Cynthia was full of joy, running down to the gate to meet and greet guests.  They came in groups of twos and threes, having called for each other.  There were fifteen in all the girls she knew best, who were nearest her own age, and at most of the houses she had been made a welcome guest.  Indeed, more than one mother was glad to have her daughter good friends with Miss Cynthia Leverett, who was to be a rich young woman, and whose trustee in Boston lived in fine style.

Yet it was not exactly that money was so much thought of either, though it was always esteemed an excellent thing.  Somehow it was rather relegated to the men.  A father had an idea that his daughters would marry well, so business opportunities, and often the homestead, went to the sons.  Here was an undivided fortune.  And now it was hardly likely Chilian Leverett would marry, so she might come in for that.

The house had always been considered rather gloomy, as even on state occasions not much light was allowed in the parlors.  Some of the girls had been gently advised to notice if there had been changes made.

Cynthia led them upstairs to take off their things.  They were rather particular about complexions in those days.  Some of the summer hats were really ornate sunbonnets, others were the great poke shape with a big bow on top and wide strings that were allowed to float on a hot day, so as not to get crushed by the warmth under the chin.  They had long muslin sleeves to pull over their arms, indeed some of them were finished with mittens, so that the hands might not get tanned.

The girls wore rather scant straight skirts, tucked up to the waist, or with needlework at the bottom, or two or three tiny ruffles.  The stockings were not always white, oftener they matched the color of the slippers that were laced across the instep.  The necks were cut square, often finished with a lace berthe.  Some old families have handed these down and kept them laid away in rose leaves and lavender, and they are so sweet that when they are shaken out they perfume the room.

Cynthia wore a white gauzy frock made over blue silk that was soft as a pansy leaf.  It had blue satin stripes and she was very glad she had the pretty blue slippers to match.  Then almost every girl had a coral necklace, or was allowed to wear grandmother’s gold beads.  Some had their hair tied up high on their heads with a great bow, and maybe the family silver or gold comb put in artistically.  Chilian liked the little girl’s to hang loose, and now it was down to her waist.

It was said the Holland wives of centuries ago took their visitors through their wardrobes and displayed their silk and velvet gowns.  And when England passed some sumptuary laws that no one below titled rank should wear silk, the good wives of traders lined theirs with silk and hung them up in grand array to gratify their visitors or themselves.

“You have so many lovely things,” said a girl enviously.  “I haven’t but one silk frock, and that was Mary’s until she outgrew it.  And mother’s so choice of it; she thinks it ought to last and go to Ruth.”

“Why, you see, so many things came from India,” apologized Cynthia, almost ashamed of having so much.  “And there’s a boxful upstairs, but I think I like the white muslins best, they look so pretty when they are clean, and you don’t have to be so careful.”

“Do you ever get scolded when accidents happen?”

“Well, not much.  Cousin Eunice is so sweet.  Cousin Elizabeth was more particular.”

“And Miss Winn?”

“Oh, my dear Rachel loves me too much,” the child said laughingly.

There were so many odd and pretty things that they staid up until all the girls had come not one of them declined.  Then they went down to the parlors.

“Cousin Chilian said this back room was to be mine.  That lovely desk and the cabinet were my own mother’s.  And the table is teakwood.  The chair father had carved for me, and that big portrait is father.  This case has miniatures of them both, but it is too big ever to wear.”

“What a pity!”

It was a beautifully engraved gold case, set with jewels.

“Well, you are a lucky girl!  And you can have all these yourself.  You just don’t have to share them with anybody.  Is the room truly yours?”

“Why, it is to put my things in, but anybody can come in it, and we can go in the other room.  Most of those articles were Cousin Chilian’s father’s and mother’s, and the great clock in the hall came over in 1640.  It’s funny;” and she laughed.  “Old furniture and quilts and things never get cross and queer as folks sometimes do.”

“Well, they’re not really alive.”

“And they last so much longer than folks.”

