"Ches is mighty3 lively tonight," she muttered. "I s'pose he's in a gog to be off on some foolishness with Henry Wilson. Well, he won't, and he needn't think it."
Lige Barton, the hired man, also thought this was Chester's purpose, but he took a more lenient4 view of it than did Mrs. Elwell.
"The little chap is going through things with a rush this evening," he reflected. "Guess he's laying out for a bit of fun with the Wilson boy."
But Chester was not planning anything connected with Henry Wilson, who lived on the other side of the pond and was the only chum he possessed5. After the chores were done, he lingered a little while around the barns, getting his courage keyed up to the necessary pitch.
Chester Stephens was an orphan6 without kith or kin7 in the world, unless his father's stepsister, Mrs. Harriet Elwell, could be called so. His parents had died in his babyhood, and Mrs. Elwell had taken him to bring up. She was a harsh woman, with a violent temper, and she had scolded and worried the boy all his short life. Upton people said it was a shame, but nobody felt called upon to interfere8. Mrs. Elwell was not a person one would care to make an enemy of.
She eyed Chester sourly when he went in, expecting some request to be allowed to go with Henry, and prepared to refuse it sharply.
"Aunt Harriet," said Chester suddenly, "can I go to school this year? It begins tomorrow."
"No," said Mrs. Elwell, when she had recovered from her surprise at this unexpected question. "You've had schoolin' in plenty—more'n I ever had, and all you're goin' to get!"
"But, Aunt Harriet," persisted Chester, his face flushed with earnestness, "I'm nearly thirteen, and I can barely read and write a little. The other boys are ever so far ahead of me. I don't know anything."
"You know enough to be disrespectful!" exclaimed Mrs. Elwell. "I suppose you want to go to school to idle away your time, as you do at home—lazy good-for-nothing that you are!" Chester thought of the drudgery10 that had been his portion all his life. He resented being called lazy when he was willing enough to work, but he made one more appeal.
"If you'll let me go to school this year, I'll work twice as hard out of school to make up for it—indeed, I will. Do let me go, Aunt Harriet. I haven't been to school a day for over a year."
"Let's hear no more of this nonsense," said Mrs. Elwell, taking a bottle from the shelf above her with the air of one who closes a discussion. "Here, run down to the Bridge and get me this bottle full of vinegar at Jacob's store. Be smart, too, d'ye hear! I ain't going to have you idling around the Bridge neither. If you ain't back in twenty minutes, it won't be well for you."
Chester did his errand at the Bridge with a heart full of bitter disappointment and anger.
"I won't stand it any longer!" he muttered. "I'll run away—I don't care where, so long as it's away from her. I wish I could get out West on the harvest excursions."
On his return home, as he crossed the yard in the dusk, he stumbled over a stick of wood and fell. The bottle of vinegar slipped from his hand and was broken on the doorstep. Mrs. Elwell saw the accident from the window. She rushed out and jerked the unlucky lad to his feet.
"Take that, you sulky little cub11!" she exclaimed, cuffing12 his ears soundly. "I'll teach you to break and spill things you're sent for! You did it on purpose. Get off to bed with you this instant."
Chester crept off to his garret chamber13 with a very sullen14 face. He was too used to being sent to bed without any supper to care much for that, although he was hungry. But his whole being was in a tumult15 of rebellion over the injustice16 that was meted17 out to him.
"I won't stand it!" he muttered over and over again. "I'll run away. I won't stay here."
To talk of running away was one thing. To do it without a cent in your pocket or a place to run to was another. But Chester had a great deal of determination in his make-up when it was fairly roused, and his hard upbringing had made him older and shrewder than his years. He lay awake late that night, thinking out ways and means, but could arrive at no satisfactory conclusion.
The next day Mrs. Elwell said, "Ches, Abner Stearns wants you to go up there for a fortnight while Tom Bixby is away, and drive the milk wagon18 of mornings and do the chores for Mrs. Stearns. You might as well put in the time 'fore19 harvest that way as any other. So hustle20 off—and mind you behave yourself."
Chester heard the news gladly. He had not yet devised any feasible plan for running away, and he always liked to work at the Stearns' place. To be sure, Mrs. Elwell received all the money he earned, but Mrs. Stearns was kind to him, and though he had to work hard and constantly, he was well fed and well treated by all.
The following fortnight was a comparatively happy one for the lad. But he did not forget his purpose of shaking the dust of Upton from his feet as soon as possible, and he cudgelled his brains trying to find a way.
On the evening when he left the Stearns' homestead, Mr. Stearns paid him for his fortnight's work, much to the boy's surprise, for Mrs. Elwell had always insisted that all such money should be paid directly to her. Chester found himself the possessor of four dollars—an amount of riches that almost took away his breath. He had never in his whole life owned more than ten cents at a time. As he tramped along the road home, he kept his hand in his pocket, holding fast to the money, as if he feared it would otherwise dissolve into thin air.
His mind was firmly made up. He would run away once and for all. This money was rightly his; he had earned every cent of it. It would surely last him until he found employment elsewhere. At any rate, he would go; and even if he starved, he would never come back to Aunt Harriet's!
When he reached home, he found Mrs. Elwell in an unusual state of worry. Lige had given warning—and this on the verge22 of harvest!
"Did Stearns say anything about coming down tomorrow to pay me for your work?" she asked.
"No, ma'am. He didn't say a word about it," said Chester boldly.
"Well, I hope he will. Take yourself off to bed, Ches. I'm sick of seeing you standing23 there, on one foot or t'other, like a gander."
Chester had been shifting about uneasily. He realized that, if his project did not miscarry, he would not see his aunt again, and his heart softened25 to her. Harsh as she was, she was the only protector he had ever known, and the boy had a vague wish to carry away with him some kindly26 word or look from her. Such, however, was not forthcoming, and Chester obeyed her command and took himself off to the garret. Here he sat down and reflected on his plans.
He must go that very night. When Mr. Stearns failed to appear on the morrow, Mrs. Elwell was quite likely to march up and demand the amount of Chester's wages. It would all come out then, and he would lose his money—besides, no doubt, getting severely27 punished into the bargain.
His preparations did not take long. He had nothing to carry with him. The only decent suit of clothes he possessed was his well-worn Sunday one. This he put on, carefully stowing away in his pocket the precious four dollars.
He had to wait until he thought his aunt was asleep, and it was about eleven when he crept downstairs, his heart quaking within him, and got out by the porch window. When he found himself alone in the clear moonlight of the August night, a sense of elation28 filled his cramped29 little heart. He was free, and he would never come back here—never!
"Wisht I could have seen Henry to say good-by to him, though," he muttered with a wistful glance at the big house across the pond where the unconscious Henry was sleeping soundly with never a thought of moonlight flittings for anyone in his curly head.
