had seemed very much scared, and kept laughing, and showing all his teeth; and that they had gone on and out of sight. And that was all he knew about it. The river!-what use to question those dark and swollen waters? what use to demand of them the bright form, that, it might be, slept beneath them?-it might be, had been washed piecemeal to the ocean? At the brink of that river, mournful and terrible as Styx, river of the dead, ended, that night, the story of many a life; and why not that of the child so strangely lost, so nearly recovered, and now, perhaps, lost again forever? "We have found her, I am afraid, Tom," said Mr. Legrange to his cousin, as the detective closed his report, and his two hearers looked at each other. "But," added the father, "keep on; keep every engine at work; search everywhere; spend any amount of money that is needful; leave no chance untried. Remember, the reward is always ready." And, when they were alone, he added,— "But, Tom, don't tell her. She can't bear it as we can. Poor little Sunshine!" And, to show how well he bore it, the father hid his face, and sobbed like a woman. "No, I won't say any thing," said Tom Burroughs in a strange, choked voice. And so we come back to Mrs. Legrange wistfully saying, "It seems so strange"— And then, with the patience of a woman, she put aside her own great grief, and added,— "But, Teddy, I am going to do something for you; and what shall it be? You wish to be educated; do you not?" "O ma'am! but I've give it up now." Mrs. Legrange smiled at the sudden enthusiasm and the sudden blank upon the boy's face, and answered, almost gayly,— "But I have not given it up for you, Teddy.-By the way, Mrs. Ginniss, is that your son's real name?-his whole name, I mean?" "It's short for Taodoor, I'm thinkin', ma'am; but joost Teddy we alluz calls it." "Ah, yes! Theodore. That is a very nice name, and will sound better, when he comes to be a lawyer or doctor or minister, than Teddy. Don't you think so?" "Ye're right, ma'am: it's a dale the dacenter name uv the two; an' Taodoor I'll call him iver an' always," said Mrs. Ginniss complacently. "I was thinking more of what other people would call him," said Mrs. Legrange, smiling a little. "Some friends of mine are interested in a school and college at the West,—somewhere in Ohio, I believe. It is a very fine school and the West is the place for a young man who means to rise. So, Theodore, if you would like to go, I shall be very happy to see to all your expenses until you graduate, and to help you about settling in a profession, or in trade, as you like." Teddy's healthy face turned deadly white; and, although his lips trembled violently, not a word came from between them. But Mrs. Ginniss, raising hands and eyes to heaven, called down such a shower of blessings from so many and varied sources, in such an inimitable brogue, that the pen refuses to transcribe her rhapsody, as Mrs. Legrange failed to comprehend more than the half of it. "I am glad you are pleased; and it pleases me as much as it can you," said she, half frightened at the Celtic vehemence of the other's manner and language. "I can't say what I want to, ma'am," spoke a low voice beside her; "but if you'll believe I'm grateful, and wait till some time when I can show it better than I can now-that time will come, if we both live. And when I'm a man, if she isn't found first, I'll go the world round but I'll find her, and Jovarny too: I'll promise that." A wan smile played over the lovely face, as Mrs. Legrange, laying her hand upon the boy's, said kindly,— "If she is not found before then, Teddy, I shall not be here to know it." Then going to the drawer, still standing open, she said,— "May I have some of these little things, Mrs. Ginniss; not all,—for I know that you love them too,—but some of them?" So Mrs. Ginniss made a package of the relics; and Teddy asked and obtained the privilege of carrying it home for his new friend, while James stalked discontentedly behind. Upon the way, Mrs. Legrange said quietly, "I left a little money in the drawer, Theodore. It is to buy you some new clothes, and whatever else you and your mother need most. And I have just thought of something else. How would your mother like living in the country?" "Very much, ma'am, I think. Her father had a farm in Ireland, and she is mighty fond of telling about it." "Well, Mr. Legrange has recently made me a present of a nice old farmhouse somewhere in the western part of the State, thinking I might like to go there for a few weeks in the summer. It is a lovely place, they say; and, if your mother would like it, she might go there and keep the house for me. A man is going to take care of the farm, and he could board with her." "That would be first-rate, ma'am," said Teddy enthusiastically. "But you're doing too much for us entirely." "You were kind to her, Teddy; and I cannot do too much for you," said Mrs. Legrange, lowering her veil. CHAPTER XXVIII. WELCOME HOME. "TIME they was here, ain't it, miss?" asked Mehitable Ross, wiping the flour from her bare arms, and coming out upon the step of the door. "Yes," said Dora: "I expect them every moment. Is tea all ready?" "All but the short-cakes. I hain't put them down to bake yet, because they're best when they're first done. But the cold meat is sliced, and the strawberries dished, and the johnny-cake a-baking." "Well, keep them all as nice as you