— ' ■■ - ..
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HAPPY HOUSE
By Jane D. Abbott
COPYRIGHT, 1930, BY J. B*LTPPINCOTT COMPANT
“B’lindy, you foolish, super
stitious thing—it’s your rehu
matism!”
“1 guess it ain't my rheumatiz,
Miss Anne, and my hones gener
ally feels right. 1 ain’t forgot
ten when Miss Milly had that
accident nor when Judson’s
bam burned. I thought mebbe
it was poor Mis’ Hopkins (lyin’.
Didn’t you know the poor soul
dropped right off in her sleep
last night and left Timothy Hop
kins with those 10 children to
care for? 1 sez this mornin’ when
Jonathan told me that there was
no use tryin’ to understand the
ways of the Lord—10 children
and that poor Timothy Hopkins
as helpless a body as ever was,
anyway, ami not much inore’n
'notigh to feed his own stomach
and no one to manage now!”
“How dreadful! Poor man.”
Nancy tried to make her tone
sympathetic. “Of course that
was what your bones were feel
ing, B’lindy!”
“B’lindy turned to truly dis
tressed face to Nancy. “But it
wa’nt! No, sir, right this minit
my bones is feelin’ worse than
ever that somethin’ is goin’ to
Happen i one signed ns sue
patted a sandwich together.
‘‘Lord knows mebbe it’s the
heat.. There’s somethin' brewin’,
Miss Aune, and you'd better
keep an eye open for a storm—
they come up fast in this val
ley I”
But Nancy refused to let,
B’liudy’s fears or warnings
dampen her gay spirits. Indeed,
she promptly forgot them in the
joy of dashing off over the dus
ty road. B’lindy’s lunch was
tucked away in the back; ahead
stretched miles of smooth invit
ing highway, winding through
pleasant green meadows.
And this man who grasped the
wheel of the ear with such com
plete confidence, who seemed
bent upon nothing more import
ant than making the little hand
of the speedometer climb higher
and higher—this was a new Pet
er Hyde, unfamiliar and yet
strangely familiar in that now he
resembled the dozens of other
young men Nancy had known.
Nancy felt suddenly shy. Al
ways before, when with Peter,
she had enjoyed the least hit of
a feeling of superiority, that she
was graciously bringing, with her
friendship, much into a life that
must, because it was limited to
Judson’s farm, often seem dull
and empty. But it was not easy
to feel that way toward this very
good looking young man in im
maculate blue serge who tended
to her comfort with the assur
ance of a person quite accus
tomed to taking young ladies ou
automobile picnics!
Because they were both young,
because the breeze blowing de
liciously against their faces was
fragrant with summer smells,
their hearts were light: they
chattered merrily, as young peo
ple will, about everything under
the sun, then lapsed into pleasant
silences, broken only by the reg
ular humming of the engine.
;r However, after a little, these
cii iriM t ii t ft, I Mil m* v Ponn.
ing from a corner of her eye at
Peter Hyde’s blonde head, she
was annoyed by an overwhelm
ing Quriosity as to what was go
ing on within it! What was the
mystery concealed behind that
pleasant mask And why, when
they seemed such good friends,
could he not tell her?
Then Rhe suddenly realized,
with a quick sense of shame, that
she, too, was concealing much
from Peter Hyde!
As they rode along he pointed
out old landmarks with familiar
ity of a life-long Islander. Ho
admitted that history fascinated
him. ‘ Not in books as much as
when you can hook it up with the
very ground you’re walking on!
Look at that lake over there—
can’t you picture it covered with
the canoes of the Indians? They
used to come around here in flo
tillas—the Iroquois, the Algon
quius and the Hurons, always
fighting. Great lot they were—
scrapping all the time!”
He seemed to have at his
tongue’s end some interesting bit
of information about every spot
they passed. As they wandered
around ^Isle La Motte, he told
how on this little island Champ
lain had first lauded on his voy
age down into the valley. He
explained that a Jesuit mission
had been established there as far
back as 1660, long before any
other white men had ventured
18
into the wilderness.
