Chapter XIX: The Letter

From the moment of his entrance to the sick room, old Joe assumed all charge of it, and with scant courtesy banished from it both Angelique and Margot.

“But he is mine, my own precious uncle. Joe has no right to keep me out!” protested Margot, vehemently.

Angelique was wiser. “In his own way, among his own folks, that Indian good doctor. Leave him be. Yes. If my master can be save’, Joe Wills’ll save him. That’s as God plans; but if I hadn’t broke--”

“Angelique! Don’t you ever, ever let me hear that dreadful talk again. I can’t bear it. I don’t believe it. I won’t hear it. I will not. Do you suppose that our dear Lord is--will--”

She could not finish her sentence and Angelique was frightened by the intensity of the girl’s excitement. Was she, too, growing feverish and ill? But Margot’s outburst had worked off some of her own uncomprehended terror, and she grew calm again. Though it had not been put into so many words, she knew both from Angelique’s and Joseph’s manner that they anticipated but one end to her guardian’s illness. She had never seen death, except among the birds and beasts of the forest, and even then it had been horrible to her; and that this should come into her own happy home was unbearable.

Then she reflected. Hugh Dutton’s example had been her instruction, and she had never seen him idle. At times when he seemed most so, sitting among his books, or gazing silently into the fire, his brain had been active over some problem that perplexed or interested him. “Never hasting, never wasting” time, nor thought, nor any energy of life. That was his rule, and she would make it hers.

“I can, at least, make things more comfortable out-of-doors. Angelique has let even Snowfoot suffer, sometimes, for want of the grooming and care she’s always had. The poultry, too, and the poor garden. I’m glad I’m strong enough to rake and hoe, even if I couldn’t lift Uncle as Joe does.”

Her industry brought its own reward. Things outside the house took on a more natural aspect. The weeds were cleared away, and both vegetables and flowers lifted their heads more cheerfully. Snowfoot showed the benefit of the attention she received, and the forgotten family in the Hollow chattered and gamboled in delight at the reappearance among them of their indulgent mistress. Margot herself grew lighter of heart and more positive that, after all, things would end well.

“You see, Angelique dismal, we might as well take that broken glass sign to mean good things as evil; that uncle will soon be up and around again, Pierre be at home; and the ‘specimen’ from the old cave prove copper or something just as rich, and--everybody be as happy as a king.”

Angelique grunted her disbelief, but was thankful for the other’s lighter mood.

“Well, then, if you’ve so much time and strength to spare, go yonder and redde up the room that Adrian left so untidy. Where he never should have been, had I my own way, but one never has that in this world; hey, no. Indeed, no. Ever’thin’ goes contrary, else I’d have cleared away all trace long sin’. Yes, indeed, yes.”

“Well, he is gone. There’s no need to abuse him, even if he did not have the decency to say good-by. Though, I suppose it was my uncle put a stop to that. What Uncle has to do he does at once. There’s never any hesitation about Uncle. But I wish--I wish--Angelique Ricord, do you know something? Do you know all the history of this family?”

“Why should I not, eh?” demanded the woman, indignantly. “Is it not my own family, yes? What is Pierre but one son? I love him, oh, yes! But--”

“You adore him, bad and trying as he is. But there is something you must tell me, if you know it. Maybe you do not. I did not, till that awful morning when he was taken ill. But that very minute he told me what I had never dreamed. I was angry; for a moment I almost hated him because he had deceived me, though afterward I knew that he had done it for the best and would tell me why when he could. So I’ve tried to trust him just the same and be patient. But--he may never be able--and I must know. Angelique, where is my father?”

The housekeeper was so startled that she dropped the plate she was wiping and broke it. Yet even at that fresh omen of disaster she could not remove her gaze from the girl’s face nor banish the dismay of her own.

“He told--you--that--that--”

“That my father is still alive. He would, I think, have told me more; all that there may be yet to tell, if he had not so suddenly been stricken. Where is my father?”

“Oh, child, child! Don’t ask me. It is not for me--”

“If Uncle cannot and you can, and there is no other person, Angelique--you must!”