They had not inspected all the things when Miss Winn invited them out to supper.  She took the head of the table, and began to talk so that they should not feel embarrassed.  The lovely old china was on the table, and two vases of flowers that looked as if they were set with gems.  ’Mimy passed the plates of bread and butter and cold meats and cottage cheese, and after a little they all began to talk as if it was recess at school.

Mr. Chilian Leverett passed through the sitting-room and thought it was really an enchanting sight, and that Cynthia was the prettiest girl of them all.

People had not thought up ice cream in those days, but they made lovely custards, baked in cups with handles, and a tiny spoon to eat them with.  They were the last of the tea.

Then they went into the front parlor, which was the larger and played fox and geese, and blind-man’s buff in a ring.  Oh, Elizabeth, it was enough to disturb your rest to have those merry feet twinkle over the beautiful rug, when you scarcely dared walk tiptoe for fear of crushing the soft pile.  But they had a grand, good time.

Then Mr. Leverett brought in Cousin Eunice, who had a bit of white at her neck and wrists, and a lavender bow on her cap.  She had protested against the bow, but Miss Winn had carried her point.

Mr. Leverett set them to doing some amusing things he had resurrected from his own boyhood.  Catches on words, such as “Malaga grapes are very good grapes, but the grapes of Oporto are better.”  And then, “A hen, a hen, but not a rooster.  Can you say that?” They were greatly puzzled and looked at Cynthia, who was silently smiling, saying it over in every manner, until at last one girl almost shrieked out, “That,” and there was a chorus of laughter.

At nine o’clock they were bidden to come home.  Some of them were sent for and those who lived near together went in a group.  Ben Upham came for his sisters.

“I don’t see why they couldn’t have had boys,” said Ben to Polly.  “Ever so many of us would have been glad to come.”

“Well, we didn’t have any real boys’ plays.  But the supper was elegant.  And ’Mimy waited so nicely.  Cynthia’s going to have the back parlor for hers, and Mr. Leverett has bought a new spinet.  And she has the most beautiful things ”

“Oh, yes, I’ve seen those;” rather impatiently.

“And Mr. Leverett’s just splendid!”

“I always told you so;” somewhat grumpily.  “But I’d rather be up in the study with him and Cynthy than to go to half a dozen parties.”

“Oh, we weren’t in the study at all.”

“No, that isn’t for girls.”  So he had scored one, after all.

It was the general verdict when the tea party was talked over that Cynthia Leverett was in a fair way of being spoiled.  A man didn’t know how to bring up a girl, and, of course, Miss Winn let her have her own way.  Miss Eunice had given in to her sister so long that she gave in to every one else.

Friends went to call and found the children had not exaggerated.  Now and then a neighbor was asked in to supper, and found Cynthia a nice, modest girl, with no airs of superiority.

They had some journeys about.  They went up to the bay of Fundy and cruised around, chatting with fishermen and French settlers in their odd costumes, looked at their funny little huts, and were amazed at the children rolling round in the sand and the sun.  Cousin Chilian talked to them, but their language was a sort of patois difficult to understand.

After that Cynthia was much interested in the French and English war.  And the whole country was watching the Corsican who had made himself master of half of Europe.

“It is a wonderful world,” Cynthia said when they were safe in the study again.  “And I wonder if it is narrow and selfish to be glad that you are just you?”

He was amused at the idea.  But he couldn’t recall that he had ever been anxious to change with any one.

“And that you are just you.  I couldn’t like any one else as well, not even Cousin Giles, and I do like him very much.”

Chilian felt a rise of color stealing up his cheek.  The preference was sweet, for Cousin Giles was extremely indulgent to her, and he was not a child enthusiast either.

In those days no one supposed parents and friends were put in the world purposely for children’s pleasure.  They didn’t even consider they came for their pleasure.  It was right to have them, they were to be the future men and women, workers, legislators, and homemakers.  They didn’t always have easy times, nor their own way, and they were not thought to be wiser than their parents, even in the choice of professions for life.  But there were many fine brave fellows among the boys, and the girls went on, making pretty good wives and mothers.  If life did not bring them just what they wished, they accepted it and did the best they could.

