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_ The Browns were up and out so early next
morning that Bab and BeLty were sure they
had run away in the night. But on looking
for them, they were discovered in the coach-house
criticising Lita, both with their hands in their pockets,
both chewing straws, and looking as much alike as a
big elephant and a small one.
"That's as pretty a little span as I've seen for a
long time," said the elder Ben, as the children came
trotting down the path hand in hand, with the four
blue bows at the ends of their braids bobbing briskly
up and down.
"The nigh one is my favorite, but the off one is
the best goer, though she's dreadfully hard bitted,"
answered Ben the younger, with such a comical assumption
of a jockey's important air that his father
laughed as he said in an undertone, --
"Come, boy, we must drop the old slang since
we've given up the old business. These good folks
are making a gentleman of you, and I won't be the
one to spoil their work. Hold on, my dears, and I'll
show you how they say good-moining in California,"
he added, beckoning to the litlle girls, who now came
up rosy and smiling.
"Breakfast is ready, sir," said Betty, looking much
relieved to find them.
"We thought you'd run away from us," explained
Bab, as both put out their hands to shake those
extended to them.
"That would be a mean trick. But I'm going to
run away with you," and Mr. Brown whisked a little
girl to either shoulder before they knew what had
happened, while Ben, remembering the day, with
difficulty restrained himself from turning a series
of triumphant somersaults before them all the way
to the door, where Mrs. Moss stood waiting for
them.
After breakfast Ben disappeared for a short time,
and returned in his Sunday suit, looking so neat and
fresh that his father surveyed him with surprise and
pride as he came in full of boyish satisfaction in his
trim array.
"Here's a smart young chap! Did you take all
that trouble just to go to walk with old Daddy?"
asked Mr. Brown, stroking the smooth head, for they
were alone just then, Mrs. Moss and the children
being up stairs preparing for church.
"I thought may be you'd like to go to meeting
first," answered Ben, looking up at him with such a
happy face that it was hard to refuse any thing.
I'm too shabby, Sonny, else I'd go in a minute
to please you."
"Miss Celia said God didn't mind poor clothes, and
she took me when I looked worse than you do. I
always go in the morning; she likes to have me," said
Ben, turning his hat about as if not quite sure what
he ought to do.
"Do you want to go?" asked his father in a tone
of surprise.
"I want to please her, if you don't mind. We
could have our tramp this afternoon."
"I haven't been to meeting since mother died, and
it don't seem to come easy, though I know I ought
to, seeing I'm alive and here," and Mr. Brown looked
soberly out at the lovely autumn world as if glad to
be in it after his late danger and pain.
"Miss Celia said church was a good place to take
our troubles, and to be thankful in. I went when I
thought you were dead, and now I'd love to go when
I've got my Daddy safe again,"
No one saw him, so Ben could not resist giving his
father a sudden hug, which was warmly returned as
the man said earnestly, --
"I'll go, and thank the Lord hearty for giving me
back my boy better'n I left him!"
For a minute nothing was heard but the loud tick
of the old clock and a mournful whine front Sancho,
shut up in the shed lest he should go to church without
an invitation.
Then, as steps were heard on the stairs, Mr. Brown
caught up his hat, saying hastily, --
"I ain't fit to go with them, you tell 'm, and I'll
slip into a back seat after folks are in. I know the
way." And, before Ben could reply, he was gone.
Nothing was seen of him along the way, but he saw
the little party, and rejoiced again over his boy,
changed in so many ways for the better; for Ben
was the one thing which had kept his heart soft
through all the trials and temptations of a rough life.
"I promised Mary I'd do my best for the poor
baby she had to leave, and I tried; but I guess a
better friend than I am has been raised up for him
when he needed her most. It won't hurt me to follow
him in this road," thought Mr. Brown, as he came
out into the highway from his stroll "across-lots,"
feeling that it would be good for him to stay in this
quiet place, for his own as well as his son's sake.
The Bell had done ringing when he reached the
green, but a single boy sat on the steps and rail to
meet him, saying, with a reproachful look, --
"I wasn't going to let you be alone, and have folks
think I was ashamed of my father. Come, Daddy,
we'll sit together."
So Ben led his father straght to the Squire's pew,
and sat beside him with a face so full of innocent pride
and joy, that people would have suspected the truth
if he had not already told many of them. Mr. Brown,
painfully conscious of his shabby coat, was rather
"taken aback," as he expressed it; but the Squire's
shake of the hand, and Mrs. Allen's gracious nod
enabled him to face the eyes of the interested
congregation, the younger portion of which stared steadily
at him all sermon time, in spite of paternal frowns
and maternal tweakings in the rear.
