“Your esteemed contribution entitled Wareham Wildflowers has been accepted for The Pilot, Miss Perkins,” said Rebecca, entering the room where Emma Jane was darning the firm’s stockings. “I stayed to tea with Miss Maxwell, but came home early to tell you.”

“You are joking, Becky!” faltered Emma Jane, looking up from her work.

“Not a bit; the senior editor read it and thought it highly instructive; it appears in the next issue.”

“Not in the same number with your poem about the golden gates that close behind us when we leave school?”—and Emma Jane held her breath as she awaited the reply.

“Even so, Miss Perkins.”

“Rebecca,” said Emma Jane, with the nearest approach to tragedy that her nature would permit, “I don’t know as I shall be able to bear it, and if anything happens to me, I ask you solemnly to bury that number of The Pilot with me.”

Rebecca did not seem to think this the expression of an exaggerated state of feeling, inasmuch as she replied, “I know; that’s just the way it seemed to me at first, and even now, whenever I’m alone and take out the Pilot back numbers to read over my contributions, I almost burst with pleasure; and it’s not that they are good either, for they look worse to me every time I read them.”

“If you would only live with me in some little house when we get older,” mused Emma Jane, as with her darning needle poised in air she regarded the opposite wall dreamily, “I would do the housework and cooking, and copy all your poems and stories, and take them to the post office, and you needn’t do anything but write. It would be perfectly elegant!”

“I’d like nothing better, if I hadn’t promised to keep house for John,” replied Rebecca.

“He won’t have a house for a good many years, will he?”

“No,” sighed Rebecca ruefully, flinging herself down by the table and resting her head on her hand. “Not unless we can contrive to pay off that detestable mortgage. The day grows farther off instead of nearer now that we haven’t paid the interest this year.”

She pulled a piece of paper towards her, and scribbling idly on it read aloud in a moment or two:



“Will you pay a little faster?” said the mortgage to the farm;

“I confess I’m very tired of this place.”

“The weariness is mutual,” Rebecca Randall cried;

“I would I’d never gazed upon your face!”



“A note has a ‘face,’” observed Emma Jane, who was gifted in arithmetic. “I didn’t know that a mortgage had.”

“Our mortgage has,” said Rebecca revengefully. “I should know him if I met him in the dark. Wait and I’ll draw him for you. It will be good for you to know how he looks, and then when you have a husband and seven children, you won’t allow him to come anywhere within a mile of your farm.”

The sketch when completed was of a sort to be shunned by a timid person on the verge of slumber. There was a tiny house on the right, and a weeping family gathered in front of it. The mortgage was depicted as a cross between a fiend and an ogre, and held an axe uplifted in his red right hand. A figure with streaming black locks was staying the blow, and this, Rebecca explained complacently, was intended as a likeness of herself, though she was rather vague as to the method she should use in attaining her end.

“He’s terrible,” said Emma Jane, “but awfully wizened and small.”

“It’s only a twelve hundred dollar mortgage,” said Rebecca, “and that’s called a small one. John saw a man once that was mortgaged for twelve thousand.”

“Shall you be a writer or an editor?” asked Emma Jane presently, as if one had only to choose and the thing were done.

“I shall have to do what turns up first, I suppose.”

“Why not go out as a missionary to Syria, as the Burches are always coaxing you to? The Board would pay your expenses.”

“I can’t make up my mind to be a missionary,” Rebecca answered. “I’m not good enough in the first place, and I don’t ‘feel a call,’ as Mr. Burch says you must. I would like to do something for somebody and make things move, somewhere, but I don’t want to go thousands of miles away teaching people how to live when I haven’t learned myself. It isn’t as if the heathen really needed me; I’m sure they’ll come out all right in the end.”

“I can’t see how; if all the people who ought to go out to save them stay at home as we do,” argued Emma Jane.

“Why, whatever God is, and wherever He is, He must always be there, ready and waiting. He can’t move about and miss people. It may take the heathen a little longer to find Him, but God will make allowances, of course. He knows if they live in such hot climates it must make them lazy and slow; and the parrots and tigers and snakes and breadfruit trees distract their minds; and having no books, they can’t think as well; but they’ll find God somehow, some time.”

“What if they die first?” asked Emma Jane.

“Oh, well, they can’t be blamed for that; they don’t die on purpose,” said Rebecca, with a comfortable theology.

In these days Adam Ladd sometimes went to Temperance on business connected with the proposed branch of the railroad familiarly known as the “York and Yank ’em,” and while there he gained an inkling of Sunnybrook affairs. The building of the new road was not yet a certainty, and there was a difference of opinion as to the best route from Temperance to Plumville. In one event the way would lead directly through Sunnybrook, from corner to corner, and Mrs. Randall would be compensated; in the other, her interests would not be affected either for good or ill, save as all land in the immediate neighborhood might rise a little in value.

Coming from Temperance to Wareham one day, Adam had a long walk and talk with Rebecca, whom he thought looking pale and thin, though she was holding bravely to her self-imposed hours of work. She was wearing a black cashmere dress that had been her aunt Jane’s second best. We are familiar with the heroine of romance whose foot is so exquisitely shaped that the coarsest shoe cannot conceal its perfections, and one always cherishes a doubt of the statement; yet it is true that Rebecca’s peculiar and individual charm seemed wholly independent of accessories. The lines of her figure, the rare coloring of skin and hair and eyes, triumphed over shabby clothing, though, had the advantage of artistic apparel been given her, the little world of Wareham would probably at once have dubbed her a beauty. The long black braids were now disposed after a quaint fashion of her own. They were crossed behind, carried up to the front, and crossed again, the tapering ends finally brought down and hidden in the thicker part at the neck. Then a purely feminine touch was given to the hair that waved back from the face,—a touch that rescued little crests and wavelets from bondage and set them free to take a new color in the sun.

