Chapter 23 of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, this is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm by Kate Douglas Wigan. Chapter 23 The Hill Difficulty The first happy year at Wareham with its widened skyline, its larger vision, its greater opportunity was over and gone. Rebecca had studied during the summer vacation and had passed, on her return in the autumn, certain examinations which would enable her if she carried out the same program the next season to complete the course in three instead of four years. She came off with no flying colors that would have been impossible in consideration of her inadequate training, but she did wonderfully well in some of the required subjects and so brilliantly in others that the average was respectable. She would never have been a remarkable scholar under any circumstances perhaps, and she was easily outstripped in mathematics and the natural sciences by a dozen girls, but in some inexplicable way she became, as the months went on, the foremost figure in the school. When she had entirely forgotten the facts which would enable her to answer a question fully and conclusively, she commonly had some original theory to expound. It was not always correct, but it was generally unique and sometimes amusing. She was only fair in Latin or French grammar, but when it came to translation, her freedom, her choice of words, and her sympathetic understanding of the spirit of the text made her the delight of her teachers and the despair of her rivals. She can be perfectly ignorant of a subject, said Miss Maxwell to Adam Ladd, but entirely intelligent the moment she has a clue.  Rebecca's gifts had not been discovered saved by the few during the first year when she was adjusting herself quietly to the situation. She was distinctly one of the poorer girls. She had no fine dresses to attract attention, no visitors, no friends in town.  Still, water will find its own level in some way. And by the spring of the second year, she had naturally settled into the same sort of leadership which had been hers in the smaller community of Riverboro. She was unanimously elected assistant editor of the Wareham School pilot, being the first girl to assume that enviable, though somewhat arduous and thankless position. And when her maiden number went to the cops, Uncle Jerry and Aunt Sarah could hardly eat or sleep for pride. She'll always get votes. For whether she knows anything or not, she looks as if she did. And whether she's capable of feeling an office or not, she looks as if she was. I only wish I was tall and dark and had the gift of making people believe I was great things, like Rebecca Randall. There's one thing, though the boys call her handsome, you notice they don't trouble her with much attention. It was a fact that Rebecca's attitude toward the opposite sex was still somewhat indifferent and oblivious, even for fifteen and a half. No one could look at her and doubt that she had potentialities of attraction latent within her somewhere, but that side of her nature was happily biding its time. A human being is capable only of a certain amount of activity at a given moment and it will inevitably satisfy first its most pressing needs, its most ardent desires, its chief ambitions. Rebecca was full of small anxieties and fears for matters were not going well at the brick house and were anything but hopeful at the home farm. She was over busy and overtaxed and her thoughts were naturally drawn towards the difficult problems of daily living. It had seemed to her during the autumn and winter of that year as if her Aunt Miranda had never been, save at the very first, so sensorious and so fault-finding. One Saturday, Rebecca ran upstairs and, bursting into a flood of tears, exclaimed, Aunt Jane, it seems as if I could never stand her continual scoldings. Nothing I can eat suits Aunt Miranda. She just said it would take me my whole life to get the Randall out of me and I'm not convinced that I won it all out, so there we are. Aunt Jane, never demonstrative, cried with Rebecca as she attempted to soothe her. You must be patient. She said, wiping first her own eyes and then Rebecca's. I haven't told you, for it isn't fair you should be troubled when you're studying so hard, but your Aunt Miranda isn't well. One Monday morning, about a month ago, she had a kind of faint spell. It wasn't bad, but the doctor is afraid it was a shock, and if so, it's the beginning of the end. Seems to me she's failing right along, and that's what makes her so fretful and easy vexed. She has other troubles, too, that you don't know anything about, and if you're not kind to your Aunt Miranda now, child, you'll be dreadful sorry sometime. All the temper faded from Rebecca's face, and she stopped crying to say penitently. Oh, the poor dear thing! I won't mind a bit what she says now. She just asked me for some milk toast, and I was dreading to take it to her, but this will make everything different. Don't worry yet, Aunt Jane, for props it won't be as bad as you think. So when she carried the toast to her aunt a little later, it was in the best, guilt-edged china bowl, with a fringed napkin on the tray, and a sprig of geranium lying across the salt cellar. Now Aunt Miranda. She said cheerily. I expect you to smack your lips and say this is good. It's not Randall, but sorry milk toast. You've tried all kinds on me, one time and another. Miranda answered. This tastes real kind of good, but I wish you hadn't wasted that nice geranium. You can't tell what's wasted. Said Rebecca philosophically. Props that geranium has been hoping this long time it could brighten somebody's supper, so they don't disappoint it by making believe you don't like it. I've seen geraniums cry in the very early morning. The mysterious trouble to which Jane had alluded was a very real one, but it was held in profound secrecy. $2,500 of the small Sawyer property had been invested in the business of a friend of their fathers and had returned them a regular annual income of $100. The family friend had been dead for some five years, but his son had succeeded to his interests and all went on as formally. Suddenly there came a letter saying that the firm had gone into bankruptcy, that the business had been completely wrecked, and that the Sawyer money had been swept away with everything else. The loss of $100 a year is a very trifling matter, but it made all the difference between comfort and self-denial to the two old spinsters. Their manner of life had been so rigid and careful that it was difficult to economize any further, and the blow had fallen just when it was most inconvenient. For Rebecca's school and boarding expenses, small as they were, had to be paid promptly and in cash. Can we possibly go on doing it? Shant we have to give up and tell her why? Asked Jane tearfully of the elder sister. We have put our hand to the plow, and we can't turn back. Answered Miranda in her grimaced tone. We've taken her away from her mother and offered her an education, and we've got to keep our word. She's Aurelia's only hope for years to come, to my way of thinking. Hannah's bow takes all her time and thought, and when she gets a husband her mother will be out of sight and out of mind. John, instead of Farman, thinks he must be a doctor, as if folks wasn't getting unhealthy enough these days without turning out more young doctors to help them into their graves. No, Jane, we'll skimp and do without and plan to get along on our interest money somehow, but we won't break into our principle whatever happens. Breaking into the principle was, in the minds of most thrifty New England women, a sin only second to arse and theft or murder. And though the rule was occasionally carried too far for common sense, as in this case, where two elderly women of sixty might reasonably have drawn something from their little hoard in time of special need, it doubtless wrought more of good than evil in the community. Rebecca, who knew nothing of their business affairs, merely saw her aunts grow more and more saving, pinching here and there, cutting off this and that relentlessly. Less meat and fish were bought. The woman who had lately been coming two days a week for washing, ironing, and scrubbing was dismissed. The old bonnets of the season before were brushed up and re-trimmed. There were no drives to moderation or trips to Portland. Economy was carried to its very extreme, but though Miranda was well-nigh as gloomy and uncompromising in her manner and conversation as a woman could well be, she at least never twitted her niece of being a burden, so Rebecca's share of the Sawyer's misfortune consisted only in wearing her old dresses, hats, and jackets without any apparent hope of a change. There was, however, no concealing the state of things at Sunnybrook where chapters of accidents had unfolded themselves in a sort of serial story that had run through the year. The potato crop had failed. There were no apples to speak of. The hay had been poor. Aurelia had turns of dizziness in her head. Mark had broken his ankle. As this was his fourth offense, Miranda inquired how many bones there were in a human body. So they'd know when Mark got through breaking him. The time for paying the interest on the mortgage, that incubus that had crushed all the joy out of the Randall household, had come and gone, and there was no possibility for the first time in fourteen years of paying the required forty-eight dollars. The only bright spot in the horizon was Hannah's engagement to Will Melville, a young farmer whose land joined Sunnybrook, who had a good house, was alone in the world, and his own master. Hannah was so satisfied with her own unexpectedly radiant prospects that she hardly realized her mother's anxieties, for there are natures which flourish in adversity and deteriorate when exposed to sudden prosperity. She had made a visit of a week at the Brick House, and Miranda's impression, conveyed in privacy to Jane, was that Hannah was, close as the bark of a tree, and considerable selfish too, that when she'd climb as fur as she could in the world, she'd kick the ladder out from under her, everlast and quick. That, unbeen-sounded as to her ability to be of use to the younger children in the future, she said she guessed she'd done her share already, and she wasn't going to burn Will with her poor relations. She, Susan Randall, through and through, ejaculated Miranda. I was glad to see her face turned towards temperance. If that mortgage is ever cleared from the farm, it won't be Hannah that'll do it. It'll be Rebecca, or me. End of Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm By Kate Douglas-Wigan Chapter 24 Aladdin Rubs His Lamp Your esteemed contribution, entitled Where Ham 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 McSmaxwell, but came home early to tell you. You're joking, Becky! Faulted 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, in as much 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 on 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. Replyed 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 date 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 gave it upon your face. A note has a face. Observed Emma Jane, who was gifted an arithmetic. I didn't know that a mortgage had. Her mortgage has. Said Rebecca ruevenchfully. I should know him if I met him in the dark. Wait and I'll draw him for you. It'll 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 stained 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 sell his mortgage 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 birches 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. Birch 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 all right in the end. I can't see how. If all the people who are about 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 bread fruit trees distract their minds, and having no books they can't think as well, but they'll find God somehow sometime. 