But the crowning glory of the day came after
church, when the Squire said to Ben, and Sam heard
him, --
"I've got a letter for you from Miss Celia. Come
home with me, and bring your father. I want to talk
to him."
The boy proudly escorted his parent to the old
carry-all, and, tucking hiniself in behind with Mrs.
Allen, had the satisfaction of seeing the slouched felt
hat side by side with the Squire's Sunday beaver in
front, as they drove off at such an unusually smart
pace, it was evident that Duke knew there was a
critical eye upon him. The interest taken in the father
was owing to the son at first; but, by the time the
story was told, old Ben had won friends for himself
not only because of the misfortunes which he had
evidently borne in a manly way, but because of his
delight in the boy's improvement, and the desire he
felt to turn his hand to any honest work, that he might
keep Ben happy and contented in this good home.
"I'll give you a line to Towne. Smithers spoke
well of you, and your own ability will be the best
recommendation," said the Squire, as he parted from
them at his door, having given Ben the letter.
Miss Celia had been gone a fortnight, and every
one was longing to have her back. The first week
brought Ben a newspaper, with a crinkly line drawn
round the marriages to attract attention to that spot,
and one was marked by a black frame with a large
hand pointing at it from the margin. Thorny sent
that; but the next week came a parcel for Mrs. Moss,
and in it was discovered a box of wedding cake for
every member of the family, including Sancho, who
ate his at one gulp, and chewed up the lace paper
which covered it. This was the third week; and, as
if there could not be happiness enough crowded into
it for Ben, the letter he read on his way home told
him that his dear mistress was coming back on the
following Saturday. One passage particularly pleased
him, --
"I want the great gate opened, so that the new
master may go in that way. Will you see that it is
done, and all made neat afterward? Randa will give
you the key, and you may have out all your flags if
you like, for the old place cannot look too gay for
this home-coming."
Sunday though it was, Ben could not help waving
the letter over his head as he ran in to tell Mrs. Moss
the glad news, and begin at once to plan the welcome
they would give Miss Celia, for he never called her
any thing else.
During their afternoon stroll in the mellow sunshine,
Ben continued to talk of her, never tired of
telling about his happy summer under her roof. And
Mr. Brown was never weary of hearing, for every hour
showed him more plainly what a lovely miracle her
gentle words had wrought, and every hour increased
his gratitude, his desire to return the kindness in
some humble way. He had his wish, and did his
part handsomely when he least expected to have a
chance.
On Monday he saw Mr. Towne, and, thanks to the
Squire's good word, was engaged for a month on
trial, making himself so useful that it was soon evident
he was the right man in the right place. He lived on
the hill, but managed to get down to the little brown
house in the evening for a word with Ben, who just
now was as full of business as if the President and
his Cabinet were coming.
Every thing was put in apple-pie order in and
about the old house; the great gate, with much creaking
of rusty hinges and some clearing away of rubbish,
was set wide open, and the first creature who entered
it was Sancho, solemnly dragging the dead mullein
which long ago had grown above the keyhole. October
frosts seemed to have spared some of the
brightest leaves for this especial occasion; and on
Saturday the arched gate-way was hung with gay
wreaths, red and yellow sprays strewed the flags, and
the porch was a blaze of color with the red woodbine,
that was in its glory when the honeysuckle was leafless.
Fortunately it was a half-holiday, so the children
could trim and chatter to their heart's content, and
the little girls ran about sticking funny decorations
where no one would ever think of looking for them.
Ben was absorbed in his flags, which were sprinkled
all down the avenue with a lavish display, suggesting
several Fourth of Julys rolled into one. Mr. Brown
had come to lend a hand, and did so most energetically,
for the break-neck things he did with his son
during the decoration fever would have terrified Mrs.
Moss out of her wits, if she had not been in the house
giving last touches to every room, while Randa and
Katy set forth a sumptuous tea.
All was going well, and the train would be due in
an hour, when luckless Bab nearly turned the rejoicing
into mourning, the feast into ashes. She heard
her mother say to Randa, "There ought to be a fire
in every room, it looks so cheerful, and the air is
chilly spite of the sunshine;" and, never waiting to
hear the reply that some of the long-unused chimneys
were not safe till cleaned, off went Bab with an apron
full of old shingles, and made a roaring blaze in the
front room fire-place, which was of all others the
one to be let alone, as the flue was out of order.