“This much, then. It is in a far, far away city, or town, or place, he lives. I know not, I. This much I know: he is good, a ver’ good man. And he have enemies. Yes. They have done him much harm. Some day, in many years, maybe, when you have grown a woman, old like me, he will come to Peace Island and forget. That is why we wait. That is why the master goes, once each summer, on the long, long trip. When Joseph comes, and the bad Pierre to stay. I, too, wait to see him, though I never have. And when he comes, we must be ver’ tender, me and you, for people who have been done wrong to, they--they--pouf! ’Twas anger I was that the master could put the evil-come into that room, yes.”

“Angelique! Is that my father’s room? Is it? Is that why there are the very best things in it? And that wonderful picture? And the fresh suits and clothing? Is it?”

Angelique slowly nodded. She had been amazed to find that Margot knew thus much of a long-withheld history, and saw no harm in adding these few facts. The real secret, the heart of the matter--that was not yet. Meanwhile, let the child accustom herself to the new ideas, and so be prepared for what she must certainly and further learn, should the master’s illness be a fatal one.

“Oh, then, hear me. That room shall always now be mine to care for. I haven’t liked the housewifery, not at all. But if I have a father and I can do things for him--that alters everything. Oh! you can’t mean that it will be so long before he comes. You must have been jesting. If he knew Uncle was ill he would come at once, wouldn’t he? He would, I know.”

Poor Angelique turned her face away to hide its curious expression, but in her new interest concerning the “friend’s room,” as it had always been called, Margot did not notice this. She was all eagerness and loving excitement.

“To think that I have a father who may come, at any minute, for he might, Angelique, you know that, and not be ready for him. Your best and newest broom, please, and the softest dusters. That room shall, indeed, be ‘redded’--though uncle says nobody but a few people like you ever use that word, nowadays--better than anybody else could do it. Just hurry, please, I must begin. I must begin right away.”

She trembled so that she could hardly braid and pin up her long hair out of the way, and her face had regained more than its old-time color. She was content to let all that was still a mystery remain for the present. She had enough to think about and enjoy.

Angelique brought the things that would be needed and, for once, forebore advice. Let love teach the child--she had nought to say. In any case, she could not have seen the dust, herself, for her dark eyes were misty with tears, and her thoughts on matters wholly foreign to household cares.

Margot opened the windows and began to dust the various articles which could be set out in the wide passage, and did not come round to the heavy dresser for some moments. As she did so finally, her glance flew instantly to a bulky parcel, wrapped in sheets of white birch bark, and bearing her own name, in Adrian’s handwriting.

“Why, he did remember me, then!” she cried, delightedly, tearing the package open. “Pictures! the very ones I liked the best. Xanthippé and Socrates, and oh! that’s Reynard. Reynard, ready to speak. The splendid, beautiful creature; and the splendid, generous boy, to have given it. He called it his ‘masterpiece,’ and, indeed, it was by far the best he ever did here. Harmony Hollow--but that’s not so fine. However, he meant to make it like, and--why, here’s a note! Why didn’t I come in here before? Why didn’t I think he would do something like this? Forgive me, Adrian, wherever you are, for misjudging you so. I’m sorry Uncle didn’t like you, and sorry--for lots of things. But I’m glad--glad you weren’t so rude and mean as I believed. If I ever see you, I’ll tell you so. Now, I’ll put these in my own room and then get to work again. This room you left so messed shall be as spotless as a snowflake before I’ve done with it.”

For hours she labored there--brushing, renovating, polishing; and when all was finished she called Angelique to see and criticise--if she could. But she could not; and she, too, had something now of vital importance to impart.

“It is beautiful’ done, yes, yes. I couldn’t do it more clean myself, I, Angelique, no. But, ma p’tite I hear, hear, and be calm! The master is himself! The master has awoke, yes, and is askin’ for his child. True, true. Old Joe, he says, ‘Come! quick, soft, no cry, no laugh, just listen.’ Yes. Oh, now all will be well!”

Margot almost hushed her very breathing. Her uncle awake, sane, asking for her. Her face was radiant, flushed, eager, a face to brighten the gloom of any sick room, however dark.

