A shaky perambulator was found in Mrs. Perkinss wonderful attic; shoes and stockings were furnished by Mrs. Robinson; Miss Jane Sawyer knitted a blanket and some shirts; Thirza Meserve, though too young for an aunt, coaxed from her mother some dresses and nightgowns, and was presented with a green paper certificate allowing her to wheel Jacky up and down the road for an hour under the superintendence of a full Aunt. Each girl, under the constitution of the association, could call Jacky hers for two days in the week, and great, though friendly, was the rivalry between them, as they washed, ironed, and sewed for their adored nephew.
If Mrs. Cobb had not been the most amiable woman in the world she might have had difficulty in managing the aunts, but she always had Jacky to herself the earlier part of the day and after dusk at night.
Meanwhile Jack-o-lantern grew healthier and heartier and jollier as the weeks slipped away. Uncle Jerry joined the little company of worshipers and slaves, and one fear alone stirred in all their hearts; not, as a sensible and practical person might imagine, the fear that the recreant father might never return to claim his child, but, on the contrary, that he MIGHT do so!
October came at length with its cheery days and frosty nights, its glory of crimson leaves and its golden harvest of pumpkins and ripened corn. Rebecca had been down by the Edgewood side of the river and had come up across the pastures for a good-night play with Jacky. Her literary labors had been somewhat interrupted by the joys and responsibilities of vice-motherhood, and the thought book was less frequently drawn from its hiding place under the old haymow in the barn chamber.
Mrs. Cobb stood behind the screen door with her face pressed against the wire netting, and Rebecca could see that she was wiping her eyes.
All at once the childs heart gave one prophetic throb and then stood still. She was like a harp that vibrated with every wind of emotion, whether from anothers grief or her own.
She looked down the lane, around the curve of the stone wall, red with woodbine, the lane that would meet the stage road to the station. There, just mounting the crown of the hill and about to disappear on the other side, strode a stranger man, big and tall, with a crop of reddish curly hair showing from under his straw hat. A woman walked by his side, and perched on his shoulder, wearing his most radiant and triumphant mien, as joyous in leaving Edgewood as he had been during every hour of his sojourn thererode Jack-o-lantern!
Rebecca gave a cry in which maternal longing and helpless, hopeless jealousy strove for supremacy. Then, with an impetuous movement she started to run after the disappearing trio.
Mrs. Cobb opened the door hastily, calling after her, Rebecca, Rebecca, come back here! You mustnt follow where you havent any right to go. If thered been anything to say or do, Id a done it.
Hes mine! Hes mine! stormed Rebecca. At least hes yours and mine!
Hes his fathers first of all, faltered Mrs. Cobb; dont lets forget that; and wed ought to be glad and grateful that John Winslows come to his senses an remembers hes brought a child into the world and ought to take care of it. Our loss is his gain and it may make a man of him. Come in, and well put things away all neat before your Uncle Jerry gets home.
Rebecca sank in a pitiful little heap on Mrs. Cobbs bedroom floor and sobbed her heart out. Oh, Aunt Sarah, where shall we get another Jack-o-lantern, and how shall I break it to Emma Jane? What if his father doesnt love him, and what if he forgets to strain the milk or lets him go without his nap? Thats the worst of babies that arent privateyou have to part with them sooner or later!
Sometimes you have to part with your own, too, said Mrs. Cobb sadly; and though there were lines of sadness in her face there was neither rebellion nor repining, as she folded up the sides of the turn-up bedstead preparatory to banishing it a second time to the attic. I shall miss Sarah Ellen now moren ever. Still, Rebecca, we mustnt feel to complain. Its the Lord that giveth and the Lord that taketh away: Blessed be the name of the Lord.
Second Chronicle. DAUGHTERS OF ZION
I
Abijah Flagg was driving over to Wareham on an errand for old Squire Winship, whose general chore-boy and farmers assistant he had been for some years.
He passed Emma Jane Perkinss house slowly, as he always did. She was only a little girl of thirteen and he a boy of fifteen or sixteen, but somehow, for no particular reason, he liked to see the sun shine on her thick braids of reddish-brown hair. He admired her china-blue eyes too, and her amiable, friendly expression. He was quite alone in the world, and he always thought that if he had anybody belonging to him he would rather have a sister like Emma Jane Perkins than anything else within the power of Providence to bestow. When she herself suggested this relationship a few years later he cast it aside with scorn, having changed his mind in the intervalbut that story belongs to another time and place.
Emma Jane was not to be seen in garden, field, or at the window, and Abijah turned his gaze to the large brick house that came next on the other side of the quiet village street. It might have been closed for a funeral. Neither Miss Miranda nor Miss Jane Sawyer sat at their respective windows knitting, nor was Rebecca Randalls gypsy face to be discerned. Ordinarily that will-o-the wispish little person could be seen, heard, or felt wherever she was.
The village must be abed, I guess, mused Abijah, as he neared the Robinsons yellow cottage, where all the blinds were closed and no sign of life showed on porch or in shed. No, t aint, neither, he thought again, as his horse crept cautiously down the hill, for from the direction of the Robinsons barn chamber there floated out into the air certain burning sentiments set to the tune of Antioch. The words, to a lad brought up in the orthodox faith, were quite distinguishable:
Daughter of Zion, from the dust, Exalt thy fallen head!
Even the most religious youth is stronger on first lines than others, but Abijah pulled up his horse and waited till he caught another familiar verse, beginning:
Rebuild thy walls, thy bounds enlarge, And send thy heralds forth.
Thats Rebecca carrying the air, and I can hear Emma Janes alto.
Say to the North,
Give up thy charge,
And hold not back, O South,
And hold not back, O South, etc.
Land! aint they smart, seesawin up and down in that part they learnt in singin school! I wonder what theyre actin out, singin hymn-tunes up in the barn chamber? Some o Rebeccas doins, Ill be bound! Git dap, Aleck!
Aleck pursued his serene and steady trot up the hills on the Edgewood side of the river, till at length he approached the green Common where the old Tory Hill meeting-house stood, its white paint and green blinds showing fair and pleasant in the afternoon sun. Both doors were open, and as Abijah turned into the Wareham road the church melodeon pealed out the opening bars of the Missionary Hymn, and presently a score of voices sent the good old tune from the choir-loft out to the dusty road:
Shall we whose souls are lighted
With Wisdom from on high,
Shall we to men benighted
The lamp of life deny?
Land! exclaimed Abijah under his breath. Theyre at it up here, too! That explains it all. Theres a missionary meeting at the church, and the girls want allowed to come so they held one of their own, and I bate ye its the liveliest of the two.