Chapter II: Part 2

Now Aunt Jimmy, otherwise Jemima Lane, occupied an unusual position in the neighbourhood and was a personage of more than common importance. In the first place she was a miser, which is always interesting, as a miser is thought to be a sort of magician whose money is supposed to lie hidden in the chimney and yet increase as by double cube root; then she owned ten acres of the best land for small fruits--strawberries, raspberries, currants, and peaches--in the state. The ground was on the southern slope of Laurel Ridge, and though it was shielded in such a way that the March sun did not tempt the peach blossoms out before their time, yet Aunt Jimmy's strawberries were always in the Northboro market a full week ahead of the other native fruit.

Of course there was nothing particularly strange in this interest, as many people coveted the land. The odd part that concerned the gossips was that Aunt Jimmy had three able-bodied nephews, of which Joshua Lane was eldest, all farmers struggling along on poorish land, while she, though seventy-five years old, insisted upon running her fruit farm and house entirely alone, hiring Poles or Hungarians, who could speak no English, to till and gather the crops, instead of going shares with her own kin. In fact, until a few years back, no one, man, woman, or child, except little Janey Lane, had ever got beyond the kitchen door. Then when she died, Aunt Jimmy had opened her house and heart to Joshua Lane's wife, and ever since, that dear, motherly soul had done all that she could for the queer, lonely old woman, in spite of the fact that the gossips said she did it from selfish motives.

Joshua Lane was very sensitive about this talk and would have held aloof like his two brothers, who lived beyond the Centre, one of whom had a sick wife and was too lazy to more than scratch half rations from his land, while the other had once given the old lady some unwise advice about pruning peach trees, and had been forbidden inside the gate under pain of being cut off with a "china button," Aunt Jimmy's pet simile for nothing.

Mrs. Joshua, however, was gossip proof, and, tossing her head, had publicly declared, "I'm a-going to keep the old lady from freezin', burnin', or starvin' herself to death jest so far 's I'm able, accordin' to scripture and the feelings that's in me, and if that's 'undue influence,' so be it! I shan't discuss the subject with anybody but the Lord," and she never did.

Many a meal of hot cooked food she took to the old woman to replace the crackers and cheese of her own providing. It was not that Aunt Jimmy meant to be mean, but she had lived so long alone that she had gotten out of the habits of human beings. She certainly looked like a lunatic when she went about the place superintending her men, clad in a short skirt, a straw sunbonnet, and rubber boots, merely adding in the winter a man's army overcoat and cape that she had picked up cheap; but the lawyer who had come down from Northboro a year before to make her will said he had never met a clearer mind outside of the profession, for she had Dr. Jedd testify that she was of sound mind, and a second physician from Northboro swear that Dr. Jedd's wits were also in good order.

Shortly after this she had given it out quietly that, though Joshua Lane was the only one of her kin that was worth a box of matches, yet they would share and share alike, as she didn't believe in stirring up strife among brothers by showing favour.

Then everybody expected Mrs. Lane would lessen her attentions, but as often happens everybody was mistaken.

Of course the good woman could not help thinking once in a while what a fine thing it would be if some day her elder boys could work the fruit farm (Lammy she never thought of as working at anything) instead of delving in a shop at Milltown, but she put the idea quickly from her. However, it would keep coming back all that night after Terence O'More's funeral when she watched with the old lady, while poor Bird slept her grief-spent sleep before her journey.

If the fruit farm could ever be hers, she would adopt Bird without hesitation, for the little lady-child had crept into the empty spot that Janey had left in her big mother heart and filled it in a way that greatly astonished her.

* * * * *

Lammy finally secured the medicine and jogged homeward, thinking, all the time thinking about Bird. He knew that people said he was stupid, and yet he also felt that he could learn as well as any one if they would only let him pick his own way a little. His father wanted him to be a carpenter, his mother thought that too rough, and that he was still a baby and some day perhaps he might be a clerk.

But Lammy himself, as he looked into the future, saw only the whirling wheels of the machinery at Milltown, or the wonders of the locomotive works that he had once visited at Northboro. That was why he was always day-dreaming and looking in the air. Of course it was very stupid and dumb of him not to tell his parents, but Bird's was the only ear that had ever heard his thoughts.