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 Yencom, 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. Savas 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 course's 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're thinking, Mr. Aladdin, that my dress isn't 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've 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 half-way 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.  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.  Don't be kind, Mr. Ladden. I can't bear it. It's—it's not one of my dimpley days. And she ran in at the seminary gate, and disappeared with a farewell wave of her hand. Adam Ladd went at 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 50th 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. The interview accomplished, he called upon Miss Maxwell, thinking, as he took the path through the woods— Rose Reds know why it 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'm considering whether I can take her away with me. I always go south for the spring vacation, travelling 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! Ascented Adam Hardily. 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 wear him. 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 in 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 travelling expenses. I would accept those for her without the slightest embarrassment. But I agree that the matter would better be kept private between us.  Exclaimed Adam, shaking her hand warmly. Would it be less trouble for you to invite her roommate to 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 an 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 co-education. 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. Lad. The folk in Cambridge often gloated on the spectacle of Longfellow and Lowell, Arm and Arm. The little school world of Warram palpitates with excitement when it sees the senior and the junior editors of the pilot walking together. Chapter 25. Roses of Joy The day before Rebecca started for the south with Miss Maxwell, she was in the library with Emma Jane and Holda, consulting dictionaries and encyclopedias. As they were leaving, they passed the locked cases containing the library of fiction open to the teachers and townspeople, but forbidden to the students. They looked longingly through the glass, getting some little comfort from the titles of the volumes as hungry children imbibe emotional nourishment from the pies and tarts inside a confectioner's window. Rebecca's eyes fell upon a new book in the corner, and she read the name aloud with delight. The Rose of Joy. Listen, girls, isn't that lovely? The Rose of Joy. It looks beautiful and it sounds beautiful. What does it mean, I wonder? I guess everybody has a different rose. Said Holda shrewdly. I thought mine would be, and am not ashamed to own it. I'd like a year in a city with just as much money as I wanted to spend, horses and splendid clothes and amusements every minute of the day, and I'd like above everything to live with people that wear low necks. Poor Holda never took off her dress without bewailing the fact that her lot was cast in river borough where her pretty white shoulders could never be seen. That would be fun for a while anyway. Emma Jane remarked. But wouldn't that be pleasure more than joy? Oh, I've got an idea! Don't freak so, said the startled Holda. I thought it was a mouse. I don't have them very often. Apologized, Emma Jane. Ideas, I mean. This one shook me like a stroke of lightning. Rebecca, couldn't it be success? That's good, mused Rebecca. I can see that success would be a joy, but it doesn't seem to me like a rose somehow. I was wondering if it could be love. I wish we could have a peep at that book. It must be perfectly elegant, said Emma Jane. But now you say it is love. I think that's the best guess yet. All day long the four words haunted and possessed Rebecca. She said them over to herself continually. Even the prosaic Emma Jane was affected by them, for in the evening she said, I don't expect you to believe it, but I have another idea. That's two in one day. I had it while I was putting cologne on your head. The rose of joy might be helpfulness.  Don't dare to call yourself troublesome. You're, you're, you're my rose of joy. That's what you are. And the two girls hugged each other affectionately. In the middle of the night, Rebecca touched Emma Jane on the shoulder softly. Are you very fast asleep, Emmy? She whispered. Not so very. Answered Emma Jane drowsily. I thought of something new. If you sing or painted or wrote, not a little, but beautifully, you know, wouldn't the doing of it just as much as you wanted give you the rose of joy? It might if it was a real talent. Answered Emma Jane. Though I don't like it so well as love. If you have another thought, Becky, keep it till morning. I did have one more inspiration. Said Rebecca when they were dressing next morning. But I didn't wake you. I wondered if the rose of joy could be sacrificed, but I think sacrifice would be a lily, not a rose, don't you? The journey southward, the first glimpse of the ocean, the strange new scenes, the ease and delicious freedom, the intimacy with Miss Maxwell almost intoxicated Rebecca. In three days she was not only herself again, she was another self, thrilling with delight, anticipation and realization. She had always had such eager hunger for knowledge, such thirst for love, such passionate longing for the music, the beauty, the poetry of existence. She had always been straining to make the outward world conform to her inward dreams. And now life had grown all at once rich and sweet, wide and full. She was using all her natural God-given outlets, and Emily Maxwell marveled daily at the inexhaustible way in which the girl poured out and gathered in the treasures of thought and experience that belonged to her. She was a life-giver, altering the whole scheme of any picture she made a part of by contributing new values. Have you ever seen the dull blues and greens of a room changed transfigured by a burst of sunshine? That seemed to Miss Maxwell the effect of Rebecca on groups of people with whom they now and then mingled. But they were commonly alone, reading to each other and having quiet talks. The prize essay was very much on Rebecca's mind. Secretly she thought she could never be happy unless she won it. She cared nothing for the value of it, and in this case almost nothing for the honour. She wanted to please Mr Aladdin and justify his belief in her. If I ever succeed in choosing a subject, I must ask if you think I can write well on it, and then I suppose I must work in silence and secret, never even reading the essay to you nor talking about it. Miss Maxwell and Rebecca were sitting by a little brook on a sunny spring day. They had been in the stretch of wood by the sea since breakfast, going every now and then for a bask on the warm white sand and returning to their shady solitude when tired of the sun's glare. The subject is very important, said Miss Maxwell. But I do not dare choose for you.  No. Rebecca answered. I plan a new essay every night. I've begun one on what is a failure, and another on he and she. That would be a dialogue between a boy and a girl just as they are leaving school and would tell their ideas of life. Then do you remember you said to me one day, follow your saint? I'd love to write about that. I didn't have a single thought and wear him, and now I have a new one every minute, so I must try and write the essay here. While I am so happy and free and rested, look at the pebbles in the bottom of the pool, Miss Emily, so round and smooth and shining. Yes. But where did they get that beautiful polish? That saddened skin, that lovely shape, Rebecca. Not in the still pool lying on the sands. It was never there that their angles were rubbed off and their rough surfaces polished, but in the strife and warfare of running waters. They have jostled against other pebbles, dashed against sharp rocks, and now we look at them and call them beautiful. If fate had not made somebody a teacher, she might have been, oh, such a splendid preacher. Rhyme to Rebecca. Oh, if I could only think and speak as you do. She sighed. I'm so afraid I shall never get education enough to make a good writer. You could worry about plenty of other things to better advantage. Said Miss Maxwell a little scornfully. Be afraid, for instance, that you won't understand human nature, that you won't realize the beauty of the outer world, that you may lack sympathy and thus never be able to read a heart, that your faculty of expression may not keep pace with your ideas. A thousand things, every one of them more important to the writer than the knowledge that is found in books. Esop was a Greek slave who could not even write down his wonderful fables. Yet all the world reads them. I didn't know that. Said Rebecca with a half sub. I didn't know anything until I met you. You will only have had a high school course. But the most famous universities do not always succeed in making men and women. When I longed to go abroad and study, I always remember that there were three great schools in Athens and two in Jerusalem. But the teacher of all teachers came out of Nazareth, a little village hidden away from the bigger, busier world. Mr. Ladd says that you are almost wasted on wear him. Said Rebecca thoughtfully. He is wrong. My talent is not a good one. But no talent is wholly wasted unless its owner chooses to hide it in a napkin. Remember that of your own gifts, Rebecca. They may not be praised of men. But they may cheer, console, inspire, perhaps, when and where you least expect. The brimming glass that overflows its own rim moistens the earth about it. Did you ever hear of the Rose of Joy? Asked Rebecca after a long silence. Yes, of course. Where did you see it? On the outside of a book in the library. I saw it on the inside of a book in the library. Smiled Miss Maxwell. It is from Emerson. But I'm afraid you haven't quite grown up to it, Rebecca. And it is one of the things impossible to explain. Oh, try me, dear Miss Maxwell. Pleaded Rebecca. Perhaps by thinking hard I can guess a little bit what it means. In the actual, this painful kingdom of time and chance, our care, canker and sorrow, with thought, with the ideal, is immortal hilarity, the Rose of Joy, round it. All the muses sing. Quoted Miss Maxwell. Rebecca repeated it over and over again until she had learned it by heart. Then she said, I don't want to be conceited, but I almost believe I do understand it, Miss Maxwell. Not altogether, perhaps, because it is puzzling and difficult, but a little, enough to go on with. It's as if a splendid shaped gallop passed you on horseback. You're so surprised and your eyes move so slowly you cannot half see it. But you catch just a glimpse as it whisks by, and you know it is beautiful. It's all settled. My essay is going to be called The Rose of Joy. I've just decided it hasn't any beginning nor any middle, but there'll be a thrilling ending, something like this. Let me see. Joy, boy, toy, ahoy, decoy, alloy. Then come what will of wheel or woe, since all gold hath alloy. Thou bloom unwithered in this heart, my Rose of Joy.  