Anthony Drayton came to make Cousin Chilian a visit and pass an examination for Harvard.  With a little help he had worked his way through the academy.  He was one of the brave, resolute boys, and, though it grieved him to go against his father’s wishes, he had decided for himself.

“I really could not bury myself on a farm,” he confessed.  “I want a wider life, I want to mix with men and take an interest in the country.  Not that I despise farming, and if one could branch out and do many new things, but to keep on year after year in the old rut, corn and potatoes, wheat and rye just as grandfather did.  What is the use of a man living if he can’t strike out some new ways?  Maybe I’d been willing to go to the new countries, but father was just as opposed to that.”

He was a fresh, fair lad, with eyes of the Leverett blue, a strong, fine face, not delicate as Cousin Chilian’s.  His hair was not very dark, but his brows well defined, and with the eyelashes much darker than the hair.  His voice had such a cheerful uplift.

“You have quite decided then?” Chilian wondered if he could ever have gone against his father’s wishes, but in that case father and son had similar tastes.

“Oh, yes; I’ve nothing farther to look for, and I’m willing to leave my share to the other children.  I know I can make my way, and I’m ready to work and wait.”

His voice had such a nice wholesome ring that it inspired you with faith in him.

Cousin Eunice took a great fancy to him.  They talked over the visit of years ago.  It seemed to her as if it had just been the beginning of things.

One sister was grown up and “keeping company,” the other a nice handy girl.  The next brother would be a great help he cared nothing for books.  Both of the Brent cousins were married, one living on the farm with his mother, the other having struck out for himself.  And Miss Eliza Leverett was weakly.  Like many women of that period, when all hope of marrying and having a home of her own was past, she sank down into a gentle nonentity and dreamed of Cousin Chilian.  Not that she had expected to captivate him, but life with some one like that would set one on the highest pinnacle.

He thought Cousin Cynthia they were always cousins, to the fourth generation was the sweetest, daintiest, and most winsome thing he had ever seen and so she was, for his acquaintance with girls had been limited.  They looked over the old treasures in the house and thought it wonderful any one should ever go to India and return without being wrecked.  They walked about the lovely garden, and he was amazed at her familiarity with flowers and plants he had never seen.

Then she took him over to the Uphams, for an old friend came in to play checkers with Cousin Chilian.  Polly was bright and merry, but somehow Ben seemed rather captious.  Anthony listened with surprise at the bright sayings they flung at one another.

The next day he and Cousin Chilian went over topics for examination.  His reading had not been extensive but thorough.  In mathematics he was excellent.  But he found some time to chat with Cynthia, and they both walked down to the warehouse with Cousin Chilian.

What a sight it was!  He had read of such things, but to see the hundreds of busy men, the great fleet of vessels, the docks piled with all kinds of wares, the boxes and bales lying round in endless confusion.  And the great ocean, lost over beyond in the far-off sky.

When the two had gone up to Boston, Cynthia felt very lonely.  She had been sipping the sweets of unspoken admiration.  She saw it in the eyes, in the deference, as if he was almost afraid of her, in the sudden flush when she turned her eyes to him.  It was a new kind of worship.

She went over to the Uphams.  Polly had been having her sampler framed.  The acorn border was very pretty in its greens and browns.  Then a stiff little tree grew up both sides, about like those that came in the Noah’s Ark later on.  And between these two trees was worked in cross-stitch: 

“Mary Upham is my name,
America is my nation;
Salem is my dwelling place,
And Christ is my salvation.”

“Isn’t the frame nice?” she asked.  “I made father two shirts and he gave me the frame and the glass.  Peter Daly made it.  And the frame is oiled and polished until the grain shows well, almost like watered silk.  Gitty Sprague has a beautiful pelisse of gray watered silk.  And now I have one thing for my house.  I’m beginning to lay by.”

“Your house!” Cynthia ejaculated in surprise.

