Making Over Martha

Cover art

MAKING OVER
MARTHA

JULIE M. LIPPMANN

AUTHOR OF
MARTHA BY-THE-DAY,
MARTHA AND CUPID

NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS

Published October, 1913
Reprinted November (twice), December, 1913
May, August, October, 1914
October, 1915

MAKING OVER MARTHA

CHAPTER I

Martha Slawson sat at her sewing-machine, stitching away for dear life. About her, billowed yards upon yards of white cotton cloth, which, in its uncut length, shifted, as she worked, almost imperceptibly piling up a snowy drift in front of her, drawn from the snowy drift behind. This gradual ebb and flow was all that marked any progress in her labor, and her husband, coming in after some hours of absence and finding her, apparently, precisely where he had left her, was moved to ask what manner of garment she was making.

"'Tain't a garment at all, Sam. It's a motta."

"A motto?" Sam fairly gasped.

Martha put on more speed, then took her feet from the treadle, her hands from the cloth-plate.

"I guess you forgot what's goin' to happen, ain't you?" she returned, sitting back in her chair, looking up at him amiably.

Sam squared his great shoulders. "Going to happen? Oh, you mean—you mean—Mr. and Mrs. Ronald coming home?"

"Sure I do!"

"Well, but I don't see——"

"I didn't suppose you would see. Men ain't much on seein' where sentiment's concerned. They go it blind, an' that's a fack. I s'pose a man would let a gen'lman an' lady come back from their weddin'-tour (which they been gone 'most a year on it), and never think o' givin' 'em a welcome home, any more than to find their house an' grounds kep' up, an' their bills kep' down, an' everything in tip-top order. But, with a woman it's different. I'm goin' to give Miss Claire an' Lord Ronald a reception that is a reception. Somethin' they won't forget in a hurry. I'm goin' to have lantrens in the trees, an' a arch of laurel over the gateposts, an' then, as they come on in, they'll see my motta strung acrost the driveway—

HAIL TO THE CHIEF!

in big yella letters, hemmed down on this white. An' the childern, all four of 'em, is to sing it, besides. Don't you remember, they learned it at school down home—I should say, in New York, that time the president come back, an' all the public-school childern sung'm a welcome?"

Sam bit his lip. "Yes, but that was a little different. Somehow, I think HAIL TO THE BRIDE might be better, don't you?"

"No!" said Martha, with decision. "First place, she ain't exackly a bride by this time. When a lady's been married almost a year, an' traveled 'round the world in the meanwhile, I wouldn't call her a bride. An', besides, it wouldn't be polite to single her out, an' sorta leave him in the cold. Everybody knows bridegrooms don't cut much of a figga, but you needn't rub it in. No, I thought it over careful, an' HAIL TO THE CHIEF is what I decided on. HAIL TO THE CHIEF lets us out on responsibility. It's up to them to prove which it hits, see?"

Whether Sam did or didn't, he made no further comment. He went and sat himself down in his own particular chair, took up from the center-table the latest number of The New England Farmer, and commenced studying it assiduously.

A second later, the machine was in motion again, running with great velocity, impelled by Martha's tireless foot.

Mrs. Slawson did not look up, when the eldest of her four children, just home from school, came in, and made straight for her side.

"Mother-r-r!"

No answer.

"Say, mother-r-r!"

"For goodness' sake, Cora, let go that R. The way you hang on to it, you'd think you was drownin', an' it was a lifeline. Besides, d'you know what I decided to do? I decided to strike. For the rest o' this week, I ain't answerin' to the name o' 'Mother-r-r.' See? There ain't a minute in the day, when some one o' you childern ain't shoutin' it—you, or Francie, or Sammy, or Sabina—an' it's got on my nerves, as Mrs. Sherman says. You can call me 'Martha' or 'Little Sunshine' or anythin' else you got a mind to, but 'Mother-r-r,' not on your life."

"Say, moth——!"

"Look out, now!"

"What you sewin' on?"

"The machine."

"Pooh, you know I don't mean that. What you making? Anything for me?"

"No, ma'am."

"Well, what are you, then?"

"I'm a perfeck lady, an' I'm makin' a motta that proves it."

"Mother-r-r, I think you're real mean. All the girls at school have fancier clo'es 'n I got, an' I think you just might make me some new ones, so there!"

"Sure I might!" admitted Mrs. Slawson blandly.

Cora's lip went out. "Then, why don't you? You got as much time as any other girl's mother. Ann Upton's mother makes all Ann's dresses 'n' things, an' she's got twice's many as I got. She had a new dress, when school took in, in September, an' she got another new one, 'round about New Year's, and now she's got another new one for summer."

Martha stroked down a seam with deliberation. "That's nice for Ann, ain't it, havin' so many? She can spell 'm, as they say here. When she gets tired o' wearin' one dress, she can change to another, an' look like one o' them fashion-plates from mornin' till night, an' feel like——"

"I been wearing the same old thing ever since I was born," continued Cora, disregarding her mother's irrelevant remark, continuing her lamentation as if it had not been interrupted.

"Which shows it was good mater'al to begin with," retorted Martha. "Ann Upton's mother prob'ly buys cheap goods with no wear in 'em."

"She don't either. It's just she wants to have Ann stylish. You don't care a bit if I ain't stylish."

"Certaintly I don't. I got other things on my mind. I don't care a fig if you're stylish or not. I never was much on style myself, an' I get along all right. I mixed with the best s'ciety in New York City, I can tell you, young lady. Nobody coulda went to the houses o' tonier folks than I did, an' was made welcome too, an' don't you forget it. An' the complaints, if I missed a day! You'd be surprised! These young ladies that think o' nothin' but style, you can take it from me, their outsides is all there is to'm. They got nothin' else to think of, an' nothin' to think of it with, if they had it."

"Well, I don't care, I wisht you was like Mrs. Upton!"

"Now, what do you think o' that! D'you hear what Cora says, father? Cora don't like the style o' mother you picked out for her. She's just fairly disgusted with your taste in ladies."

Sam Slawson did not hear, or, if he heard, did not heed, and Cora proceeded, unabashed:

"Mrs. Upton does her own work, an'——"

"That all? Most anybody could do their own work, seems to me. That's dead easy. It's when you do your own work, an' sever'l other people's besides, that you're ap' to be some occupied," observed Mrs. Slawson.

"Well, I don't care what you say, I just think I might have a new dress—Dutch neck, with short sleeves."

"Before you wanta wear a Dutch neck, you got to have a Dutch neck. You ain't a modern bathroom, that you must show you got exposed pipes. Better cover up your bones, an' think less about what you're wearin'. I got more to do than waste time fussin' about such trivolous things, so you better make up your mind you're goin' to skip this fashion."

"Well, I wisht you'd make me a new dress," wailed Cora, returning to her muttons undaunted. "You ain't too busy. Last night, before I went to bed, I saw you sittin' down, an' you weren't doin' anythin', either, only mendin' Sammy's pants."

Sam Slawson raised his head.

"That's right, Cora. Make your mother be busy! She don't work hard enough, as it is. Get a hump on, mother! Get a hump on."

"If I get another hump on, besides the one I already got, I'll be a drumederry," observed Mrs. Slawson imperturbably, while Cora left the room in tears, her sense of injury swelling beyond her power of control, when her father's irony proved he was siding with "mother" against her.

"The next time Cora gets fresh, and calls you down, Martha, I just wish you'd turn her over to me, and let me give her what she deserves," suggested Sam, as soon as the door was shut.