Charmed with the brilliant light and the crackle of
the tindery fuel, Miss Bab refilled her apron, and fed
the fire till the chimney began to rumble ominously,
sparks to fly out at the top, and soot and swallows'
nests to come tumbling down upon the hearth. Then,
scared at what she had done, the little mischief-maker
hastily buried her fire, swept up the rubbish, and ran
off, thinking no one would discover her prank if she
never told.
Everybody was very busy, and the big chimney
blazed and rumbled unnoticed till the cloud of smoke
caught Ben's eye as he festooned his last effort in the
flag line, part of an old sheet with the words "Father
has come!" in red cambric letters half a foot long
sewed upon it.
"Hullo ! I do believe they've got up a bonfire.
without asking my leave. Miss Celia never would
let us, because the sheds and roofs are so old and
dry; I must see about it. Catch me, Daddy, I'm
coming down! " cried Ben, dropping out of the elm
with no more thought of where he might light than a
squirrel swinging from bough to bough.
His father caught him, and followed in haste as his
nimble-footed son raced up the avenue, to stop in the
gate-way, frightened at the prospect before him, for
falling sparks had already kindled the roof here and
there, and the chimney smoked and roared like a
small volcano, while Katy's wails and Randa's cries
for water came from within.
"Up there with wet blankets, while I get out the
hose!" cried Mr. Brown, as he saw at a glance what
the danger was.
Ben vanished; and, before his father got the garden
hose rigged, he was on the roof with a dripping
blanket over the worst spot. Mrs. Moss had her wits
about her in a minute, and ran to put in the fireboard,
and stop the draught. Then, stationing Randa
to watch that the falling cinders did no harm inside,
she hurried off to help Mr. Brown, who might not know
where things were. But he had roughed it so long,
that he was the man for emergencies, and seemed to
lay his hand on whatever was needed, by a sort of
instinct. Finding that the hose was too short to
reach the upper part of the roof, he was on the roof
in a jiffy with two pails of water, and quenched the
most dangerous spots before much harm was done.
This he kept up till the chimney burned itself out,
while Ben dodged about among the gables with a
watering pot, lest some stray sparks should be over-
looked, and break out afresh.
While they worked there, Betty ran to and fro with
a dipper of water, trying to help; and Sancho barked
violently, as if he objected to this sort of illumination.
But where was Bab, who revelled in flurries? No
one missed her till the fire was out, and the tired,
sooty people met to talk over the danger just escaped.
"Poor Miss Celia wouldn't have had a roof over
her head, if it hadn't been for you, Mr. Brown," said
Mrs. Moss, sinking into a kitchen chair, pale with the
excitement.
"It would have burnt lively, but I guess it's all
right now. Keep an eye on the roof, Ben, and I'll
step up garret and see if all's safe there. Didn't you
know that chininey was foul, ma'am?" asked the
man, as he wiped the perspiration off his grimy face.
"Randa said it was, and I 'in surprised she made a
fire there," began Mrs. Moss, looking at the maid,
who just then came in with a pan full of soot.
"Bless you, ma'am, I never thought of such a
thing, nor Katy neither. That naughty Bab must
have done it, and so don't dar'st to show herself,"
answered the irate Randa, whose nice room was in
a mess.
"Where is the child?" asked her mother; and a
hunt was immediately instituted by Betty and Sancho,
while the elders cleared up.
Anxious Betty searched high and low, called and
cried, but all in vain; and was about to sit down in
despair, when Sancho made a bolt into his new
kennel and brought out a shoe with a foot in it while
a doleful squeal came from the straw within.
"Oh, Bab, how could you do it? Ma was frighened
dreadfully," said Betty, gently tugging at the
striped leg, as Sancho poked his head in for another
shoe.
"Is it all burnt up?" demanded a smothered voice
from the recesses of the kennel.
"Only pieces of the roof. Ben and his father put
it out, and I helped," answered Betty, cheering up a
little as she recalled her noble exertions.
"What do they do to folks who set houses afire?
asked the voice again.
"I don't know; but you needn't be afraid, their
isn't much harm done, I guess, and Miss Celia will
forgive you, she's so good."
"Thorny won't; he calls me a 'botheration,' and I
guess I am," mourned the unseen culprit, with sincere
contrition.
"I'll ask him; he is always good to me. They
will be here pretty soon, so you'd better come out
and be made tidy," suggested the comforter.
"I never can come out, for every one will hate
me," sobbed Bab among the straw, as she pulled in
her foot, as if retiring for ever from an outraged
world.