They visited the ruins of Fort
Ste. Anne on Sandy Point and
the little chapel with its cross, to
which, on the Feast of Ste. Anne,
caine pilgrims from great dis
tances, to pray at. the shrine.
“We think this America of
ours is so young,” he laughed.
“And here we are living on soil
that has been consecrated by
brave sacrifices of centuries ago 1
Not so bad.”
Driving homeward their backs
were turned to the little ominous
pile of clouds darkening a comer
of the blue sky. At a spot where
the road rtfn close to the edge of
the lake, under a wide spreading
maple tree, they laid out
B’lindy’s lunch.
“Now I’ll tell him I’m going,”
Nancy vowed to herself, with a
little unaccountable fluttering.
He was on his knees before the
picnic box. She could not see
his face.
“Peter”! She had not realized
how hard it was going to be to
sav it. “I’m—going—away!
Really.”
She had expected that he
would be startled—show real
consternation. Her going must
make a difference in his life at
Freedom—there were no other
young people to take her place.
lie was surprised; he held a
jelly sandwich suspended for a
moment, as though waiting for
her to say something more. Then
he laid it down on a paper plate.
“White meat or dark meat,”l
he asked.
Nancy could not know that he
was not really concerned as to
whether she preferred white
meat, that his indifference was,
indeed, covering a moment’s in
ability to express his real feeling.!
She was suddenly angry—angry
at herself more than at Peter
Hyde I
“Of course I shall hate to go,
I have grown very fond of Aunt
Sabrina and Aunt Milly and
B’iindy—and dear little Nonie.
It’s hardest to leave her!”
“They’ll miss you. You’ve
changed Happy House. And
Nonie’s a different child.”
“He's very careful not to say
he’ll miss me,” thought Nancy
with childish pique. Then, aloud:
“But I can't stay at Happy
House forever. I only planned to
spend three weeks there at the
most and it's been six. And it
seems ns though I'd been there
ages! I suppose one day on the
Islands is like a week in the cit
ies, where you live right next to
people and never really touch
their lives. However, it’s in the
rush of the cities I belong; I
should die if 1 had to stay here!”
She wanted him to understand
that the attractions of Happy
House could not hold her; she
wanted to punish him for that
abstraction that she had thought
indifference.
“Judson’s will be a dull hole
without you at Happy House,
Nancy,” Peter put in, gravely.
She laughed lightly. “By
Christmas you will have forgot
ten all about me! Anvwav, vou
will have Miss Denny.”
With wicked delight over his
embarrassment Nancy told him
of Nonie’s plan that Miss Denny
should be Mr. Peter’s “dearest”.
“Your fate is as plain as the
nose on my face,” she laughed,
tantalizingly. “You won’t have
to cross my palm with silver to
know your future, Mr. Hyde! A
cottage on the 10-acre piece
where you will live happily'—
ever afterward. As a wedding
gift, with my best wishes, I’ll
give you the birdsnest.”
She dodged the drum stick
that Peter threw at her. “You
are not at all grateful for the
nice fortune I’m giving yrou,”
she declared.
“I am, indeed! Though it
doesn’t seem quite fair for me to
make too many plans without
consulting Miss Denny, and I’ve
never seen the lady. She may
be old and ugly, black—or yel
low. ’ ’
“I’ll tell you—if you’ll prom
ise not to tell that I’ve told! She
is old and ugly'; she’s blind in
one e.ve and stutters and limps
and has straggly gray' hair
and—”
“For Heaven’s sake, stop’
When all my life I’ve been look
ing for- a girl with brown hair
that looks sort of red and
freckles—about 3,000 of theml”
“Peter!” Nancy sprang pre
cipitously to her feet. A Look—
there is a storm coming!”
IVlindy’s threatened storm w as
approaching swiftly. The b’aek
cloud that had been piling up
behind them now overspread the
whole western sky.
“What a shame—to have it
spoil our day! This has been
§uch_£iin. I’ll never forget it. af
ter I’ve gone.’’ Then, hastily,
“Gather up the napkins and the
baskets; I promised B’lindy I’d I
bring them home! Isn’t there a
short cut home ? I’m really dread
fully afraid of lightning.’’ But
she had caught something in the
expression of Peter Hyde’s face
that frightened her more than
the threatened storm.