can; and I will walk out a little, and meet the wagon." "Take Argus along, you'd better, case you should meet one of them tiger-cats Silas told on." Dora smiled, but called, "Argus!" and at the word a great hound came leaping from one of the out-buildings, and fawned upon his young mistress; then, with stately step and uplifted head, followed her along the faint track worn by the wheels of the ox-cart in the short, sweet grass of the prairie. The young girl walked slowly, and, at the distance of some rods from the house, stopped, and, leaning against the stem of a great chestnut-tree, stood looking earnestly down the path as it wound into the forest, and out of sight. Then her eyes turned slowly back, and lingered with a strange and solemn joy upon the scene she had just left; while from her full heart came one whispered word that told the whole story of her emotion,— "Home!" For this was Outpost, Dora's inheritance from her friend and father, Col. Blank; and she felt to-night, as she waited to welcome home the family whose head she had become, that her duties and responsibilities were indeed solemn and onerous. Not too much so, however, for the courage and strength the young girl felt within her soul,—the energy and will so long without an adequate field of action. "Plenty to do, and, thank God, plenty of health and strength to do it. Experience will come of itself," thought Dora; and from her throbbing heart went up a "song without words," of joy and praise and high resolve. It was June now; but the house at Outpost had only been ready for occupancy a week or so. The family had left Massachusetts about the first of October in the previous autumn, and had spent the winter in Cincinnati; Dora having been reluctantly convinced of the folly of proceeding to Iowa at that season. With the opening of spring, however, she had made a journey thither, escorted by Charles Windsor, and accompanied by Seth and Mehitable Ross,—a sturdy New-England couple, who were very glad, in emigrating to the West, to avail themselves of the offers made by Dora, who engaged the man as principal workman upon the new farm, and his wife as assistant in the labors of the house. The site selected by Col. Blank proved a very satisfactory one. But Dora rejected his plans of a house, submitted to her by Mr. Ferrars, as too expensive, and too elaborate for the style of living she proposed; and chose, instead, a simple log-cabin, divided into four rooms, with another at a little distance for the accommodation of Ross and his wife, who were also to keep whatever additional workmen should be required upon the place. These buildings, neatly and substantially formed of logs from the neighboring wood, were placed at the top of a natural lawn half enclosed by primeval forest; while at its foot nearly a quarter of a mile away, wound the blue waters of the Des Moines; and beyond it, swept to the horizon, mile after mile of prairie, limitless, apparently, as ocean, and, like ocean, solemnly beautiful in its loneliness and calm. The house faced south; and eastward from its door, across the lawn and into the rustling wood, wound the faint wheel-track, leading back to civilization, ease, and safety: but Dora, standing beneath the chestnut-tree, fixed her dreamy eyes upon the setting sun, and, half smiling at her own fancy, thought,— "I wonder if God doesn't make the western sky so beautiful just to draw us toward it. There is so much to do here, and so few to do it!" A distant noise in the forest attracted her attention; and Argus, who had been dreaming at the feet of his mistress, started up with a short bark. "Hush, Argus! It's the wagon; don't you know?" explained Dora, as she hastened down the path, and, at the distance of a few hundred rods, caught sight of the black heads of Pope and Pagan, and, the next moment, of the wagon and its occupants. These were Karl, Kitty, and Sunshine, the two last of whom had remained all the spring in Cincinnati, while Karl and Dora had vibrated between that city and Outpost; for Dora, while choosing to superintend the building of her house and opening of the farm operations in person, had not wished to expose her cousin or the delicate child to such discomforts as she cheerfully and even gayly bore for herself. Kitty, moreover, had found the change from her native seclusion to a gay city very pleasant; and had made so many acquaintances in Cincinnati, that she declared it was a great deal worse than leaving home to abandon them all. "Oho! here's the general come to meet us! Whoa, Pope! don't you see your mistress? Now, then!" shouted Karl; while Kitty cried,— "O Dora! I'm so glad to see you alive!" And little Sunshine, jumping up and down in the front of the wagon, exclaimed,— "Dora's come! Dora's come! Karlo said we'd come to Dora by and by!" "O you little darling! if Dora isn't glad to see you again! Kitty, how do you do? I'm so glad to see you!" She had jumped into the wagon as she spoke; and, after giving Kitty a hearty kiss and hug, she took Sunshine in her arms, and buried her face in the child's sunny curls. "Am I your own little girl, Dora? and do you love me same as you always did?" asked Sunshine anxiously. "Kitty said you'd so much to think about now, that maybe you wouldn't care for us." "Oh! Kitty never meant that, dear," said Dora quickly; and Kitty, with rather a forced laugh, added,— "Of course I didn't. It was only a