Chester meant to walk to Roxbury Station ten miles away. Nobody knew him there, and he could catch the morning train. Late as it was, he kept to fields and wood-roads lest he might be seen and recognized. It was three o'clock when he reached Roxbury, and he knew the train did not pass through until six. With the serenity30 of a philosopher who is starting out to win his way in the world and means to make the best of things, Chester curled himself up in the hollow space of a big lumber31 pile behind the station, and so tired was he that he fell soundly asleep in a few minutes.
Chester was awakened32 by the shriek33 of the express at the last crossing before the station. In a panic of haste he scrambled34 out of his lumber and dashed into the station house, where a sleepy, ill-natured agent stood behind the ticket window. He looked sharply enough at the freckled, square-jawed35 boy who asked for a second-class ticket to Belltown. Chester's heart quaked within him at the momentary37 thought that the ticket agent recognized him. He had an agonized38 vision of being collared without ceremony and haled straightway back to Aunt Harriet. When the ticket and his change were pushed out to him, he snatched them and fairly ran.
"Bolted as if the police were after him," reflected the agent, who did not sell many tickets and so had time to take a personal interest in the purchasers thereof. "I've seen that youngster before, though I can't recollect39 where. He's got a most fearful determined40 look."
Chester drew an audible sigh of relief when the train left the station. He was fairly off now and felt that he could defy even curious railway officials.
It was not his first train ride, for Mrs. Elwell had once taken him to Belltown to get an aching tooth extracted, but it was certainly his first under such exhilarating circumstances, and he meant to enjoy it. To be sure, he was very hungry, but that, he reflected, was only what he would probably be many times before he made his fortune, and it was just as well to get used to it. Meanwhile, it behooved41 him to keep his eyes open. On the road from Roxbury to Belltown there was not much to be seen that morning that Chester did not see.
The train reached Belltown about noon. He did not mean to stop long there—it was too near Upton. From the conductor on the train, he found that a boat left Belltown for Montrose at two in the afternoon. Montrose was a hundred miles from Upton, and Chester thought he would be safe there. To Montrose, accordingly, he decided42 to go, but the first thing was to get some dinner. He went into a grocery store and bought some crackers44 and a bit of cheese. He had somewhere picked up the idea that crackers and cheese were about as economical food as you could find for adventurous45 youths starting out on small capital.
He found his way to the only public square Belltown boasted, and munched46 his food hungrily on a bench under the trees. He would go to Montrose and there find something to do. Later on he would gradually work his way out West, where there was more room for an ambitious small boy to expand and grow. Chester dreamed some dazzling dreams as he sat there on the bench under the Belltown chestnuts47. Passers-by, if they noticed him at all, saw merely a rather small, poorly clad boy, with a great many freckles48, a square jaw36 and shrewd, level-gazing grey eyes. But this same lad was mapping out a very brilliant future for himself as people passed him heedlessly by. He would get out West, somehow or other, some time or other, and make a fortune. Then, perhaps, he would go back to Upton for a visit and shine in his splendour before all his old neighbours. It all seemed very easy and alluring50, sitting there in the quiet little Belltown square. Chester, you see, possessed imagination. That, together with the crackers and cheese, so cheered him up that he felt ready for anything. He was aroused from a dream of passing Aunt Harriet by in lofty scorn and a glittering carriage, by the shrill52 whistle of the boat. Chester pocketed his remaining crackers and cheese and his visions also, and was once more his alert, wide-awake self. He had inquired the way to the wharf53 from the grocer, so he found no difficulty in reaching it. When the boat steamed down the muddy little river, Chester was on board of her.
He was glad to be out of Belltown, for he was anything but sure that he would not encounter some Upton people as long as he was in it. They often went to Belltown on business, but never to Montrose.
There were not many passengers on the boat, and Chester scrutinized54 them all so sharply in turn that he could have sworn to each and every one of them for years afterwards had it been necessary. The one he liked best was a middle-aged55 lady who sat just before him on the opposite side of the deck She was plump and motherly looking, with a fresh, rosy56 face and beaming blue eyes.
"If I was looking for anyone to adopt me I'd pick her," said Chester to himself. The more he looked at her, the better he liked her. He labelled her in his mind as "the nice, rosy lady."
The nice, rosy lady noticed Chester staring at her after awhile. She smiled promptly57 at him—a smile that seemed fairly to irradiate her round face—and then began fumbling58 in an old-fashioned reticule she carried, and from which she presently extracted a chubby59 little paper bag.
"If you like candy, little boy," she said to Chester, "here is some of my sugar taffy for you."
Chester did not exactly like being called a little boy. But her voice and smile were irresistible60 and won his heart straightway. He took the candy with a shy, "Thank you, ma'am," and sat holding it in his hand.
"Eat it," commanded the rosy lady authoritatively61. "That is what taffy is for, you know."
So Chester ate it. It was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted in his life, and filled a void which even the crackers and cheese had left vacant. The rosy lady watched every mouthful he ate as if she enjoyed it more than he did. When he had finished the taffy she smiled one of her sociable62 smiles again and said, "Well, what do you think of it?"
"It's the nicest taffy I ever ate," answered Chester enthusiastically, as if he were a connoisseur63 in all kinds of taffies. The rosy lady nodded, well pleased.
"That is just what everyone says about my sugar taffy. Nobody up our way can match it, though goodness knows they try hard enough. My great-grandmother invented the recipe herself, and it has been in our family ever since. I'm real glad you liked it."
She smiled at him again, as if his appreciation64 of her taffy was a bond of good fellowship between them. She did not know it but, nevertheless, she was filling the heart of a desperate small boy, who had run away from home, with hope and encouragement and self-reliance. If there were such kind folks as this in the world, why, he would get along all right. The rosy lady's smiles and taffy—the smiles much more than the taffy—went far to thaw65 out of him a certain hardness and resentfulness against people in general that Aunt Harriet's harsh treatment had instilled66 into him. Chester instantly made a resolve that when he grew stout67 and rosy and prosperous he would dispense68 smiles and taffy and good cheer generally to all forlorn small boys on boats and trains.
It was almost dark when they reached Montrose. Chester lost sight of the rosy lady when they left the boat, and it gave him a lonesome feeling; but he could not indulge in that for long at a time. Here he was at his destination—at dark, in a strange city a hundred miles from home.
"The first thing is to find somewhere to sleep," he said to himself, resolutely69 declining to feel frightened, although the temptation was very strong.
Montrose was not really a very big place. It was only a bustling70 little town of some twenty thousand inhabitants, but to Chester's eyes it was a vast metropolis71. He had never been in any place bigger than Belltown, and in Belltown you could see one end of it, at least, no matter where you were. Montrose seemed endless to Chester as he stood at the head of Water Street and gazed in bewilderment along one of its main business avenues—a big, glittering, whirling place where one small boy could so easily be swallowed up that he would never be heard of again.