“Let’s hurry,” she cried, run
ning unceremoniously to the
automobile.
- CHAPTER XXI.
Davy’s Gift.
Real need recognizing no dis
tinction of class, it had been Liz
Hopworth who had been sum
moned to the Hopkins home
when Mrs. Hopkins “dropped
off” in the middle of the night,
leaving 10 children motherless.
Over Band's late breakfast
Liz, wan-eyed from loss of sleep,
but dignified by a new import
ance, related all the sad circum
stances of poor Sarah Hopkins’
passing. “Wlio’d a’ thought,”
she exclaimed as she vigorously
beat her pan-cake batter, “yes
terday when I sec the poor wom
and out a hangin’ her clothes
that this blessed night I’d a’ been
called in to straighten her limbs
and do for thosg poor young
’uns!”
To Nonie and Davy death was
a strangely mysterious thing
which they took for granted;
dogs and cats and calves died;
frequently there was a burial in
the village cemetery. These had
always had an element of excite
ment which even stirred the Hop
worth home, detached though it
was from the village life. They
looked at Liz, now, with jvidc
eager eyes. To have “straight
ened poor Sarah Hopkins’ limbs”
seemed to have transformed her
—her tone was kinder, something
almost tender gleamed in her
tired eyes, and she was making
pan-cakes for their breakfast!
“.Just fetch that grease, Nonie.
Step spry, too—there's a lot to
be done before this day’s over.
Lordy, I thought to myself last
night, that the Lord strikes hard
—leavin’ those 10 children that
haven't done no wrong without,
any mother to manage and Tim
othy Hopkins siltin’ there as
helpless like he'd been hit over
the head, he’s that stunned.
And scarcely a bite iu the
house.” ~—
Old Dan’l had long since got
ten past the day of worrying over
the ways of the Lord. Nor to
him was there anything particu
larly startling in a lack of food.
His had always been a philosophy
that believed that from some
where or other Providence would
provide, and if it didn’t—
“Scarcely a bite, and all step
pin’ on one another, there’s so
many of ’em, and then when I
think o’ Happy House and the
plenty there's there, well, ’si say,
the Lord’s ways are beyond me!
Eat up your breakfast, Nonie.
You gotta do up the work here,
for I told that poor man I’d come
back quick as ever I could.
There’s no end of work to be
done ’fore that place will look
fit for folks to come and see
her.”
“Can I go, too, Liz?” asked
Davy. “Mebbe I can help.”
Normally Liz would have made
a sharp retort. Now she consid
ered a moment. <
“Mebbe you can. You can
play with the baby s«’s Jennie
can help me sweep and dust.
Sarah Hopkins would turn over
if she thought folks was goin’ to
see the muss and litter. Hurry
along.”
All that Liz had said of the
house of mourning had been true.
Davy found the muss and litter;
the poor smithy wandering help
lessly around and the “young
’uns” stepping on one another.
He shut his eyes tight so thut he
would not have to catch the tin
iest glimpse of poor Sarah Hop
kins lying very still in the bed
room off the kitchen. He was
glad when Liz, in a strangely'
brisk tone, bade Jennie, the old
est Hopkins girl, give the baby
over to Davy.
“He's com Tong to mind the
baby, so’s you can help. Take
him outside, Davy, and keep him
out from under foot. Take up
these dishes! Sure’s I’m livin’ I
see Mrs. Sniggs coinin’ up the
road this blessed minit.” '
Davy, gathering up his charge,
retreated hastily'. In faot, his
pace did not slaken until he was
well away from the Hopkins
home. Then he put. his burden
down under a tree' and stared
at it.
The baby', blissfully unconsci
ous of its loss, cooed ecstatically
to express his joy at the unusual
attention. He reached out tiny
hands to Davy. “Go—go!” he
gurgled, coaxingly.
‘‘You sit right there! I gotta
think,” was Davy's scowling an
swer.
And Davy was thinking—hard.