All that day he stayed about the place at home, keeping the fire in and doing the chores, for his mother's time was divided between her aunt's and straightening things at Bird's old home, and his father was up in the back lots planting corn. Toward night, as he was sitting on the steps having brought back Twinkle who had run to his old home in search of his little mistress, Mrs. Lane bustled in, mystery and importance written on her face. Spying Lammy, she beckoned him to follow her into the kitchen, then, carefully closing the doors, putting Twinkle in the closet and the cat out of the window, as if they could carry tales, she unfastened her bonnet and collar and settled herself in the rocking-chair.

"Samuel Lane," she began solemnly, shaking her forefinger and making the boy quake at the unused title, while his eyes opened wide in wonder, "No, 'tain't _that_; Aunt Jimmy's _much_ more comfortable, and I suspect she's going to pick up again after scaring us well, or I wouldn't be home, but she said private words to me this afternoon that if I do keep quite to myself, I'll burst, I know, and maybe get a headache spell that'll lay me by a day and upset everything. Now, Samuel, I've found as far as givin' messages you're told to carry, you're as good as nobody, so I reckon you'll be tight sealed on something that you're bid to keep close and forget maybe for some years."

"Is it about Bird?" asked Lammy, suddenly jumping up and fixing his big, gray eyes on his mother's face with a gaze that made her nervous, for she well knew that there was something in this pet son of hers that was a little beyond her comprehension.

"No, not about Bird,--that is, not straight, though another way it may have a lot to do with her; it all depends. Listen, Samuel!

"This afternoon Aunt Jimmy waked up, and, seeing me sitting by the window croshayin',--true I was making a bungle of the tidy, not feelin' like workin' (but she hates, same 's I do, for watchers to set idle looking ready to jump at a body like a cat does at a mouse hole),--she says, says she, her voice comin' back steady, 'Set nearer, Lauretta Ann Lane, I'm goin' to tell you somethin' no one else need ever know.'

"I drew up all of a flutter, of course. 'You're a good woman, Lauretta Ann,' says she, 'and you've never poked and pried, or shown desires for what's another's, an' you've worked hard to keep me livin', which I've done to my satisfaction beyond my expectations.'

"I burst out cryin', I couldn't help it; for I never thought she set any store by me, and I felt guilty about wishes I'd had last night and had fed with thoughts inwardly.

"'Hush up, now, and don't spoil all by pretendin',' she ran on; 'I know you'd like to have my farm, though not a day before I'm done with it. _I'll_ credit you that. It's natural and proper and I'm glad to have interest took in it, likewise I've said I'd share and share alike between my nephews, which I intend; but listen, Lauretta Ann, for there's ways of circumventin' that suits me, _I've left you the farm for your own_; moreover, I've fixed it so there'll be no talk and no one'll know it but you. You think I'm crazy, I guess, and that you couldn't get the farm unbeknown, nohow. Just wait and see!'

"Then she asked me to draw her a cup of tea, and when I went to fetch that battered old pewter tea-pot she's used I reckon these fifty years, 'twasn't in its place, but on her mantel-shelf, and when I reached up to take it down she said, 'Leave that be and take the chiney one; its work's over for me and we're both takin' a rest;' then she dozed off after the very first sup."

"Mother," said Lammy, who was now leaning on her knees with his hands behind her head and drawing it close, while his eyes glowed like coals, "if--if you ever get the farm--will--you--"

"Bring Bird back?" she finished for him, hugging him close. "Yes, I will, and you shall both go to school to Northboro, too; but mind you, Samuel, no crowdin' Aunt Jimmy, and it may be years yet.

"Now bustle round and help me cook up something, for I must go back to Aunt Jimmy's before seven, as Mis' Jedge o' Probate Ricker is the only one I'll trust to spell me, for Dinah Lucky's mush in a bowl when the village folks smooth her down with their palarver."