Chester, after paying his fare to Montrose and buying his cheese and crackers, had just sixty cents left. This must last him until he found work, so that the luxury of lodgings72 was out of the question, even if he had known where to look for them. To be sure, there were benches in a public square right in front of him; but Chester was afraid that if he curled up on one of them for the night, a policeman might question him, and he did not believe he could give a very satisfactory account of himself. In his perplexity, he thought of his cosy73 lumber pile at Roxbury Station and remembered that when he had left the boat he had noticed a large vacant lot near the wharf which was filled with piles of lumber. Back to this he went and soon succeeded in finding a place to stow himself. His last waking thought was that he must be up and doing bright and early the next morning, and that it must surely be longer than twenty-four hours since he had crept downstairs and out of Aunt Harriet's porch window at Upton.
Montrose seemed less alarming by daylight, which was not so bewildering as the blinking electric lights. Chester was up betimes, ate the last of his cheese and crackers and started out at once to look for work. He determined to be thorough, and he went straight into every place of business he came to, from a blacksmith's forge to a department store, and boldly asked the first person he met if they wanted a boy there. There was, however, one class of places Chester shunned74 determinedly75. He never went into a liquor saloon. The last winter he had been allowed to go to school in Upton, his teacher had been a pale, patient little woman who hated the liquor traffic with all her heart. She herself had suffered bitterly through it, and she instilled into her pupils a thorough aversion to it. Chester would have chosen death by starvation before he would have sought for employment in a liquor saloon. But there certainly did not seem room for him anywhere else. Nobody wanted a boy. The answer to his question was invariably "No." As the day wore on, Chester's hopes and courage went down to zero, but he still tramped doggedly76 about. He would be thorough, at least. Surely somewhere in this big place, where everyone seemed so busy, there must be something for him to do.
Once there seemed a chance of success. He had gone into a big provision store and asked the clerk behind the counter if they wanted a boy.
"Well, we do," said the clerk, looking him over critically, "but I hardly think you'll fill the bill. However, come in and see the boss."
He took Chester into a dark, grimy little inner office where a fat, stubby man was sitting before a desk with his feet upon it.
"Hey? What!" he said when the clerk explained. "Looking for the place? Why, sonny, you're not half big enough."
"Oh, I'm a great deal bigger than I look," cried Chester breathlessly. "That is, sir—I mean I'm ever so much stronger than I look. I'll work hard, sir, ever so hard—and I'll grow."
The fat, stubby man roared with laughter. What was grim earnest to poor Chester was a joke to him.
"No doubt you will, my boy," he said genially77, "but I'm afraid you'll hardly grow fast enough to suit us. Boys aren't like pigweed, you know. No, no, our boy must be a big, strapping78 fellow of eighteen or nineteen. He'll have a deal of heavy lifting to do."
Chester went out of the store with a queer choking in his throat. For one horrible moment he thought he was going to cry—he, Chester Stephens, who had run away from home to do splendid things! A nice ending that would be to his fine dreams! He thrust his hands into his pockets and strode along the street, biting his lips fiercely. He would not cry—no, he would not! And he would find work!
Chester did not cry, but neither, alas79, did he find work. He parted with ten cents of his precious hoard80 for more crackers, and he spend the night again in the lumber yard.
Perhaps I'll have better luck tomorrow, he thought hopefully.
But it really seemed as if there were to be no luck for Chester except bad luck. Day after day passed and, although he tramped resolutely from street to street and visited every place that seemed to offer any chance, he could get no employment. In spite of his pluck, his heart began to fail him.
At the end of a week Chester woke up among his lumber to a realization81 that he was at the end of his resources. He had just five cents left out of the four dollars that were to have been the key to his fortune. He sat gloomily on the wall of his sleeping apartment and munched the one solitary82 cracker43 he had left. It must carry him through the day unless he got work. The five cents must be kept for some dire21 emergency.
He started uptown rather aimlessly. In his week's wanderings he had come to know the city very well and no longer felt confused with its size and bustle83. He envied every busy boy he saw. Back in Upton he had sometimes resented the fact that he was kept working continually and was seldom allowed an hour off. Now he was burdened with spare time. It certainly did not seem as if things were fairly divided, he thought. And then he thought no more just then, for one of the queer spells in his head came on. He had experienced them at intervals84 during the last three days. Something seemed to break loose in his head and spin wildly round and round, while houses and people and trees danced and wobbled all about him. Chester vaguely85 wondered if this could be what Aunt Harriet had been wont86 to call a "judgement." But then, he had done nothing very bad—nothing that would warrant a judgement, he thought. It was surely no harm to run away from a place where you were treated so bad and where they did not seem to want you. Chester felt bitter whenever he thought of Aunt Harriet.
Presently he found himself in the market square of Montrose. It was market day, and the place was thronged87 with people from the surrounding country settlements. Chester had hoped that he might pick up a few cents, holding a horse or cow for somebody or carrying a market basket, but no such chance offered itself. He climbed up on some bales of pressed hay in one corner and sat there moodily88; there was dejection in the very dangle89 of his legs over the bales. Chester, you see, was discovering what many a boy before him has discovered—that it is a good deal easier to sit down and make a fortune in dreams than it is to go out into the world and make it.
Two men were talking to each other near him. At first Chester gave no heed49 to their conversation, but presently a sentence made him prick90 up his ears.
"Yes, there's a pretty fair crop out at Hopedale," one man was saying, "but whether it's going to be got in in good shape is another matter. It's terrible hard to get any help. Every spare man-jack far and wide has gone West on them everlasting91 harvest excursions. Salome Whitney at the Mount Hope Farm is in a predicament. She's got a hired man, but he can't harvest grain all by himself. She spent the whole of yesterday driving around, trying to get a couple of men or boys to help him, but I dunno if she got anyone or not."
The men moved out of earshot at this juncture92, but Chester got down from the bales with a determined look. If workers were wanted in Hopedale, that was the place for him. He had done a man's work at harvest time in Upton the year before. Lige Barton had said so himself. Hope and courage returned with a rush.
"Reckon I can, sonny. I live in the next district. Want to go there? If you wait till evening, I can give you a lift part of the way. It's five miles out."
"Thank you, sir," said Chester firmly, "but I must go at once if you'll kindly direct me. It's important."
"Well, it's a straight road. That's Albemarle Street down there—follow it till it takes you out to the country, and then keep straight on till you come to a church painted yellow and white. Turn to your right, and over the hill is Hopedale. But you'd better wait for me. You don't look fit to walk five miles."
But Chester was off. Walk five miles! Pooh! He could walk twenty with hope to lure94 him on. Albemarle Street finally frayed95 off into a real country road. Chester was glad to find himself out in the country once more, with the great golden fields basking96 on either side and the wooded hills beyond, purple with haze97. He had grown to hate the town with its cold, unheeding faces. It was good to breathe clear air again and feel the soft, springy soil of the ferny roadside under his tired little feet.
Long before the five miles were covered, Chester began to wonder if he would hold out to the end of them. He had to stop and rest frequently, when those queer dizzy spells came on. His feet seemed like lead. But he kept doggedly on. He would not give in now! The white and yellow church was the most welcome sight that had ever met his eyes.