It's one of our supposing kind, if wise far far into the future and makes beautiful things happen, that may never really all come to pass, but some of them will, you'll see, and then you'll take out the little fairy story from your desk and remember Rebecca. I wonder why these young things always choose subjects that would tax the powers of a great essayist. Thought Miss Maxwell as you tried to sleep? Are they dazzled? Captivated? Taken possession of by the splendor of the theme? And do they fancy they can ride up to it? Poor little innocence, hitching their toy wagons to the stars. How pretty this particular innocent looks under her new sunshade. Adam Ladd had been driving through Boston streets on a cold spring day when nature and the fashion mongers were holding out promises which seemed far from performance. Suddenly, his vision was assailed by the sight of a rose-colored parasol, gaily unfurled in a shop window, signalling the passerby and setting him to dream of summer sunshine. It reminded Adam of a new England apple tree in full bloom, the outer covering of deep pink shining through the thin white lining, and a fluffy French-like edge of mingled rose and cream dropping over the green handle. All at once he remembered one of Rebecca's early confidences, the little pink sunshade that had given her the only peep into the gay world of fashion that her childhood had ever known, her adoration of the flimsy bit of finery and its tragic and sacrificial end. He entered the shop, bought the extravagant bobble and expressed it to wear him at once, not a single doubt of its appropriateness crossing the darkness of his masculine mind. He thought only of the joy in Rebecca's eyes, of the poise of her head under the apple blossom canopy. It was a trifle embarrassing to return an hour later and buy a blue parasol for Emma Jane Perkins, but it seemed increasingly difficult as the years went on to remember her existence at all the proper times and seasons. This is Rebecca's fairy story, copied the next day and given to Emily Maxwell just as she was going to her room for the night. She read it with tears in her eyes and then sent it to Adam Ladd, thinking he had earned a share in it and that he deserved a glimpse of the girl's budding imagination, as well as of her grateful young heart. A fairy story. There was once a tired and rather poverty-stricken princess who dwelt in a cottage on the great highway between two cities. She was not as unhappy as thousands of others. Indeed, she had much to be grateful for, but the life she lived and the work she did were full hard for one who was fashion-sunderly. Now the cottage stood by the edge of a great green forest where the wind was always singing in the branches and the sunshine filtering through the leaves. And one day, when the princess was sitting by the wayside quite spent by her labour in the fields, she saw a golden chariot rolling down the king's highway and in it a person who could be none other than somebody's fairy godmother on her way to the court. The chariot halted at her door, and though the princess had read of such beneficent personages, she never dreamed for an instant that one of them could ever alight at her cottage. If you are tired, poor little princess, why do you not go into the cool green forest and rest? asked the fairy godmother. Because I have no time, she answered, I must go back to my plow. Is that your plow leaning by the tree, and is it not too heavy? It is heavy, answered the princess, but I love to turn the hard earth into soft furrows and know that I am making good soil wherein my seeds may grow. If I get too much, I'll try to think of the harvest. The golden chariot passed on, and the two talked more together that day. Nevertheless, the king's messengers were busy, for they whispered one word into the ear of the fairy godmother and another into the ear of the princess, though so faintly that neither of them realised that the king had spoken. The next morning a strong man knocked at the cottage door, and doffing his hat to the princess said, a golden chariot passed by me yesterday, and one within it flung me a purse of dew-cats, saying, go out into the king's highway and search until you find a cottage and a heavy plow leaning against a tree nearby, and turn say to the princess whom you will find there. I will guide the plow, and you must go and rest, or walk in the cool green forest, for this is the command of your fairy godmother. And the same thing happened every day, and every day the tired princess walked in the green wood. Many times she caught the glitter of the chariot and ran into the highway to give thanks to the fairy godmother, but she was never fleet enough to catch the spot. She could only stand with eager eyes and alonging her as the chariot passed by. Yet she never failed to catch a smile, and sometimes a word or two floated back to her, words that sounded like, I would not be thanked, we are all children of the same king, and I am only his messenger. Now as the princess walked daily in the green forest, hearing the wind singing in the branches and seeing the sunlight filter through the latticework of green leaves, there came onto her thoughts that had lain asleep in the stifling air of the cottage, and the weariness of guiding the plow, and by and by she took a needle from her girdle and pricked the thoughts under the leaves of the trees and sent them into the air to float hither and thither. And it came to pass that people began to pick them up and holding them against the sun to read what was written on them, and this was because the simple little words on the leaves were only, after all, a part of one of the king's messages, such as the fairy godmother dropped continually from her golden chariot. But the miracle of the story lies deeper than all this. But ever the princess pricked the words upon the leaves, she added a thought of her fairy godmother, and folding it close within sent the leaf out on the breeze to float hither and thither and fall where it would, and many other little princesses felt the same impulse and did the same thing, and as nothing is ever lost in the king's dominion, so these thoughts and wishes and hopes, being full of love and gratitude, had no power to die, but took on to themselves, other shapes and lived on forever. They cannot be seen, our vision is too weak, nor heard, our hearing is too dull, but they can sometimes be felt, and we know not what force is stirring our hearts to nobler aims. The end of the story is not come, but it may be that someday when the fairy godmother has a message to deliver in person straight to the king, he will say, your face I know, your voice, your thoughts in your heart. I've heard the rumble of your chariot wheels on the great highway, and I knew that you were on the king's business. Here in my hand is a sheaf of messages from every quarter of my kingdom. They are delivered by weary and foot sore travelers who said that they could never have reached the gate and safety had it not been for your help and inspiration. Read them that you may know when and where and how you sped the king's service. And when the fairy godmother reads them, it may be that the sweet odors will rise from the pages, and half-forgotten memories will stir the air, but in the gloftness of the moment nothing will be half-so-lovely as the voice of the king when he said, read and know how you sped the king's service. Rebecca Romano Randall. Chapter 26 Over the Teacups The summer term at Wareham had ended, and Huldam reserve, Dick Carter, and Living Perkins had finished school, leaving Rebecca and Emma Jane to represent Riverboro in the year to come. Delia Weeks was at home from Lewiston on a brief visit, and Mrs. Robinson was celebrating the occasion by a small and select party, the particular day having been set because strawberries were ripe and there was a rooster that wanted killing. Mrs.  All right, won't be lost to me. said Mr. Robinson. Give me beans, that's all I ask. When a rooster wants to be killed, I want someone else to eat him, not me. Mrs. Robinson had company only once or twice a year and was generally much prostrated for several days afterward. The struggle between pride and persimmony being quite too great a strain upon her. It was necessary in order to maintain her standing in the community to furnish a good set out. Yet the extravagance of the proceeding goaded her from the first moment she began to stir the marble cake to the moment when the feast appeared on the table. The rooster had been boiling steadily over a slow fire since morning, but such was his power of resistance that his shape was as firm and handsome in the pot as on the first moment when he was lowered into it. He ain't going to give up. said Alice, very nervously under the cover. And he looks like a scarecrow. We'll see whether he gives up or not when I take a sharp knife to him. her mother answered. And as to his looks a platter full of gravy makes a cider difference with old roosters and all put dumplings round the age they are terrible fillin' though they don't belong with boiled chicken. The rooster did indeed make an impressive showing lying in his border of dumplings and the dish was much complimented when it was bowed in by Alice. This was fortunate as the chorus of admiration ceased abruptly when the ladies began to eat the fowl. I was glad you could get over to home's graduation, Delia. said Mrs. Miserve, who sat at the foot of the table and helped the chicken Mrs. Robinson poured the coffee at the other end. She was a fit mother for Holda, being much the most stylish person in Riverboro. Ill health and dress were indeed her two chief enjoyments in life. It was rumored that her elaborately curled front piece had cost five dollars and that it was sent into Portland twice a year to be dressed and frizzed. But it is extremely difficult to discover the precise facts in such cases and a conscientious historian always prefers to warn a too credulous reader against imbibing as gospel truth something that might be the basest pervasion of it. As to Mrs. Miserve's appearance, have you ever, in early years, sought the comforting society of the cook and hung over the kitchen table while she rolled out sugar gingerbread? Perhaps then, in some unaccustomed moment of amiability she made you a dough lady cutting the outline deftly with her pastry knife and then, at last, placing the human stamp upon it by sticking in two black currents for eyes. Just call to mind the face of that sugar gingerbread lady and you will have an exact portrait of Holda's mother, Miss Peter Miserve. She was generally called. There being several others. How'd you like Holda's dress, Delia? She asked, snapping the elastic in her black jet bracelets after an irritating fashion she had. I thought it was about the answer, Mr. Venny. Answered Delia. And her composition was first rate. It was the only one amusing one there was and she read it so loud