joke, Molly. You talked so much about Dora, I wanted to plague you a little." The child looked earnestly at her for a moment; and then, putting her arms about Dora's neck, hid her face upon her bosom, murmuring,— "I'm glad I've got Dora again!" "Well, now everybody else is attended to, hasn't the general a word for his humble orderly?" asked Karl, turning to smile over his shoulder at the group behind. "Why, you jealous old Karl! you know you've only been away two weeks, and the girls I have not seen for almost as many months: besides, I told you not to call me general, and yourself orderly." "Oh! that reminds me of a new name for pet. You know she persists in calling me Karlo; so I have given her the title of Dolce: and the two of us together are going some day to paint pictures far fairer than those of our great original." "Carlo Dolce? Yes: Mr. Brown told me about him once, and said his name only meant sweet Charley," said Dora simply. "I wonder, then, that you should have left it for Sunshine to discover how appropriate the name is to me," said Karl with mock gravity. "I'll call you sweet Charley if you like; only it must be at all times, and before all persons," said Dora roguishly. "No, I thank you," replied her cousin, laughing. "Fancy Parson Brown's face if he should hear such a title, or Seth's astonishment if you told him to call sweet Charley to dinner! But isn't Dolce a pretty name? Let us really adopt it for her." "Well, if she likes; but I shall call her Sunshine still sometimes." "What say, pet? will you have Dolce for a name?" asked Karl, turning to pinch the little ear peeping from Sunshine's curls. "I don't know; would you, Dora?" asked the child, gravely deliberating. "Yes: I think it is pretty." "And Kitty sha'n't call me Molly any more; shall she?" "Don't you like Molly?" "No: because that man in Cincinnati asked me if my last name was Coddle; and it ain't." "Oh, dear! what an odd little thing she is!" exclaimed Kitty. "It was Mr. Thomson, Dora; and he is so witty, you know! And one day he asked the child if her name wasn't Miss Molly Coddle, just for a joke, you see; and we all laughed: but she ran away; and, when I went to my room, there she was crying, and wouldn't come down again for ever so long. She's a regular little fuss-bunch about such things." "Very strange, when you and I are so fond of being ridiculed and laughed at!" remarked Karl gravely; and Sunshine whispered,— "Am I a fuss-bunch, Dora?" Dora did not answer, except by a little pat upon the child's rosy cheek, as she exclaimed,— "Here we are! Look, Kitty! that is home; and we must bid each other welcome, since there is no one to do it for us both except Mehitable, and I don't believe she will think of it." "Well, I must say, Dora, you've got things to going a great deal better than I should expect," said Kitty graciously, as she looked about her. "Why, that sweetbrier beside the door, and the white rose the other side, are just like ours at home; and the woodbine growing up the corner too!" "They came from the old home, every one of them," said Dora, smiling happily. "I wrote in the spring, and asked Mr. Burroughs to be so kind as to ask whoever lives in the house to take up a little root of each of the roses, and send them to me by express. You know he said, when we left, that we should have any thing we liked from the place, then or afterwards. So he wrote such a pleasant note, and said he had sold the house to a cousin of his, a Mr. Legrange, who had made a present of it to his wife; but I could have the slips all the same: and next day, to be sure, they came, all nicely packed in matting, and some other plants with them. Karl brought them out and set them in April; and they are growing beautifully, you see. Wasn't Mr. Burroughs good?" Kitty did not answer. She was bending low over the sweetbrier, and inhaling the fragrance of its leaves. Karl and Sunshine had driven to the barn, and the girls remained alone. Dora glanced sharply at her cousin once, and then was turning away, when Kitty detained her, and said in a low voice,— "My mother planted that sweetbrier, and used to call it her Marnie-bush, after me." "I know it," said Dora softly. "And that was the reason you brought it here. And I have been cross to you so much! But I did love her so, Dora! oh, you don't know how much I loved my mother! That is the reason I never will let any one call me Marnie now. It was the name she always called me, though Kitty belongs to me too; but she said it so softly! And to think you should bring the Marnie-bush all the way from Massachusetts!" "I thought you would like it, dear," said Dora absently; while her eyes grew dim and vague, and around her mouth settled the white, hard line, that, in her reticent nature, showed an emotion no less intense because it was suppressed. Then her arm stole round Kitty's waist, and she whispered in her ear,— "We two motherless girls ought to feel for each other, and love each other better than those who never knew what it is; shouldn't we, Kitty?" "We should that, Dora," returned her cousin with emphasis; "and I don't believe I shall forget again right away. Let us begin from now, and see how good we can be to each other." Dora's kisses, except for Sunshine, were almost as rare as her tears; but she gave one now to Kitty, who accepted it as sufficient answer to her proposition. At this moment, Mehitable, who had, at the appearance of the wagon, rushed home to give a finishing touch to her toilet, was seen crossing the little interval between the two houses with an elaborate air of unconsciousness of observation, and carrying a large white handkerchief by its exact centre. "My!