Over the hill he met a man and inquired the way to Mount Hope Farm. Fortunately, it was nearby. At the gate Chester had to stop again to recover from his dizziness.
He liked the look of the place, with its great, comfortable barns and quaint98, roomy old farmhouse99, all set down in a trim quadrangle of beeches100 and orchards101. There was an appearance of peace and prosperity about it.
If only Miss Salome Whitney will hire me! thought Chester wistfully, as he crept up the slope. I'm afraid she'll say I'm too small. Wisht I could stretch three inches all at once. Wisht I wasn't so dizzy. Wisht—
What Chester's third wish was will never be known, for just as he reached the kitchen door the worst dizzy spell of all came on. Trees, barns, well-sweep, all whirled around him with the speed of wind. He reeled and fell, a limp, helpless little body, on Miss Salome Whitney's broad, spotless sandstone doorstep.
In the Mount Hope kitchen Miss Salome was at that moment deep in discussion with her "help" over the weighty question of how the damsons were to be preserved. Miss Salome wanted them boiled; Clemantiny Bosworth, the help, insisted that they ought to be baked. Clemantiny was always very positive. She had "bossed" Miss Salome for years, and both knew that in the end the damsons would be baked, but the argument had to be carried out for dignity's sake.
"They're so sour when they're baked," protested Miss Salome.
"Well, you don't want damsons sweet, do you?" retorted Clemantiny scornfully. "That's the beauty of damsons—their tartness102. And they keep ever so much better baked, Salome—you know they do. My grandmother always baked hers, and they would keep for three years."
Miss Salome knew that when Clemantiny dragged her grandmother into the question, it was time to surrender. Beyond that, dignity degenerated104 into stubbornness. It would be useless to say that she did not want to keep her damsons for three years, and that she was content to eat them up and trust to Providence105 for the next year's supply.
"Well, well, bake them then," she said placidly106. "I don't suppose it makes much difference one way or another. Only, I insist—what was that noise, Clemantiny? It sounded like something falling against the porch door."
"It's that worthless dog of Martin's, I suppose," said Clemantiny, grasping a broom handle with a grimness that boded107 ill for the dog. "Mussing up my clean doorstep with his dirty paws again. I'll fix him!"
Clemantiny swept out through the porch and jerked open the door. There was a moment's silence. Then Miss Salome heard her say, "For the land's sake! Salome Whitney, come here."
What Miss Salome saw when she hurried out was a white-faced boy stretched on the doorstep at Clemantiny's feet.
"Dead? No," sniffed109 Clemantiny. "He's fainted, that's what he is. Where on earth did he come from? He ain't a Hopedale boy."
"He must be carried right in," exclaimed Miss Salome in distress110. "Why, he may die there. He must be very ill."
"Looks more to me as if he had fainted from sheer starvation," returned Clemantiny brusquely as she picked him up in her lean, muscular arms. "Why, he's skin and bone. He ain't hardly heavier than a baby. Well, this is a mysterious piece of work. Where'll I put him?"
"Lay him on the sofa," said Miss Salome as soon as she had recovered from the horror into which Clemantiny's starvation dictum had thrown her. A child starving to death on her doorstep! "What do you do for people in a faint, Clemantiny?"
"Wet their face—and hist up their feet—and loosen their collar," said Clemantiny in a succession of jerks, doing each thing as she mentioned it. "And hold ammonia to their nose. Run for the ammonia, Salome. Look, will you? Skin and bone!"
But Miss Salome had gone for the ammonia. There was a look on the boy's thin, pallid111 face that tugged112 painfully at her heart-strings.
When Chester came back to consciousness with the pungency113 of the ammonia reeking114 through his head, he found himself lying on very soft pillows in a very big white sunny kitchen, where everything was scoured115 to a brightness that dazzled you. Bending over him was a tall, gaunt woman with a thin, determined face and snapping black eyes, and, standing beside her with a steaming bowl in her hand, was the nice rosy lady who had given him the taffy on the boat!
When he opened his eyes, Miss Salome knew him.
"Why, it's the little boy I saw on the boat!" she exclaimed.
"Well, you've come to!" said Clemantiny, eyeing Chester severely. "And now perhaps you'll explain what you mean by fainting away on doorsteps and scaring people out of their senses."
Chester thought that this must be the mistress of Mount Hope Farm, and hastened to propitiate116 her.
"You're not to do any talking until you've had something to eat," snapped Clemantiny inconsistently. "Here, open your mouth and take this broth118. Pretty doings, I say!"
Clemantiny spoke119 as sharply as Aunt Harriet had ever done, but somehow or other Chester did not feel afraid of her and her black eyes. She sat down by his side and fed him from the bowl of hot broth with a deft120 gentleness oddly in contrast with her grim expression.
Chester thought he had never in all his life tasted anything so good as that broth. The boy was really almost starved. He drank every drop of it. Clemantiny gave a grunt121 of satisfaction as she handed the empty bowl and spoon to the silent, smiling Miss Salome.
"Now, who are you and what do you want?" she said.
Chester had been expecting this question, and while coming along the Hopedale road he had thought out an answer to it. He began now, speaking the words slowly and gaspingly, as if reciting a hastily learned lesson.
"My name is Chester Benson. I belong to Upton up the country. My folks are dead and I came to Montrose to look for work, I've been there a week and couldn't get anything to do. I heard a man say that you wanted men to help in the harvest, so I came out to see if you'd hire me."
In spite of his weakness, Chester's face turned very red before he got to the end of his speech. He was new to deception122. To be sure, there was not, strictly123 speaking, an untrue word in it. As for his name, it was Chester Benson Stephens. But for all that, Chester could not have felt or looked more guilty if he had been telling an out-and-out falsehood at every breath.
"Humph!" said Clemantiny in a dissatisfied tone. "What on earth do you suppose a midget like you can do in the harvest field? And we don't want any more help, anyway. We've got enough."
Chester grew sick with disappointment. But at this moment Miss Salome spoke up.
"No, we haven't, Clemantiny. We want another hand, and I'll hire you, Chester—that's your name, isn't it? I'll give you good wages, too."
"Now, Salome!" protested Clemantiny.
But Miss Salome only said, "I've made up my mind, Clemantiny."
Clemantiny knew that when Miss Salome did make up her mind and announced it in that very quiet, very unmistakable tone, she was mistress of the situation and intended to remain so.
"Oh, very well," she retorted. "You'll please yourself, Salome, of course. I think it would be wiser to wait until you found out a little more about him."
"And have him starving on people's doorsteps in the meantime?" questioned Miss Salome severely.
"Well," returned Clemantiny with the air of one who washes her hands of a doubtful proposition, "don't blame me if you repent124 of it."
By this time Chester had grasped the wonderful fact that his troubles were ended—for a while, at least. He raised himself up on one arm and looked gratefully at Miss Salome.
