“You must not expect much excitement
up in Sandgate,” Albert said to his friend the
day they started for that quiet village. “It
is a small place, and all the people do in the winter
is to chop wood, shovel snow, eat, and go to meeting.
We shall go sleighing and I shall take you to church
to be stared at, and for the rest Alice and Aunt Susan
will give us plenty to eat.”
It must be admitted that this same
Alice, whose picture had so interested him, was the
attraction which made young Nason glad to accept his
friend’s cordial invitation, and then he really
felt a very warm friendship for that friend.
It is likely that the perfect sincerity and wholesome
ideas of Albert attracted and held his rather more
pliable and easy-going nature. The strong attract
the weak, among men, and Frank Nason, never having
been hardened by adversity, looked up to and admired
the man who had courage and perseverance. He wondered
if Alice was like him, and rather hoped not.
It was nearly dark and snowing when they reached Sandgate,
and when he saw a plump girlish figure with slightly
whitened garments rush forward, almost jump into his
friend’s arms, and kiss him vehemently, it occurred
to him that a welcome home by such a sister was worth
coming many miles for.
Then he heard his name mumbled in
a hurried introduction and, as he raised his hat,
saw this girl withdraw a small hand from a mitten and
offer it to him.
“I am very glad to meet you,
Mr. Nason,” she said with a bright smile; “my
brother has told me so much about you I feel almost
acquainted.” And then, turning to that
brother, she added: “I have the horse hitched
outside, Bert, so we will go right home.”
She led the way, and when they had
stowed their belongings in the sleigh she said, “You
can hold me in your lap, Bert, and I’ll drive.
I’m used to it now.” She chirruped
to the rather docile horse, and as the bells began
to jingle she added: “What have you got
in that box, Bertie?”
“Ask me no questions and I’ll
tell you no fibs, Miss Curious,” he answered.
“Wait until to-morrow and then I’ll show
you.”
When they drove into the yard he said:
“Take Frank right in, sis, and I’ll unharness.”
It was quite dark now, but Frank noticed,
as he gathered up the bags and bundles and followed
his hostess, that the rather stately house was aglow
with light.
“Leave your hat and coat here
in the hall, Mr. Nason,” she said cordially,
“and go right into the parlor and get warm.
You will kindly excuse me now. I’m first
and second girl, housemaid and cook, and I must go
and help Aunt Susan to get supper ready. You two
gentlemen are hungry, I’m sure.”
It was not a formal reception, but
it was a cordial one, which was better, and when Frank
entered the parlor he was surprised at the cheerful
sight, for the room was festooned all around with ropes
of evergreen. The long mantel over the fireplace,
bright with flames, was banked with a mass of green,
and against each white lace curtain hung a wreath.
In one corner stood an upright piano, in sharp contrast
with the rather antique hair-cloth chairs and sofa.
He had just drawn a chair to the fire, when Albert
came in and gave a low whistle at the sight of the
decorations. “That’s one of the perquisites
of a country schoolma’am,” he observed,
“and I’ll bet the boys that gathered all
this green for Alice enjoyed getting it. I used
to when I was a boy. Well, old fellow,”
he added, addressing Frank, “here we are, and
you must make yourself at home.”
Then Alice came in and announced supper,
and after Aunt Susan had been introduced, they all
sat down. It was an old-fashioned meal, for while
the brother helped to the ham and eggs and fried potatoes,
Aunt Susan served the quince preserves and passed
the hot biscuit, and Alice poured the tea. The
table too had a Christmas touch, for around the mat
where the lamp stood was a green wreath brightened
with clusters of red berries. It was all a charming
picture, and not the least of it was the fair girl
who so graciously played the hostess. When the
meal was over she said:
“Now you two gentlemen must
go into the parlor and smoke, and I’ll join
you later. I command you to smoke,” she
added imperiously, “for I want the house to
smell as if there was a man around.”
When she came in later, wearing her
new house-dress, she drew her chair close to her brother’s
and resting her elbows on his knee and her chin in
her open palms she looked up and said with a witching
smile:
“Now, Bertie, I’ve fed
you nicely, haven’t I? and I’ve done all
I could for your comfort, so now please tell me what
is in that long flat box you brought.”
It was charmingly done, but the big
brother was proof against her wiles. “You
are a bewitching coaxer, sis,” he answered, “but
I am hard-hearted. I’ll make a trade with
you, though. First tell us all about your school-teaching
and sing us all the songs I ask for, and then I’ll
open the box.”
“You are very modest in your
wants,” she replied archly, “but like all
men you must be humored to keep you good-natured, I
presume.”
“I wish you would tell us about
your school, Miss Page,” put in Frank; “you
are not a bit like the schoolma’am of my boyhood,
and I would like to know how you manage children.”
