Kristy's Rainy Day Picnic Part 13

"You said it was going on now," said Kristy, as Mrs. Wilson paused.

"Yes, it is; I was in that town a few days ago, and one of the neighbors told me the whole story."

"That's a good deal for one girl to do," said Kristy.

"I know it is," said Mrs. Wilson, "but I know of another girl who did almost as much."

"What did she do?" asked Kristy, all interest.

"She conquered a crusty old woman, who was soured to all the world."

"Conquered her?" asked Kristy puzzled.

"Yes; shall I tell you? I see it is raining yet, and mamma's time isn't out."

"Please do!" said Kristy, adding as she turned to her mother, "Mamma, you're getting off too easy."

"Oh, I'm afraid I shall have to make it up later," said mamma, in pretended dismay.

"Indeed you will," said Kristy, with a laugh; "I shan't let you off a single story."

"We'll see," said mamma smiling, as Mrs. Wilson began.

CHAPTER X

THE LOCKET TOLD

This is about a girl who drove the village cows out to pasture every morning and back to the village every evening. She had to pa.s.s a small cottage, almost hidden with flowers, where lived a mysterious woman whom the foolish and ignorant children of the neighborhood called "old witch," simply because she had a hump on her back and was rarely seen, except when she rushed out to drive away some naughty child trying to steal her flowers through the fence. She attended to her garden very early in the morning before other people were out of bed, and so was rarely seen except on these occasions.

One day she was sitting at her window, behind the blinds as usual, when the girl I spoke of came by with her cows.

"There's that cow-girl again," said Hester Bartlett--for that was her name--"staring at my sweet peas as usual! I must go and drive her away or she'll be putting her hand through the fence to get some. But what a wretched looking creature she is!" she went on thoughtfully, looking more closely. "She's worse off than you are, Hester Bartlett, if she hasn't got a humpback. Hardly a decent rag to her back--not a shoe or stocking--an old boy's hat, picked out of a gutter likely. And how she does stare! looks as if she'd eat the flowers. Well anyway," she went on more slowly, "she's got good taste; she never turns an eye on my finest flowers, but stands glued to the sweet peas."

Another silence; the ragged girl still spellbound without; the little, humpbacked mistress of the house peering through the blinds, an unusual feeling of pity restraining her from going to the door and putting to flight the strange, shy girl who seemed so fond of sweet peas.

"I've a good mind to give her some," was the kind thought that next stirred her heart, "but I suppose she'd run away if I spoke to her, or call me old witch as the rest of 'em do," she went on bitterly, talking to herself, as people do who live alone; then adding, "Well, I can't stand here all day; I must go on with my work," she took up a watering-pot she had filled, and started for her little flower patch.

[Ill.u.s.tration: She had to pa.s.s a cottage, almost hidden with Flowers.]

The instant the door opened, the flower-lover at the fence started on a run after the cows, which finding themselves not urged from behind, had stopped and were contentedly cropping the gra.s.s beside the road.

In a few minutes she had them safely shut into their pasture, and turned back towards the village.

As she pa.s.sed Miss Hester, that lady was tying up some straggling vines, and almost to her own surprise, moved by her unwonted feeling of pity for the child, she hastily picked half a dozen stems of the fragrant blossoms and held them out.

"Want some?" she said shortly, almost gruffly, to the half-frightened child.

The girl stopped. "Oh, Miss Hester!" she said doubtingly, half afraid of the strange-looking, little woman who lived by herself, and was never known to speak to anybody.

"If you don't want 'em," said Miss Hester savagely, "you needn't have 'em," and she flung the flowers far over the fence and turned away.

Maggie--for that was her name--with a cry of horror sprang eagerly after them, picked them up carefully, shook off the dust, and turned again to the little garden. But Miss Hester had gone in and shut the door, and slowly, but in a state of rapture, the child went on--hugging and caressing her flowers,--to what had been her home since her mother, a year before, had been carried from their poor room to the hospital, and never come back. She lived with a woman who added a bit to her scanty earnings by taking the village cows on their morning and evening journeys, and for this service she gave Maggie a shelter and a share of the scanty food on her table.

When she went with the cows that evening, Maggie looked eagerly into the little garden as she pa.s.sed, but Miss Hester was not there. Maggie could not see her, but she sat behind her blind looking out eagerly.