So Lammy flew about, sifting flour, skimming milk, or rattling cups and saucers, and it was not quite dark, supper over, and every dish washed, when he went back to the porch steps and whispered the precious hope to Twinkle, who raised one ear and his lip together as much as if he understood and cautioned silence. Then the boy began day-dreaming anew, but this time his mind, instead of following flying wheels, was busy weeding strawberry plants and carefully picking raspberries, so as not to crush them, while Bird stood by and watched. "And," he startled himself by saying aloud, "the first thing I'll do 'll be to divide off a root of those red pineys and plant it up on the hill, so Bird 'll find it next spring all in blow."

* * * * *

A few days later when Dr. Jedd and all the neighbours were convinced that Aunt Jimmy would be out in the garden again by raspberry time, with good chance of another ten years, and Mrs. Lane had made indoors more comfortable than it had been for years by a thorough cleaning and renovating, the strange old lady again upset all their calculations and died. Then in due time the lawyer from Northboro sent letters to the three nephews and their families, to Dr. Jedd, to the minister of the First Congregational Church, and to the superintendent of the new School of Industrial Art of Northboro, to meet on a certain Friday afternoon at Aunt Jimmy's house to hear the will read.

Once more was the entire community involved in a guessing match. The summoning of the kin was a matter of course, and usually took place immediately, so that the lawyer was evidently carrying out special directions in delaying the matter for more than a week, but as to what the doctor, the minister, and the teacher from Northboro could possibly have to do in the matter was a mystery that not even the fertile brain of Mrs. Slocum could settle, either for good nor evil.

It couldn't be that Aunt Jimmy had left these three outside men anything, for it was known that she only employed Dr. Jedd because she couldn't help it, that she hadn't been to church for five years because the minister had preached a sermon against avarice and the vanity of hoarding money, and as to the Northboro teacher it was positively certain that she had never even seen him, for he was a stranger in these parts, having recently been sent from New York, to take charge of the school, by a wealthy man who had been influential in founding it and whose country place was on the farther edge of the town.

Mrs. Lane was as much in the dark as any one and did not hesitate to say so, while excitement ran so high that on this particular Friday afternoon the women sat in their fore-room windows overlooking the village street with the expectant air of waiting for a passing procession.

Mrs. Dr. Jedd, Mrs. Judge of Probate Ricker, and the minister's wife were privileged to attend the reading by courtesy for reason of being their husband's wives, and cakes had been baked and several plans made to waylay them separately on their divers routes home to drink a cup of tea, that every detail might be gleaned for comparing of notes afterward.

"We shall soon see whether Lauretta Ann Lane's cake is dough or fruit loaf," sniffed Mrs. Slocum, angrily, drawing in her head suddenly from the third fruitless inspection of the road that she had made in fifteen minutes and giving it a smart bump against the sash as she did so. "Either the folks is late, or they're gone around the back road, and if so, why? I'd just like you to tell me," she snapped at Hope Snippin, the meek little village dressmaker who, drawn over as if she had a perpetual stitch in her side, was remaking a skirt for the lady of the house and felt very much discouraged, as it had been turned once before, at the possibility of making it look startlingly new.

"Maybe they've stopped down to the Lane's and have walked around the meadow path," ventured Hope Snippin. "The other day when I was fixin' up Mis' Lane's black gown, changing the buttons and such like to turn it from just Sunday best to mourning, I heard her tell Mis' Jedd that, as there was no convenience for gettin' up a proper meal down to Aunt Jimmy's, seein' as nothing must be touched until the will was read, she'd asked all the folks concerned to dinner--a roast-beef dinner with custards--at her house so's they could be comfortable and stable their teams, and then walk right around short cut to the other house after. You see the two farms meets the road separate, like the two heels of a horseshoe, and then join by going back of the doctor's hill woods. My father was sayin' last night if those two farms _and_ the wood lot went together, they'd be something worth while," and Miss Snippin smiled pleasantly as if she thought she had propitiated Mrs. Slocum by her news.

"Then you knew all the while they wouldn't come by here and never told me, though seein' me slavin' over that cake," snapped Mrs. Slocum. "I wish you'd mind your work closer; you're makin' that front breadth up stain out."

"But it runs clean through," pleaded the dressmaker, miserably.

"Depend upon it," Mrs. Slocum muttered to herself, not heeding the protest, "she's made sure of that farm, or she wouldn't risk the cost of a roast dinner for a dozen folks if she wasn't."

