The afternoon before, when Mr. Sidney Graham had returned to his office from seeing Shirley to the elevator, he stood several minutes looking thoughtfully at the chair where she had sat, while he carefully drew on his gloves.
There had been something interesting and appealing in the spirited face of the girl, with her delicate features and wistful eyes. He could not seem to get away from it. It had left an impression of character and a struggle with forces of which in his sheltered life he had had only a vague conception. It had left him with the feeling that she was stronger in some ways than himself, and he did not exactly like the sensation of it. He had always aimed to be a strong character himself; and for a young man who had inherited two hundred and fifty thousand dollars on coming of age, and double that amount two years later, with the prospect of another goodly sum when his paternal grandfather's estate was divided, he had done very well indeed. He had stuck to business ever since leaving college, where he had been by no means a nonentity either in studies or in athletics; and he had not been spoiled by the adulation that a young man of his good looks and wealth and position always receives in society. He had taken society as a sort of duty, but had never given it an undue proportion of his time and thoughts. Notably he was a young man of fine balance and strong self-control, not given to impulsive or erratic likes and dislikes; and he could not understand why a shabby little person with a lock of gold over one crimson cheek, and tired, discouraged lights in her had made so strong an impression upon him.
It had been his intention just before Shirley's arrival to leave the office at once and perhaps drop in on Miss Harriet Hale. If the hour seemed propitious, he would take her for a spin in his new racing-car that even now waited in the street below; but somehow suddenly his plan did not attract him deeply. He felt the need of being by himself. After a turn or two up and down his luxurious office he took the elevator down to the street floor, dismissed his chauffeur, and whirled off in his car, taking the opposite direction from that which would have taken him to the Hale residence. Harriet Hale was a very pretty girl with a brilliant mind and a royal fortune. She could entertain him and stimulate him tremendously, and sometimes he almost thought the attraction was strong enough to last him through life; but Harriet Hale would not be able to appreciate his present mood nor explain to him why the presence in his office for fifteen minutes of a nervy little stenographer who was willing to live in a barn should have made him so vaguely dissatisfied with himself. If he were to try to tell her about it, he felt sure he would meet with laughing taunts and brilliant sarcasm. She would never understand.
He took little notice of where he was going, threading his way skilfully through the congested portion of the city and out into the comparatively empty highways, until at last he found himself in the suburbs. The name of the street as he slowed up at a grade crossing gave him an idea. Why shouldn't he take a run out and hunt up that barn for himself? What had she said about it, where it was? He consulted the memorandum he had written down for his father's edification. "Glenside Road, near Allister Avenue." He further searched his memory. "Big stone barn, wide approach like a grand staircase, tall tree overhanging, brook." This surely ought to be enough to help him identify it. There surely were not a flock of stone barns in that neighborhood that would answer that description.
He turned into Glenside Road with satisfaction, and set a sharp watch for the names of the cross-avenues with a view to finding Allister Avenue, and once he stopped and asked a man in an empty milk-wagon whether he knew where Allister Avenue was, and was informed that it was "on a piece, about five miles."
There was something interesting in hunting up his own strange barn, and he began to look about him and try to see things with the eyes of the girl who had just called upon him.
Most of the fields were green with spring, and there was an air of things doing over them, as if growing were a business that one could watch, like house-cleaning and paper-hanging and painting. Graham had never noticed before that the great bare spring out-of-doors seemed to have a character all its own, and actually to have an attraction. A little later when the trees were out, and all the orchards in bloom, and the wild flowers blowing in the breeze, he could rave over spring; but he had never seen the charm of its beginnings before. He wondered curiously over the fact of his keen appreciation now.
The sky was all opalescent with lovely pastel colors along the horizon, and a few tall, lank trees had put on a soft gauze of green over their foreheads like frizzes, discernible only to a close observer. The air was getting chilly with approaching night, and the bees were no longer proclaiming with their hum the way to the skunk-cabbages; but a delicate perfume was in the air, and though perhaps Graham had never even heard of skunk-cabbages, he drew in long breaths of sweetness, and let out his car over the smooth road with a keen delight.
Behind a copse of fine old willows, age-tall and hoary with weather, their extremities just hinting of green, as they stood knee-deep in the brook on its way to a larger stream, he first caught sight of the old barn.
He knew it at once by something indefinable. Its substantial stone spaciousness, its mossy roof, its arching tree, and the brook that backed away from the wading willows, up the hillside, under the rail fence, and ran around its side, all were unmistakable. He could see it just as the girl had seen it, and something in him responded to her longing to live there and make it into a home. Perhaps he was a dreamer, even as she, although he passed in the world of business for a practical young man. But anyhow he slowed his car down and looked at the place intently as he passed by. He was convinced that this was the place. He did not need to go on and find Allister Avenue—though he did, and then turned back again, stopping by the roadside. He got out of the car, looking all the time at the barn and seeing it in the light of the girl's eyes. As he walked up the grassy slope to the front doors, he had some conception of what it must be to live so that this would seem grand as a home. And he showed he was not spoiled by his life in the lap of luxury, for he was able to get a glimpse of the grandeur of the spot and the dignity of the building with its long simple lines and rough old stones.