-how fine we look!" whispered Kitty. "This is my cousin, Miss Windsor, Mehitable," said Dora simply. "I believe you didn't see her in Cincinnati?" "No: she was away when we was there.-Happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Windsor. How do you like out here?" "Well, I don't know yet. I never tried keeping house in a log-cabin. You'll have to show me how, I expect," said Kitty rather loftily. "Lor! I guess you know as much as I do about it. I never see a log-cabin in my life till we come out here. My father had a fust-rate house, cla'borded and shingled, and all, down in Maine; and we alluz had a plenty to do with of every sort: so I hain't no experience at all in this sort of way." "But you have a way of getting on without it that is almost as good. I don't know what I should have done without Mehitable, Kitty; and I dare say she will help you very much by telling all the ingenious ways she has contrived to make our rude accommodations answer. You know, as we are all beginning together, each must help on the other; and we must all keep up our courage, and try to be contented." "Well, I must say I never see one that kep' up her own courage, and everybody else's, like her, since I was born into the world," said Mehitable, turning confidentially to Kitty. "Talk of my helping her! Lor! if it hadn't been for her, I never would have stopped here over night, in the world. Why, the first night, I didn't do nothing but roar the whole night long. Mr. Ross he said I'd raise the river if I didn't stop: but in the morning down come Miss Dora, looking so bright and sunshiny, that I couldn't somehow open my head to say I wouldn't stop; and then she begun to talk"— "Mehitable, the short-cake is done. Will you speak to Mr. Windsor?" called Dora from within; and Kitty entered, saying,— "How nice the tea-table looks!-just like home, Dora; the old India china and all." "It is home, Kit-cat. Here is Karl, and here is little Sunshine. Come, friends, and let us sit down to our first meal in the new house," said Dora: and Kitty, subduing a little feeling of fallen dignity, seated herself at the side of the table; leaving the head for Dora, who colored a little, but took it quietly. CHAPTER XXIX. LIFE AT OUTPOST. AND now began for each member of the family at Outpost a new and active life. Kitty, who, young as she was, had already achieved reputation as a notable housekeeper, found quite enough to attend to in domestic matters, and, with Mehitable's help and counsel, soon had all the interests and nearly all the comforts of New-England farm-life established in her Western home. Even the marigolds her mother had always raised as a flavoring to broths; and the catnip, motherwort, peppermint, and tansy, grown and dried as sovereign remedies in case of illness; and the parsley, sage, and marjoram, to be used in various branches of cookery,—flourished in their garden-bed under Kitty's fostering care; while poor Silas Ross was fairly worried, in spite of himself, into digging and roofing an ice-cellar in the intervals of his more important duties. "Now we'll see, another summer, if we can't have some butter that's like butter, and not like soft-soap," remarked Kitty complacently, when the unhappy Silas announced his task complete. "And now I hope I can sleep in my bed o' nights without hearing 'Ice-house, ice-house!' till I'm sick o' the sound of ice," muttered Silas, walking away. It is not to be averred, however, that all this thrift was established without much commotion or many stormy scenes; and, not unfrequently, Mehitable Ross announced to her husband that "she wouldn't stan' it nohow, to be nosed round this way by a gal not so old as herself!" And Kitty "declared to gracious" that she "never saw such a topping piece as that Hitty Ross since she was born;" and, if "folks undertook to work for other folks, they ought to be willing to do the way they were told;" and she'd "rather do the whole alone than keep round after that contrary creature, seeing that she didn't get the upper-hands as soon as her back was turned!" But Dora, without appearing to listen or to look, heard all and saw all. Dora, cheerful, energetic, and calm, knew how to heal, without appearing to notice the wound; had a faculty, all her own, of leading the mind, vexed with a thousand trifles, to the contemplation of some aim so grand, some thought so high, some love or beauty so serene, that it turned back to daily life calm and refreshed, and strengthened to do or to endure, with new courage. "Somehow I felt ashamed of jawing so about that wash, when Dora came in, and put her hands into the tub, and, while she was rubbing away, began to tell what a crop of corn we're going to have; and how the folks down South, the freedmen and all, might have plenty to eat, if every one did as well as we're doing," said Mehitable to her husband. "Yes," replied Seth: "she stood by me there in the sun as much as an hour, and told the cutest story you ever heard about the Injins believing that corn is a live creter, and appeared once, in the shape of a young man named Odahmin, to one of the Injin chiefs called Hiawatha; and