But this one was not dark. Joe knew his patient’s fancies. He had forgotten none. One of them was the sunshine and fresh air; and though in his heart he believed that these two things did a world of harm, and that the ill-ventilated and ill-lighted cabins of his own people were more conducive to recovery, he opposed nothing which the master desired. He had experimented, at first, but finding a close room aggravated Mr. Dutton’s fever, reasoned that it was too late to break up the foolish habits of a man’s lifetime; and as the woodlander had lived in the sunlight, so he would better die in it, and easier.

If she had been a trained nurse, Margot could not have entered her uncle’s presence more quietly, though it seemed to her that he must hear the happy beating of her heart and how her breath came fast and short. He was almost too weak to speak at all, but there was all the old love, and more, in his whispered greeting.

“My precious child!”

“Yes, Uncle. And such a happy child because you are better.”

She caught his hand and covered it with kisses, but softly, oh! so softly, and he smiled the rare, sweet smile that she had feared she’d never see again. Then he looked past her to Angelique, in the doorway, and his eyes roved toward his desk in the corner. A little fanciful desk that held only his most sacred belongings and had been Margot’s mother’s. It was to be hers, some day, but not till he had done with it, and she had never cared to own it, since doing so meant that he could no longer use it. Now she watched him and Angelique wonderingly.

For the woman knew exactly what was required. Without question or hesitation, she answered the command of his eyes by crossing to the desk and opening it with a key she took from her own pocket. Then she lifted a letter from an inner drawer and gave it into his thin fingers.

“Well done, good Angelique. Margot--the letter--is yours.”

“Mine? I am to read it? Now? Here?”

“No, no. No, no, indeed! Would you tire the master with the rustlin’ of paper? Take it, else. Not here, where ever’thin’ must be still as still.”

Mr. Dutton’s eyes closed. Angelique knew that she had spoken for him, and that the disclosure which that letter would make should be faced in solitude.

“Is she right, Uncle, dearest? Shall I take it away to read?”

His eyes assented, and the tender, reassuring pressure of his hand.

“Then I’m going to your own mountain top with it. To think of having a letter from you, right here, at home! Why, I can hardly wait! I’m so thankful to you for it, and so thankful to God that you are getting well. That you will be soon; and then--why, then--we’ll go a-fishing!”

A spasm of pain crossed the sick man’s wasted features, and poor Angelique fled the place, forgetful of her own caution to “be still as still,” and with her own dark face convulsed with grief for the grief which the letter would bring to her idolized Margot.

But the girl had already gone away up the slope, faster and faster. Surely, a letter from nobody but her uncle, and at such a solemn time, must concern but one subject--her father. Now she would know all, and her happiness should have no limit.

But it was nightfall when she, at last, came down from the mountain, and though there were no signs of tears upon her face, neither was there any happiness in it.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

The heights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight;
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.

--_Longfellow._

STATE FLOWERS

The following are the “State flowers,” as adopted by the several States. In Maine, Michigan, and Oklahoma Territory the decision was made by the Legislature, in the other cases by the votes of the scholars in the public schools.

Alabama, goldenrod; Arkansas, aster; California, California poppy; Colorado, columbine; Delaware, peach blossom; Idaho, syringa; Iowa, wild rose; Maine, pine cone and tassel; Michigan, apple blossom; Minnesota, moccasin flower; Missouri, goldenrod; Montana, bitterroot; Nebraska, goldenrod; New Jersey (State tree, maple); New York, rose (State tree, maple); North Dakota, goldenrod; Oklahoma Territory, mistletoe; Oregon, Oregon grape; Rhode Island, violet; Vermont, red clover; Washington, rhododendron. In Kansas, the sunflower is usually known as the State flower.

* * * * *

The largest bell in the world is the great bell at Moscow, at the foot of the Kremlin. Its circumference is nearly 68 feet, and its height more than 21 feet. It is 23 inches thick in its stoutest part, and weighs 433,722 pounds. It has never been hung.