The sun was just going down as he stood there looking up. It touched the stones, and turned them into jewelled settings, glorifying the old structure into a palace. The evening was sweet with the voices of birds not far away. One above the rest, clear and occasional, high in the elm-tree over the barn, a wood-thrush spilling its silver notes down to the brook that echoed them back in a lilt. The young man took off his hat and stood in the evening air, listening and looking. He could see the poetry of it, and somehow he could see the girl's face as if she stood there beside him, her wonderful eyes lighted as they had been when she told him how beautiful it was there. She was right. It was beautiful, and it was a lovely soul that could see it and feel what a home this would make in spite of the ignominy of its being nothing but a barn. Some dim memory, some faint remembrance, of a stable long ago, and the glory of it, hovered on the horizon of his mind; but his education had not been along religious lines, and he did not put the thing into a definite thought. It was just a kind of sensing of a great fact of the universe which he perhaps might have understood in a former existence.
Then he turned to the building itself. He was practical, after all, even if he was a dreamer. He tried the big padlock. How did they get into this thing? How had the girl got in? Should he be obliged to break into his own barn?
He walked down the slope, around to the back, and found the entrance close to the ladder; but the place was quite dark within the great stone walls, and he peered into the gloomy basement with disgust at the dirt and murk. Only here and there, where a crack looked toward the setting sun, a bright needle of light sent a shaft through to let one see the inky shadows. He was half turning back, but reflected that the girl had said she went up a ladder to the middle floor. If she had gone, surely he could. Again that sense that she was stronger than he rebuked him. He got out his pocket flashlight and stepped within the gloom determinedly. Holding the flash-light above his head, he surveyed his property disapprovingly; then with the light in his hand he climbed in a gingerly way up the dusty rounds to the middle floor.
As he stood alone in the dusky shadows of the big barn, with the blackness of the hay-loft overhead, the darkness pierced only by the keen blade of the flash-light and a few feebler darts from the sinking sun, the poetry suddenly left the old barn, and a shudder ran through him. To think of trying to live here! How horrible!
Yet still that same feeling that the girl had more nerve than he had forced him to walk the length and breadth of the floor, peering carefully into the dark corners and acquainting himself fully with the bare, big place; and also to climb part way up the ladder to the loft and send his flash-light searching through its dusty hay-strewn recesses.
With a feeling utterly at variance with the place he turned away in disgust, and made his way down the ladders again, out into the sunset.
In that short time the evening had arrived. The sky had flung out banners and pennants, pencilled by a fringe of fine saplings like slender brown threads against the sky. The earth was sinking into dusk, and off by the brook the frogs were tinkling like tiny answering silver rattles. The smell of earth and growing stole upon his senses, and even as he gazed about him a single star burned into being in the clear ether above him. The birds were still now, and the frogs with the brook for accompaniment held the stage. Once more the charm of the place stole over him; and he stood with hat removed, and wondered no longer that the girl was willing to live here. A conviction grew within him that somehow he must make it possible for her to do so, that things would not be right and as they ought to be unless he did. In fact, he had a curiosity to have her do it and see whether it could be done.
He went slowly down to his car at last with lingering backward looks. The beauty of the situation was undoubted, and called for admiration. It was too bad that only a barn should occupy it. He would like to see a fine house reared upon it. But somehow in his heart he was glad that it was not a fine house standing there against the evening sky, and that it was possible for him to let the girl try her experiment of living there. Was it possible? Could there be any mistake? Could it be that he had not found the right barn, after all? He must make sure, of course.
But still he turned his car toward home, feeling reasonably sure that he had found the right spot; and, as he drove swiftly back along the way, he was thinking, and all his thoughts were woven with the softness of the spring evening and permeated with its sounds. He seemed to be in touch with nature as he had never been before.
At dinner that night he asked his father:
"Did Grandfather Graham ever live out on the old Glenside Road, father?"
A pleasant twinkle came in the elder Graham's eyes.
"Sure!" he said. "Lived there myself when I was five years old, before the old man got to speculating and made his pile, and we got too grand to stay in a farmhouse. I can remember rolling down a hill under a great big tree, and your Uncle Billy pushing me into the brook that ran at the foot. We boys used to wade in that brook, and build dams, and catch little minnows, and sail boats. It was great sport. I used to go back holidays now and then after I got old enough to go away to school. We were living in town then, but I used to like to go out and stay at the farmhouse. It was rented to a queer old dick; but his wife was a good sort, and made the bulliest apple turnovers for us boys—and doughnuts! The old farmhouse burned down a year or so ago. But the barn is still standing. I can remember how proud your grandfather was of that barn. It was finer than any barn around, and bigger. We boys used to go up in the loft, and tumble in the hay; and once when I was a little kid I got lost in the hay, and Billy had to dig me out. I can remember how scared I was when I thought I might have to stay there forever, and have nothing to eat."