and clear we didn't miss any of it. Most of the girls spoke as if they had hasty putting in their mouths. That was the composition she wrote Explained, Mrs. Miserve. And they do say she'd come out first instead of fourth if her subject had been different. There was three ministers and three deacons on the committee and it was only natural they should choose a serious piece. Hers was too lively to suit him. Holda's inspiring theme had been boys and she certainly had a fund of knowledge and experience that fitted her to write most intelligently upon it. It was vastly popular with the audience who enjoyed the rather cheap jokes and illusions with which it course-skated but judged from a purely literary standpoint it left much to be desired. Rebecca's piece wasn't read out loud but the one that took the boys' prize was. Why was that? Asked Mrs. Robinson. Because she walked, graduating. Explained, Mrs. Cobb. That couldn't take part in the exercises. It'll be printed with urban stunts and a school newspaper. I'm glad of that for I'll never believe it was better than Holda's till I read it with my own eyes. It seems as if the prize ought to go on to one of the seniors. Well, no, Marthy. Not if Ladd offered it to any of the two upper classes that wanted to try for it. Argued Mrs. Robinson. They say they asked him to give out the prizes and he refused, up and down. It seems odd his being so rich and traveling about all over the country that he was too modest to get up on that platform. My Holda could have done it and not winked in eyelash. Observed Mrs. Mazzerve complacently. A remark which there seemed no disposition on the part of any of the company to controvert. It was complete though. The governor happened to be there to see his niece graduate. Said Delia Weeks. Landy looked elegant. They say he's only six feet, but he might have been sixteen and he certainly did make a fine speech. Did you notice, Rebecca? How white she was and how she trembled when she heard the dance book there while the governor was praising him. He'd read her composition too or he'd wrote the Soya Girls a letter about it. This remark was from the sympathetic Mrs. Cobb. I thought it was kind of foolish. She's making so much of her when it weren't her graduation. Objected Mrs. Mazzerve. Layne's hand on her head and all that as if he was a pope pronouncing benediction. But there, I'm glad the prize come to Riverbro to any rate, and hence the one never was given out from the Wareham platform. I guess there ain't no way to add Mazz money. Fifty dollars would have been good enough, but he must need to go and put it into those elegant persons. I said so for a back, I couldn't see him fairly. Complained Delia. And now Rebecca has taken her zoom to show her mother. It was kind of a gold net bag with a chain. Said Mrs. Birkins. And there was five, ten dollar gold pieces in it. Herbert Dunn's was put in a fine leather wallet. How long is Rebecca going to stay at the farm? Asked Delia. Till they get over Hannah's being married and get the house to run him without her. Answered Mrs. Birkins. It seems as if Hannah might have waited a little longer. Aurelia was set against her going away while Rebecca was at school, but she's obstinate as a mule, Hannah is, and she just took her own way in spite of her mother. She's been doing her sowing for a year. The awfulest coarse cotton cloth she had, but she's nearly blinded herself with fine stitching and ruffling and tucking. Did you hear about the quilt she made?  Then there's a row of circle bordering around the grapes, and she done them the size of a spool. The next border was done with a sherry glass, and the last with a pork glass. And all outside of that was solid stitching done in straight rows. She's gone to exhibit it at the county fair. She better have been taken in sowing and earning money instead of blinding her eyes on such foolishness such as quilted counterpaints. Said Mrs. Cobb. The next thing you know that mortgage will be foreclosed on Miss Randall, and she and the children won't have a room full for their heads. Don't they say there's a good chance of the railroad going through her place? Asked Mrs. Robinson. If it does, she'll get as much as the farm is worth and more. Adam lads one of the stockholders, and everything is a success he takes hold of. They're fighting it in Auguste, but I'd back lad again any of them legislators if he thought he was in the right. Rebecca will have some new clothes now. Said Delia. And the land knows she needs them. Seems to me the Sawyer girls are getting terrible near. Rebecca won't have any new clothes out of the prize money. Remarked Mrs. Birkins. For she sent it away the next day to pay the interest on that mortgage.  Exclaimed Delia Weeks. She might as well help along her folks suspended on foolishness. Affirmed Mrs. Robinson. I think she was mighty lucky to get it to pay the interest with, but she's probably like all the Randals. It was easy come, easy go with them. That's more than could be said of the Sawyer stock. Retorted Mrs. Birkins. Seems like they enjoyed saving more than anything in the world, and it's gaining on Miranda he sends her shock. I don't believe it was a shock. It stands to reason she'd never got up after it, and been so smart as she is now. We had three of the worst shocks in our family that there ever was on this river, and I know every symptom of them better than the doctors. And Mrs. Peter Mazerve shook her head wisely. Miranda is smart enough. Said Mrs. Cobb. But you notice she stays right to home, and she's more close-mouthed than she ever was. Never took a might to pride in the prize as I could see, so it pretty night rowed Jeremia out of his senses. I thought I should have died the shame when he cried, Hooray! And swung his straw hat when the governor shook hands with Rebecca. It's lucky he couldn't get far into the church and had to stand back by the door, for as it was, he made a spectacle of himself. My suspicion is... And here every lady stopped eating and sat up straight. The Sawyer girls have lost money. They don't know a thing about business never did, and will reduce to secretive incontriery to ask advice. The most of what they got is in government bonds, I always heard, and you can't lose money on them. Jane had the timberland left her, and Miranda had the brick house. She probably took it awful hard that Rebecca's $50 had to be swallowed up in a mortgage instead of going to her school expenses. The more I think of it, the more I think Adam Madden intended to have that prize when he gave it. The mind of Hulda's mother ran towards the idea that her daughter's rights had been assailed. Land, Martha, what foolishness you talk! Exclaimed, Mrs. Birkins! You don't suppose he could tell what composition the committee was going to choose, and why should he offer another $50 for a boy's prize if he wasn't interested in helping along the school? He's give Emma Jane about the same present as Rebecca every Christmas for five years. That's the way he does. Sometime he'll forget one of them and give to the other or drop them both and give to some new girl. Said Delia Weeks, with an experience born of 50 years of spinsterhood. Like is not. Ascented, Mrs. Peter Mazerve. Though it's easy to see he ain't the married kind. There's men that would marry once a year if their wives would die fast enough, and there's men that seems to want to live alone. If lad was a Mormon, I guess he could have every woman in North Riverboro that's a suitable age, according to what my cousins say. Remarked Mrs. Birkins. Taint likely he could be catched by any North Riverboro girl. Demurred Mrs. Robinson. Not when he probably has had the Pico Boston. I guess Marthy hid it when she said there's men that ain't the married kind. I wouldn't trust any of them when Mrs. Wright comes along. Laughed Mrs. Cobb genially. You can never tell what and who's going to please him. You know Jeremiah's contriery holds buster. He won't let anybody put the pit into his mouth if he can help it. He'd fight Jerry, and fought me till he has to give in. Rebekah didn't know nothing about his tricks. And the other day, she just went into a barn to hitch up. I followed right along knowing she'd have trouble with the Hearthstone.  He'd just map his lips over the pit as if it was a lump of sugar. Land Rebekah, I says. How do you persuade him to take the pit? I didn't, she says. He seemed to want it. Perhaps he's tired of his stall and wants to get out into the fresh air. First since Adam Ladd's prize had been discussed over the teacups in Riverboro. The months had come and gone, and at length the great day had dawned for Rebekah, the day to whom she had been looking forward for five years, as the first goal to be reached on her little journey through the world. School days were ended, and the mystic function known to the initiated as graduation was about to be celebrated. It was even now heralded by the sun dawning in the eastern sky. Rebekah stole softly out of bed, crept to the window, threw open the blinds, and welcomed the rosy light that meant a cloudless morning. Even the sun looked different somehow. Larger, redder, more important than usual, and if it were really so, there was no member of the graduating class who would have thought it strange or unbecoming in view of all the circumstances. Emma Jane stirred on her pillow, woke, and seen Rebekah at the window, came and knelt on the floor beside her. It's going to be pleasant. She sighed gratefully. If it wasn't wicked, I could thank the Lord. I'm so relieved in mind. Did you sleep? Not much. The words of my class poem kept running through my head and the accompaniments of the songs. And worse than anything, Mary Queen of Scots' prayer in Latin assumed as if, adoro imploro u-liveres me were burned into my brain. No one who is unfamiliar with life in rural neighborhoods can imagine the gravity, the importance, the solemnity of this last day of school. In the matter of preparation, wealth of detail, and general excitement, it far surpasses a wedding, for that is commonly a simple affair in the country, sometimes even beginning and ending in a visit to the parsonage. Nothing quite equals graduation in the minds of the graduates themselves, their families, and the younger students, unless it be the inauguration of a governor at the state capitol. Wherehem, then, was shaken to its very center on this day of days. Mothers and fathers of the scholars, as well as relatives to the remotest generation, had been coming on the train and driving into town since breakfast time. Old pupils, both married and single, with and without families, streamed back to the dear old village. The two livery stables were crowded with vehicles of all sorts and lines of buggies and wagons were drawn up along the sides of the shady roads, the horses switching their tails in luxurious idleness. The streets were filled with people wearing their best clothes and the fashions included not only the latest thing, but the well-preserved relic of a bygone day. There were all sorts and conditions of men and women, for there were sons and daughters and forekeepers, lawyers, butchers, doctors, shoemakers, professors, ministers and farmers at the Wherehem schools, either as boarders or day scholars. In the seminary building, there was an excitement so deep and profound that it expressed itself in a kind of hushed silence, a transient