they had a wrastle. Hiawatha beat, and killed the other feller, and buried him up in the ground; but he hadn't more 'n got him under 'fore up he come agin, or ruther some Injin-corn come up: but they called the green leaves his clothes; and the tossel atop, his plume; and the sprouts was his hands, each holding an ear of corn, that he give to Hiawatha, just as a feller that's whipped gives another his hat, you know." "Do the Injins believe all that now?" asked Mehitable contemptuously. "They do so. But, I tell you, I never knew how those two rows got hoed while she was talking: they seemed to slip right along somehow; and, after she was gone, the time seemed dreadful short till sundown, I was thinking so busy of what she said." "Guess you'd been cross 'cause that cultivator didn't come; hadn't you?" asked Mehitable slyly. "Yes: I felt real mad all the morning about it, and was pretty grumpy to Windsor; for I thought he might as well have sent a week ago. But, by George! I'd like to see the feller that 'ud be grumpy to her." "Well, Dora," Kitty was saying at the same moment, "I'm glad you've got home; for the first thing isn't ready for supper, and I've just done ironing. That Hit went off home an hour ago; said her head ached, and she'd got to get the men's supper. I do declare, I'd like to shake that woman till her teeth rattled; and I believe I'll do it some day!" "How beautifully the clothes look, Kitty! I think they bleach even whiter here than they used to in the old drying yard. But I am sorry you ironed that white waist of mine: I was going to do it myself. Now, Sunshine, come and tell Aunt Kitty about the woodchuck and her baby that we saw; and how we caught little chucky, as you called him; and all the rest." "Dear me! I can't stop. Well, come and sit in my lap, Dolly, and tell if you want to. Dora, do sit and rest a minute: you look all tired out." "Oh, no! but Karl is, I am afraid. He walked away out behind the wheat-lot this afternoon to see to setting some traps for the poor little things that come to eat it. I never saw such a boy when there is any thing to be done. He goes right at it, no matter what lies between." "You're right there, Dora; and he always was so from a child. Well, Dolly, what's the story?" "Don't call me Dolly, please," said the little girl coaxingly. "Well, Dolce, then," said Kitty, smiling with renewed good-nature. And while Sunshine, all unconsciously, completed by her prattle the cure that Dora had begun, the latter quietly and rapidly finished the preparations for tea. As for Sunshine, never did a child so well deserve her name. In the house or on the prairie, running with Argus, walking demurely beside Karl, or riding behind Dora upon the stout little pony reserved for the use of the young mistress of the place, it was always as a gleam of veritable sunshine that she came; and no heart so dark, or temper so gloomy, as to resist her sweet influence. Constant exercise and fresh air, proper food, and the rigid sanitary laws established by Dora, had brought to the child's cheek a richer bloom than it had ever known before; while her blue eyes seemed two sparkling fountains of joy, and a vivid life danced and glittered even among her sunny curls. Lithe and straight, and strong of limb too, grew our slender little Cerito; and, although every motion was still one of grace, it was now the assured grace of strength, instead of that of fragility. She danced too, but it was with the west wind, who, rough companion that he was, whirled her round and round in his strong arms, or tossed her hair in a bright cloud across her face; while he snatched her hat, and sent it spinning into the prairie; or kissed the laugh from her lips, and carried it away to the wild woods to mock at the singing-birds. Argus too-what friends he and the child, who at first had been afraid of him, became before the summer was through! What talks they held! How merrily they laughed together! and how serenely Argus listened while Sunshine told him long histories of imaginary wanderings among the clouds, in enchanted forests, or "away beyond the blue up in the sky"! Confidences these; for, as the narrator whispered,— "Dora doesn't like dream-stories, and Kitty says, 'Oh, nonsense!' and Karlo laughs: so you mustn't tell a word, old Argus." And Argus, wagging his tail, and blinking his bright brown eyes, promised never to tell, and faithfully kept the promise. Perhaps it was a vague sense of loneliness in these fancies; perhaps it was the lingering longing for something she had lost even from her memory, and yet not wholly from her heart, where, as we all know, linger loves for which we no longer have a name or a thought; perhaps it was only the dim reflex of that agony consuming her mother's heart, and the earnestness with which it longed for her: but something there was, that, at intervals, cast a sudden shadow over Sunshine's heart; something that made her pale and still, and deepened the dimples at the corners of her mouth, until each might have held a tear. At these times, she would always steal away by herself if possible; sometimes, and especially if the stars were out, to sit with folded hands, gazing at the sky; sometimes to lie upon her little bed, her eyes fixed on vacancy, until the bright tears gathered, and rolled slowly down her cheeks: but, oftenest of all, she would call Argus, and, with one hand upon his