"Say, father," said the son, leaning forward eagerly, "I've a notion I'd like to have that old place in my share. Do you think it could be arranged? The boys won't care, I'm sure; they're always more for the town than the country."
"Why, yes, I guess that could be fixed up. You just see Mr. Dalrymple about it. He'll fix it up. Billy's boy got that place up river, you know. Just see the lawyer, and he'll fix it up. No reason in the world why you shouldn't have the old place if you care for it. Not much in it for money, though, I guess. They tell me property's way down out that direction now."
The talk passed to other matters, and Sidney Graham said nothing about his caller of the afternoon, nor of the trip he had taken out to see the old barn. Instead, he took his father's advice, and saw the family lawyer, Mr. Dalrymple, the first thing in the morning.
It was all arranged in a few minutes. Mr. Dalrymple called up the other heirs and the children's guardian. An office-boy hurried out with some papers, and came back with the signatures of heirs and guardians, who happened all to be within reach; and presently the control of the old farm was formally put into the hands of Mr. Sidney Graham, he having signed certain papers agreeing to take this as such and such portion of his right in the whole estate.
It had been a simple matter; and yet, when at about half-past eleven o'clock Mr. Dalrymple's stenographer laid a folded paper quietly on Sidney Graham's desk and silently left the room, he reached out and touched it with more satisfaction than he had felt in any acquisition in a long time, not excepting his last racing-car. It was not the value the paper represented, however, that pleased him, but the fact that he would now be able to do as he pleased concerning the prospective tenant for the place, and follow out a curious and interesting experiment. He wanted to study this girl and see whether she really had the nerve to go and live in a barn—a girl with a face like that to live in a barn! He wanted to see what manner of girl she was, and to have the right to watch her for a little space.
It is true that the morning light might present her in a very different aspect from that in which she had appeared the evening before, and he mentally reserved the right to turn her down completely if she showed the least sign of not being all that he had thought her. At the same time, he intended to be entirely sure. He would not turn her away without a thorough investigation.
Graham had been greatly interested in the study of social science when in college, and human nature interested him at all times. He could not but admit to himself that this girl had taken a most unusual hold upon his thoughts.
The car leaped forward up the smooth white road, and the great barn as they looked back to it seemed to smile pleasantly to them in farewell. Shirley looked back, and tried to think how it would seem to come home every night and see Doris standing at the top of the grassy incline waiting to welcome her; tried to fancy her mother in a hammock under the big tree a little later when it grew warm and summery, and the boys working in their garden. It seemed too heavenly to be true.
The car swept around the corner of Allister Avenue, and curved down between tall trees. The white spire in the distance drew nearer now, and the purplish hills were off at one side. The way was fresh with smells of spring, and everywhere were sweet scents and droning bees and croaking frogs. The spirit of the day seemed to enter into the young people and make them glad. Somehow all at once they seemed to have known one another a long time, and to be intimately acquainted with one another's tastes and ecstasies. They exclaimed together over the distant view of the misty city with the river winding on its far way, and shouted simultaneously over a frightened rabbit that scurried across the road and hid in the brushwood; and then the car wound round a curve and the little white church swept into view below them.
"The little white church in the valley
Is bright with the blossoms of May,
And true is the heart of your lover
Who waits for your coming to-day!"
chanted forth George in a favorite selection of the department-store victrola, and all the rest looked interested. It was a pretty church, and nestled under the hills as if it were part of the landscape, making a home-centre for the town.
"We can go to church and Sunday-school there," said Shirley eagerly. "How nice! That will please mother!"
Elizabeth looked at her curiously, and then speculatively toward the church.
"It looks awfully small and cheap," said Elizabeth.
"All the more chance for us to help!" said Shirley. "It will be good for us."
"What could you do to help a church?" asked the wondering Elizabeth. "Give money to paint it? The paint is all scaling off."
"We couldn't give much money," said Carol, "because we haven't got it. But there's lots of things to do in a church besides giving. You teach in Sunday-school, and you wait on table at suppers when they have Ladies' Aid."
"Maybe they'll ask you to play the organ, Shirley," suggested George.
"Oh George!" reproved Shirley. "They'll have plenty that can play better than I can. Remember I haven't had time to practise for ages."
"She's a crackerjack at the piano!" confided George to Graham in a low growl. "She hasn't had a lesson since father died, but before that she used to be at it all the time. She c'n sing too. You oughtta hear her."
"I'm sure I should like to," assented Graham heartily. "I wonder if you will help me get her to sing sometime if I come out to call after you are settled."
"Sure!" said George heartily, "but she mebbe won't do it. She's awful nutty about singing sometimes. She's not stuck on herself nor nothing."
But the little white church was left far behind, and the city swept on apace. They were nearing home now, and Graham insisted on knowing where they lived, that he might put them down at their door. Shirley would have pleaded an errand and had them set down in the business part of the town; but George airily gave the street and number, and Shirley could not prevail upon Graham to stop at his office and let them go their way.