THE FLOWERLESS PLANTS

By JULIA McNAIR WRIGHT

The year around and the world around, journey the plant pilgrims. Among those perennials which are found in all latitudes and seasons are the lichens and fungi. In September, while we wait for fruits and seeds to finish ripening, let us make small studies in these related groups in the vegetable sub-kingdom called the thallogens.

This sub-kingdom, one of the chief divisions of the vegetable kingdom, is known as the class thallophytes. It contains the simplest forms of vegetable life. Its chief groups are the fungi and algæ, the lichens being related to both, as if algæ and fungi had united in one plant, dividing and somewhat changing the characteristic of each.

At any period of the year you can find lichens in abundance. They cover ragged rocks, dress up old roofs, walls, fence rails and dead stumps, especially delighting in the north side of trees. If we examine them through a magnifying glass, we shall see that they are made up of cells, laid side by side like little chains of beads, or of cells expanded into short tubes or threads lying like heaps of tiny fagots. Instead of seeds, lichens have a fine dust, called spores, from which they develop.

Lichens are exceedingly long-lived and excessively slow of growth. The lily attains its lovely maturity in a few months; the oaks, elms, pines, become great trees in twenty or thirty years; the humble lichen often lives forty or fifty years before it is old enough to complete its growth by producing spores. Botanists say that the life of a lichen is fitful and strange, and is practically indefinite as to duration. Lichens simply live on and on.

Some lichens have been known to live nearly fifty years without seeming to grow; they appear to dry up, and nearly vanish; then, suddenly, from some cause there is a revival of growth--they expand again. Small and insignificant as these lichens are, they often outlive those longest-lived of trees, the cedar of Lebanon and the California redwood.

The condition of lichen existence is water, for from moisture alone, in dew or rain, they secure their food. The carbon, oxygen, ammonia, hydrogen, in air and rain, afford them their nourishment. The lichen generally refuses to grow in foul air laden with noxious gases. In the impure air of cities few appear, but they abound in the open country. They absorb by all the surface, except the base by which they are fastened to their place of dwelling. They have no roots, and simply adhere to bare rocks, sapless wood, even to naked glass, from which they can receive no nutriment whatever.

In comparison with what is known of plants in general, our knowledge of lichens is yet very limited. They seem to be made chiefly of a kind of gelatin which exists in lichens only. Humble as they appear, they have always been of large importance in arts and manufactures. They produce exquisite dyes--a rich, costly purple, a valuable scarlet, many shades of brown, and particularly splendid hues of blue and yellow are obtained from these common little growths, which in themselves display chiefly shades of black, gray green, varied with pink, red, and orange cups, balls, and edges.

FUNGI

While not so abundant as lichens, the fungi are well known everywhere. We cannot claim, as for the lichens, that they are harmless, for many are a virulent poison: others have a disgusting odor, and nearly all are dangerous in their decay. On the other hand, many of them are a useful, delicious food, and nearly all are beautiful when first developed. Their variety, also, is very fascinating.

In a walk of less than two miles in a wet summer, may be found twenty different kinds of fungi--some no larger than a pea, some eight inches in diameter. They may be round, oval, flat, cup-shaped, horn-shaped, cushion-shaped, saucer-shaped; they are snow-white, gray, tan, yellow, lavender, orange, dark brown, pink, crimson, purple, and variously mottled, scaly or smooth as with varnish. Placed on a large platter among dark green mosses, they will be, for one day, a magnificent collection.

One large, egg-shaped variety, growing in pairs, is of a purple shade, very solid, and when broken open seems filled with glittering matter like iron or steel filings. Another tan-colored, plum-shaped fungus, firm and smooth, is of a nearly royal purple within.

September is a good month for the study of fungi, especially after the early fall rains, when the woods and pastures will be found well-filled, not only with brilliant, useless, or poisonous varieties, but with delicious edible kinds. Popularly, people call the edible specimens “mushrooms,” and the rest “toadstools,” the number of poisonous or of edible instances so named depending rather upon the amount of knowledge of the collector than upon the real qualities of the fungi, for many denominate as “toadstools” what others know to be an excellent food.