Liz’ story, ever the breakfast,
had sunk deep into his soul. He
knew what it was to live in a
household where there was no
mother and not much food!
It did not take Davy very long
to make up his mind. Then, with
determination written in every
wrinkle of his frowning face, he
lifted the baby and hurried to his
home. An hour later, still carry
ing the baby, he trudged dogged
ly up the road to Happy House,
through the gate, along the path
to the door. Only for a mom
ent did he pause on the thresh
old; then, softly opening the
door, he entered, and came out
again,’ empty armed.
The oppressiveness of the day
had decidedly ruffled the atmos
phere of Happy House. Miss
Sabrina had taken the news of
Nancy’s flight with a disapprov
ing grunt; B’lindy had sharply
come to Nancy’s defense. She
‘‘guessed girls had to be girls
anyways, though she’d a feelin’
in her bones that somethin’ might
happen and one never could tell
’bout them pesky machines.”
Then Miss Sabrina, taller and
straigliter than ever, had walked
haughtily away as far as the sit
ting room, when a shriek brought
fe’hndv running.
Miss Sabrina had dropped
breathless into a eliair and at her
feet sat the Hopkins baby suck
ing its thumb.
“B’lindy—what—what is it? I
liked to fall over it!”
“Land a’ goshen a baby! A
real live baby I ” B ’lindy leaned
over cautiously. “Crawled in
here like a caterpiller! As I live,
Iiere’s a note, Miss Sabrina!”
She unpinned a piece of paper
from the baby’s dress.
“Pies kep this child there ante
enuf food fer so meny Hopkins
Liz sez and she sez the Lord
never ment any body to go hun
gry she sez your hous is big enuf
fer a dusen and lots of food I
guess you don’t no thet tlier ar
so meny Hopkins and you will
like to kepe this one I no how it
hurts to be hungry so pies don’t
send this baby bak. Yours truly,
Davy.”
B’lindy, after reading the note
aloud, stared at the baby.
“Sarah Hopkins’ young ’un—
I Swan!” With her apron she
wiped a tear from her eye. “No
one to do for it now.”
Miss Sabrina snorted.
“Of all the nerve—bringing it
here—for me to break my neck
on!”
From above came Miss Milly’s
voice plaintively calling.
“Take it away. Milly’s call
ing—she’s got to know what the
excitement’s about. I’ll never
get over my fright,” and Miss
Sabrina, still trembling, rose to
go to her sister. The baby puck
ered his face preparatory to a
long wail. “Take it out,” com
manded Miss Sabrina, “it’s go
ing to cry—give it something
quick.”
B ’lindy snatched the baby and
flew to the kitchen. She could
not bear to think that any living
thing in Happy House was hun
gry. However, the threatened
squall passed when B’lindy, after
carefully shutting her doors, pro
duced a bowl and a shiny spoon.
It had not been alone Miss
Sabrina’s shriek that had fright
ened Miss Milly. She had -heard
a rumble of thunder. She was
lying back among her pillows
deadly pale. She clutched Miss
n 1 * _ »_ l._.1 . . .1 1_ . _ 1 L
uaui Hitt o iia'uu cvuva i/tggtu
to stay with her.
‘‘I know I’m foolish,” she
whispered plaintively, “hut it’s
so oppressive. It’s hard—for me
—to breathe.”
Sabrina sat down grimly be
side her—no thunder storm eatne
to North Hero that it did not
bring unpleasant memories to
them both.
“Is it—going to be—very
bad?” Miss Milly asked plain
tively. ‘‘I wish Nancy—was
home.”___
(To be continued next week.)
Some folks are naturally unlucky
Just when Philadelphians are spend
ing large sums of money to put a
stop to the whiskered Joke about the
city of brotherly and sisterly love
being sleepy, along comes a Phila
delphian and calls at the White
House, asking to see President Wil
son.
Everybody, of course, will be In
terested to know that they have
mr.de the Einstein theory Into a mo
tion picture. This must be designed
to compete with Charlie Chaplin’s
demonstrations of the theory of grav
ity.
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The way some people have of being
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