Could it be to see the child?

Maggie hesitated; she wanted to say "Thank you," yet she was half afraid of the strange, silent woman. She waited a moment, hoping she would come out, but all was still, and slowly and lingeringly at last she went on.

In this odd way began a curious acquaintance between the lonely woman and the still more friendless girl. Sometimes, if Miss Hester happened to be in her garden when Maggie went by, she would half reluctantly toss a flower over the fence, which Maggie always received with delight, while still half afraid of the giver. But generally Hester, with a strange feeling of shyness, managed to be in the house, where strange to say, she hung around the window and seemed unable to settle to anything, till the pale little thing had pa.s.sed.

So it went on, till winter settled down grim and cold on that New England village, and the cows went no more to the snow-covered pasture, and Maggie--fixed up a bit as to clothes by some kind ladies of the village--went every day to school.

As the weather grew colder, Miss Hester shut herself more and more into her house, and so months pa.s.sed and the strange acquaintance progressed no farther.

One cold night, after everybody in the little village was snugly tucked into bed, and every light was out, a wind came down from the plains of the great Northwest, and brought with it millions and billions of beautiful dancing flakes of snow, and proceeded to have a grand frolic.

All night long the snow and the wind played around the houses and through the streets, and in the morning when people began to get up and look out, they hardly knew their own village. It seemed to be turned into a strange range of white hills, with here and there a roof or a chimney peeping out. There were no fences, there were no roads, but all was one ma.s.s of glittering white, and the wind was still at work tossing the billions of sharp little ice-needles into the face of any one who ventured to peep out, sending a shower of snow into an open door, and piling it up in great drifts in every sheltered spot.

So nearly everybody who was comfortable at home, and had plenty to eat in the house, at once decided to stay there. There was no use trying to dig themselves out until the snow stopped falling, and the wind got tired of tossing it about.

The villagers were late in getting up, for the snow before the windows made it dark, and it was nearly nine o'clock when Mrs. Burns said to Maggie, "You must try to get to the well; I'm out of water."

So Maggie put on her coat and mittens, tied her hood down over her ears, took the pail, and went out.

Fortunately, the kitchen door was in a sheltered place, and no snow was piled up before it, but she had a hard time getting through the drifts to the well. However, she did at last succeed in drawing the water and getting back to the door. As she set down the pail, a thought struck her,--"What will become of Miss Hester in this storm?"

She went out again, closing the door softly behind her, and looked toward the cottage, which was not far off, in plain sight. In the place where the little house should be was a great white hill. Maggie floundered through the drifts till she reached the gate, where she had a better view.

The storm held up for a moment, so that Maggie could see over the village. Every house in sight was sending up a thin column of smoke, showing there was life within. Miss Hester's chimney alone was smokeless.

"Dear me!" thought the child, "I'm afraid she's sick, and what'll become of her and the cow--the shed is so far off, and she could never fight her way through the drifts,--she ain't very strong--and so little." Another pause while she strained her eyes to see signs of life about the cottage.

"Well, anyway," she said at last, "she was awful good to me last summer, and I'll see if I can't get there to help her," and she bravely started out.

It was a hopeless-looking task, for between Mrs. Burns's and Hester Bartlett's were drifts that seemed mountain high. Not a soul was in sight, and just then the storm began again, wilder than ever.

But Maggie was not to be daunted; that cold, smokeless chimney gave her a strange feeling of fear, and nerved her for great efforts.

I shall not go with her step by step over her terrible journey, for though the house was near, every step was a struggle and a battle.

Many times she fell down and got up staggering and blinded by snow; many times she lost her direction and had to wait till a momentary lull in the storm showed her the forlorn chimney again.

Through unheard-of difficulties she reached the house, her clothes full of the dry, powdery snow, her eyes blinded, her hair a ma.s.s of white, and aching in every limb from her efforts and the cold.

The front door was completely buried in snow, and indeed, the whole front of the cottage seemed but a snow mountain. The drifts were lower on the side, so she staggered on towards the kitchen door. As she came near, she saw, to her dismay, that the snow had fallen away, and the door was open.

Now thoroughly alarmed, she struggled on, and reached the step. The snow had fallen inward, and the drift inside was as heavy as that outside.