suspension of life, as those most interested approached the crucial moment. The feminine graduates to be were seated in their own bedrooms dressed with a completeness of detail to which all their past lives seemed to have been but a prelude. At least this was the case with their bodies, but their heads, owing to the extreme heat of the day, were one and all ornamented with leads or papers or dozens of little braids to issue later in every sort of curl known to the girl of that period. Rolling their hair on leads or papers was a favorite method of attaining the desired result, and though it often entailed a sleepless night, there were those who gladly paid the price. Others, in whose veins the blood of martyrs did not flow, substituted rags for leads and pretended that they made a more natural and less woolly curl. Heat, however, will melt the proudest head and reduce to fiddling strings the finest product of the waving pin, so anxious mothers were stationed over their offspring waving palm leaf fans. It having been decided that the supreme instant when the town clock struck ten should be the one chosen for releasing the prisoners from their self-imposed tortures. Dotted or plain Swiss muslin was the favorite garb, though there were those who were steaming in white cashmere or alpaca, because in some cases such frocks were thought more useful afterwards. Blue and pink waist ribbons were lying over the backs of chairs, and the girl who had a Roman sash was praying that she might be kept from vanity and pride. The way to any graduating dress at all had not seemed clear to Rebecca until a month before. Then, in company with Emma Jane, she visited the Perkins attic, found piece after piece of white butter muslin or cheesecloth, and decided that, at a pinch, it would do. The rich blacksmith's daughter cast the thought of dotted Swiss behind her and elected to follow Rebecca in cheesecloth as she had in higher matters. Straightway devising costumes that included such drawing of threads, such hemstitching and pin tucking, such insertions of fine thread tatting, that, in order to be finished, Rebecca's dress was given out in sections. The sash to Hannah, waist and sleeves to Mrs. Cobb, and skirt to Aunt Jane. The stitches that went into the despised material, worth only three or four pennies a yard, made the dresses altogether lovely, and as for the folds and lines into which they fell, they could have given points to satins and brocades. The two girls were waiting in their room alone. Emma Jane, in a rather tearful state of mind, she kept thinking that it was the last day that they would be together in this altogether sweet and close intimacy. The beginning of the end seemed to have dawned, for two positions had been offered, Rebecca, by Mr. Morrison the day before, one in which you would play for singing and calisthenics and, superintendent, the piano practice of the younger girls in a boarding school, the other, an assistance place in the Edgewood High School. Both were very modest as to salary, but the former included educational advantages that Miss Maxwell thought might be valuable. Rebecca's mood had passed from that of excitement into a sort of exaltation. And when the first bell rang through the corridors, announcing that in five minutes the class would proceed in a body to the church for the exercises, she stood motionless and speechless at the window with her hand on her heart. It is coming, Emmy, she said presently. Do you remember in the mill on the floss when Maggie Tolliver closed the golden gates of childhood behind her? I can almost see them swing, almost hear them clang, and I can't tell whether I'm glad or sorry. I shouldn't care how they swung or clanged, said Emma Jane. If only you and I were on the same side of the gate, but we shan't be. I know we shan't. Emmy, don't dare to cry for I'm just on the brink myself. If only you were graduating with me, that's my only sorrow. There, I hear the rumble of the wheels. People will be seeing our grand surprise now. Hug me once for luck, dear Emmy, a careful hug, remembering our butter muslin fruity. Ten minutes later, Adam Ladd, who had just arrived from Portland and was wending his way to the church, came suddenly into the main street and stopped short under a tree by the wayside, riveted to the spot by a scene of picturesque loveliness such as his eyes had seldom witnessed before. The class of which Rebecca was president was not likely to follow accepted customs. Instead of marching two by two from the seminary to the church, they had elected to proceed thither by royal chariot. A hay cart had been decked with green vines and bunches of long-stemmed field daisies, those gay darlings of New England meadows. Every inch of the rail, the body, even the spokes, all were twined with yellow and green and white. There were two white horses, flower-trimmed rains, and in the floral bower, seated on maple boughs, were the twelve girls of the class, while the ten boys marched on either side of the vehicle wearing buttonhole bouquets of daisies, the class flower. Rebecca drove, seated on a green-covered bench and looked not unlike a throne. No girl clad in white muslin, no happy girl of seventeen is plain, and the twelve little country maids from the vantage ground of their setting looked beautiful as the June sunlight filters down on their uncovered heads, showing their bright eyes, their fresh cheeks, their smiles, and their dimples. Rebecca, Adam thought, as he took off his hat and saluted the pretty panorama. Rebecca, with her tall slenderness, her thoughtful brow, the fire of young joy in her face, her filet of dark braided hair, might have been a young muse or symbol, and the flowering hayrack with its freight of blooming girlhood might have been painted as an allegorical picture of the morning of life. It all passed him, as he stood under the elms in the old village street where his mother had walked, half a century ago. And he was turning with the crowd towards the church when he heard a little sob. Behind a hedge, in the garden near where he was standing, was a four-lorn person in white, whose neat nose, chestnut hair, and blue eyes he seemed to know. He stepped inside the gate and said, Oh, is it you, Mr. Lad? Rebecca wouldn't let me cry for fear of spoiling my looks, but I must have just one chance before I go in. I can be as homely as I like, after all, for I only have to sing with the school. I'm not graduating. I'm just leaving. Not that I mind. It's only being separated from Rebecca that I never can stand. The two walked along together. Adam comforting the disconsolate Emma Jane until they reached the old meeting house where the commencement exercises were always held. The interior, with its decorations of yellow, green, and white, was crowded, the air hot and breathless, the essays and songs and recitations precisely like all others that have been since the world began. One always fears that the platform may sink under the weight of youthful platitudes entered on such occasions, yet one can never be properly critical because the sight of the boys and girls themselves, those young and hopeful makers of tomorrow disarms one's scorn. We yawn desperately at the essays, but our hearts go out to the essayists all the same, for the vision splendid is shining in their eyes, and there is no fear of the inevitable yoke that the years are so surely bringing them. Rebecca saw Hannah and her husband in the audience, dear old John and cousin Anne also, and felt a pang at the absence of her mother, though she had known there was no possibility of seeing her. For poor Aurelia was kept at Sunnybrook by cares of children and farm, and lack of money either for the journey or for suitable dress. The cobs she saw too. No one indeed could fail to see Uncle Jerry, for he shed tears more than once, and in the intervals between the essays discanted to his neighbors concerning the marvelous gifts of one of the graduating class, whom he had known ever since she was a child, in fact had driven her from Maplewood to Riverboro when she left her home, and he had told mother that same night that there weren't nary rung on the ladder of fame that that child wouldn't mount before she got through with it. The cobs then had come, and there were other riverboro faces, but where was Aunt Jane in her black silk made over especially for this occasion? Aunt Miranda had not intended to come, she knew, but where, on this day of days, was her beloved Aunt Jane. However, this thought, like all others, came and went in a flash, for the whole morning was like a series of magic lantern pictures crossing and recrossing her field of vision. She played, she sang, she recited Queen Mary's Latin Prayer, like one in a dream, only brought to consciousness by meeting Mr. Aladdin's eyes as she spoke the last line. Then, at the end of the program came her class poem, Makers of Tomorrow, and there, as on many a former occasion, her personality played so great a part that she seemed to be uttering meltonic sentiments instead of schoolgirl verse. Her voice, her eyes, her body breathed conviction, earnestness, emotion, and when she left the platform, the audience felt that they had listened to a masterpiece. Most of her hearers knew little of Carlisle or Emerson, or they might have remembered that the one said, we are all poets when we read a poem well, and the other, tis the good reader, makes the good book. It was over. The diplomas had been presented, and each girl, after giving furtive touches to her hair, sly tweaks to her muslin skirts, and caressing paths to her sash, had gone forward to receive the role of parchment with a bow that had been the subject of anxious thought for weeks. Rounds of applause greeted each graduate at this thrilling moment, and Jeremiah Cobb's behavior when Rebecca came forward was the talk of Wareham and Riverboro for days. Old Mrs. Webb avowed that he, in the space of two hours, had worn out her pew more, the carpet and cushions and woodwork than she had by sitting in it for forty years. Yes, it was over. And after the crowd had thinned a little, Adam Ladd made his way to the platform. Rebecca turned from speaking to some strangers and met him in the aisle. Oh, Mr. Ladden, I'm so glad you could come. Tell me. And she looked at him half shyly, for his approval was dearer to her and more difficult to win than that of the others. Tell me, Mr. Ladden, were you satisfied? More than satisfied, he said. Glad I met the child. Proud I know the girl. Longing to meet the woman. End of Chapter 27 Chapter 28 of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm by Kate Douglas-Wigan Chapter 28 The Inevitable Yoke Rebecca's heart beat high at this sweet praise from her hero's lips. But before she had found words to thank him, Mr. and Mrs. Cobb, who had been modestly biting their time in a corner, approached her and she introduced them to Mr. Ladd. Where? Where's Aunt Jean? She cried, holding Aunt Sarah's hand on one side and Uncle Jerry's on the other. I'm sorry, lovey, but we've got bad news for you. Is Aunt Miranda worse? She is. I can see it by your looks. And Rebecca's colour faded. She had a second stroke yesterday morning, just when she was helping Jane lay out her things to come here today. Jane said, You want to know anything about it till the exercises was all over and we promised to keep it secret till then. I will go right home with you, Aunt Sarah. I must just run to tell Miss Maxwell for after I had packed up tomorrow I was going to Brunswick with her. Poor Aunt Miranda. And I've been so gay and happy all day except that I was longing for Mother and Aunt Jane. There ain't no harm in being gay, lovey. That's just what Jane wanted you to be. And Miranda's got her speech back for your aunt has just sent a letter saying she's better. And I'm going to send up tonight so you can stay here and have a good sleep and get your things together comfortably tomorrow.  