glossy head, wander away to the dim forest, and seated at the foot of one of those patriarchal trees, the hound lying close beside her, would talk to him as she never talked to human ears. Once, Karl, returning from an expedition to a distant part of the farm, saw her thus, and half in fun, half in curiosity, crept up behind the great oak at whose foot she sat, and listened. "And up there in heaven, Argus," she was saying, "it's all so beautiful! and no one ever speaks loud or cross; and every one has shining white clothes, and flowers on their heads; and some one is there-I don't know-I guess it's an angel; but she's got soft hands, and such pretty shiny hair, and eyes all full of loving me. I dream about her sometimes; but I don't know who she is: and you mustn't tell, Argus. Sometimes I want to die, so as to go to heaven and look for her. Argus, do you want to go to heaven?" The brown eyes said that Argus wished whatever she did; and Sunshine continued:— "Well, some day we'll go. I don't know just how; I don't believe we'd find the way if we went now: but some day I shall know, and then I'll tell you. Sometimes I feel so lonesome, Argus! oh, so dreadful homesick! but I don't now. You're a real little comforter, Argus. That's what Dora called me the other night when Kitty was cross: and Dora cried a little when she came to bed, and didn't know I was awake; and I kissed her just so, Argus, and so." In the game of romps and kisses that ensued, Karl stole away, and, after repeating the child's prattle to Dora, said thoughtfully,— "There's something strange about her, Dora; something different from any of us. She seems so finely and delicately made, and as if one rude jar might destroy the whole tone of her life. If ever a creature was formed of peculiar, instead of common clay, it is Sunshine." "Yes, and she must be shielded accordingly," said Dora. But, as she walked on beside Karl, she vaguely wondered if there were not natures as finely strung and as sensitive to suffering as Sunshine's, but united with so reticent an exterior, and such outward strength, as never to gain the sympathy or appreciation so freely bestowed upon the exquisite child. Such introspection, however, was no part of Dora's healthy temperament; and the next moment she had plunged into a talk upon farm-matters with her cousin, and displayed such shrewdness and clear-sighted wisdom upon the subject, that Capt. Karl laughingly exclaimed, as they entered the house,— "O general! why weren't you born a man?" CHAPTER XXX. KITTY IN THE WOODS. LEFT to his own guidance, Capt. Karl would have asked no better life than to follow Dora about the farm, or fulfil for her such duties as she could not conveniently perform for herself. Nor was he ever troubled, as a man of less sweet and genial temper might have been, by fears, lest, in thus attending upon his cousin's pleasure, he sacrificed somewhat of manly dignity and the awful supremacy of the sterner sex. "Dora knows" had become to Karl a sufficient explanation of every thing, either in the character or the administration of the girl-farmer, however mysterious it might seem to others; and to defer to Dora's judgment and wishes was perhaps pleasanter and safer in the eyes of the young man than to attempt to consult his own. But, pleasant though this life might be to both, it came by no means within the scope of Dora's plans; and, so soon as the family were thoroughly settled at Outpost, Karl found himself urged by irresistible pressure to the pursuance of his medical studies. Five miles from Outpost, in the youthful town of Greenfield, was already established a respectable physician of the old school, who, troubled with certain qualms and doubts as to the ability of the system he had practised so many years to bear the scrutiny of the new lights thrown upon it by the progress of science, was very glad to secure the services, and even advice, of a young man educated in the best medical schools of the Eastern States; and not only consented to take Karl into his office as student until the nominal term of his studies should have expired, but offered him a partnership in his practice so soon as he should receive his diploma. The arrangement was accordingly made; and every morning after breakfast, Karl, often with a rueful face, often with an audible protest, mounted his horse, and rode to Greenfield, leaving the household at Outpost to a long day of various occupations until his return at night. Sometimes Dora, upon Max, her little Indian pony, would accompany him a few miles, or as far as his road led toward the scene of her own labors; but no Spartan dame or Roman matron could more sternly have resisted the young man's frequent entreaties to be allowed to accompany her farther than the point at which their roads diverged. "No, sir! You to your work, and I to mine. Suppose I were to neglect the farm, and come to sit in Dr. Gershom's office all day," argued the fair young moralist, but found herself rather disconcerted by her pupil's gleeful laugh, as he replied,— "Good, good! Try it once, do; and let me see if it would be so very bad. I think I could forgive you." "Suppose, then, instead of arguing any more with you, I jump Max over this brook, and leave you where you are?" said Dora, a little vexed; and, suiting the action to the word, she was off before her cousin could remonstrate. In the evening of the day when this