And so the last few minutes of the drive were silent for Shirley, and her cheeks grew rosy with humiliation over the dark little narrow street where they would presently arrive. Perhaps when he saw it this cultured young man would think they were too poor and common to be good tenants even for a barn. But, when they stopped before the little two-story brick house, you would not have known from the expression on the young man's face as he glanced at the number but that the house was a marble front on the most exclusive avenue in the city. He handed down Shirley with all the grace that he would have used to wait upon a millionaire's daughter, and she liked the way he helped out Carol and spoke to George as if he were an old chum.
"I want you to come and see me next Saturday," called Elizabeth to Carol as the car glided away from the curb; "and I'm coming out to help you get settled, remember!"
The brother and two sisters stood in front of their little old dark house, and watched the elegant car glide away. They were filled with wonder at themselves that they had been all the afternoon a part of that elegant outfit. Was it a dream? They rubbed their eyes as the car disappeared around the corner, and turned to look up at the familiar windows and make sure where they were. Then they stood a moment to decide how they should explain to the waiting mother why they happened to be home so early.
It was finally decided that George should go to hunt up a drayman and find out what he would charge to move their things to the country, and Shirley should go to a neighbor's to inquire about a stove she heard they wanted to sell. Then Carol could go in alone, and there would be nothing to explain. There was no telling when either George or Shirley would have a holiday again, and it was as well to get these things arranged as soon as possible.
Meantime Elizabeth Graham was eagerly interviewing her brother, having taken the vacant front seat for the purpose.
"Sid, where did you find those perfectly dear people? I think they are just great! And are they really going to live in that barn? Won't that be dandy? I wish mother'd let me go out and spend a month with them. I mean to ask her. That Carol is the nicest girl ever. She's just a dear!"
"Now, look here, kid," said Graham, facing about to his sister. "I want you to understand a thing or two. I took you on this expedition because I thought I could trust you. See?"
Elizabeth nodded.
"Well, I don't want a lot of talk at home about this. Do you understand? I want you to wait a bit and go slow. If things seem to be all right a little later on, you can ask Carol to come and see you, perhaps; but you'll have to look out. She hasn't fine clothes to go visiting in, I imagine, and they're pretty proud. I guess they've lost their money. Their father died a couple of years ago, and they've been up against it. They do seem like awfully nice people, I'll admit; and, if it's all right later on, you can get to be friends, but you'll have to go slow. Mother wouldn't understand it, and she mustn't be annoyed, you know. I'll take you out to see them sometime when they get settled if it seems all right, but meantime can you keep your tongue still?"
Elizabeth's face fell, but she gave her word immediately. She and her brother were chums; it was easy to see that.
"But can't I have her out for a week-end, Sid? Can't I tell mother anything about her? I could lend her some dresses, you know."
"You go slow, kid, and leave the matter to me. I'll tell mother about them pretty soon when I've had a chance to see a little more of them and am sure mother wouldn't mind. Meantime, don't you fret. I'll take you out when I go on business, and you shall see her pretty soon again."
Elizabeth had to be content with that. She perceived that for some reason her brother did not care to have the matter talked over in the family. She knew they would all guy him about his interest in a girl who wanted to rent his barn, and she felt herself that Shirley was too fine to be talked about in that way. The family wouldn't understand unless they saw her.
"I know what you mean, Sid," she said after a thoughtful pause. "You want the folks to see them before they judge what they are, don't you?"
"That's just exactly the point," said Sidney with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. "That's just what makes you such a good pal, kid. You always understand."
The smile dawned again in Elizabeth's eyes, and she patted her brother's sleeve.
"Good old Sid!" she murmured tenderly. "You're all right. And I just know you're going to take me out to that barn soon. Aren't you going to fix it up for them a little? They can't live there that way. It would be a dandy place to live if the windows were bigger and there were doors like a house, and a piazza, and some fireplaces. A great big stone fireplace in the middle there opposite that door! Wouldn't that be sweet? And they'll have to have electric lights and some bathrooms, of course."
Her brother tipped back his head, and laughed.
"I'm afraid you wouldn't make much of a hand to live in a barn, kid," he said. "You're too much of an aristocrat. How much do you want for your money? My dear, they don't expect tiled bathrooms, and electric lights, and inlaid floors when they rent a barn for the summer."
"But aren't you going to do anything, Sid?"
"Well, I can't do much, for Miss Hollister would suspect right away. She's very businesslike, and she has suspicions already because I said I was going to put in partitions. She isn't an object of charity, you know. I imagine they are all pretty proud."
Elizabeth sat thoughtful and still. It was the first time in her life she had contemplated what it would be to be very poor.
Her brother watched her with interest. He had a feeling that it was going to be very good for Elizabeth to know these Hollisters.
Suddenly he brought the car to a stop before the office of a big lumber-yard they were passing.
"I'm going in here, kid, for just a minute, to see if I can get a man to put in those partitions."