Said Emma Jane, who had come towards the group and heard the sorrowful news from the brick house. They moved into one of the quiet side pews where Hannah and her husband and John joined them. From time to time some straggling acquaintance or old schoolmate would come up to congratulate Rebecca and ask why she had hidden herself in a corner. Then some member of the class would call to her excitedly reminding her not to be late at the picnic luncheon or begging her to be early at the class party in the evening. All this had an air of unreality to Rebecca. In the midst of the happy excitement of the last two days when blushing honors had been falling thick upon her and behind the delicious exaltation of the morning had been the feeling that the condition was a transient one and that the burden, the struggle, the anxiety would soon loom again on the horizon. She longed to steal away into the woods with her dear old John grown so manly and handsome and get some comfort from him. Meantime Adam Ladd and Mr. Cobb had been having an animated conversation. I suppose up to Boston girls like that one are as thick as blackberries. Uncle Jerry said jerking his head interrogatively in Rebecca's direction. They may be. Smiled Adam, taking in the old man's mood. Only I don't happen to know one. My eyesight being poor is the reason she looked the ansomest of any girl on the platform, I suppose. There's no failure in my eyes. Responded Adam. But that was how the thing seemed to me. What did you think of her voice? Anything extray about it? Made the others sound poor and thin, I thought. Well, I'm glad to hear your opinion. You being a traveled man. Mother says I'm foolish about Rebecca and have been since the first. Mother scolds me for spoiling her. But I'd noticed Mother ain't fur behind when it comes to spoiling. Land and made me sick thinking though them parents travelling miles to see their young ones graduate and then when they got their heave into compare them with Rebecca. Goodbye, Mr. Lad. Drop in some day when you come to Riverborough. I will. Said Adam, shaking the old man's hand cordially. Perhaps tomorrow if I drive Rebecca home as I shall offer her to do. Do you think Miss Sawyer's condition is serious? Well, the doctor don't seem to know. Anyhow, she's paralyzed and she'll never walk fur again, poor soul. She ain't lost her speech. That'll be a comfort to her. Adam left the church and in crossing the common came upon Miss Maxwell, doing the honors of the institution as she passed from group to group of strangers and guests. Knowing that she was deeply interested in all Rebecca's plans, he told her as he drew her aside that the girl would have to leave Wareham for Riverborough the next day. That is almost more than I can bear. Exclaimed Miss Maxwell, sitting down on a bench in the Greens Ward with her parasol. It seems to me Rebecca never has any respite. I had so many plans for her this next month in fitting her for her position. And now she will settle down to housework again and to the nursing of that poor, sick, cross-old aunt. If it had not been for the cross-old aunt Rebecca would still have been at Sunnybrook and from the standpoint of educational advantages or indeed advantages of any sort she might as well have been in the backwoods. Returned, Adam. That is true. I was vexed when I spoke. For I thought an easier and happier day was dawning for my prodigy and pearl. Our prodigy and pearl? Corrected, Adam. Oh, yes. She laughed. I always forget that it pleases you to pretend you discovered Rebecca. I believe, though, that happier days are dawning for her. Continued, Adam. It must be a secret for the present, but Mrs. Randall's farm will be bought by the new railroad. We must have right of way through the land and the station will be built on her property. She will receive six thousand dollars, which, though not a fortune, will yield her three or four hundred dollars a year if she will allow me to invest it for her. There is a mortgage on the land, that paid, and Rebecca self-supporting. The mother ought to push the education of the oldest boy, who was a fine, ambitious fellow. He should be taken away from farm work and settled at his studies. We might form ourselves into a Randall Protective Agency, limited. Mused, Miss Maxwell. I confess I want Rebecca to have a career. I don't. Said Adam promptly. Of course you don't. Men have no interest in the careers of women. But I know Rebecca better than you. You understand her mind better, but not necessarily her heart. You are considering her for the moment as Prodigy. I am thinking of her more as Pearl. Well... Side, Miss Maxwell, whimsically. Prodigy or Pearl. The Randall Protective Agency may pull Rebecca in opposite directions. But nevertheless, she will follow her saint. That will content me. Said Adam gravely. Particularly if the saint beckons your way. And Miss Maxwell looked up and smiled provokingly. Rebecca did not see her Aunt Miranda till she had been at the Brick House for several days. Miranda steadily refused to have anyone but Jane in the room until her face had regained its natural look, but her door was always ajar and when Jane fancied she liked to hear Rebecca's quick light step. Her mind was perfectly clear now and save that she could not move. She was most of the time quite free from pain and alert in every nerve to all that was going on within or without the house. Were the windfall apples being picked up for sauce? Were the potatoes thick in the hills? Was the corn tossling out? Were they cutting the upper field? Were they keeping flypaper laid out everywhere? Were there any ants in the dairy? Was the kindling wood holding out? Had the banks sent the cowpons. Poor Miranda Sawyer. Hovering on the verge of the great beyond, her body struck and no longer under control of her iron will. No divine visions floated across her tired brain. Nothing but petty cares and sordid anxieties. Not all at once can the soul talk with God. Be he ever so near? If the heavenly language never has been learned, quick as is the spiritual sense in seizing the facts it needs, then the poor soul must use the words and phrases it has lived on and grown into day by day. Poor Miss Miranda held fast within the prison walls of her own nature, blind in the presence of revelation because she had never used the spiritual eye, deaf to angelic voices because she had not used the spiritual ear. There came a morning when she asked for Rebecca.  Miranda's pale sharp face, framed in its nightcap, looked haggard on the pillow and her body was pitifully still under the counterpane. Come in, she said. I ain't dead yet. Don't mess up the bed with them flowers, will ye? Oh no, they're going in a glass pitcher, said Rebecca, turning to the wash stand as she tried to control her voice and stop the tears that sprang to her eyes. Let me look at ye, come closer. What dress are ye wearing? Said the old aunt in her cracked, weak voice. My blue calico. Is your cashmere holding its color? Yes, Aunt Miranda. Do ye keep it in a dark closet hung on the wrong side, as I told ye? Always. Has your mother made her jelly? She hasn't said. She always had the knack of writing letters with nothing in them. What's Mark broke since I've been sick? Nothing at all, Aunt Miranda. Why, what's the matter with him? Getting lazy, ain't he? How's John turning out? He's going to be the best of us all. I hope you don't slight things in the kitchen because I ain't there. Do ye scald the coffee pot and turn it upside down on the windowsill? Yes, Aunt Miranda. It's always yes with you and yes with Jane. Growned, Miranda, trying to move her stiffened body. All the time I lay here and know when there's things done the way I don't like them. There was a long pause during which Rebecca sat down by the bedside and timidly touched her aunt's hand, her heart swelling with tender pity at the gaunt face and closed eyes. I was dreadful ashamed to have you graduate in cheesecloth, Rebecca, but I couldn't help it know how. You'll hear the reason some time and know I tried to make it up to ye. I'm afraid you was a laughin' stock. No. Rebecca answered. Ever so many people said our dresses were the very prettiest. They look like soft lace. You ought to be anxious about anything. Here I am, all grown up and graduated, number three in a class of 22, Aunt Miranda, and good positions offered me already. Look at me, big and strong and young, all ready to go into the world and show what you and Aunt Jane have done for me. If you want me to be near, I'll take the Edgewood school so that I can be here nights and Sundays to help. And if you get better, then I'll go to Augusta for that's a hundred dollars more with music lessons and other things beside. You listen to me, said Miranda quaveringly. Take the best place, regardless of my sickness. I'd like to live long enough to know you'd paid off that mortgage, but I guess I shan't. Here she ceased abruptly, having talked more than she had for weeks, and Rebecca stole out of the room to cry by herself and wonder if old age must be so grim, so hard, so unchastened and unsweetened as it slipped into the valley of the shadow. The days went on, and Miranda grew stronger and stronger. Her will seemed unassailable, and before long, she could be moved into a chair by the window, her dominant thought being to arrive at such a condition of improvement that the doctor need not call more than once a week instead of daily, thereby diminishing the bill that was mounting to such a terrifying sum that it haunted her thoughts by day and dreams by night. Little by little, Hope stole back into Rebecca's young heart, and Jane began to clear-starch her handkerchiefs and collars and purple muslin dress so that she might be ready to go to Brunswick at any moment when the doctor pronounced Miranda well on the road to recovery. Everything beautiful was to happen in Brunswick if she could be there by August, everything that heart could wish or imagination conceive, for she was to be Miss Emily's very own visitor and sit at table with college professors and other great men. At length, the day dawned when the few clean, simple dresses were packed in the hair-trunk together with her beloved coral necklace, her cheesecloth graduating dress, her claspin and Jane's lace cape, and the one new hat which she tried on every night before going to bed. It was a white chip with a wreath of cheap white roses and green leaves and cost between two and three dollars an unprecedented sum in Rebecca's experience. The effect of its glories when worn with her nightdress was dazzling enough but if ever it appeared in conjunction with the cheesecloth gown, Rebecca felt that even reverend professors might regard it with respect. It is probable indeed that any professional gaze lucky enough to meet a pair of dark eyes shining under that white rose garland would never have stopped at respect. Then, when all was ready and a bija flag at the door came a telegram from Hannah. Come at once! Mother has had bad accident! In less than an hour Rebecca was started on her way to Sunnybrook, her heart palpitating with fear as to what might be awaiting her at her journey's end. Death, at all events, was not there to meet her but something that looked at first only too much like it. Her mother had been standing on the haymow superintending some changes in the barn had been seized with giddiness, they thought and slipped. The right knee was fractured and the back strained and hurt but she was conscious and in no immediate danger so Rebecca wrote when she had a moment to scent and chain the particulars. I don't know how it is. But from a child I could never lay a bed without Aurelia's getting sick too. I don't know if she could help falling though it ain't any place for a woman, a haymow but if it hadn't been that it would have been something else. Aurelia was born unfortunate. Now she'll probably be a cripple and Rebecca'll have to nurse her instead of earning a good income somewhere else. Her first duties to her mother. Said Aunt Jane. I hope she'll always remember that. Nobody remembers anything they'd ought to at seventeen. Responded Miranda.  