“Why, yes when I’m married.  You have such lots of things, you’ll never have to save up.”

Cynthia was wondering what she could give away.  Not anything that was her father’s or her mother’s.

“I’ll paint you a picture.  You do so much better needlework than I that I should be ashamed to offer you any.”

“And the girls will give me some, I know.  I’d fifty times rather have the picture.  What a nice young fellow that cousin is!  I’m glad his name isn’t Leverett.  There’s such a host of them.  But I don’t like Anthony so well.”

“That was father’s name.  It’s quite a family name.  It always sounds good to me.”

“And is he going to Harvard?”

“Yes; even if he can’t get in right away.”

“That’s nice, too.  It’s quite the style for young men to go to college.  Some of them put on a sight of airs, though.  He doesn’t look like that kind.”

“He isn’t,” she returned warmly.  “He is going to work his way through.”

“Oh!  Hasn’t he any father?”

“Yes; but his father will not do anything for him.  I think it is real grand of him.”

Polly nodded, but she lost interest in the young man.

Bentley walked home with Cynthia.  It was afternoon, so he did not really need to.

“I suppose that cousin isn’t going to live with you?” he asked presently.

“Oh, no; he will have to live in Boston.”

“And come up here for Sundays?”

“Why, I don’t know.  That would be nice.  I think I am growing fond of company.”

“Well, I can come over;” half jocosely.

“Oh, I meant other people;” innocently.

“Then you don’t care for my coming?”

“Yes, I do.  Oh, do you remember that winter I was half sick and how you used to come over and read Latin?  And I used to say it to myself after you.”

That delighted him.  He didn’t feel so cross about the young fellow, but he half hoped he wouldn’t pass, and have to go back to New Hampshire for another year.

They sat on the stoop and chatted until the old stage stopped and Chilian alighted.

“Oh!” the young girl cried, “where did you leave Anthony?”

“With Cousin Giles.  The examinations will begin to-morrow.”

It was near supper-time and Ben rose to go.  Sometimes they asked him to stay to supper, but to-night they did not.

Then an event happened that took Cynthia’s entire interest for a while.  This was the return of Captain Corwin.  He came up the walk one day quite a grizzled old fellow it seemed, with the sailor’s rolling gait and looked at her so sharply that she had a mind to run away.

“Oh, Captain Anthony’s little girl,” he cried.  “You have forgotten me.  And it ain’t been so long either.”

She thought a moment and turned from red to white.  Then she stretched out both hands and cried, her eyes and voice full of tears: 

“Oh, you couldn’t bring him back!”

“No, little Missy.  He’d shipped for the last time before I’d reached there and gone to a better haven.  He was the best friend I ever had.  But he knew it long afore, and that was why he wanted you safe with friends.”

“I know now.”  She brushed the tears from her eyes.

“And I hope you’ve been happy.”

“I waited and waited at first.  Sometimes I wished I was a bird.  Oh, wouldn’t we have a lovely time if we could fly?  And one time in the winter I was quite ill it was so cold and I did get so tired of waiting.  Then Cousin Chilian told me he had gone to mother and I knew how glad she would be to see him.  I had some nice times.  Cousin Chilian loved me very much.  So did Cousin Eunice.  I think Cousin Elizabeth would if she had lived longer, but she went away, too.  Oh, I’ve done so many things studied books, and taken journeys, and made friends, and painted pictures, flowers, and such.  And I’ve tried to paint the sea, but I can’t make it move and seem like a real sea.”

“Oh, Missy, how smart you must be!”

“There are so many things I don’t know,” she laughed.  “And now tell me about yourself and why you did not come back.”