Adam Ladd looked at her in a way that made her put her hands over her face and laugh through them shyly as she said: “I know what you are thinking, Mr. Aladdin,—that my dress is an inch longer than last year, and my hair different; but I’m not nearly a young lady yet; truly I’m not. Sixteen is a month off still, and you promised not to give me up till my dress trails. If you don’t like me to grow old, why don’t you grow young? Then we can meet in the halfway house and have nice times. Now that I think about it,” she continued, “that’s just what you’ve been doing all along. When you bought the soap, I thought you were grandfather Sawyer’s age; when you danced with me at the flag-raising, you seemed like my father; but when you showed me your mother’s picture, I felt as if you were my John, because I was so sorry for you.”

“That will do very well,” smiled Adam; “unless you go so swiftly that you become my grandmother before I really need one. You are studying too hard, Miss Rebecca Rowena!”

“Just a little,” she confessed. “But vacation comes soon, you know.”

“And are you going to have a good rest and try to recover your dimples? They are really worth preserving.”

A shadow crept over Rebecca’s face and her eyes suffused. “Don’t be kind, Mr. Aladdin, I can’t bear it;—it’s—it’s not one of my dimply days!” and she ran in at the seminary gate, and disappeared with a farewell wave of her hand.

Adam Ladd wended his way to the principal’s office in a thoughtful mood. He had come to Wareham to unfold a plan that he had been considering for several days. This year was the fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the Wareham schools, and he meant to tell Mr. Morrison that in addition to his gift of a hundred volumes to the reference library, he intended to celebrate it by offering prizes in English composition, a subject in which he was much interested. He wished the boys and girls of the two upper classes to compete; the award to be made to the writers of the two best essays. As to the nature of the prizes he had not quite made up his mind, but they would be substantial ones, either of money or of books.

This interview accomplished, he called upon Miss Maxwell, thinking as he took the path through the woods, “Rose-Red-Snow-White needs the help, and since there is no way of my giving it to her without causing remark, she must earn it, poor little soul! I wonder if my money is always to be useless where most I wish to spend it!”

He had scarcely greeted his hostess when he said: “Miss Maxwell, doesn’t it strike you that our friend Rebecca looks wretchedly tired?”

“She does indeed, and I am considering whether I can take her away with me. I always go South for the spring vacation, traveling by sea to Old Point Comfort, and rusticating in some quiet spot nearby. I should like nothing better than to have Rebecca for a companion.”

“The very thing!” assented Adam heartily; “but why should you take the whole responsibility? Why not let me help? I am greatly interested in the child, and have been for some years.”

“You needn’t pretend you discovered her,” interrupted Miss Maxwell warmly, “for I did that myself.”

“She was an intimate friend of mine long before you ever came to Wareham,” laughed Adam, and he told Miss Maxwell the circumstances of his first meeting with Rebecca. “From the beginning I’ve tried to think of a way I could be useful in her development, but no reasonable solution seemed to offer itself.”

“Luckily she attends to her own development,” answered Miss Maxwell. “In a sense she is independent of everything and everybody; she follows her saint without being conscious of it. But she needs a hundred practical things that money would buy for her, and alas! I have a slender purse.”

“Take mine, I beg, and let me act through you,” pleaded Adam. “I could not bear to see even a young tree trying its best to grow without light or air, how much less a gifted child! I interviewed her aunts a year ago, hoping I might be permitted to give her a musical education. I assured them it was a most ordinary occurrence, and that I was willing to be repaid later on if they insisted, but it was no use. The elder Miss Sawyer remarked that no member of her family ever had lived on charity, and she guessed they wouldn’t begin at this late day.”

“I rather like that uncompromising New England grit,” exclaimed Miss Maxwell, “and so far, I don’t regret one burden that Rebecca has borne or one sorrow that she has shared. Necessity has only made her brave; poverty has only made her daring and self-reliant. As to her present needs, there are certain things only a woman ought to do for a girl, and I should not like to have you do them for Rebecca; I should feel that I was wounding her pride and self-respect, even though she were ignorant; but there is no reason why I may not do them if necessary and let you pay her traveling expenses. I would accept those for her without the slightest embarrassment, but I agree that the matter would better be kept private between us.”

“You are a real fairy godmother!” exclaimed Adam, shaking her hand warmly. “Would it be less trouble for you to invite her room mate too, the pink-and-white inseparable?”

“No, thank you, I prefer to have Rebecca all to myself,” said Miss Maxwell.

“I can understand that,” replied Adam absentmindedly; “I mean, of course, that one child is less trouble than two. There she is now.”

Here Rebecca appeared in sight, walking down the quiet street with a lad of sixteen. They were in animated conversation, and were apparently reading something aloud to each other, for the black head and the curly brown one were both bent over a sheet of letter paper. Rebecca kept glancing up at her companion, her eyes sparkling with appreciation.

“Miss Maxwell,” said Adam, “I am a trustee of this institution, but upon my word I don’t believe in coeducation!”

“I have my own occasional hours of doubt,” she answered, “but surely its disadvantages are reduced to a minimum with children! That is a very impressive sight which you are privileged to witness, Mr. Ladd. The folk in Cambridge often gloated on the spectacle of Longfellow and Lowell arm in arm. The little school world of Wareham palpitates with excitement when it sees the senior and the junior editors of The Pilot walking together!”