"Thank you," he said. "I'll work hard. I'm used to doing a lot."
"There, there!" said Miss Salome, patting his shoulder gently. "Lie down and rest. Dinner will be ready soon, and I guess you'll be ready for it."
To Clemantiny she added in a low, gentle tone, "There's a look on his face that reminded me of Johnny. It came out so strong when he sat up just now that it made me feel like crying. Don't you notice it, Clemantiny?"
"Can't say that I do," replied that energetic person, who was flying about the kitchen with a speed that made Chester's head dizzy trying to follow her with his eyes. "All I can see is freckles and bones—but if you're satisfied, I am. For law's sake, don't fluster125 me, Salome. There's a hundred and one things to be done out of hand. This frolic has clean dundered the whole forenoon's work."
After dinner Chester decided that it was time to make himself useful.
"Can't I go right to work now?" he asked.
"We don't begin harvest till tomorrow," said Miss Salome. "You'd better rest this afternoon."
"Oh, I'm all right now," insisted Chester. "I feel fine. Please give me something to do."
"You can go out and cut me some wood for my afternoon's baking," said Clemantiny. "And see you cut it short enough. Any other boy that's tried always gets it about two inches too long."
When he had gone out, she said scornfully to Miss Salome, "Well, what do you expect that size to accomplish in a harvest field, Salome Whitney?"
"Not very much, perhaps," said Miss Salome mildly. "But what could I do? You wouldn't have me turn the child adrift on the world again, would you, Clemantiny?"
Clemantiny did not choose to answer this appeal. She rattled126 her dishes noisily into the dishpan.
"Well, where are you going to put him to sleep?" she demanded. "The hands you've got will fill the kitchen chamber. There's only the spare room left. You'll hardly put him there, I suppose? Your philanthropy will hardly lead you as far as that."
When Clemantiny employed big words and sarcasm127 at the same time, the effect was tremendous. But Miss Salome didn't wilt128.
"I'm not prejudiced against him. But that story about himself didn't ring true. I worked in Upton years ago, and there weren't any Bensons there then. There's more behind that he hasn't told. I'd find out what it was before I took him into my house, that's all. But I'm not prejudiced."
"Well, well," said Miss Salome soothingly130, "we must do the best we can for him. It's a sort of duty. And as for a room for him—why, I'll put him in Johnny's."
Clemantiny opened her mouth and shut it again. She understood that it would be a waste of breath to say anything more. If Miss Salome had made up her mind to put this freckled, determined-looking waif, dropped on her doorstep from heaven knew where, into Johnny's room, that was an end of the matter.
"But I'll not be surprised at anything after this," she muttered as she carried her dishes into the pantry. "First a skinny little urchin131 goes and faints on her doorstep. Then she hires him and puts him in Johnny's room. Johnny's room! Salome Whitney, what do you mean?"
Perhaps Miss Salome hardly knew what she meant. But somehow her heart went out warmly to this boy. In spite of Clemantiny's sniffs132, she held to the opinion that he looked like Johnny. Johnny was a little nephew of hers. She had taken him to bring up when his parents died, and she had loved him very dearly. He had died four years ago, and since that time the little front room over the front porch had never been occupied. It was just as Johnny had left it. Beyond keeping it scrupulously133 clean, Miss Salome never allowed it to be disturbed. And now a somewhat ragged103 lad from nowhere was to be put into it! No wonder Clemantiny shook her head when Miss Salome went up to air it.
Even Clemantiny had to admit that Chester was willing to work. He split wood until she called him to stop. Then he carried in the wood-box full, and piled it so neatly134 that even the grim handmaiden was pleased. After that, she sent him to the garden to pick the early beans. In the evening he milked three cows and did all the chores, falling into the ways of the place with a deft adaptability135 that went far to soften24 Clemantiny's heart.
"He's been taught to work somewheres," she admitted grudgingly136, "and he's real polite and respectful. But he looks too cute by half. And his name isn't Benson any more than mine. When I called him 'Chester Benson' out there in the cow-yard, he stared at me fer half a minute 'sif I'd called him Nebuchadnezzar."
When bedtime came, Miss Salome took Chester up to a room whose whiteness and daintiness quite took away the breath of a lad who had been used to sleeping in garrets or hired men's kitchen chambers137 all his life. Later on Miss Salome came in to see if he was comfortable, and stood, with her candle in her hand, looking down very kindly at the thin, shrewd little face on the pillow.
"I hope you'll sleep real well here, Chester," she said. "I had a little boy once who used to sleep here. You—you look like him. Good night."
She bent138 over him and kissed his forehead. Chester had never been kissed by anyone before, so far as he could remember. Something came up in his throat that felt about as big as a pumpkin139. At the same moment he wished he could have told Miss Salome the whole truth about himself. I might tell her in the morning, he thought, as he watched her figure passing out of the little porch chamber.
But on second thought he decided that this would never do. He felt sure she would disapprove140 of his running away, and would probably insist upon his going straight back to Upton or, at least, informing Aunt Harriet of his whereabouts. No, he could not tell her.
Clemantiny was an early riser, but when she came into the kitchen the next morning the fire was already made and Chester was out in the yard with three of the five cows milked.
But she gave him cream with his porridge that morning. Generally, all Miss Salome's hired hands got from Clemantiny was skim milk.
Miss Salome's regular hired man lived in a little house down in the hollow. He soon turned up, and the other two men she had hired for harvest also arrived. Martin, the man, looked Chester over quizzically.
"What do you think you can do, sonny?"
"Anything," said Chester sturdily. "I'm used to work."
"He's right," whispered Clemantiny aside. "He's smart as a steel trap. But just you keep an eye on him all the same, Martin."
Chester soon proved his mettle142 in the harvest field. In the brisk three weeks that followed, even Clemantiny had to admit that he earned every cent of his wages. His active feet were untiring and his wiry arms could pitch and stock with the best. When the day's work was ended, he brought in wood and water for Clemantiny, helped milk the cows, gathered the eggs, and made on his own responsibility a round of barns and outhouses to make sure that everything was snug143 and tight for the night.
"Freckles-and-Bones has been well trained somewhere," said Clemantiny again.
It was hardly fair to put the bones in now, for Chester was growing plump and hearty144. He had never been so happy in his life. Upton drudgery and that dreadful week in Montrose seemed like a bad dream. Here, in the golden meadows of Mount Hope Farm, he worked with a right good will. The men liked him, and he soon became a favourite with them. Even Clemantiny relented somewhat. To be sure, she continued very grim, and still threw her words at him as if they were so many missiles warranted to strike home. But Chester soon learned that Clemantiny's bark was worse than her bite. She was really very good to him and fed him lavishly145. But she declared that this was only to put some flesh on him.