We've talked them over before now we'll settle them. When I'm laid away do you want to take Aurelia and the children down here to the Brick House? There's an awful parcel of them Aurelia, Jenny, and Fanny but I won't have Mark. Hannah can take him.  I shouldn't like to go against your feelings especially in laying out your money, Miranda. Said Jane. Don't tell Rebecca I've willed her the Brick House she won't get it till I'm gone and I want to take my time about dying and not be hurried off by them that's going to profit by it nor I don't want to be thanked neither. I suppose she'll use the front stairs as common as the back and like as not have water brought into the kitchen but maybe when I've been dead a few years I shan't mind she sets such store by you she'll want you to have your home here as long as you live but anyway I've wrote it down that way though lawyer Burns's wills don't hold more than half the time he's cheaper but I guess it comes out just the same in the end I wasn't going to have the first man Rebecca picks up for a husband turning you outdoors. There was a long pause during which Jane knit silently wiping the tears from her eyes from time to time as she looked at the pitiful figure lying weakly on the pillows suddenly Miranda said slowly and feebly I don't know after all but you might as well take Mark I suppose there's tame boys as well as wild ones there ain't a might of sense in having so many children but it's a terrible risk splitting up families and farming them out here and there they'd never come to no good and everybody would keep remembering their mother was a sawyer now if you'll draw down the curtain I'll try to sleep End of Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 29 of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm by Kate Douglas Wigan Chapter 29 Mother and Daughter two months had gone by two months of steady fagging work cooking, washing, ironing of mending and caring for the three children although Jenny was fast becoming a notable little housewife quick ready and capable there were months in which there had been many a weary night of watching by Aurelia's bedside of soothing and bandaging and rubbing of reading and nursing even of feeding and bathing the ceaseless care was growing less now and the family breathed more freely for the mother's sigh of pain no longer came from the stifling bedroom where during a hot and humid August Aurelia had lain suffering with every breath she drew there would be no question of walking for many a month to come but blessings seemed to multiply when the blinds could be opened and the bed drawn near the window when mother with pillows behind her could at least sit and watch the work going on could smile at the past agony and forget the weary hours that had led to her present comparative ease and comfort no girl of 17 can pass through such an ordeal and come out unchanged no girl of Rebecca's temperament could go through it without some inward repining and rebellion she was doing tasks in which she could not be fully happy heavy and trying tasks which perhaps she could never do with complete success or satisfaction and like promise of nectar to thirsty lips was the vision of joys she had had to put aside for the performance of dull daily duty how brief how fleeting had been those splendid visions when the universe seemed open for her young strength to battle and triumph in how soon they had faded into the light of common day at first sympathy and grief were so keen she thought of nothing but her mother's pain no consciousness of self interposed between her and her filial service then as the weeks passed little blighted hopes began to stir and ache in her breast defeated ambitions raised their heads as if to sting her unattainable delights teased her by their very nearness by the narrow line of separation that lay between her and their realization it is easy for the moment to tread the narrow way looking neither to the right nor left upborn by the sense of right doing but that first joy of self-denial the joy that is like fire in the blood dies away the path seems drearier and the footsteps falter such a time came to Rebecca and her bright spirit flagged when the letter was received saying that her position in Augusta had been filled there was a mutinous leap of the heart then a beating of wings against the door of the cage a longing for the freedom of the big world outside it was the stirring of the powers within her though she called it by no such grand name she felt as if the wind of destiny were blowing her flame hither and thither burning, consuming her but kindling nothing all this meant one stormy night in her little room at Sunnybrook but the clouds blew over the sun shone again a rainbow stretched across the sky while hope, clad, and April green smiled into her upturned face and beckoned her on, saying grow old along with me the beast is yet to be threads of joy ran in and out of the grey-tangled web of daily living there was the attempt at odd moments to make the bare little house less bare by bringing in out of doors taking a leaf from nature's book and noting how she conceals ugliness wherever she finds it then there was the satisfaction of being mistress of the poor domain of planning, governing, deciding of bringing order out of chaos of implanting guiety in the place of inert resignation to the inevitable another element of comfort was the children's love for they turned to her as flowers to the sun drawing confidently at her fond of stories serene in the conviction that there was no limit to Rebekah's power of make-believe in this and in yet greater things little as she realized it the law of compensation was working in her behalf for in those anxious days mother and daughter found and knew each other as never before a new sense was born in Rebekah as she hung over her mother's bed of pain and unrest a sense that comes only of ministering a sense that grows only when the strong bend toward the weak as for Aurelia words could never have expressed her dumb happiness when the real revelation of motherhood was vouchsafed her in all the earlier years when her babies were young carking cares and anxieties darkened the fireside with their brooding wings then Rebekah had gone away and in the long months of absence her mind and soul had grown out of her mother's knowledge so that now when Aurelia had time and strength to study her child she was like some enchanting changeling Aurelia and Hannah had gone on in the dull round and the common task growing duller and duller but now on a certain stage of life's journey who should appear but this bewildering being who gave wings to thoughts that had only crept before who brought color and grace and harmony into the done brown texture of existence you might harness Rebekah to the heaviest plough and while she had youth on her side she would always remember the green earth under her feet and the blue sky over her head her physical eyes saw the cake she was stirring and the loaf she was kneading her physical ear heard the kitchen fire crackling and the tea kettle singing but ever and anon as he mounted on pinions rested itself renewed its strength in the upper air the bare little farmhouse was a fixed fact but she had many a palace into which she now and then withdrew palaces peopled with stirring and gallant figures belonging to the world of romance palaces not without their heavenly apparitions too breathing celestial counsel every time she retired to her citadel of dreams she came forth radiant and refreshed as one who has seen the evening star or heard sweet music or smelled the rose of joy Aurelia could have understood the feeling of a narrow-minded and conventional hen who has brought a strange intrepid duckling into the world but her situation was still more wonderful for she could only compare her sensations to those of some quiet brown dorking who has brooded an ordinary egg and hatched a bird of paradise such an idea had crossed her mind more than once during the past fortnight and it flashed to and fro this mellow October morning when Rebecca came into the room with her arms full of goldenrod and flaming autumn leaves just into the fall styles mother she said slipping the stem of a gorgeous red and yellow sapling between the mattress and the foot of the bed this was leaning over the pool and I was afraid it would be vain if I left it there too long looking at its beautiful reflection so I took it away from danger isn't it wonderful how I wish I could carry one to poor Aunt Miranda today there's never a flower in the brick house when I'm away it was a marvelous morning the sun had climbed into a world that held in remembrance only a succession of golden days and starlit nights the air was fragrant with ripening fruit and there was a mad little bird on the tree outside the door nearly bursting his throat with joy of living he had forgotten that summer was over that winter must ever come and who could think of cold winds, bear boughs or frozen streams on such a day a painted moth came in at the open window and settled on the tuft of brilliant leaves Aurelia heard the bird and looked from the beauty of the glowing bush to her tall splendid daughter standing like young spring with golden autumn in her arms then suddenly she covered her eyes and cried I can't bear it here I lie chained to this bed interfering with everything you want to do it's all wasted all my saving and doing without all your hard study all Miranda's outplay everything that we thought was going to be the making of you Mother, Mother, don't talk so, don't think so exclaimed Rebecca sitting down impetuously on the floor by the bed and dropping the golden rod by her side Why, Mother, I'm only a little past seventeen this person in a purple calico apron with flower in her nose is only the beginnings of me do you remember the young tree that John transplanted we had a dry summer and a cold winter it didn't grow a bit nor show anything of all we did for it then there was a good year and it made up for lost time this is just my little rooting season, Mother but don't go and believe my day is over because it