Elizabeth sat meditatively studying the office window through whose large dusty panes could be seen tall strips of moulding, unpainted window-frames, and a fluted column or two, evidently ready to fill an order. The sign over the door set forth that window-sashes, doors, and blinds were to be had. Suddenly Elizabeth sat up straight and read the sign again, strained her eyes to see through the window, and then opened the car door and sprang out. In a moment more she stood beside her brother, pointing mutely to a large window-frame that stood against the wall.
"What is it, kid?" he asked kindly.
"Sid, why can't you put on great big windows like that? They would never notice the windows, you know. It would be so nice to have plenty of light and air."
"That's so," he murmured. "I might change the windows some without its being noticed."
Then to the man at the desk:
"What's the price of that window? Got any more?"
"Yes," said the man, looking up interested; "got half a dozen, made especially for a party, and then he wasn't pleased. Claimed he ordered sash-winders 'stead of casement. If you can use these six, we'll make you a special price."
"Oh, take them, Sid! They're perfectly lovely," said Elizabeth eagerly. "They're casement windows with diamond panes. They'll just be so quaint and artistic in that stone!"
"Well, I don't know how they'll fit," said the young man doubtfully. "I don't want to make it seem as if I was trying to put on too much style."
"No, Sid, it won't seem that way, really. I tell you they'll never notice the windows are bigger, and casement windows aren't like a regular house, you know. See, they'll open wide like doors. I think it would be just grand!"
"All right, kid, we'll see! We'll take the man out with us; and, if he says it can be done, I'll take them."
Elizabeth was overjoyed.
"That's just what it needed!" she declared. "They couldn't live in the dark on rainy days. You must put two in the front on each side the door, and one on each end. The back windows will do well enough."
"Well, come on, kid. Mr. Jones is going out with me at once. Do you want to go with us, or shall I call a taxi and send you home?" asked her brother.
"I'm going with you, of course," said Elizabeth eagerly, hurrying out to the car as if she thought the thing would be done all wrong without her.
So Elizabeth sat in the back seat alone, while her brother and the contractor discoursed on the price of lumber and the relative values of wood and stone for building-purposes, and the big car went back over the way it had been before that afternoon.
They stopped on the way out, and picked up one of Mr. Jones's carpenters who was just leaving a job with his kit of tools, and who climbed stolidly into the back seat, and sat as far away from the little blue-velvet miss as possible, all the while taking furtive notes to tell his own little girl about her when he went home.
Elizabeth climbed out, and went about the barn with them, listening to all they had to say.
The two men took out pencils and foot rules, and went around measuring and figuring. Elizabeth watched them with bright, attentive eyes, putting a whispered suggestion now and then to her brother.
"They can't go up and down a ladder all the time," she whispered. "There ought to be some rough stairs with a railing, at least as good as our back stairs at home."
"How about it?" said Graham aloud to the contractor. "Can you put in some steps, just rough ones, to the left? I'm going to have a party out here camping for a while this summer, and I want it to be safe. Need a railing, you know, so nobody will get a fall."
The man measured the space up with his eye.
"Just want plain steps framed up with a hand-rail?" he said, squinting up again. "Guess we better start 'em up this way to the back wall and then turn back from a landing. That'll suit the overhead space best. Just pine, you want 'em, I s'pose?"
Elizabeth stood like a big blue bird alighted on the door-sill, watching and listening. She was a regular woman, and saw big possibilities in the building. She would have enjoyed ordering parquetry flooring and carved newel-posts and making a regular palace.
The sun was setting behind the purply hill and sending a glint from the weather-vane on the little white church spire when they started back to the city. Elizabeth looked wistfully toward it, and wondered about the rapt expression on Shirley's face when she spoke of "working" in the church. How could one get any pleasure out of that? She meant to find out. At present her life was rather monotonous, and she longed to have some new interests.
That night after she had gone to her luxurious little couch she lay in her downy nest, and tried to think how it would be to live in that big barn and go to sleep up in the loft, lying on that hay. Then suddenly the mystery of life was upon her with its big problems. Why, for instance, was she born into the Graham family with money and culture and all the good times, and that sweet, bright Carol-girl born into the Hollister family where they had a hard time to live at all?
When Shirley came down to the street at five o'clock. Graham was waiting for her as he promised, and swung the car door open for her with as much eagerness as if he were taking the girl of his choice on a picnic instead of just doing a poor little stenographer a kindness.
"I telephoned to the store and sent a message to George. We're going to pick him up on our way," he said as the car wended its way skilfully through the traffic.
She was sitting beside him, and he looked down at her as if they were partners in a pleasant scheme. A strange sense of companionship with him thrilled through her, and was properly rebuked and fled at once, without really rippling the surface of her joy much. She had determined to have the pleasure out of this one evening ride at least, and would not let her thoughts play truant to suggest what wider, sweeter realms might be for other girls. She was having this good time. It was for her and no one else, and she would just enjoy it as much as she could, and keep it the sweet, sane, innocent pleasure that it really was. If she was not a fool, everything would be all right.