"It offends me to see bones sticking through anybody's skin like that. We aren't used to such objects at Mount Hope Farm, thank goodness. Yes, you may smile, Salome. I like him well enough, and I'll admit that he knows how to make himself useful, but I don't trust him any more than ever I did. He's mighty close about his past life. You can't get any more out of him than juice out of a post. I've tried, and I know."
But it was Miss Salome who had won Chester's whole heart. He had never loved anybody in his hard little life before. He loved her with an almost dog-like devotion. He forgot that he was working to earn money—and make his fortune. He worked to please Miss Salome. She was good and kind and gentle to him, and his starved heart thawed146 and expanded in the sunshine of her atmosphere. She went to the little porch room every night to kiss him good night. Chester would have been bitterly disappointed if she had failed to go.
She was greatly shocked to find out that he had never said his prayers before going to bed. She insisted on teaching him the simple little one she had used herself when a child. When Chester found that it would please her, he said it every night. There was nothing he would not have done for Miss Salome.
She talked a good deal to him about Johnny and she gave him the jack-knife that Johnny had owned.
"It belonged to a good, manly147 little boy once," she said, "and now I hope it belongs to another such."
"I ain't very good," said Chester repentantly, "but I'll try to be, Miss Salome—honest, I will."
One day he heard Miss Salome speaking of someone who had run away from home. "A wicked, ungrateful boy," she called him. Chester blushed until his freckles were drowned out in a sea of red, and Clemantiny saw it, of course. When did anything ever escape those merciless black eyes of Clemantiny's?
"Do you think it's always wrong for a fellow to run away, Miss Salome?" he faltered.
"It can't ever be right," said Miss Salome decidedly.
"But if he wasn't treated well—and was jawed at—and not let go to school?" pleaded Chester.
Clemantiny gave Miss Salome a look as of one who would say, You're bat-blind if you can't read between the lines of that; but Miss Salome was placidly unconscious. She was not really thinking of the subject at all, and did not guess that Chester meant anything more than generalities.
"Not even then," she said firmly. "Nothing can justify148 a boy for running away—especially as Jarvis Colemen did—never even left a word behind him to say where he'd gone. His aunt thought he'd fallen into the river."
"Don't suppose she would have grieved much if he had," said Clemantiny sarcastically149, all the while watching Chester, until he felt as if she were boring into his very soul and reading all his past life.
When the harvest season drew to a close, dismay crept into the soul of our hero. Where would he go now? He hated to think of leaving Mount Hope Farm and Miss Salome. He would have been content to stay there and work as hard as he had ever worked at Upton, merely for the roof over his head and the food he ate. The making of a fortune seemed a small thing compared to the privilege of being near Miss Salome.
"But I suppose I must just up and go," he muttered dolefully.
One day Miss Salome had a conference with Clemantiny. At the end of it the latter said, "Do as you please," in the tone she might have used to a spoiled child. "But if you'd take my advice—which you won't and never do—you'd write to somebody in Upton and make inquiries150 about him first. What he says is all very well and he sticks to it marvellous, and there's no tripping him up. But there's something behind, Salome Whitney—mark my words, there's something behind."
"He looks so like Johnny," said Miss Salome wistfully.
"And I suppose you think that covers a multitude of sins," said Clemantiny contemptuously.
On the day when the last load of rustling151 golden sheaves was carried into the big barn and stowed away in the dusty loft51, Miss Salome called Chester into the kitchen. Chester's heart sank as he obeyed the summons.
His time was up, and now he was to be paid his wages and sent away. To be sure, Martin had told him that morning that a man in East Hopedale wanted a boy for a spell, and that he, Martin, would see that he got the place if he wanted it. But that did not reconcile him to leaving Mount Hope Farm.
Miss Salome was sitting in her favourite sunny corner of the kitchen and Clemantiny was flying around with double briskness152. The latter's thin lips were tightly set and disapproval153 was writ9 large in every flutter of her calico skirts.
"Chester," said Miss Salome kindly, "your time is up today."
Chester nodded. For a moment he felt as he had felt when he left the provision store in Montrose. But he would not let Clemantiny see him cry. Somehow, he would not have minded Miss Salome.
"What are you thinking of doing now?" Miss Salome went on.
"There's a man at East Hopedale wants a boy," said Chester, "and Martin says he thinks I'll suit."
"That is Jonas Smallman," said Miss Salome thoughtfully. "He has the name of being a hard master. It isn't right of me to say so, perhaps. I really don't know much about him. But wouldn't you rather stay here with me for the winter, Chester?"
"Ma'am? Miss Salome?" stammered154 Chester. He heard Clemantiny give a snort behind him and mutter, "Clean infatuated—clean infatuated," without in the least knowing what she meant.
"We really need a chore boy all the year round," said Miss Salome. "Martin has all he can do with the heavy work. And there are the apples to be picked. If you care to stay, you shall have your board and clothes for doing the odd jobs, and you can go to school all winter. In the spring we will see what need be done then."
If he would care to stay! Chester could have laughed aloud. His eyes were shining with joy as he replied, "Oh, Miss Salome, I'll be so glad to stay! I—I—didn't want to go away. I'll try to do everything you want me to do. I'll work ever so hard."
"Humph!"
This, of course, was from Clemantiny, as she set a pan of apples on the stove with an emphatic155 thud. "Nobody ever doubted your willingness to work. Pity everything else about you isn't as satisfactory."
"Clemantiny!" said Miss Salome rebukingly156. She put her arms about Chester and drew him to her. "Then it is all settled, Chester. You are my boy now, and of course I shall expect you to be a good boy."
If ever a boy was determined to be good, that boy was Chester. That day was the beginning of a new life for him. He began to go to the Hopedale school the next week. Miss Salome gave him all Johnny's old school books and took an eager interest in his studies.
Chester ought to have been very happy, and at first he was; but as the bright, mellow157 days of autumn passed by, a shadow came over his happiness. He could not help thinking that he had really deceived Miss Salome, and was deceiving her still—Miss Salome, who had such confidence in him. He was not what he pretended to be. And as for his running away, he felt sure that Miss Salome would view that with horror. As the time passed by and he learned more and more what a high standard of honour and truth she had, he felt more and more ashamed of himself. When she looked at him with her clear, trustful, blue eyes, Chester felt as guilty as if he had systematically158 deceived her with intent to do harm. He began to wish that he had the courage to tell her the whole truth about himself.
Moreover, he began to think that perhaps he had not done right, after all, in running away from Aunt Harriet. In Miss Salome's code nothing could be right that was underhanded, and Chester was very swiftly coming to look at things through Miss Salome's eyes. He felt sure that Johnny would never have acted as he had, and if Chester now had one dear ambition on earth, it was to be as good and manly a fellow as Johnny must have been. But he could never be that as long as he kept the truth about himself from Miss Salome.
"That boy has got something on his mind," said the terrible Clemantiny, who, Chester felt convinced, could see through a stone wall.
"Nonsense! What could he have on his mind?" said Miss Salome. But she said it a little anxiously. She, too, had noticed Chester's absent ways and abstracted face.