hasn't begun the old maple by the well that's in its hundredth year and had new leaves this summer so there must be hope for me at seventeen you can put a brave face on it Saab, Aurelia but you can't deceive me you've lost your place you'll never see your friends here but a drudge I look like a drudge said Rebecca mysteriously with laughing eyes but I really am a princess you mustn't tell but this is only a disguise I wear it for reasons of state the king and queen who are at present occupying my throne are very old and tottering and are going to abdicate shortly in my favor it's rather a small kingdom I suppose as kingdoms go so there isn't much struggle for it in royal circles and you mustn't expect to see a golden throne set with jewels it'll probably be only of ivory with a nice screen of peacock feathers for a background but you shall have a comfortable chair very near it with quantities of slaves to do what they call a novel so your light is fitting Aurelia smiled in spite of herself and though not perhaps wholly deceived she was comforted I only hope you won't have to wait too long for your thrones in your kingdoms Rebecca she said and that I shall have a sight of them before I die but life looks very hard and rough to me what with your Aunt Miranda at Cripple at the Brick House me another here at the farm you tied hand and foot first with one and then with the other to say nothing of Jenny and Fanny and Mark you've got something of your father's happy disposition or it would weigh on you as it does on me why mother cried Rebecca clasping her knees with her hands why mother it's enough joy just to be here in the world on a day like this to have the chance of seeing feeling doing becoming when you're a 17 mother wasn't it good just to be alive you haven't forgotten no said Aurelia but I wasn't so much alive as you are never in the world I often think Rebecca continued walking to the window and looking out at the trees I often think how dreadful it would be if I were not here at all if Anna had come and then instead of me John and Jenny and Fanny and the others but no Rebecca never any Rebecca to be alive makes up for everything there ought to be fears in my heart but there aren't something stronger sweeps them out something like a wind oh see there is will driving up the lane mother and he ought to have a letter from the Brick House visit LibriVox.org Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm by Kate Douglas Wigan Chapter 30 Goodbye Sunnybrook Will Melville drove up to the window and tossing a letter into Rebecca's lap went off to the barn on an errand sisters no worse than Cideril you gratefully or Jane would have telegraphed see what she says Rebecca opened the envelope and read in one flash of an eye the whole brief page your Aunt Miranda passed away an hour ago come at once if your mother is out of danger I shall not have the funeral till you are here she died very suddenly and without any pain oh Rebecca I long for you so and Jane the force of habit was too strong and even in the hour of death Jane had remembered that a telegram was 25 cents and that Aurelia would have to pay half a dollar for its delivery Rebecca burst into a passion of tears as she cried poor poor Aunt Miranda she has gone without taking a bit of comfort in life and I couldn't say goodbye to her poor a lonely Aunt Jane what can I do mother I feel torn in two between you and the Brick House you must go this very instant said Aurelia starting from her pillows if I was to die while you were away I would say the very same thing your aunts have done everything in the world for you more than I've ever been able to do and it is your turn to pay back some of their kindness and show your gratitude the doctor says I've turned the corner and I feel that I have Jenny can make out somehow if Hannah will come over once a day Mother I can't go who will turn you in bed exclaimed Rebecca walking the floor and wringing her hands distractedly it don't make any difference if I don't get turned replied Aurelia stoically if a woman of my age and the mother of a family hasn't got sense enough not to slip off Hamos she ought to suffer go put on your black dress and pack your bag I'd give a good deal if I was able to go to my sister's funeral and prove that I've forgotten and forgiven all she said when I was married her acts were softer in her words Miranda's were and she's made up to you for all she ever sinned against me and your father and oh Rebecca she continued with a quivering voice I remember so well when we were little girls together and she took such pride in curling my hair and another time when we were grown up she lent me her best blue muslin it was when your father had asked me to lead the grand march with him at the Christmas dance and I found out afterwards she thought he'd intended to ask her here Aurelia broke down and wept bitterly for the recollection of the past had softened her heart and brought the comforting tears even more effectually than the news of her sister's death there was only an hour for preparation Will would drive Rebecca to Temperance and send Jenny back from school he volunteered also to engage a woman to sleep at the farm in case Mrs. Randall should be worse at any time in the night Rebecca flew down over the hill to get a last pail of spring water and as she lifted the bucket from the crystal depths and looked out over the glowing beauty of the autumn landscape she saw a company of surveyors with their instruments making calculations and laying lines that apparently crossed Sunnybrook at the favorite spot where mirror pool lay clear and placid the yellow leaves on its surface no yellower than its sparkling sands she caught her breath the time has come she thought I'm saying goodbye to Sunnybrook and the golden gates that almost swung together that last day in Wareham will close forever now goodbye dear brook and hills and meadows you're going to see life too so we must be hopeful and say to one another grow old along with me Will Melville had seen the surveyors too and had heard in the temperance post office that morning the probable sum that Mrs. Randall would receive from the railway company he was in good spirits at his own improved prospects for his farm was so placed that its value could only be increased by the new road he was also relieved in mind that his wife's family would no longer be in dire poverty directly at his doorstep so to speak John could now be hurried forward and forced into the position of head of the family several years sooner than had been anticipated so Hanna's husband was obliged to exercise great self-control or he would have whistled while he was driving Rebecca to the temperance station he could not understand her sad face or the tears that rolled silently down her cheeks from time to time for Hanna had always represented her Aunt Miranda as an irresistible parsimonious old woman who would be no loss to the world whenever she should elect to disappear from it cheer up Becky he said as he left her at the depot you'll find your mother sitting up when you come back and the next thing you know the whole family will be moving to some nice little house wherever your work is things will never be so bad again as they have been this last year that's what Hanna and I think and he drove away to tell his wife the news Adam Ladd was in the station and came up to Rebecca instantly as she entered the door looking very unlike her bright self the princess is sad this morning he said taking her hand Aladdin must rub the magic lamp then the slave will appear and these tears be dried in a trice he spoke lightly for he thought her trouble was something connected with the affairs at Sunnybrook and that he could soon bring the smiles by telling her that the farm was sold and that her mother was to receive a handsome price in return he meant to remind her too that though she must leave the home of her youth it was too remote a place to be a proper dwelling either for herself or for her lonely mother and the three younger children he could hear her say as plainly as if it were yesterday I don't think one ever forgets the spot where one lived as a child he could see the quaint little figure sitting on the pièce at North Riverboro and watch it disappear into the lilac bushes when he gave the memorable order for 300 cakes of rose red and snow white soap a word or two soon told him that her grief was of another sort and her mood was so absent so sensitive and tearful that he could only assure her of his sympathy and beg that he might come soon to the brick house to see with his own eyes how she was faring Adam thought when he had put her on the train and taken his leave that Rebecca was in her sad dignity and gravity more beautiful than he had ever seen her all beautiful and all womanly but in that moment's speech with her he had looked into her eyes and they were still those of a child there was no knowledge of the world and their shining depths no experience of men or women no passion or comprehension of it he turned from the little country station to walk in the woods by the wayside until his own train should be leaving and from time to time he threw himself under a tree to think and dream and look at the glory of the foliage he had brought a new copy of the Arabian Nights for Rebecca wishing to replace the well-worn old one that had been the delight of her girlhood but meeting her at such an inauspicious time he had absently carried it away with him he turned the pages idly until he came to the story of Aladdin and the wonderful lamp and presently in spite of his 34 years the old tale held him spellbound as it did in the days when he first read it as a boy but there were certain paragraphs that especially caught his eye and arrested his attention paragraphs that he read and re-read finding in them he knew not what secret to light and significance these were the quaintly turned phrases describing the effect on the once poor Aladdin of his wonderful riches and those, descanting upon the beauty and charm of the sultan's daughter the princess Badrul Badour not only those who knew Aladdin when he played in the streets like a vagabond did not know him again those who had seen him but a little while before hardly knew him so much were his features altered such were the effects of the lamp as to procure by degrees to those who possessed it perfections agreeable to the rank the right use of it events them to the princess was the most beautiful brunette in the world her eyes were large, lively and sparkling her looks sweet and modest her nose was of a just proportion and without a fault her mouth small, her lips of a vermilion red and charmingly agreeable symmetry in a word all the features of her face were perfectly regular it is not therefore surprising that Aladdin who had never seen and was a stranger to so many charms was dazzled with all these perfections the princess had so delicate a shape so majestic and air that the sight of her was sufficient to inspire respect adorable princess said Aladdin to her accosting her and saluting her respectfully if I have the misfortune to have displeased you by my boldness in aspiring to the possession of so lovely a creature I must tell you that you ought to blame your bright eyes and charms not me Prince answered the princess it is enough for me to have seen you to tell you that I obey without reluctance End of chapter 30