"Give her what she deserves? You couldn't. It'd take too long, besides exhaustin' you too much. But, I thank you kindly for offerin'. Barrin' a few airs an' graces, Cora's all right, an' when she ain't, I'm not too delicate yet, with easy livin', but what I can give her a lickin' that'll dust some of her fancy frills off'n her. When young 'uns gets along to a certain age, they're apter than not to get outa sorts an' feel they didn't have a fair show on parents. I been there myself, an' I see it work in other fam'lies. It may surprise you, Sam, but the young is hard, hard as nails. Only, nails has the advantage. Nails has heads. You got somethin' to tie to with them. But young folks is smooth and hard, an', when you think you got'm trained good, that's just the time they slip out from under your fingers, an' go spinnin' off, goodness knows where, away from you—like them pretty-appearin' candy balls that looks sweet, but you break your jawbones tryin' to put a tooth in'm. All you can do is lick'm oncet in a while. An' it's just the same with childern."

"Well, I won't have Cora giving you impudence, mother. If she hasn't the sense to appreciate you, at least I won't stand by and hear her tongue-lashing you."

Martha bowed. "'Thank you—thank you, sir, she said, your kindness I never shall forget!' All the same, I'll tell you this, right now, Sammy, I certaintly got to set to an' begin puttin' in some modren improvements onto me, for I begun to notice, I don't really suit nobody but you, the way I am. I'm too old-fashioned or somethin', to please, nowadays. Quite a lotta people has delicately hinted to me, lately, I'd be a whole lot more satisfactory, if I was altogether differnt. There's my childern. As I just told you, I don't seem to be the style o' mother they'd select at all, if they was out shoppin' for mothers, an' had what Mrs. Sherman calls Carte Blanche with 'em—whoever she is. An' it's the same with Ma. I never really did suit Ma for a daughter-in-law from the start. She could tell you (an' does) a hunderd ways I'd be better, with alterations, only I been that took up, tendin' to her wants, ever since you an' me was married, I ain't had time to put the alterations in. An', then, there's——"

"Say, Martha," interposed Sam, lowering his voice to an almost inaudible whisper, "here's Mrs. Peckett coming up the walk. If you've got anything 'round you don't want advertised all over the place, you'd better put it out of sight, hadn't you?"

For answer Mrs. Slawson leaned over, plucked up the material next her, at its nearest available point, and gave its length a flourish that sent it billowing conspicuously half across the floor. Sam shrugged.

"My, my!" ejaculated Martha, looking around, and speaking with loud distinctness, "if here ain't Mrs. Peckett!"

Through the open, screened window, Mrs. Peckett inquired, with elephantine playfulness (physically, she was built on almost as heroic a scale as Martha herself), "Got any place for a tired little girl to rest?"

"Sure we have," said Mrs. Slawson. "Come right along in!"

Another moment, and Mrs. Peckett had obeyed.

"Take that chair there, the one alongside the table, with the cushion in. It's the comfortablest we got—just suits that holla in your back, that, Ma says, hers always needs restin'—an' Ma's a champeean on restin'. She knows how to do it in seven differnt languages. You'll excuse my goin' on with what I'm doin'? I can talk while I work."

Mrs. Peckett lowered herself gradually into the proffered chair with the air of one accustomed to distrust the good intentions of furniture.

"Certainly, I'll excuse you. What you doing?"

"Sewing," said Martha agreeably.

"Sheeting?" Mrs. Peckett inquired.

Martha considered. "Well, I s'pose you might call it sheeting," she admitted. "Down home—I should say in New York City—we call it muslin, but up here it's cotton-cloth. I'm trying to remember the differences. I don't believe in lettin' things go into one eye, an' outa the other ear, so you never profit by your exper'ences. I believe in livin' an' learnin', if you die in the attemp'."

"This ain't very fine quality," observed Mrs. Peckett, stooping and picking up an end of the material to examine it critically through her thick-lensed spectacles.

Martha sighed. "Dear me! how sorry I am. But I never was much of a cornersewer, as Mrs. Sherman says, on white goods, an' that's a fack."

"I'm afraid you won't have much wear out of it," pronounced the oracle. "You'll have to get new sheets in no time. These'll go through before you know it. The next time you want to buy sheeting, or anything of that sort, you just come to me. I'll advise you."

"Thank you," said Martha.

"I always heard tell, city folks wa'n't much of any in the housekeeping line, and I suspicion it's true. They're too busy gallivanting the streets to look after their houses. For myself, I don't mind telling you, I don't set much store by city folks."

"You don't say!"

"We get a good mess of 'em up here, summers. Rich and poor, and if we 'natives,' as they call us, ain't glad to see them go away every fall, I wouldn't say so. I don't like 'em!"

"What's your objection?"

"Well, the rich ones are stuck up, and the poor ones are low down. You never saw such nuisances as those Fresh Air children! Several of our ladies take them in, every summer, for a spell, but I wouldn't have one of them in my house, tracking mud and dirt in on my clean floors—not for anything I can think of. Mrs. Fred Trenholm, who lives down at Milby's Corners, she took in three last season. You should have seen them at church. Ungodly don't express it! Didn't know the creed even. Couldn't sit still through divine worship, on the Sabbath, like Christians."

"Likely that's because most of'm's Jews," Martha observed calmly. "But that's as far as the difference goes. Their lungs needs just as much good air to breathe as little Christians' lungs. An' their stummicks call for the same sorta nourishment. My childern can say off the creed, an' their colic, fine, but I wouldn't wanta have my life depend on bein' able to tell the dirt on their shoes from the dirt on the little Sheenies'. Nor I wouldn't want to die for the number o' times mine wriggle less than they do. Childern is childern, the world over, an' this idea of your bein' nearer heaven when you was a child, like Cora's piece says, is rot—I beg your pardon!—nonsense! There's where lots o' folks slip up on childern. They go on the idea that young 'uns are angels to begin with, an' they break their hearts to see 'em runnin' down, as they grow up. The truth is, it's just the other way 'round. Childern is little animals at the start. You got to housebreak'm, an' train'm, till they learn the tricks o' decent people, an' it's only little by little they get sense to know. Every time I lick my young 'uns, I feel kinda mean. They're doin' almost as good as they know how, like the rest of us. Only o' course it can't be helped. You got to lick'm some, to make'm understand. Their constitutions seem to demand it. I try to bring mine up the way, it looks to me, as if the Lord was tryin' to bring up us. Lick'm thora, when necessary, an' then, bear no malice. As I make it out, that's His way, an' I don't see how to improve on it much. But I interrupted you. You was talkin' about how you don't like city folks, an' you'd got as far as the childern."

Mrs. Peckett's nearsighted eyes searched Martha's face shrewdly, for a second.

"I was just thinking that city folks' ways ain't our ways, that's all. Now, I'd think pretty poorly of myself to go out of my gate, of a morning, and not pass the time of day with a neighbor. But I hear tell, that's what city folks do. They would let you live next door—in the same street with them, for a year, and never know you."

"Sure!" said Martha cheerfully. "I lived in the same house over five years, before I come up here, an', with the exception of a Dutchman gen'lman an' his wife, acrost the hall, I wasn't on visitin' terms with any of the tenants. I was too busy tendin' to my own affairs. The way I come to know the Dutchman gen'lman was kinda accidental,—on account o' circumstances over which he had no control at the time, but did later on. Him an' me grew to be real chummy, after he oncet got on to it I meant business. He gave me our cat Nixcomeraus, that's a boss mouser now, which it was only a kitten then. But, as a gener'l rule, we kep' ourselves to ourselves."