“Well, it was a little hard
at first,” she answered, “for boys and
girls of ten and twelve have surprisingly keen intuitions,
and it seemed to me they made a study of my face from
the first and concluded I was soft-hearted. I
had one little boy that was a born mischief-maker,
but he had such winsome ways I had to love him in
spite of it. But he had to be punished some way,
and so one day I kept him after school and then told
him I must whip him hard, but not at that time.
I explained to him what I was going to punish him
for, ‘but,’ I said, ’I shall not
do it to-night. I may do it to-morrow or the
day after, but I will not tell you when the whipping
is to come until I am ready to do it.’ My
little plan was a success, for the next night he waited
till all the rest had gone, and then came to me with
tears in his eyes, and begged me to whip him then.
I didn’t, though, and told him I wouldn’t
until he disobeyed again. He has been the most
obedient boy in the school ever since. There
is one little girl who has won my heart, though, in
the oddest way you can imagine. The day I received
your letter, Bert, I was so happy that the school
ran riot, and I never knew it. They must have
seen it in my face, I think. Well, when school
was out, this girl, a shy little body of ten, sidled
up to my desk and said, ’Pleath may I kith you,
teacher, ‘fore I go home?’ It was such
an odd and pretty bit of feeling, it nearly brought
tears to my eyes.”
“I should like to give that
little girl a box of candy, Miss Page,” observed
Frank, “and then ask her for a kiss myself.”
For an hour Alice kept both the young
men interested in her anecdotes of school-teaching,
and then her brother said:
“Come, sis, you must sing some, or no box to-night!”
“Well,” she replied, smiling,
“what shall it be? a few gems from Moody and
Sankey, or from ’Laurel Leaves’?”
And then turning to Frank she added: “My
brother just dotes on church music!”
“Alice,” said her brother
with mock sternness, “if you fib like that you
know the penalty!”
“Do you play or sing, Mr. Nason?”
she inquired, not heeding her brother.
“I do not know one note from another,”
he answered.
“Well, that is fortunate for
me,” she said; “I only sing a few old-fashioned
ballads, and help out at church.”
Then without further apology she went
to the piano. “Come, Bertie,” she
said, “you must help me, and we will go through
the College Songs.” And go through them
they did, beginning with “Clementine” and
ending with “The Quilting Party.”
“Now, sis,” said her brother,
“I want ‘Old Folks at Home,’ ’Annie
Laurie,’ ‘Rock-a-bye,’ and ‘Ben
Bolt,’ and then I’ll open the box.”
It was a simple, old-fashioned home
parlor entertainment, and no doubt most musical artists
would have sneered at the programme, but Alice had
a wonderfully sweet and sympathetic soprano voice,
and as Frank sat watching the fitful flames play hide-and-seek
in the open fire, and listened to those time-worn
ballads, it seemed to him he had never heard singing
quite so sweet. Much depends upon the time and
place, and perhaps the romance of the open fire sparkling
beneath the bank of evergreen, and making the roses
come into the fair singer’s cheeks, and warming
the golden sheen of her hair, had much to do with it.
When she came to “Ben Bolt,” that old
ditty that has all the pathos of our lost youth in
it, there was a tiny quiver in her voice; and when
she finished, had he been near he would have seen
the glint of two unshed tears in her eyes, for the
song carried her thoughts to where her mother was
at rest.
It was the first time he had ever
heard that song, and he never afterwards forgot it.
“Now, Bertie,” said Alice
coaxingly, after she had finished singing, “haven’t
I earned the box?”
It was an appeal that few men could
resist, and certainly not Albert Page, and, true to
his promise, he gave her the mysterious box. With
excited fingers she untied the cords, tore off the
wrapper, and as she lifted the cover she saw-a
beautiful seal-skin sacque!
We will leave to the reader’s
imagination any and all the expressions that followed,
for no pen can give them with all their girlish fervor,
and when the exciting incident was over, it was time
for retiring.
That evening, with its simple home
enjoyments, sincere and wholesome, its bright open
fire, the unaffected cordiality of brother and sister,
and beyond all, the feeling that he was a welcome guest,
made those few hours ones long to be remembered by
Frank. To begin with, the cheerful fire was a
novelty to him, and perhaps that added a touch of romance.
Then Alice herself was a surprise. He had been
captivated by her picture, but had half expected to
find her a timid country girl, too shy to do aught
but answer “yes” and “no,”
and look pleasant. Then her voice was also a
surprise, and when he reached the seclusion of his
room it haunted him. And more than that, so intently
had its bird-like sweetness charmed him that it usurped
all his thoughts. He had thanked her for the
entertainment, of course, but now that he was alone,
it seemed to him that his formal thanks had been too
feeble an expression. “I don’t wonder
Bert adores her,” he thought; “she is the
most winsome, unaffected, and sweet little lady I
ever met. If I were to remain in this house a
week I should be madly in love with her myself.”
He was a good deal so, as it was.