George was waiting in a quiver of pride and eagerness for them as they swept up to the employees' entrance, and a line of admiring fellow-laborers stood gaping on the sidewalk to watch his departure.
"Oh, gee! Isn't this great?" shouted George, climbing into the back seat hilariously. "Got a whole omnibus of a car this time, haven't you?"
"Yes, I thought we'd have plenty of room for your mother, so she could lie down if she liked."
"That was very kind of you," murmured Shirley. "You think of everything, don't you? I'm sure I don't see how we ever could have managed without your help. I should have been frightened a dozen times and been ready to give up."
"Not you!" said Graham fervently. "You're the kind that never gives up. You've taught me several valuable lessons."
As they turned the corner into the old street where the little brick house stood, Shirley suddenly began to have a vivid realization that she had told her mother nothing whatever about Mr. Graham. What would she think, and how could she explain his presence? She had expected to get there before Graham arrived and have time enough to make her mother understand, but now she began to realize that her real reason for leaving the matter yet unexplained was that she did not know just what to say without telling the whole story from beginning to end.
"I'll hurry in and see if mother is all ready," she said, as the car stopped in front of the house, and the children rushed out eagerly, Doris just behind the others, to see the "booful tar."
"Mother," said Shirley, slipping softly into the house and going over to the bed where she lay with hat and coat on, fully ready. "Mother, I sha'n't have time to explain all about it, but it's all right; so don't think anything. Mr. Graham, the man who owns the place where we are going, has been kind enough to offer to take you in his car. He thinks it will be easier for you than the trolley, and he is out at the door now waiting. It's perfectly all right. He has been very kind about it——"
"Oh daughter, I couldn't think of troubling any one like that!" said the mother, shrinking from the thought of a stranger; but, looking up, she saw him standing, hat in hand, just in the doorway. The children had led him to the door when he offered to help their mother out to the car.
"Mother, this is Mr. Graham," said Shirley.
Mrs. Hollister, a little pink spot on each cheek, tried to rise, but the young man came forward instantly and stooped over her.
"Don't try to get up, Mrs. Hollister. Your daughter tells me you haven't been walking about for several weeks. You must reserve all your strength for the journey. Just trust me. I'm perfectly strong, and I can lift you and put you into the car almost without your knowing it. I often carry my own mother up-stairs just for fun, and she's quite a lot larger and heavier than you. Just let me put my hand under your back so, and now this hand here. Now if you'll put your arms around my neck—yes, that way—no, don't be a bit afraid. I'm perfectly strong, and I won't drop you."
Little Mrs. Hollister cast a frightened look at her daughter and another at the fine, strong face bent above her, felt herself lifted like thistle-down before she had had time to protest, and found herself obediently putting her weak arms around his neck and resting her frightened head against a strong shoulder. A second more, and she was lying on the soft cushions of the car, and the young man was piling pillows about her and tucking her up with soft, furry robes.
"Are you perfectly comfortable?" he asked anxiously. "I didn't strain your back or tire you, did I?"
"Oh, no, indeed!" said the bewildered woman. "You are very kind, and I hardly knew what you were doing till I was here. I never dreamed of anything like this. Shirley didn't tell me about it."
"No," said the young man, smiling, "she said she wanted to surprise you; and I believe she thought you might worry a little if you heard the details of the journey. Now, kitten, are you ready to get in?" He turned a smiling face to Doris, who stood solemnly waiting her turn, with an expression of one who at last sees the gates of the kingdom of heaven opening before her happy eyes.
"Soor!" said Doris in a tone as like Harley's as possible. She lifted one little shabby shoe, and tried to reach the step, but failed, and then surrendered her trusting hands to the young man; and he lifted her in beside her mother.
"Sit there, kitten, till your sister comes out," he said, looking at her flower face admiringly.
Doris giggled.
"I ain't a kitty," she declared; "I'se a 'ittle gurrul!"
"Well, little girl, do you like to go riding?"
"Soor! I do 'ike to go widin'!" said Doris. "Oh! There goes muvver's bed!" as the drayman came out carrying the headboard.
Shirley meanwhile was working rapidly, putting the last things from her mother's bed into the box, tossing things into the empty clothes-basket that had been left for this purpose, and directing the man who was taking down the bed and carrying out the boxes and baskets. At last all the things were out of the house, and she was free to go. She turned for one swift moment, and caught a sob in her throat. There had not been time for it before. It had come when she saw the young man stoop and lift her mother so tenderly and bear her out to the car.
But the children were calling her loudly to come. She gave one happy dab at her eyes with her handkerchief to make sure no tears had escaped, and went out of the little brick house forever.