"Well, I don't call that Christian conduct," pronounced Mrs. Peckett. "It looks heathen to me, and it certainly ain't according to Scripture. We are all brethern and——"

"Cistern," Martha suggested benevolently.

"And we'd ought to live as such. I like to know what's going on, and keep in touch with the folks I'm living amongst, but do you think those city folks encourage a body's running in and out freely? Well, I should say not. They're a stiff-necked generation—summer folks. Nobody can say I'm a busybody, or pushing, or the like of that. Time and again I say to Mr. Peckett, 'Folks do altogether too much mixing in with other folks' affairs.' You wouldn't believe the way Mr. Peckett and I are bothered, all the time, with people calling on us for charity, to help them out of their troubles—just because it's known to all we are forehanded, and have property. But I always say to Mr. P., 'Now, don't be too quick. Just wait till the—till the——'"

"Clouds roll by," supplied Mrs. Slawson again.

"And, sure enough, the next time we see the party, ten to one, somebody else has helped them out, and there's no need of our mixing in at all. No, nobody can say I want to push myself. I always tell Mr. Peckett I ain't a mite curious, but I confess I am terribly interested, which is altogether different, and what the Bible tells us to be."

"Well, well! Now, what do you think o' that!" said Martha. "I wouldn'ta known the difference."

Mrs. Peckett paused, as if to weigh her words. "I tell you what I'll do," she announced with the air of fully appreciating the measure of her kindness, and wanting Mrs. Slawson to appreciate it, too, "I'll take you in hand. Whenever you want to know anything, all you have to do is come to me, and I'll tell you. I'll consider it a pleasure. I can see where there's a lot for you to learn. The city is a poor place to be brought up and live in, all your life, with its vice, and its selfishness, and the like of that. But, now you've come here, you'll see something different. Why, you'll feel made over, when you've learned our honest, generous country ways."

Seeing Mrs. Peckett rise cumbersomely, in preparation for departure, Martha also got upon her feet.

"Well, I declare," she ejaculated blandly, "just before you come in, I was tellin' my husband the time had come when I'd got to do somethin' or other, so's I wouldn't be so old-style, an' shame my fam'ly. An' here you are, offerin' to improve me, free grates for nothin', as Miss Claire, bless her! says. It's like Providence's finger in the pie, an' no mistake. But I'm afraid I'll be puttin' you out too much. They say, it's hard to learn an old dog new tricks."

Mrs. Peckett was a fleshy woman; all her movements had a certain air of unctuousness. She shook her head, with reassuring, easy patronage.

"Not at all," she said, "I'll admire to——"

The door banged open, interrupting her unceremoniously, and the Slawson son and heir, Sammy junior, heated and perspiring, breathless but communicative, burst noisily into the room.

"My, my!" ejaculated Martha. "I guess you think you're a en*gine*, don't you? Pantin' like that, 's if you was luggin' a train o' cars behind you? Hats off to ladies. Don't you see Mrs. Peckett? Say how de do, like a gen'lman."

Sammy bobbed an awkward pate. "Say, mother-r-r," he stammered.

"Well?"

"There's that big place, 'way along up the little side street, I mean road, past the cimiterry. You can't but just see the house, it's so far back, an'——

"He means old lady Crewe's, I reckon," explained Mrs. Peckett. "She's one of the summer folks, I've just been telling you about. Rolling in money, but as hard and close as a clinched fist. Nobody knows how much she's worth."

"P'raps she's the kind that don't let her right hand know what her left hand's got."

"Well, I don't know about that, but she has considerable of a place. Enough to keep a whole regiment of regular hired help busy, an' every summer she comes up from the city, with just her young gran'-daughter, and they make out to get along, as best they can, trusting to get hold of parties, hereabouts, willing to accommodate. That's no proper way to do."

Martha smoothed back the hair from Sammy's damp forehead, making it out, somehow, that he had more to say, and calming his impatience to say it.

"An', mother-r-r, I was walkin' along the road, an' a awful pretty lady, she called out to me from the garden, an' I went, an' she said her gran'ma was took sick, or somethin', an' there wasn't nobody she could send to get the doctor, but 'ceptin' me, coz I was goin' along, an', I said I'd tell the doctor, an' she said——"

"I don't envy you your job," Mrs. Peckett interposed. "It'll be like hunting a needle in a haystack to find Dr. Driggs, this time of day. He may be 'most anywheres out in the open kentry. But one thing's pretty certain, he won't be home."

"Is he the one lives down in the village, on the main street, with a office which the door is 'round the corner as you go to the station?" Martha inquired. "We're such a husky crowd, the lot of us, we don't ever need a doctor, and I wouldn'ta knew, except I happened to notice oncet, passin', he had such a funny doormat. There was Salve done into it—white pebbles stuck in the wire nettin'. Now, what do you think o' that! It didn't say what kind, either. Just Salve. Wouldn't you think Pills woulda been better? There's more pills used, any day in the year, 'n salve. But, if he's stuck on salve, why, he's the doctor! Only—that don't help us get him, does it? You won't mind my runnin' off, an' leavin' you, Mis' Peckett? But I guess I better be movin' in the direction o' the Crewe place. An', father, s'pose you get a move on, like a good fella, an' see if you can't scare up somethin' somewheres that'll answer to the name o' doctor, when you call it. If you use the auta, you'll make better time, an' you might overtake me, walkin'."

Mrs. Peckett laid a restraining hand on Martha's shoulder. "Now don't you stir a step," she admonished. "It's full two miles to walk to the Crewe place, and the traveling's heavy, on account of the dry spell. By the time you get there, most likely somebody else will have passed with a team, and you'll have your trouble for your pains. It won't hurt them a mite to go out of their way, if they're driving. That's what I say to Mr. P. 'Don't be too quick offering. Give other folks a chance.' Now, here were you, not half an hour back, saying you'd like I should improve you. Well, this is your first lesson. Stay where you are, and let some one nearer to, do the helping."

"Good idea!" vouchsafed Sam Slawson senior, speaking for the first time.

As soon as Mrs. Peckett was well out of sight and hearing, Martha turned reprovingly upon her husband.

"Sam Slawson, what d'you mean by——?"

Sam composedly pulled on his boots.

"Only way to get rid of her," he answered succinctly.

"Oh!" said Martha, going to the cupboard, where she kept her store of simple home remedies. "Now, if you're ready, I am. An', young Sammy, you run, an' tell your gran'mother to give you childern bread an' milk for your suppers. Your father an' I are goin' out. We mayn't be back till late."

CHAPTER II

It was dusk when Martha reached the Crewe place.

As she turned in at the entrance-gate, she thought she saw a spark of light prick out through the darkness of one of the upper-story windows, but the next instant it disappeared, and the gloomy house stood formidably looming up against its background of dense foliage, facing her, as with a challenge, as black as ever.

Martha Slawson was not one to be intimidated. She plodded steadily along the driveway, regardless of the strange sensation of shifty gravel crunching beneath feet used to hard city pavements, the thickening shadows to eyes accustomed to the glare of electric-lighted streets, and the soft, surreptitious stirrings of she-knew-not-what among the underbrush to ears familiar with the roar of the Elevated, the clang and dash of passing surface cars.