"Goodness me, I don't know! I don't suppose he has robbed a bank or murdered anybody. But he is worrying over something, as plain as plain."
"He is getting on very well at school," said Miss Salome. "His teacher says so, and he is very eager to learn. I don't know what can be troubling him."
She was fated not to know for a fortnight longer. During that time Chester fought out his struggle with himself, and conquered. He must tell Miss Salome, he decided, with a long sigh. He knew that it would mean going back to Upton and Aunt Harriet and the old, hard life, but he would not sail under false colours any longer.
Chester went into the kitchen one afternoon when he came home from school, with his lips set and his jaws159 even squarer than usual. Miss Salome was making some of her famous taffy, and Clemantiny was spinning yarn160 on the big wheel.
"Miss Salome," said Chester desperately161, "if you're not too busy, there is something I'd like to tell you."
"What is it?" asked Miss Salome good-humouredly, turning to him with her spoon poised162 in midair over her granite163 saucepan.
"It's about myself. I—I—oh, Miss Salome, I didn't tell you the truth about myself. I've got to tell it now. My name isn't Benson—exactly—and I ran away from home."
"Dear me!" said Miss Salome mildly. She dropped her spoon, handle and all, into the taffy and never noticed it. "Dear me, Chester!"
"I knew it," said Clemantiny triumphantly164. "I knew it—and I always said it. Run away, did you?"
"Yes'm. My name is Chester Benson Stephens, and I lived at Upton with Aunt Harriet Elwell. But she ain't any relation to me, really. She's only father's stepsister. She—she—wasn't kind to me and she wouldn't let me go to school—so I ran away."
"But, dear me, Chester, didn't you know that was very wrong?" said Miss Salome in bewilderment.
"No'm—I didn't know it then. I've been thinking lately that maybe it was. I'm—I'm real sorry."
"What did you say your real name was?" demanded Clemantiny.
"Stephens, ma'am."
"And your mother's name before she was married?"
"Mary Morrow," said Chester, wondering what upon earth Clemantiny meant.
Clemantiny turned to Miss Salome with an air of surrendering a dearly cherished opinion.
"Well, ma'am, I guess you must be right about his looking like Johnny. I must say I never could see the resemblance, but it may well be there, for he—that very fellow there—and Johnny are first cousins. Their mothers were sisters!"
"Clemantiny!" exclaimed Miss Salome.
"You may well say 'Clemantiny.' Such a coincidence! It doesn't make you and him any relation, of course—the cousinship is on the mother's side. But it's there. Mary Morrow was born and brought up in Hopedale. She went to Upton when I did, and married Oliver Stephens there. Why, I knew his father as well as I know you."
"This is wonderful," said Miss Salome. Then she added sorrowfully, "But it doesn't make your running away right, Chester."
"Tell us all about it," demanded Clemantiny, sitting down on the wood-box. "Sit down, boy, sit down—don't stand there looking as if you were on trial for your life. Tell us all about it."
Thus adjured165, Chester sat down and told them all about it—his moonlight flitting and his adventures in Montrose. Miss Salome exclaimed with horror over the fact of his sleeping in a pile of lumber for seven nights, but Clemantiny listened in silence, never taking her eyes from the boy's pale face. When Chester finished, she nodded.
"We've got it all now. There's nothing more behind, Salome. It would have been better for you to have told as straight a story at first, young man."
Chester knew that, but, having no reply to make, made none. Miss Salome looked at him wistfully.
"But, with it all, you didn't do right to run away, Chester," she said firmly. "I dare say your aunt was severe with you—but two wrongs never make a right, you know."
"No'm," said Chester.
"You must go back to your aunt," continued Miss Salome sadly.
Chester nodded. He knew this, but he could not trust himself to speak. Then did Clemantiny arise in her righteous indignation.
"Well, I never heard of such nonsense, Salome Whitney! What on earth do you want to send him back for? I knew Harriet Elwell years ago, and if she's still what she was then, it ain't much wonder Chester ran away from her. I'd say 'run,' too. Go back, indeed! You keep him right here, as you should, and let Harriet Elwell look somewhere else for somebody to scold!"
"Clemantiny!" expostulated Miss Salome.
"Oh, I must and will speak my mind, Salome. There's no one else to take Chester's part, it seems. You have as much claim on him as Harriet Elwell has. She ain't any real relation to him any more than you are."
Miss Salome looked troubled. Perhaps there was something in Clemantiny's argument. And she hated to think of seeing Chester go. He looked more like Johnny than ever, as he stood there with his flushed face and wistful eyes.
"Chester," she said gravely, "I leave it to you to decide. If you think you ought to go back to your aunt, well and good. If not, you shall stay here."
This was the hardest yet. Chester wished she had not left the decision to him. It was like cutting off his own hand. But he spoke up manfully.
"I—I think I ought to go back, Miss Salome, and I want to pay back the money, too."
"I think so, too, Chester, although I'm sorry as sorry can be. I'll go back to Upton with you. We'll start tomorrow. If, when we get there, your aunt is willing to let you stay with me, you can come back."
"There's a big chance of that!" said Clemantiny sourly. "A woman's likely to give up a boy like Chester—a good, steady worker and as respectful and obliging as there is between this and sunset—very likely, isn't she! Well, this taffy is all burnt to the saucepan and clean ruined—but what's the odds166! All I hope, Salome Whitney, is that the next time you adopt a boy and let him twine167 himself 'round a person's heart, you'll make sure first that you are going to stick to it. I don't like having my affections torn up by the roots."
Clemantiny seized the saucepan and disappeared with it into the pantry amid a whirl of pungent168 smoke.
Mount Hope Farm was a strangely dismal169 place that night. Miss Salome sighed heavily and often as she made her preparations for the morrow's journey.
Clemantiny stalked about with her grim face grimmer than ever. As for Chester, when he went to bed that night in the little porch chamber, he cried heartily170 into his pillows. He didn't care for pride any longer; he just cried and didn't even pretend he wasn't crying when Miss Salome came in to sit by him a little while and talk to him. That talk comforted Chester. He realized that, come what might, he would always have a good friend in Miss Salome—aye, and in Clemantiny, too.
Chester never knew it, but after he had fallen asleep, with the tears still glistening171 on his brown cheeks, Clemantiny tiptoed silently in with a candle in her hand and bent over him with an expression of almost maternal172 tenderness on her face. It was late and an aroma173 of boiling sugar hung about her. She had sat up long after Miss Salome was abed, to boil another saucepan of taffy for Chester to eat on his journey.
"Poor, dear child!" she said, softly touching174 one of his crisp curls. "It's a shame in Salome to insist on his going back. She doesn't know what she's sending him to, or she wouldn't. He didn't say much against his aunt, and Salome thinks she was only just a little bit cranky. But I could guess."