Many varieties not usually eaten are wholesome, and many which human beings reject, other animals thrive upon. One large, brown “toadstool” of the woods is, at this season of the year, the chief food of that epicure, the wood-tortoise.

In general a fungus may be defined as a thallophyte without any chlorophyl or leaf-green in its composition. Among the brilliant colors displayed by fungi no green or blue can be found.

The most popular and most useful fungus is the table mushroom. This rarely ever grows in the woods, in shade, on wet lands, or on decaying stumps. It prefers the open, breezy, well-sunned pastures, where the grass is kept short by the grazing of sheep or cattle. Early in the morning or shortly before sunset, the dainty white or cream-colored buttons, borne on snow-white stalks, push up through the soil and gradually expand until the discs are flat or slightly convex. From two to six inches is the diameter, seldom more than three.

Varieties of the pasture mushroom are few and can readily be learned. The mushroom is composed of stem and cap; the stem is finger-shaped, with the roundish end in the earth. About half way up is usually a ring of the covering skin, where, in the button shape, the veil of the mushroom was attached.

This veil extends over the cap and is left at the edge of a little frill; it can be easily stripped off. Under the veil the flesh is ivory-white, and is smooth and firm.

The under side of the cap is laid in plaits, called gills, from their resemblance to fish gills. They never grow fast to, or down upon, the stem, usually stopping short off, about one-tenth of an inch from its juncture with the cap. Mushrooms are cultivated in gardens or cellars. They grow from spores or little finger-like lengths, called spawn, which are produced by the spores. Mushrooms turn black or purplish after the first twenty hours of growth. When the gills have taken this dark hue, the mushroom is unfit to eat.

Some fungi grow in very wet places; the woods are likely to be full of them after a few rainy days. They are all short-lived.

INDEPENDENCE

Although not new to some of our readers, we think the following anecdote, illustrating one phase of Benjamin Franklin’s character, will bear repeating:

Not long after he began editing his newspaper, Franklin’s free manner of criticism called forth the disapprobation of many of his patrons. One of them in particular felt so greatly moved as to make it his duty to tell him so. “The doctor listened with patience to the reproof, and begged the favor of his friend’s company at supper on an evening which he named; at the same time requesting that the other gentlemen who were dissatisfied with him should attend.

“When the guests arrived, the doctor received them cordially, and his opinions were thoroughly criticised and much advice given. Supper was at last announced and the guests invited into an adjoining room. The doctor begged the party to be seated, and urged them to help themselves: but the table was only supplied with two puddings and a stone pitcher of water. Each guest had a plate, a spoon, and a bowl. They were all helped, but none of them could eat. The doctor took freely of the pudding, and urged the others to do the same; but it was out of the question. They tasted and tried in vain. Upon inquiry, they learned that the pudding was made of sawdust.

“When the facetious host had made sure that they could not eat, he rose and addressed them thus: ‘My friends, anyone who can subsist upon sawdust pudding, as I can, needs no man’s patronage.’”

The doctor’s life has proved his statement. The person who can adapt himself to all circumstances and deny himself when necessary can attain true independence.

WHIP-POOR-WILL

When the ev’ning shadows lengthen
Down the hill and ’cross the vale,
And the trees are imaged darkly
Where the river glimmers pale;
Then I love to sit and listen,
While the air is warm and still,
To a voice from out the poplars,
Crying softly, “Whip-poor-will!”

Slowly, slowly creeps the twilight
From the east unto the west,
Till it fills the peaceful valley,
Sends the forest folk to rest;
All except a noisy fellow
In the poplars near the mill,
Whose demands are most insistent
For the punishment of “Will.”

Soon the vale is dark and lonely,
Closed in sleep each drowsy eye;
Through the clouds the stars are peeping
For their watch tower in the sky;
Only winds that whisper softly,
In the poplars by the mill,
Listen to the night-bird calling,
Till the daybreak, “Whip-poor-will.”

--_Geo. E. Winkler._

LITTLE POLLY PRENTISS

BY ELIZABETH LINCOLN GOULD