little scene occurred, Karl, upon his return home, found Dora seated with Sunshine upon the grass under the great chestnut-tree. "A letter for you, you horrid tyrant!" said he, taking one from his pocket, and tossing it into her lap. "She isn't; and you are a naughty old Karlo to say such names!" cried Sunshine, flashing her blue eyes indignantly upon the laughing face of the young man. "Such names as what, Dolce?" asked he, jumping from his horse, and trying to catch the child, who evaded his grasp, and replied with dignity,— "It isn't any consequence, Karlo. She isn't it, and you know she isn't." "But it is of consequence; for I don't know what it is she isn't. Please tell me, mousey; won't you?" "She isn't a tireout, you know she isn't, then. You sha'n't laugh! Dora, shall Karlo laugh at me? shall he?" "No, dear, he won't; but you mustn't be a cross little girl if he does. Now run to the house, and tell Aunt Kitty that Karlo has come home, and see if tea is ready." The child put up her lips for a kiss, bestowed a glance of dignified severity upon the offender, and walked towards the house with measured steps for a little distance; then, with the frolicsome caprice of a kitten, made a little caper in the air, and danced on, singing, in her clear, sweet voice,—"Dear, dear, what can the matter be? Karlo can't stay from here!" "Funny child!" exclaimed the object of the stave. "A true little woman, with her loves and spites. Who is the letter from, Dolo?" "Mr. Brown," said Dora, slowly folding it, and rising from her seat under the tree to return to the house. "Aha! Seems to me the parson is not so attentive as he used to be. Have you and he fallen out?" "No, indeed! we are the best of friends; and, in proof of it, this letter is to say he is coming to make a little visit at Outpost, if convenient to us." "And is it convenient?" asked Karl somewhat curtly. "Certainly; or, at least, we can make it so. Either you can take him into your room, or Kitty can give him hers, and come into mine." Karl said nothing; but, as they walked toward the house, his face remained unusually serious, and he seemed to be thinking deeply. Dora glanced at him once or twice, and at last asked abruptly,— "Don't you want Mr. Brown to come, Karl?" "Certainly, certainly, if you do. It is your own house, and you have a right to your own guests," replied the young man coldly. Dora colored indignantly. "For shame, Karl! Did I ever say a thing like that to you in the old house? and would you have been pleased if I had?" "No, Dolo; and no again. But you never were a selfish fool, like me. Yes, I am glad Mr. Brown is coming; and I think I will stay at Greenfield while he is here. Then he can have my room." "No, no: that won't do at all. He comes to see us all; and, of course, we can manage a room without turning you out. Kitty can come into mine"— "Dora, what is the day of the month?" "The 17th, I believe." "Yes, the 17th of August; and seven days more will bring the 24th of August, Dora." "Of course. Do you suppose he will be here by that time?" asked Dora unconsciously. Karl looked at her in a sort of comic despair. "Dora, if you were not the most utterly truthful of girls, you would be the most cruel of coquettes." Dora's eyes rose swiftly to his face, read it for a moment, and then fell; while a sudden color dyed her own. "You remember the date now?" asked Karl, almost mockingly. "See here!" and, taking from his pocket the memorandum-book of a year before, he opened it to a page bearing only the words,— "Dora. Wednesday, Aug. 24." "O Karl! I thought"— "Stop, general! It is I who must be officer of the day on this occasion; and I forbid one word. I only wished to let you see that I have not forgotten. And so Mr. Brown is coming to see us?" Again Dora glanced in perplexity at her cousin's face, but, this time, said not a word. Indeed, if she had wished, there was hardly time; for Kitty, appearing at the door, called,— "Come, folks, come! Supper is ready and cooling." "Coming, Kit-kat; and so is somebody else!" cried Karl. "Somebody? Christmas is coming, I suppose; but not just yet. Did you hear that over at Greenfield?" replied Kitty, resting her hands on her brother's shoulders, and graciously receiving his kiss of greeting. "It's not Christmas, but Parson Brown, who is coming; and I brought the news from Greenfield, although I did not know it until I arrived here," said Karl. "Oh, a letter to Dora!" exclaimed Kitty quickly; and over her face, a moment before so bright, fell a scowling cloud, as she turned away, and busied herself with putting tea upon the table. The meal was rather a silent one. Kitty was decidedly sulky, Dora thoughtful, and Karl a little bitter in his forced gayety; so that Sunshine, sensitive as a mimosa, ate but little, and, creeping close to Dora's side as they rose from the table, whispered,— "What's the reason it isn't happier, Dora?" "Aren't you happy, pet? Come and help me wash the teacups, and tell me how the kitties do to-day. Have you given them their milk?" "I suppose you can do up these dishes without me. I got tea all alone; and I'd like to take my turn at a walk, or something pleasant, now," said Kitty crossly. "Yes, do, Kitty. Dolce and I will do all that is to be done. It isn't much, because you always clear up as you go along," said Dora. "There's no need of leaving every thing round, the way some folks do. Dolly, I do