"I don't see the use o' them sheds they build to the front doors o' some o' the houses, in these parts, which they call'm port co-shares, Sam tells me. You can take it from me, they're like to break your bones, mountin' the high step o' them," she mused, panting with the effort it had taken to hoist her heavy frame from the level of the ground to that of the house-door.

"Them swell ladies must be considerable of acrobats, to do it graceful. I know I couldn't."

She smoothed down her disordered garments, and dusted off her grimy palms, before venturing to search, in the darkness, for the bell. She found it readily enough, but it was some time before she heard the chain-bolt withdrawn from within, a key turned in a resisting lock, a door unlatched. Then, the door swung open inward, on its heavy hinges, and Martha found herself face to face with what she described next day to Cora as, "the livin' image o' that marble statute in the Metropolitan Museum, down home. The girl in the flowin' robes, holdin' a queer-lookin' thing, which its own mother wouldn't reco'nize it for a lamp, in her hand. You told me her name. Sykey, you said it was, though not spelled that way on the slob she stood on, I noticed. But, I take your word for it. Well, if this young lady wasn't just like Sykey, lamp an' all! You'd never know the difference, exceptin' for complexion."

"I'm Mrs. Slawson," Martha announced at once. "You told my boy, Sammy, you'd like him run for a doctor."

Sykey paused a moment, bewildered. "Oh, yes. This afternoon. I remember, now. I thought he had forgotten." She spoke in the subdued voice one uses when there is sickness in the house.

"No, he didn't forget. My husband is fetchin' the doctor. But I come on ahead to see if I couldn't help out some, in between times. My husband an' me is superintendent for Mr. Frank Ronald, two miles or so down the main road. You know'm prob'ly."

The girl nodded. "My grandmother was taken sick at about four, this afternoon. She seems stiff on one side. She can't move her arm, or her leg, and when she talks it sounds as if her tongue were thick. I got her to bed as well as I could, and I haven't dared leave her since for more than a minute at a time. We've no telephone. This little branch road is out of the line of general travel, and we've no one to send on errands. I've sat at the window all the afternoon, hoping a team would pass, but nobody went by but your little boy. I thought I saw you come in a while ago, and I hurried down to the door, to let you in. But when you were nowhere to be seen, I gave up in despair. I thought my last chance was gone. I'd have to spend the night alone with grandmother, and——"

"The door? Ain't this the right door to come in by?" queried Martha.

There was a moment of hesitation before the answer came. "Oh, yes. It's the right door for carriages. People afoot generally prefer the front way—on account of the veranda-steps, you know."

Martha gazed at her companion a moment in silence, then quietly doubled over, in a fit of irrepressible merriment.

"If you'd just as lief, I'd prefer you wouldn't tell Sammy, I mean Mr. Slawson," she said, when she could enunciate. "He'd never get over my thinkin' I'm carriage-comp'ny. An' he'd kill himself laughin' at the sight o' me, climbin', hands an' knees, up your high stoop-with-no-steps, which the back view, lookin' at me from behind, certaintly musta been funny. But I've no business detainin' you away from your gran'ma. D'you think she'd think me pushin', if I give her a hot bath, an' a brisk alcohol rub? Sam may not get the doctor right off, an' a bath an' a alcohol rub is as good as anythin' I know of for a str—for a——"

Katherine Crewe searched her face. "For a what?" she demanded uncompromisingly.

"A poor circulation," Martha returned imperturbably.

"I've no alcohol. There's no running water in the house. I let the fire in the kitchen range go out hours ago."

"Never you mind about that. I got some alcohol by me, an' if you show me the kitchen range, I'll show you a fire in it, all right, all right."

"I don't know how it is," sighed Miss Crewe, leading the way through dark passages, past shadowy doors, "but, somehow, a great load seems lifted off my heart, now you're here. I've never seen you before, but I feel you're able to set everything right."

"You go on feelin' that way. It'll help me no end with the settin'. An', now, don't you wait here. You run on up to the ol' lady, an' I'll be along presently. I'm used to kitchens. I can find all I need in'm, an' when I got the hot water, I can find my way out."

"I'm afraid you'll think the floor isn't very clean," the girl observed regretfully, pausing, with her hand upon the doorknob, to gaze back dubiously. "I suppose it needs a long-handled scrubbing-brush, and——"

By the light of the lamp Miss Crewe left behind her when she went, Martha made a quick survey of the premises. "'A long-handled scrubbing-brush,'" she quoted quizzically. "A long-handled Irish woman, more likely. My, but it's a caution, if you turn up your nose at work, how the dirt will gather under it. It's like to take me all night to make a impression on this place. The grate chock-full o' clinkers, an' the kettles—say, but I didn't say I'd give the ol' lady a hot mud-bath."

For a few moments the kitchen resounded with thunderous echoes to the vigorous efforts of Mrs. Slawson toward reconstruction. Then followed other sounds, those of crackling wood, igniting coals, bubbling water, escaping steam. In the midst of it all, Sykey appeared in the doorway.

"Oh, Mrs. Slawson," she deplored, before she had fairly crossed the threshold. "I'm afraid it's no use. Grandmother won't have it. I told her about your coming and offering to help, and—she won't have it."

Martha nodded reassuringly. "Well, we won't worry her talkin' about it, an' we won't worry our-selves thinkin' about it. Have you gotta bath-tub handy?"

"Yes, but——"

"Plenty o' towels—bath-towels? The fuzzy-wuzzy, warm kind which they call'm Turkish or Russian, I don't know which, but that gets up a gentle irritation when applied, just like some folks."

The girl nodded.

"Then, the best thing you can do is, get'm ready. It'll keep your mind off'n her not bein' willin'. We want everything laid out handy, so's we won't have to go on a still-hunt the last minute. I got plenty o' water, steamin' hot. If you'll go along up, an' kinda perpare for the worst, I'll folla along presently, an'—we'll have it."

A single shaded lamp left the great bedroom in partial shadow, but as Martha approached the majestic four-poster, about five minutes later, she made out the figure of a diminutive old woman, stretched full length beneath the spare coverings. There could be nothing formidable in such a tiny figure. It was only when Mrs. Slawson looked down upon the face, that she met a pair of eyes that fairly held her at bay.

"I'm Mrs. Sammy Slawson," she announced, a shade less confidently than usual. "I live down the road a ways—superintendent for Mr. Frank Ronald, me an' my husband is."

The little body on the bed might be half dead, but the great eyes were fiercely alive. They measured Mrs. Sammy Slawson from head to foot, with a stare of icy insolence.

Martha did not quail. She met the stare with a perfectly unflinching gaze, then went on talking as she worked, as calmly as if she were not being challenged in mortal combat.

"I s'pose you don't like the idea of a trained nurse? Many don't. I ain't trained, but I'm a nurse all right, all right, an' if not one of the red, cross kind, why that's only because, as I tell Sammy, I had so much exper'ence with Ma an' the childern that, be this an' be that, I learned to keep my shirt on, an' not fly out, when tried. Folks that's ailin' has enough bother on their chests, without havin' to be pationate, into the bargain. It's up to them that's tendin'm, to do the pationate ack. Now, take me, for instance. You couldn't ruffle me, if you took a flutin'-iron to me. That's what come o' bein' sixteen years married, with a mother-in-law threw in, for good measure. It learns you to keep your temper. You might need it for the nex' time. I don't blame you a mite if you feel like bitin' the head off a tenpenny nail. To have your circulation go back on you, like, is a kind of nuisance, no doubt about it. But, sakes alive! It might happen to anybody, as Ma always says when she breaks things she hadn't oughta touched, in the first place. The best thing I know of, for poor circulation, is a hot bath, an' a alcohol rub—just for a starter. I got plenty o' hot water handy, an'—now don't you stir, nor bother your head worryin' about givin' your gran'daughter an' I trouble! We got the bath-tub all ready, an' yes—them towels is just the right things! Couldn't be better! An'—here goes!"