Early in the morning Miss Salome and Chester started. They were to drive to Montrose, leave their team there and take the boat for Belltown. Chester bade farewell to the porch chamber and the long, white kitchen and the friendly barns with a full heart. When he climbed into the wagon, Clemantiny put a big bagful of taffy into his hands.
"Good-by, Chester," she said. "And remember, you've always got a friend in me, anyhow."
Then Clemantiny went back into the kitchen and cried—good, rough-spoken, tender-hearted Clemantiny sat down and cried.
It was an ideal day for travelling—crisp, clear and sunny—but neither Chester nor Miss Salome was in a mood for enjoyment175.
They stayed in Belltown overnight and in the morning took the train to Roxbury Station. Here Miss Salome hired a team from the storekeeper and drove out to Upton.
Chester felt his heart sink as they drove into the Elwell yard. How well he knew it!
Miss Salome tied her hired nag177 to the gatepost and took Chester by the hand. They went to the door and knocked. It was opened with a jerk and Mrs. Elwell stood before them. She had probably seen them from the window, for she uttered no word of surprise at seeing Chester again. Indeed, she said nothing at all, but only stood rigidly178 before them.
Dear me, what a disagreeable-looking woman! thought Miss Salome. But she said courteously179, "Are you Mrs. Elwell?"
"I am," said that lady forbiddingly.
"I've brought your nephew home," continued Miss Salome, laying her hand encouragingly on Chester's shrinking shoulder. "I have had him hired for some time on my farm at Hopedale, but I didn't know until yesterday that he had run away from you. When he told me about it, I thought he ought to come straight back and return your four dollars, and so did he. So I have brought him."
"You might have saved yourself the trouble then!" cried Mrs. Elwell shrilly180. Her black eyes flashed with anger. "I'm done with him and don't want the money. Run away when there was work to do, and thinks he can come back now that it's all done and loaf all winter, does he? He shall never enter my house again."
"That he shall not!" cried Miss Salome, at last finding her tongue. Her gentle nature was grievously stirred by the heartlessness shown in the face and voice of Mrs. Elwell. "That he shall not!" she cried again. "But he shall not want for a home as long as I have one to give him. Come, Chester, we'll go home."
"I wish you well of him," Mrs. Elwell said sarcastically.
Miss Salome already repented181 her angry retort. She was afraid she had been undignified, but she wished for a moment that Clemantiny was there. Wicked as she feared it was, Miss Salome thought she could have enjoyed a tilt182 between her ancient handmaid and Mrs. Elwell.
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Elwell, if I have used any intemperate183 expressions," she said with great dignity. "You provoked me more than was becoming by your remarks. I wish you good morning."
Mrs. Elwell slammed the door shut.
With her cheeks even more than usually rosy, Miss Salome led Chester down to the gate, untied184 her horse and drove out of the yard. Not until they reached the main road did she trust herself to speak to the dazed lad beside her.
"What a disagreeable women!" she ejaculated at last. "I don't wonder you ran away, Chester—I don't, indeed! Though, mind you, I don't think it was right, for all that. But I'm gladder than words can say that she wouldn't take you back. You are mine now, and you will stay mine. I want you to call me Aunt Salome after this. Get up, horse! If we can catch that train at Roxbury, we'll be home by night yet."
Chester was too happy to speak. He had never felt so glad and grateful in his life before.
They got home that night just as the sun was setting redly behind the great maples185 on the western hill. As they drove into the yard, Clemantiny's face appeared, gazing at them over the high board fence of the cow-yard. Chester waved his hand at her gleefully.
"Lawful186 heart!" said Clemantiny. She set down her pail and came out to the lane on a run. She caught Chester as he sprang from the wagon and gave him a hearty hug.
"I'm glad clean down to my boot soles to see you back again," she said.
"He's back for good," said Miss Salome. "Chester, you'd better go in and study up your lessons for tomorrow."
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vim
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| n.精力，活力 | |
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freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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cuffing
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| v.掌打，拳打( cuff的现在分词 )；袖口状白血球聚集 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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meted
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| v.（对某人）施以，给予（处罚等）( mete的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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19
fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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20
hustle
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| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
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21
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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22
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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23
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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24
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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25
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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26
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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27
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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28
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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29
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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30
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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31
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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32
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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33
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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34
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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35
jawed
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| adj.有颌的有颚的 | |
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36
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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37
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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38
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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39
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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40
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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41
behooved
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| v.适宜( behoove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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43
cracker
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| n.（无甜味的）薄脆饼干 | |
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44
crackers
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| adj.精神错乱的，癫狂的n.爆竹( cracker的名词复数 )；薄脆饼干；（认为）十分愉快的事；迷人的姑娘 | |
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45
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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46
munched
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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48
freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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49
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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50
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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51
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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52
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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53
wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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54
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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56
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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57
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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58
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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59
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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60
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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61
authoritatively
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| 命令式地，有权威地，可信地 | |
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62
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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63
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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64
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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65
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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66
instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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69
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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70
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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71
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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72
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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73
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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74
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
determinedly
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| adv.决意地；坚决地，坚定地 | |
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76
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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77
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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78
strapping
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| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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79
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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80
hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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81
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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82
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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83
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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84
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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85
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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86
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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87
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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89
dangle
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| v.(使)悬荡，(使)悬垂 | |
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90
prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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91
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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92
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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93
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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94
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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95
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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97
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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98
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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99
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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100
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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101
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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102
tartness
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| n.酸，锋利 | |
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103
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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104
degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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106
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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107
boded
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| v.预示，预告，预言( bode的过去式和过去分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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108
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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109
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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110
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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111
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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112
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
pungency
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| n.（气味等的）刺激性；辣；（言语等的）辛辣；尖刻 | |
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114
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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115
scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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116
propitiate
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| v.慰解，劝解 | |
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117
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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118
broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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119
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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120
deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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121
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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122
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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123
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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124
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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125
fluster
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| adj.慌乱，狼狈，混乱，激动 | |
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126
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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127
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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128
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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129
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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130
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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131
urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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132
sniffs
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的第三人称单数 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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133
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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134
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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135
adaptability
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| n.适应性 | |
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136
grudgingly
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137
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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138
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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139
pumpkin
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| n.南瓜 | |
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140
disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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141
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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142
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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143
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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144
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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145
lavishly
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| adv.慷慨地，大方地 | |
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146
thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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148
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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149
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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150
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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151
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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152
briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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153
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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154
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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156
rebukingly
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157
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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158
systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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159
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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160
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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162
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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163
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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164
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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165
adjured
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| v.（以起誓或诅咒等形式）命令要求( adjure的过去式和过去分词 )；祈求；恳求 | |
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166
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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167
twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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168
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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169
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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170
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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171
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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172
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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173
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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174
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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175
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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176
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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177
nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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178
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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179
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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180
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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181
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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182
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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183
intemperate
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| adj.无节制的，放纵的 | |
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184
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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185
maples
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| 槭树，枫树( maple的名词复数 )； 槭木 | |
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186
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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