wish you'd set up your chair when you've done with it; and here's a mess of stuff"— "Oh, don't throw it away, Kitty! It's my moss; and I'm going to make the pussies a house of stones, and have it grow all over moss. Dora said I might—Oh, oh! you're real naughty and ugly now, Kitty Windsor; and I sha'n't love you, and Argus shall bite you"— But Kitty, with a contemptuous laugh, was already walking away, taking especial pains to tread upon the bits of bright moss as they lay scattered along the path. "Dora, see! I do hate-no, I dislike-Kitty, just as hard as I can; and I can't get any more pretty moss"— The child was crying passionately; and Dora left every thing to take her in her arms, and soothe and quiet her. "Aunt Kitty is very neat and nice, little Sunshine; and the moss has earth clinging to it that might drop on the floor; and, besides, it takes up room, and we have so little,—hardly more than a mouse has in its nest. Oh! I never told you how I found a whole nest of mice in one of my slippers once,—six little tiny fellows, no bigger than your thumb; and every one with two little black, beady eyes, and a funny little tail." "When was it? When you was a little teenty girl, like me? And was you afraid of the big mouse? What did you do with them?" "Come, wipe the teaspoons, and I will tell you," said Dora, going back to her work; and, the April cloud having passed, the Sunshine was as bright as ever. Karl, behind his newspaper, heard, saw, and understood the whole; and his mental comment might have seemed to some hearers but little connected with the scene that called it forth. It was simply,— "Confound old Brown!" Kitty, meantime, had walked rapidly towards the wood; but though the sunset-clouds were gorgeous, the lights and shadows of the forest rare and shifting, and the birds jubilant in their evening song, she saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing, except the tumult in her own heart. For, in the recesses of the wood, she paused, and throwing herself upon the ground, her face hidden upon her arms, gave way to a paroxysm of tears. Then, rising to her feet as suddenly, she paced up and down, her hands clinched before her, her black brows knit, and her mouth hard and sullen. "I can't help it," muttered she: "it's the way I was made, and the way I shall die, I expect. I know I'm mean and hateful, and not half as good as she; but—Oh! it's too bad, too bad!-it's cruel, and I can't bear it! Mother loved me,—yes, she loved me best of every thing; and that hateful Pic killed her: whose fault was that but Dora's? Then Charlie-what does he care for me beside her? and, and— Well, perhaps Mr. Brown never would have noticed me at any rate; but, while she's round, he has no eyes for any one else. Even the child, and the cats, and the dog, and the horses, every living thing, loves her better than me; and now he's coming to court her right before my eyes! I wish I was dead! I wish I'd never been born! I'm not fit to live!" She then threw herself again upon the ground, pressing her burning forehead against the cool moss, and grasping handfuls of the leaves rustling about her, while she wailed again and again,— "I'm not fit to live,—not fit to live! Oh, I wish I was dead this minute! O God! if you love me any better than the rest, let me die, let me die this minute; for I am not fit to live." "Then you cannot be fit to die, my child," said a voice above her; and, starting up, Kitty found herself confronted by a tall, fine-looking man, of about thirty years of age; his handsome face just now wearing an expression of sorrowful sternness as he fixed his eyes upon Kitty's, which fell before them. "Mr. Brown!" stammered she. "Yes, Kitty: my journey has been more rapid than I could have expected; and I arrived at Greenfield about an hour ago. Finding you so near, I took a horse, and came out here to-night. You did not hear me approach; and, when I saw you through the trees, I dismounted, and came to ask you what was the matter. I heard only your last words, and perhaps I should not have noticed them; yet, as a friend of you and yours, I will say again, Kitty, he who is not fit to live should feel himself most unfit to die, which is but to live with all the passions that made life unendurable made ours forever." "Do you think so? If I should die now, should I feel just as badly when I came to in the other world?" asked Kitty with at startled look. Mr. Brown smiled, as he answered,— "I cannot think, Kitty, that your remorse or your sorrows can be as deep as you fancy. Perhaps they are only trifling vexations connected with outside matters, not rising from real wrong within. But you won't want to hear a sermon before I even reach the house: so come and show me the way there, and tell me how you all are." "Dora is very well," said Kitty, so crisply, that Mr. Brown glanced at her sharply, and walked on in silence. Presently he said,— "You must not think, Kitty, that I mean to treat your troubles lightly, whatever they may be. Think about them a little longer by yourself; and in a day or two, if they still seem as unendurable, perhaps it will relieve you to talk to me as plainly as you choose. I shall be very glad to help you if I can, Kitty; very glad and willing. You must look upon me as another brother." "Or a cousin, maybe, sir?" suggested Kitty, turning away her head.

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