Martha averted her face, as she bent over the helpless form, to escape the furiously battling eyes. She felt as mean as if she had been taking base advantage of a defenseless creature to do it harm, instead of good; but, in spite of this, and in spite of the inarticulate sounds that came from between the twisted lips at the touch of her hands, she gently lifted the old woman in her strong arms, stripped her, as she would a baby, and put her in the tub.

Tears of helpless rage oozed from between the closed lids, but Mrs. Slawson pretended not to see. She kept up a cheerful babble, what time her poor little antagonist simmered, and again during all the time her firm, strong fingers were plying away at the nerveless flesh.

"Don't you try to lug that heavy tub, Miss Crewe, dear. Wait till I can lay hand to it. If you must be doin' somethin', s'pose you smooth down the sheets, an' see there's no crumbs in the bed. There's nothin' like crumbs in the bed for keepin' you from feelin' lonesome, but I guess your gran'ma willa had enough comp'ny, by the time she gets rid o' me. Poor ol' lady! I been like a grain o' sand in her eye, which it don't help her none, to say I'm sorry.

"'Little drops o' water, little grains o' sand.'

"Guess she'll think she's had her dose o' both, to-night, all right. Say! Hark! Is that a auta-horn? Sounds like Sammy's."

"Then he's brought Dr. Driggs!" Kate Crewe cried joyously.

"Well, you can take it from me he's brought Dr. Somethin'. It mayn't be Dr. Driggs, but Sammy wouldn't have the face to come to me, 'less he'd got somethin', that'd, at least, pass for what I sent'm out for," observed Mrs. Slawson suavely.

As it happened, it was not Dr. Driggs whom Sam had brought. Kate Crewe, going to the door to admit them, saw, even in the dark, that neither of the men before her was of the familiar build of the old physician she knew so well. But there was no time for regret, and, after a few brief words of self-introduction, she led the way upstairs.

Meanwhile, Martha had made what she called "a fist" at clearing away all traces of her recent ministrations, so, when the doctor appeared, he found an orderly room, from which she quietly slipped as he entered.

Downstairs she found Sam.

"You see, Dr. Driggs was off somewheres, up the mountain, and no one could find him," he explained. "I couldn't make out to get him, the best I could do. Then I asked wasn't there some other doctor in the place, but short of Burbank, twenty-five miles off, there wasn't. Dr. Driggs has all the practice 'round these parts. Then, all at once, somebody happened to think of a young fellow from Boston, here for his health—same as I, I guess. He's a M.D. all right—laid up for repairs, as you might say. He's boarding at the Fred Trenholm's. A wink's as good as a nod to a blind horse, and off I went to Milby's Corners. At first, Dr. Ballard—that's his name—said he didn't know about coming. But, after a bit, he decided he would. He's a fine, outstepping young gentleman, as ever you saw. You'd never think his lung had a spot in it, more's the pity."

"Neither would you think yours has," Martha rejoined simply.

Sam searched her face for a moment. "Say, you're not worrying about me, are you, mother?" he put to her gently.

Mrs. Slawson turned to fill her scrubbing pail with hot water from one of the kettles on the stove.

"Worryin' about you? Sure I'm not. What'd I be worryin' about you for? You're chesty enough, ain't you, goodness knows. An' your cough has almost went. I like sleepin' outdoors nights. The wide, wide world ain't too big a bedroom for me. An' this air certaintly is more healthy for the childern, than down home—I should say, New York."

"Only—you kind of miss the old town, eh, mother?"

Martha scrubbed away in silence for a moment. "Well, not as you might say miss. Certaintly not. But I guess I'd find it hard work to live in any place else, so long as I lived in New York (havin' been born there), an', that bein' the case, a body thinks back to it oncet in a while—which, of course, thinkin' is by no means missin'."

Sam considered. "How'd you like to take a day off, and go down with me, after Mr. Ronald gets back? There's some things he wants me to see about, I'll have to look into myself in the city, and you might as well come along. We'll leave the children with Ma, and just go off on a spree—us two."

Martha sat back on her heels, and looked up at her husband out of a face that glowed.

"Say, Sam, could we? Somehow, it don't seem as if we could. We two never been alone any time, since we begun keepin' comp'ny. Firstoff, there was Gilroy! He wouldn't believe I perferred you to him, till the marriage-lines was ackchelly read over our heads. He was always hangin' 'round. Then, there was Ma, an' then come the childern. So, take it all in all, we certaintly been, what Mrs. Sherman 'd call, 'carefully chaperoned.' Are you sure it'd be proper, the two of us goin' off alone, like that?"

Sam grinned.

"Let's us go," said Martha. "It'll be like the weddin'-tour we didn't have, when we was married."

Again Sam smiled. "Sure we'll go. You fairly earned a day off, mother. All these sixteen years, working like Sam Hill, and never a grouch out of you. Yes, we'll go—and, I tell you what's more, we'll spend some. We'll just let go for once, and spend some, on something we don't have to. I haven't made out to do as well by you as Peter Gilroy would, Martha. He used to say, if you'd marry him, he'd put velvet under your feet. It's been more than I could do, sometimes, to put good shoe-leather."

"Well, I never been Little Barefoot, yet, have I?" inquired Martha blandly.

Sam shook his head. "Since we been up here, we made out to save a bit and, by this and by that, we got more coming to us. We never could seem to fix things, before, so's we could lay by. Couldn't square the bills, and save, but——"

"It's a kinda stunt to square your bills, an' lay by when, every week, nothin's comin' in."

"Sure," said Sam.

Martha meditated in silence for a moment. "If Cora knew what's goin' on inside me this minute, it'd be my finish in the bossin' business, so far as she's concerned. She's almost got to the place, now, where she feels she could give Moses points on the Fifth Commandment. She's pretty near caught on to the little game that parents is a grand bluff, an you're wastin' time to bother with their figaries. But she'd do it sure, if she knew how I feel at present—just as much of a silly kid as her."

Sam's satisfaction broadened. "Good work!" said he.

"An' talkin' o' work," his wife took him up quickly, in an altered tone, "we better get busy on ours, or we won't be done this side o' mornin'. You get a move on, Sammy, an' bring in a good stock o' wood, out o' the shed there. An' when you got that done, we'll talk about coal from the cella."

"What's the matter with the old lady hiring her own help?" inquired Sam practically. "She's got money to burn, hasn't she?"

"Sure. But, she don't burn it. It's to keep the young lady from a wintry chill, I'm lendin' a hand. An' if it comes to that, a body as close as ol' lady Crewe, you'd have to feel sorry for her, on her own account. She must be cold comfort to herself, with a heart like that inside her. Them kind, that's so wrapped up in their money, some part of'm's bound to go bare. A thing like money won't reach all the way 'round a human creature, not by a long sight, an' you can't make it. Them kind needs help in their nakedness, as much, an' more, than the rest of us."

Sam making no attempt to dispute it, the two worked on in silence, until they were interrupted by the abrupt opening of the door.