"Ma won't, she's too busy cleaning up; so it's a
good time to come. Let's run home, wash our hands,
and be all nice when they see us. I'll love you, no
matter what anybody else does," said Betty, consoling
the poor little sinner, and proposing the sort of
repentance most likely to find favor in the eyes of the
agitated elders.
"P'raps I'd better go home, for Sanch will want
his bed," and Bab gladly availed herself of that excuse
to back out of her refuge, a very crumpled, dusty
young lady, with a dejected face and much straw
sticking in her hair.
Betty led her sadly away, for she still protested
that she never should dare to meet the offended
public again; but in fifteen minutes both appeared
in fine order and good spirits, and naughty Bab
escaped a lecture for the time being, as the train
would soon be due.
At the first sound of the car whistle every one
turned good-natured as if by magic, and flew to the
gate smiling as if all mishaps were forgiven and
forgotten. Mrs. Moss, however, slipped quietly away,
and was the first to greet Mrs. Celia as the carriage
stopped at the entrance of the avenue, so that the
luggage might go in by way of the lodge.
"We will walk up and you shall tell us the news as
we go, for I see you have some," said the young lady,
in her friendly manner, when Mrs. Moss had given
her welcome and paid her respects to the gentleman
who shook hands in a way that convinced her he was
indeed what Thorny called him, "regularly jolly,"
though he was a minister.
That being exactly what she came for, the good
woman told her tidings as rapidly as possible, and the
new-comers were so glad to hear of Ben's happiness
they made very light of Bab's bonfire, though it had
nearly burnt their house down.
"We won't say a word about it, for every one must
be happy to-day," said Mr. George, so kindly that
Mrs. Moss felt a load taken off her heart at once.
"Bab was always teasing me for fireworks, but I
guess she has had enough for the present," laughed
Thorny, who was gallantly escorting Bab's mother up
the avenue.
"Every one is so kind! Teacher was out with the
children to cheer us as we passed, and here you all
are making things pretty for me," said Mrs. Celia,
smiling with tears in her eyes, as they drew near the
great gate, which certainly did present an animated
if not an imposing appearance.
Randa and Katy stood on one side, all in their
best, bobbing delighted courtesies; Mr. Brown, half
hidden behind the gate on the other side, was keeping
Sancho erect, so that he might present arms promptly
when the bride appeared. As flowers were scarce,
on either post stood a rosy little girl clapping her
hands, while out from the thicket of red and yellow
boughs, which made a grand bouquet in the lantern
frame, came Ben's head and shoulders, as he waved
his grandest flag with its gold paper "Welcome
Home!" on a blue ground.
"Isn't it beautiful!" cried Mrs. Celia, throwing
kisses to the children, shaking hands with her maids,
and glancing brightly at the stranger who was keeping
Sanch quiet.
"Most people adorn their gate-posts with stone
balls, vases, or griffins; your living images are a
great improvement, love, especially the happy boy
in the middle," said Mr. George, eying Ben with
interest, as he nearly tumbled overboard, top-heavy
with his banner.
"You must finish what I have only begun," answered
Celia, adding gayly as Sancho broke loose and came
to offer both his paw and his congratulations. "Sanch,
introduce your master, that I may thank him for coming
back in time to save my old house."
"If I'd saved a dozen it wouldn't have half paid
for all you've done for my boy, ma'am," answered
Mr. Brown, bursting out from behind the gate quite
red with gratitude and pleasure.
"I loved to do it, so please remember that this
is still his home till you make one for him. Thank
God, he is no longer fatherless!" and her sweet face
said even more than her words as the white hand
cordially shook the brown one with a burn across the
back.
"Come on, sister. I see the tea-table all ready, and
I'm awfully hungry," interrupted Thorny, who had
not a ray of sentiment about him, though very glad
Ben had got his father back again.
"Come over, by-and-by, little friends, and let me
thank you for your pretty welcome, -- it certainly is
a warm one;" and Mrs. Celia glanced merrily from
the three bright faces above her to the old chimney,
which still smoked sullenly.
"Oh, don't!" cried Bab, hiding her face.
"She didn't mean to," added Betty, pleadingly.
"Three cheers for the bride!" roared Ben, dipping
his flag, as leaning on her husband's arm his dear
mistress passed under the gay arch, along the
leaf-strewn walk, over the threshold of the house which
was to be her happy home for many years.
The closed gate where the lonely little wanderer
once lay was always to stand open now, and the path
where children played before was free to all comers,
for a hospitable welcome henceforth awaited rich and
poor, young and old, sad and gay, Under the Lilacs.
THE END.
'Under the Lilacs', by Louisa May Alcott. _
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