“We had a pretty fair journey all along first.  But as we were nearing Torres Strait an awful storm took us, and we were driven ashore almost a wreck and lost two of our men.  After a while we got patched up and set sail again, but I was afraid we would never reach harbor.  Howsomever we did, in a pretty bad condition.  Poor Flying Star seemed on its last legs and ’twasn’t sea legs either.  Then I went up to Hong Kong and cruised around, buying stuff and selling it elsewhere.  The Flying Star was patched up again, but she wasn’t thought safe for a long journey.  But there was plenty of work near at hand.  Of course, I knew all about your father, and that the word must have reached you, but I hated mortally to come back and face you.  But after a while the hankerin’ for old Salem grew upon me.  And there was the Aurora wantin’ a captain, for the man who brought her out died of a fever.  So says I, ’I’m your man, and I’ve been over often enough to know the ropes, the islands, and p’ints of danger and safe sailing.’  So here I be once more.  But jiminy Peter!  I should hardly ‘a’ knowed little old Salem.  Why, she looks as if she was going to outsail all creation!”

“Oh, we’re getting very grand.  New streets, and splendid new houses, and stores, and churches.  Why, Boston isn’t very much finer.”

“Don’t b’lieve Boston harbor can show tonnage with her!  And where’s first mate?”

“I don’t know, but he will be in soon.  Oh, there’s Rachel.  Rachel, come here to an old friend.”

The captain shook hands heartily.  “Why, you don’t seem to have changed a mite, only to grow younger and plump as a partridge.”

It had all to be talked over again and in the midst of it supper was ready, and there was Miss Eunice’s surprise.  Cynthia could hardly eat, the long journey and the dangers seemed such a strange thing now.  Had she really come from India, or was it all a dream?

Yes, old Salem was almost fading out of the minds of even middle-aged people.  There were curious stories told about witches and ghosts, but the real witchcraft was dying out of mind and the old houses that had been associated with it were looked upon as curiosities.  Public spirit was being roused.  In 1804 the East India Marine Society left the Stearns house and moved to the new Pickman Building in Essex Street.  People began to send in curiosities that had been stored away in garrets:  models of early vessels, articles from Calcutta, from the islands about the Central and South Pacific, cloths, and cloaks, and shawls, and implements.

The captain was quite sure Winter Island had grown larger perhaps it had, by docking out.  And he declared the streets looked like London, with the gayly gowned women, the stores, the carriages, for a number of handsome late ones were to be seen.  There were a few fine young men on the promenade and they were attired in the height of fashion, as the society men of New York and Philadelphia.  They were still paying attention to business and devoting the evenings to pleasure.  Descendants of the strict old Puritans met to play cards and have dances and gay times with the young ladies.  In the afternoon a cup of tea would be offered to callers, or a piece of choice cake and a glass of wine often home-made.  There were few excesses.

Many were still wearing the old Continental attire, yet you saw an old Puritan gentleman, with his long coat, his high-crowned hat, black silk stockings, and low shoes with great steel buckles.

Anthony was very much interested in the captain, whose best friend had been Anthony Leverett.  He was proud of the name, and Cynthia’s story was like a romance to him.  He was taken up quite cordially by Cousin Giles, and very cordially by Mrs. Stevens, who had a liking for young men when they were well-mannered.  He had managed to enter Harvard, with some studies to make up.  Chilian Leverett insisted he should do no teaching this year, and offered him enough to see him through, but he would only accept it as a loan.

Bentley Upham was a year ahead and had a good standing, but he felt a little jealous of the young country fellow “bumpkin” he would have liked to call him, but he was not that.  A young man received at Mr. Giles Leverett’s, and who sometimes escorted Mrs. Stevens to an entertainment, was not to be ignored.

The captain staid in port nearly two months and Cynthia experienced her old fondness for him, if he was a little uncouth and rough.  They went down to see the Aurora off and she recalled the day she had said good-bye to the Flying Star, that was to bring back her father.

As for her she was very busy learning to play and to paint.  It was a young lady’s accomplishment, but she really did very well.  There were girls’ teas, and now and then a small dance that began at seven and ended at nine, but boys were invited generally.  Miss Polly Upham was quite in the swim, as we should say now.  Mothers expected their daughters to marry, and how could they if they did not see young men?  But there was a certain propriety observed, and very little playing fast and loose with the most sacred period of life, with the greatest God-given blessing Love.