"Mrs. Slawson!"

Martha raised herself slowly from her kneeling posture, at sound of Katherine Crewe's cry of appeal.

"The ol' lady—she ain't—worse?"

"Not worse, but—unmanageable. She won't let Dr. Ballard go near her. We can't do a thing with her. Won't you, please, come up and try what you can do. You made her mind about the bath, you know."

Martha rinsed off her soapy wrists with soapier hands in a gesture, as of one preparing for the fray. "Now, what do you think o' that!" she observed calmly. "The size of her! No bigger than a minute, an' gettin' the best of a able-bodied pair, like you an' that fine-appearin' young gen'lman upstairs. Don't it beat all?"

Katherine did not stop long enough to admit that it did, but hurried on ahead, leaving Mrs. Slawson to follow closely in the rear, pausing outside the sick-chamber door, where the doctor stood like a sentinel on guard. Martha passed them both without a word, entered the room, and made directly for the bed. She slid a gentle arm beneath the narrow old shoulders, drew out the pillow, and replaced it, shaken into more comfortable shape.

"There! That's a whole lot better, ain't it?" she inquired amiably.

No answer. The old woman glared up at her hostilely, but it was noticeable that the worst fire had been drawn from the angry eyes.

Martha picked a thread from the carpet, and, winding it neatly about her forefinger, put the tiny coil into her apron pocket. Presently she plunged an exploring hand beneath the bed-covering.

"Say, them hot-water bags ain't been a mite o' good to you. Your feet's like two lumps o' ice. They extend clear up to your knees. Did the doctor know, before he went, you had cold feet like that?"

No answer.

"He can't be much of a doctor, an' no mistake, to go off, an' leave a patient with such a chill on 'er, so even arthurficial heat couldn't get in its fine work. I'm surprised! My husband was the one brought'm here, I must confess. He couldn't do no better, I guess. Dr. Driggs wasn't home, an' poor Sam took what he could get. When nothin's left, the king can't choose. But wouldn't you think any fella that called himself a doctor would know enough not to leave a lady, so the ones about her wouldn't know how to handle her case, an' she'd get worse by the minute, so to speak, for want of a stitch in time, that'd save her nine—meanin' doctors from the city, per'aps, an' trained nurses, night an' day, so the expense alone would kill her, not to mention other complercations. I call it a shame!"

It was not impossible for a shrewd observer to follow the mental processes of the active old brain, for they were clearly enough revealed in the passionate, too-expressive eyes.

Mrs. Slawson, appearing to notice nothing, bided her time, while, little by little, her "ol' lady" betrayed herself, in all her mean guises of misanthropic distrust, growing self-doubt, and, last—overwhelming all—susceptibility to the suggestion of fear, response to the stimulus of—money.

"Call—that—man!"

The words were rapped out with the brevity and precision of a military command.

"Eh?" said Martha, appearing to rouse from a spell of complete inattention.

"Call—that—doctor!"

Mrs. Slawson moved her massive frame slowly in the direction of the door.

"Miss Katherine! Miss Katherine!" she shouted past the two silent figures, just outside the threshold, "Say, Miss Katherine! Are you downstairs? Yes? The doctor gone yet? Say, hurry! Get Sam to go after'm, an' see can he call'm back! Your gran'ma wants'm!"

CHAPTER III

Katherine Crewe awoke next morning to find Mrs. Slawson standing by her bedside, bearing a breakfast tray.

"It's earlier than I'd 'a' chose to disturb you," Martha explained apologetically, "but I gotta go home an' feed my fam'ly, an' see the raft o' them gets a good start for the day."

"But you haven't had any rest! You made me go to bed, but you must have sat up all night." The girl spoke with compunction, looking regretfully at Mrs. Slawson's heavy eyes.

"Me? Now, don't you worry your head about me," Martha returned, as she placed the tray in a convenient position, and arranged the pillows back of Miss Crewe, so they gave her comfortable support. "I got along all right. An' your gran'ma slep' fine. I went parolin' 'round, every oncet in a while, to see if she'd need anythin', an' each time she was breathin' as peaceful as a baby. You'll think I'm awful, but whenever I remember las' night, an' me carryin' things with a high hand against her will, I almost kill myself laughin'. Poor ol' lady! the way she looked at me! It was like a song they learn the childern to sing, down home—I should say New York, in the high school Cora went to.

"'Drink to me only with thine eyes——,' whatever that means. With your gran'ma it was, Cuss at me only with thine eyes. She didn't open her head to say a word, but what she meant was plain as preachin'—only not quite so pious."

Miss Crewe bit her lip to keep from smiling. "You've been very kind to us, Mrs. Slawson. I don't know how to thank you," she said.

When Martha had gone the girl rose, hurriedly bathed and dressed, then made her way to her grandmother. She did not know much about nursing, but she knew she must not carry a long face into a sick-room, and the question was, how to help it. Her heart was very heavy. Ever since the attack yesterday afternoon, her mind had been going over and over what this sickness was bound to entail. Things had been hard enough before, but she saw how this might add intolerable burdens, and, in the face of it, she must look cheerful, give no sign of the discouragement she felt.

That was the way it was with everything in her life, she brooded. She was continually under some sort of crushing necessity to hold in, and hold back. She had never been free, as most girls of her age are, and there seemed no prospect that she ever would be. On the contrary, there was every likelihood she would be more and more confined and restricted, as the years went on, if, as the doctor had said, this was but the beginning of the end. The future looked desperately black. As for the past, she could remember a time, away back, when she was a little girl, when things had been very different.

A child's mind does not measure and weigh according to scale, and Katherine could not fix the precise degree of her mother's grace, her father's dashing beauty, the luxury of the home in which they, all three, lived. But she had more than her memory to rely upon. There were likenesses, there were relics, there were the continual jibes of her grandmother through recent years, to the effect that she "had been brought up like a fool; it was time she learned better."

At her mother's death, her father had carried her to his parents' home. Looking back, she had no sense of having suffered surprise or disappointment by the change. The new home must have compared favorably with the old. She could remember her grandfather's table—a most formidable function, to which she was conducted, at dessert, by a nervous nurse, "afraid of her life there'll be a to-do if you don't look right, an' hold up your head, an' speak out when you're spoken to, Miss Kath'rine."

Her father's sudden death had made no change in outward conditions. It was when her grandfather passed away that there was a difference. Then, suddenly, she seemed to wake one morning to a realization of lack. She could not be at all certain her impression was correct. The alteration might have been so gradual, she had failed to notice it, and it was her consciousness of the fact, and not the fact itself, that came upon her abruptly. The way did not matter, the fact did. It all summed itself up to this, that the grudging hand was certainly not her grandfather's, much less her father's. They had been open-handed to a fault. The one who stinted, of whom the country-people 'round about said: "She'll pinch a penny till the eagle screams," was—

"Katherine!"

The girl started guiltily at the sound of the thick, labored syllables.

"Yes, grandmother." She was at the bed's side in a moment.

"That doctor—— He's not to come again, understand? Call Driggs."

"Yes, grandmother. But perhaps Dr. Driggs will refuse to come. You found fault with his bill last time, you know, and he didn't like it very well."

"Tush! He's forgotten that by this time. But——"

"Well?"

"If he should refuse, and I have to have—the other, understand, you're not to have anything to do with him. I forbid it!"

"Yes, grandmother."

"Ballard! I know the tribe. Leave him alone, and see he leaves you alone."