A little middle seat had been turned down for Carol, and Doris was in her lap. Graham turned the other middle seat down for Shirley; the boys piled into the front seat with him; and they were off. Mrs. Hollister in her wonder over it all completely forgot to look back into what she had been wont to call in the stifling days of summer her "frying-pan," or to wonder whether she were about to jump into the fire. She just lay back on her soft cushions, softer than any she had ever rested upon before, and felt herself glide along away from the hated little dark house forever! It was a wonderful experience. It almost seemed as if a chariot of fire had swooped down and gathered all her little flock with her, and was carrying them to some kind of gracious heaven where comfort would be found at last. A bit of hope sprang up within her, utterly unpremeditated and unreasonable, and persisted so that she could not help feeling happy. As yet it had not come to her to wonder who this handsome young man was that presumed to lift her and carry her like a baby, and move her on beds of down to utterly unknown regions. She was too much taken up with the wonder of it all. If Doris hadn't been prattling, asking questions of her, and the light breeze hadn't flapped a lock of hair into her eyes and tickled her nose, she might have thought she was dreaming, so utterly unreal did it all seem to her.
And now they passed out from the narrow streets, through crowded thoroughfares for a brief space, then out beyond, and free, into the wider reaches. Fair houses and glimpsed of green were appearing. The car was gliding smoothly, for the sake of the invalid not going at high speed; and she could see on every side. The trees were in full leaf; the sky was large and blue; the air was filled with freshness. She drew a long breath; and closed her eyes to pray, "Oh, my Father!" and then opened them again to see whether it was all true. Shirley, sensitive for her to the slightest breath, turned and drew the robes closer about her mother, and asked whether she were perfectly warm and whether she wanted another pillow under her head.
Graham did not intrude himself upon the family behind him. He was absorbed in the two boys, who were entirely willing to be monopolized. He told them all about the car, and discoursed on the mysteries of the different makes with a freedom that gave George the impression that he was himself almost a man to be honored by such talk.
It was nearly seven o'clock when they reached Glenside and the big stone barn came in sight, for they had travelled slowly to make it easier for the invalid.
Elizabeth had sighted the car far down the road below the curve; and, switching on every electric light in the place, she fled down the ladder to the basement, dragging the willing Jenkins after her. Here they waited with bated breath until the family had gone inside, when they made their stealthy way out the east end, across the little brook under the fence, and down the road, to be picked up by the car according to previous arrangement.
As the car came in sight of the barn a deep silence suddenly fell upon the little company. Even Doris felt it, and ceased her prattle to look from one to another. "Whatzie mattah?" she asked Shirley shyly, putting out her hand to pat Shirley's face in a way she had when she was uneasy or troubled. "Whatzie mattah, Surly?"
But Shirley only squeezed her hand reassuringly, and smiled.
As they drew near, the young people noticed that the bars of the fence in front of the barn had been taken down and the ditch filled in smoothly. Then they saw that the car was turning in and going straight up the grassy incline to the door.
Mrs. Hollister, lying comfortably among her cushions, was looking at the evening sky, hearing a bird that reminded her of long ago, and scarcely noticed they had turned until the car stopped. Then in silent joy the children swarmed out of the car, and with one consent stood back and watched mother, as the strong young man came to the open door and gathered her in his arms once more.
"Now we're almost home, Mrs. Hollister," he said pleasantly. "Just put your arms around my neck once more, and we'll soon have you beside your own fire." He lifted her and bore her in to the wide couch before the crackling fire that Elizabeth had started just before she went to look out the door the last time.
Then into the blazing light of the transformed barn they all stepped, and every one stood back and stared, blinking. What was this? What wondrous perfume met their senses? What luxury! What flowers! What hangings!
They stood and stared, and could not understand; and between them they forgot to wonder what their mother was thinking, or to do a thing but stupidly stare and say, "Why!" and "Oh!" and "Ah!" half under their breath.
"Just phone me if you need anything, Miss Hollister, please. I shall be glad to serve you," said Graham, stepping quickly over to the door. "Mrs. Hollister, I hope you'll be none the worse for your ride"; and he slipped out the door, and was gone.
The sound of the car softly purring its way backward down the slope brought Shirley out of her daze; but, when she turned and understood that he was gone, the car was just backing into the road, turning with a quick whirl, and was away before she could make him hear.
"Oh! He is gone!" she cried out, turning in dismay to the children. "He is gone, and we never thanked him!"
George was out down the road like a shot; and the rest, forgetful for the moment of the invalid who had been the great anxiety all day, crowded at the door to watch him. They could hear the throbbing of the machine; they heard it stop down the road and start again almost immediately, growing fainter with every whir as it went farther from them. In a moment more George came running back.
"He's gone. He meant to, I guess, so we could have it all to ourselves right at first. Elizabeth and the man were down the road waiting for him. They've been dolling the place up to surprise us."
"Oh!" said Shirley, turning to look around, her cheeks growing rosy. "Oh! Isn't it beautiful?" Then, turning swiftly to the couch and kneeling, she said, "Oh mother!"
"What does it all mean, daughter?" asked the bewildered mother, looking about on the great room that seemed a palace to her sad eyes.
But they all began to clamor at once, and she could make nothing of it.
"Oh Shirley, look at the curtains! Aren't they perfectly dear?" cried Carol ecstatically.
"Perf'ly deah!" echoed Doris, dancing up and down gleefully.