"Please don't excite yourself, grandmother. I'm sure the doctor wouldn't want you to."

"Where's that woman?"

"You mean Mrs. Slawson? Gone home. She has a family to see to. She told you, didn't she, she's the wife of Mr. Ronald's new superintendent?"

"How much'll she charge?"

"Us, you mean? For what she did last night, and this morning?"

"Uh-huh."

"Nothing, grandmother."

"Nonsense! Compel her to set price. If she won't, it's because she hopes you'll pay more than's the custom. I know the trick. Don't be caught. Pay her regular price, and say she mustn't come, 'less we send. Won't pay, when we don't send."

Katherine felt herself flushing furiously from neck to forehead. "I wouldn't dare offer Mrs. Slawson money, grandmother. I can't imagine what she'd do, if I did. She came to help us out of pure friendliness. She did more than we could ever pay her for. She's put me under deep obligation."

"Pooh! Obligation! One in that class! When you've paid her, you've paid her."

Katherine turned her face away. "Let's not discuss it, grandmother. You oughtn't to talk much, just yet. Let's see! First, I'll get a basin and warm water, and give you a lovely bath, and afterwards, you can have your breakfast. I'll go down myself and prepare it, as soon as——"

Madam Crewe gave vent to a sound Katherine was painfully familiar with—something between a sneer, a snort, and a groan of exasperation.

"How many lovely baths d'you calculate I can stand in twelve hours? One last night. Another five A.M. and, now, you want to give me a third!"

"Mrs. Slawson bathed you before she went?" Katherine demanded incredulously.

"Yes, and what's more, gave me breakfast. Good breakfast! Better than you can p'pare."

"She couldn't have slept a wink all night," the girl mused self-reproachfully.

Madam Crewe made no rejoinder. Apparently, she did not consider it necessary for one in Mrs. Slawson's class to sleep a wink all night.

Katherine turned away, pretending to busy herself with setting the room in order. In reality, she was very differently employed. Her stern young mind had constituted itself court, counsel, and jury, to sit in judgment upon her grandmother, and, according to the findings, convict her without privilege of appeal. She could see nothing that was not contemptible in the old woman's mode of living, her view of life. If she were poor, it would be different. There might be some excuse then, for this paltry measuring of everything by the standard of a copper cent. But, her grandmother had plenty, and more than plenty. If she stinted, it was merely to add more to an already ample fortune. And, meanwhile, youth, hope, dreams, all were vanishing. The best of life was being wilfully sacrificed to a mean whim. She knew the people 'round about, the "natives," turned up their noses at "ol' lady Crewe," and pitied her, Katherine, for being the granddaughter of a "tight-wad." It made her shrink from meeting the commonest acquaintance, when she considered how odious her position was, and how well every one knew it.

The doctor came early, while she was still smarting with a sense of her wrongs.

"I've brought a battery," he explained, indicating the instrument Sam Slawson was assisting him to unearth from the bowels of the runabout. "It's not my own. Dr. Driggs kindly lent it. I had a chat with him over the 'phone last night, after I got home, and he agrees with me that electricity will be——

"If Dr. Driggs is back, why didn't he come himself?" Katherine interrupted, so sensitively on edge that the most innocent suggestion jarred.

The young man before her looked blank for a moment. Then a tolerant smile stole into his fine, wholesome face.

"Precisely the question I put to him. But, he said he'd thank me kindly if I'd go on with the case."

Katherine winced. She knew why Dr. Driggs was not keen on coming to Crewesmere.

Dr. Ballard noticed the painful twitching of her brows, and instantly regretted his reply. To mend matters he began, at once, to explain why he was obliged to borrow of a fellow-practitioner, and to call upon Sam Slawson to be his charioteer.

"You see, I'm not here in the village in my official capacity. I only came for—well, on a sort of venture. But I like it, and I've sent for my—I mean, I've sent for a machine to get about in, by myself. I was feeling a bit seedy. I'm here for repairs. I belong in Boston—my office is there, and my heavy artillery's in it. But if electric treatment seems to agree with Madam Crewe, I'll send, and have my portable battery shipped on with the motor. It's quite at her service, as I am. It's rather more modern than this, and—more—effective."

As Sam Slawson remarked to his wife later, he was surprised at the manner in which Miss Crewe received the doctor's friendly advance.

"She gave him a look, like he'd trod on her toes, and hurt her bad, besides taking the shine off her patent leather."

Martha smiled. "Anybody'd know you'd been a strap-hanger, Sam Slawson. You give yourself dead away."

"Well, she gave him the look, and said she: 'Thanks, but please don't send. My grandmother is much improved. She may not require the services of any doctor, very long.'"

Mrs. Slawson nodded. "She's sore on the subjec' of her gran'ma. She knows her peculiar-rarities, an' she knows she's got to stand by the ol' lady, but it kinda gives her a turn, every time she thinks anybody's noticin' her doin' it. If Dr. Ballard wasn't such a great innercent of a fella, he wouldn't 'a' give it away that Dr. Driggs is on to the little madam, and just as lief dodge her, if convenient. A party with more tack to'm than Dr. Ballard would 'a' kep' that dark. But there's where you can't have everything at oncet, in human bein's. If a fella's got a lotta tack, an' the kind o' light fantastic toe that, every time he opens his mouth, he don't put his foot into it, he's more than like to be the kind that thinks twicet before he speaks, which, it may be wise, but ain't as hearty, an' uncalkerlatin' as I'd like in a husband. On the other hand, a fella that speaks, without stoppin' to count the costs, why, it's ten to one, a woman'll have to pay 'em, in the end, but anyhow she'll have the comfort o' knowin' his heart's in the right place, which, it ain't forever takin' the elevator up to the top floor, to consult with his brains. I'm sorry them two young things got in wrong as regards each other. But it won't stop the course o' human events, so far as they're concerned, even if it does delay it some. I'm not a bit worried."

Sam paused in the act of pulling off a boot.

"Say, Martha, you don't mean you're at it again?"

"'At it'! Me? No! What I mean is, Nature's bound to get in her fine work, no matter what kinda mater'al's handed out to her. You remember Miss Claire an' Lord Ronald? They started in complercatin' the pattren, as hard as they could, but 'twas no use. They couldn't get the best o' Nature, an' the consequence is, we're lookin' for 'em home from their weddin' tour any time now, an' if we don't get busy, the decorations won't be ready for my celebration proceeding."

The morning of the great day on which the Ronalds were expected to arrive, Martha was astir at sunrise, summoning her brood with the call: "Miss Claire's comin' home! Miss Claire's comin' home!"

"I'd call her Missis, considering," suggested Sam, yawning as he tucked his pillow more comfortably beneath his rough cheek.

"All right, call her it, if it's a comfort to you. Only get a move on," his wife replied, plucking the pillow unceremoniously out from under, giving it a mighty shake, and setting it across the sleeping-porch rail to air.

"You can take it from me, my hands is full this day. I've no time to parley, fussin' over my articles of speech. Besides, Miss Claire knows me an' my ways. If I was any diff'rent from what she's used to, she'd be disappointed."

"I thought Mrs. Peckett was making you over. To say nothing of Cora, and Ma. Perhaps Mrs. Ronald will take a hand at it, too. You never can tell."

"True for you, you never can," Martha admitted. "Who'd 'a' thought, now, ol' lady Crewe would ever be troublin' her head about me, an' yet one o' the first things she said, when she got her power back, an' could pronunciate clearly, was—'You'd oughta keep a cow!' Knowin' the risks run by those that does, from the effects o' hoofs an' horns, an' simular attachments, I mighta thought she wanted to see my finish, because o' the way I lit in, an' give her a rub-down against her will, the night she was took sick. But she didn't. She don't bear no ill will. It was just she thought keepin' a cow would be cheaper for our fam'ly, than keepin' the milkman. She wants to turn me into a farmer, an' who knows! You never can tell, as you say. That's what I may turn into before I'm done. But what I'm occupied with at the present moment is—did you get that la'nch fixed up good last night, like I told you to? As soon as the breakfast dishes is washed, I wanta take the childern, an' go acrost the lake to get laurel for my decorations."

Sam paused in the act of shaving, to turn his lathered cheek toward her.

"The launch is O.K., but I'm uneasy every time you take her out on the water alone, mother. I'm not sure you understand the motor. And if a squall blew up sudden——"

"Now, don't you worry your head over me, that's a good fella. I understand that la'nch, an' the auta, as good as if all three of us hada been born an' brought up by the same mother. The things I can't seem to get a line on is animals. Hens, an' cows, an' so forth. They take my time! O' course, to look at 'em, you'd know hens ain't very brainy.—Look at the way they behave in front o' autas, or anythin' drivin' up! They're as undecided as a woman at a bargain-counter, thinkin' will she buy a remlet o' baby-blue ribbon, or go to Huyler's an' get a chocolate ice-cream soda. They're hippin' an' hawin', till it'd be a pleasure to run 'em down. Cows ain't got that trick, but they're queer in their own way, an' the both o' them is too, what Mrs. Sherman calls, temper-mental to suit me. Now, who'd 'a' thought all them chicks woulda died on me, just because they got damped down some, that cold, wet spell we had along in March? If they'd 'a' told me they wanted to come in outa the wet, I'd 'a' fetched 'em indoors, or I'd 'a' went out an' held their hands. Anythin' to oblige. But not on your life! They was mum as oysters. They just up an' died on me, without so much as a beg to be excused—the whole bloomin' lot o' them. The Lord tempers the cold to the shorn lamb, but I notice it aint reggerlated much of any in the case o' chickens. An' talkin' o' chickens, I wonda if that same Sammy done what I told'm an' whitewashed the henhouse thora inside. Mrs. Peckett says you gotta do it every oncet in a while, to keep the vermin down. The quicklime kills 'em."

Breakfast well under way, Mrs. Slawson went out on a tour of inspection. Evidently what she found did not satisfy her, for, when the family had had its meal, and was about to rise and disperse, she held Sammy back with a detaining hand.

"Say, young fella, how about that henhouse you was to fresco with whitewash yesterday?"

"I did it, mother."

"Well, you let the brush kinda lick down the walls, but what I call a thora coat you did not give it! Now, I like my jobs done thora. There's a good pail o' whitewash waitin' for you outside, to say nothin' o' the brush to lay it on with. An', while the girls an' me goes over to the other side o' the lake to get laurel, you get busy on the inter'or o' that hen-residence, my son. An'——"

"Oh—oh, mother-r!" Sammy's wail came from a stricken heart.

It failed to make the slightest impression apparently.

"You knew you was botchin' all the time," Martha pulled him up short. "After a while, you'll get on to it that you can't palm off careless work on me—I know too much about it."

"I did what you told me, mother," the boy managed to bring out, between heavy sobs.

"What did I tell you?"

"You told me—do the inside o' the henhouse, an' I done it!"

"Yes, but how about the roosts? You never touched brush to the roosts. It's a pity if a child o' mine's gotta be told do every last thing, when he knows better. You can take it from me, I ain't bringin' you childern up to be the kind o' household pets servants is, nowadays. I wanta learn you to think for yourselves, sometimes, an' do a thing the right way, because it's right to do it that way. Never mind if anybody sees it, or not. Now, you listen to me, since you're so partic'lar: You go into that hen-house, with your pail, an' your brush, an' you whitewash down every last thing in it, roosts an' all. Don't you leave a thing go free. Do you understand me?"

Sammy's pitiful face moved his father to raise a voice in his behalf.

"Say, mother, Sammy knows he's been a bad boy an' he's got to take his punishment. He's got to do the henhouse over. There's no doubt about that. But suppose he passes his word of honor to you, as man to man, that he'll do it thorough next time, will you be easy on him, for this once, and let him go across the lake with you and his sisters, and do the whitewashing later?"

Martha shook her head.

"Sorry I can't accommodate you, but when anythin's to do, there's no time like the present. If Sammy learns his lesson this trip, he won't have it to learn again, on another occasion, when p'raps he'd miss more than goin' acrost the lake. Besides, he's got some other little trifles hangin' over'm, I let him off easy on, at the time. We'll just settle up his account now, for them an' the henhouse, all together, an' call it square."

There was a terrible finality in his mother's words and aspect, that dried Sammy's tears, quenched his sobs. Where was the good of struggling? Sammy was a small boy, but he had sagacity enough to realize he was face to face with fate. He turned away mournfully, and disappeared in the direction of the henhouse.

Mrs. Slawson's severity fell from her, as if it had been a mantle.

"The poor fella," she said commiseratingly. "I'd give a lot to leave'm go along. But with childern, you got to strike while the iron is hot, or you'll be forever warmin' their poor little hides, which constant naggin' is death to their dispositions. But if I'd 'a' had my choice, I'd 'a' selected a differnt way to punish'm. For, firstoff, I won't enjoy the fun, knowin' he's left behind, an', second, I really need his help with the laurel and with the la'nch. But p'raps I need a punishment on my own account, for leavin'm grow to this age without knowin' he can't string his mother. If I do, you can take it from me, I got it."

CHAPTER IV

Miss Claire's entry into her new domain was triumphal.

As the motor approached the lodge-gate, she plucked impulsively at her husband's sleeve.

"Look, Frank, look! See! An arch of pink laurel! Flags! And—and—what's this?"

A quartette of children's voices singing brought the motor to a halt on the hither side of a wonderful, lettered strip, stretched, like an unrolled scroll, to span the driveway, from the tips of two lofty uprights. Mr. Ronald bent forward attentively. Immediately his firm jaw began to twitch, and, as he spoke, his lowered voice betrayed a treacherous tremolo.

"They're singing Hail to the Chief. But its own mother wouldn't know it."

Claire threw him a reproachful glance, as, to the consternation of the new footman, she flung open the door of the car herself, alighted unaided, and impetuously clung about Martha Slawson's neck.

"Oh, Martha, Martha!" she cried.

There were tears of joy in Martha's eyes.

"God bless you, Miss Claire, ma'am! God bless you, dear."

"I say, Martha, which of us are you hailing? Which of us is Chief?" broke in Mr. Ronald lightly, nodding a salutation toward Sam, Ma, and the children drawn up by the driveway in martial array.

Martha laughed. "Between youse be it, sir. Time'll tell. Sam didn't want me put it up, but I says to him, you both started in with a fair field, an' no favor, an' let the best man win. Guessin' which of you'll come out ahead, maybe'll relieve the monoterny of married life for you some."

If Sam Slawson had been a boy, he could not have felt more eager to "show the boss" what he had made of the place during his absence. While the two of them were exploring, the children and Ma busy with the treasures their fairy princess had brought home to them from the other side of the world, Martha devoted herself to "mothering" Miss Claire.