"And here's a card, 'With love from Elizabeth'! Isn't it sweet of her? Isn't she a perfect darling?"
"Who is Elizabeth?" asked Mrs. Hollister, rising to her elbow and looking around.
"Gee! Look at the flowers!" broke in George. "It's like our store at Easter! I say! Those lilies are pretty keen, aren't they, Shirl?"
"Wait'll you see the dining-room!" called Harley, who was investigating with the help of his nose. "Some supper-table! Come on quick; I'm starved. Hello! Hustle here quick. Here's another sign-board!"
They followed to the dining-room. Harley, still following his nose, pursued his investigations to the kitchen, discovered the source of the savory odors that were pervading the place, and raised another cry so appreciative that the entire family, with the exception of the invalid, followed him and found the supper steaming hot and crying to be eaten.
After the excitement was somewhat quieted Shirley took command.
"Now, children, you're getting mother all excited, and this won't do. And, besides, we must eat this supper right away before it spoils. Quiet down, and bring the hot things to the table while I get mother's things off. Then we will tell her all about it. There's plenty of time, you know. We're going to stay right here all summer."
"Aw, gee! Can't we bring mother out to the table?" pleaded George. "Harley and I could lift that couch just as easy."
"Why, I don't know," said Shirley, hesitating. "You know she isn't strong, and she will worry about your lifting her."
"Oh Shirley, let her come," pleaded Carol. "We could all take hold and wheel the couch out here; you know the floor is real smooth since those new boards were put in, and there are good castors on the couch."
"Mother! Mother! You're coming out to supper!" they chorused, rushing back to the living-room; and before the invalid realized what was happening her couch was being wheeled carefully, gleefully into the brilliantly lighted dining-room, with Doris like a fairy sprite dancing attendance, and shouting joyously:
"Mudder's tumin' to suppy! Mudder's tumin' to suppy adin!"
The mother gazed in amazement at the royally spread table, so smothered in flowers that she failed to recognize the cracked old blue dishes.
"Children, I insist," she raised her voice above the happy din. "I insist on knowing immediately what all this means. Where are we, and what is this? A hotel? And who was the person who brought us here? I cannot eat anything nor stay here another minute until I know. People can't rent houses like this for ten dollars a month anywhere, and I didn't suppose we had come to charity, even if I am laid up for a few days."
Shirley could see the hurt in her mother's eyes and the quick alarm in her voice, and came around to her couch, smiling.
"Now, mother dear, we'll tell you the whole thing. It isn't a hotel we're in, and it isn't a house at all. It's only an old barn!"
"A barn!" Mrs. Hollister sat up on her couch alertly, and looked at the big bowl of roses in the middle of the table, at the soft, flowing curtains at the window and the great pot of Easter lilies on the little stand in front, and exclaimed, "Impossible!"
"But it is, really, mother, just a grand old stone barn! Look at the walls. See those two over there are just rough stones, and this one back of you is a partition made of common boards. That's only an old brown denim curtain over there to hide the kitchen, and we've got the old red chenille curtains up to partition off the bedrooms. The boys are going to sleep up in the hay-loft, and it's going to be just great!"
Mrs. Hollister looked wildly at the stone walls, back at the new partition, recognized one by one the ancient chairs, the old bookcase now converted into a china-closet, the brown denim curtain that had once been a cover for the dining-room floor in the little brick house. Now it was washed and mended, and was doing its faded part to look like a wall and fit into the scheme of things. She darted questioning glances at the wealth of flowers, and the abundantly set table, then settled back on her pillow but half satisfied.
"They don't have curtains in a barn!" she remarked dryly.
"Those are a present from Elizabeth, the little sister of the landlord. She was out here with him when he came to see about things, and she got acquainted with Carol. She has put up those curtains, and brought the flowers, and fixed the table, for a surprise. See, mother!" and Shirley brought the card on which Elizabeth had printed her crude welcome.
Mrs. Hollister took the card as if it were some sort of a life-preserver, and smiled with relief.
"But this is a great deal to do for strangers," she said tremblingly, and tears began to glitter in her eyes. "They must be wealthy people."
"Yes, mother, I think they are," said Shirley, "and they have been most kind."
"But, daughter, wealthy people do not usually take the trouble to do things like that for nothing. And ten dollars a month for a barn could be nothing to them."
"I know, mother, but he seems very well satisfied with the price," said Shirley with a troubled brow. "I——"
"Something's burning!" yelled Harley at the top of his lungs from the kitchen, and immediately they all rushed out to rescue the supper, which took that moment to assert itself.
"Now, mother," said Shirley, coming in with a big tureen of soup, "we've got to eat this supper or it will spoil. You're not to ask another question till we are through."
They all settled expectantly down at the table, Doris climbing joyously into her high chair, calling:
"Suppy! Suppy! Oh goody!"
Such a clatter and a clamor, such shoutings over the sandwiches and such jumpings up and down to carry something to mother! Such lingering over the delicious ice-cream and fresh strawberries that were found in the freezer! Think of it! Real strawberries for them that time of year!