* * * * *

Meanwhile this dinner had been eaten and the party, headed by the lawyer and the teacher, had gone through the sweet June fields to Aunt Jimmy's house and seated themselves upon the stiff-backed, fore-room chairs that were ranged in a long row, as if the company expected to play "Go to Jerusalem."

Outside, the bees were humming in the syringa bushes while the cat-birds and robins, unmolested, were holding a festival in the great strawberry bed, for to-day there was no one to see that the birds "kept moving" after the usual custom, as the hired man on returning from taking eggs to market had gone to sleep in the hay barn, knowing that the stern voice of the old lady in rubber boots and sunbonnet would not disturb his dreams.

* * * * *

"Hem," the lawyer cleared his throat and read the usual preliminaries about "last will and testament, sound mind," etc., "paying of just debts," etc., in a clear but rapid voice that grew gradually solemn and important, until, as the pith of the matter was reached, every word was separated from its neighbour, and the buzzing of a fly on the window-pane seemed an unbearable noise.

"I give and bequeath to Amelia, the wife of William Jedd, doctor of medicine in this town, the sum of two thousand dollars, because I think she may need it owing to her husband's slack way of collecting bills."

Mrs. Jedd, who had for a moment looked radiant, quickly cast down her eyes after a frightened glance at her husband who was, with apparent difficulty, refraining from laughter as he looked crosswise at the minister.

"I give and bequeath to Sarah Ann, wife of Joel Stevens, minister of the First Congregational Church, a like sum of two thousand dollars because she is sure to need it, this being twice the amount that he once desired me to give to foreign missions. If he still holds to his views of avarice and hoarding, he will doubtless be able to persuade her to share his ideas as to its use."

It was the minister's turn now to look red and confused, while his wife's face expressed her views on the subject beyond a doubt.

"I give and bequeath to the Trust Fund of the School of Industrial Art in Northboro the sum of $10,000, the income therefrom to be applied to the board and teaching of two girls each year who cannot afford to pay, for the reason that I think a girl is usually worth two boys if she has a chance, and I don't like to see our best girls running to the big cities for schooling.

"I direct that my fruit farm of ten acres, more or less, with the adjoining one hundred acres of meadow and woodlands, and all buildings and fixtures, other than household furniture, appertaining thereto, shall be sold at public auction within six months of my death, and that the cash proceeds be divided between my three nephews, share and share alike, I holding the hope that one of them will be the purchaser. I also direct that the pieces of household furniture mentioned in the enclosed memorandum shall be divided between the wives of my three nephews by the drawing of lots, and I charge that all other furnishings not mentioned in this paper, being of no value except to myself, shall be destroyed either by burning or burying in the swamp bog-hole according to their character, as I don't wish them scattered about for the curiosity of the idle, of which this town has its full share.

"Making one exception to the above, I give to my dear niece by marriage, Lauretta Ann, wife of Joshua Lane, in token of my respect for her, my old pewter tea-pot that, as she knows, I have treasured as having laid buried in the garden through the War of Independence and had in daily use for years, hoping she will cherish it and by like daily use hold me in constant remembrance by the sight of it."

At this juncture no one dared look up, for all felt the cruelty of the gift after Mrs. Lane's years of service, and the poor woman herself merely tightened her grasp upon the chair arms, but she could not prevent the sickening sense of disappointment that crept over her.

"I hereby appoint my nephew, Joshua Lane, as my sole executor, directing that he be paid the sum of $1000 from my estate for his services, desiring him to carry on the fruit business for the current year, the profits to be added to my estate. (Here followed special instructions.) If there be any residue after paying to the before-named legacies, I direct that he divide it equally between himself and his two brothers, and I hope that all concerned may feel the same pleasure in hearing this testament that I have had in making it."

As the lawyer stopped reading there was a pause, and then a rush of voices, congratulations and condolences mingled. That he had made an error in summoning Dr. Jedd and the minister instead of their wives was plain.

The two brothers, who cared nothing for the fruit farm except its cash price and had been too indolent to bother about the matter or go to see their aunt except in fruit time, assumed importance and talked about wounded pride and the injustice of having but one executor. The school superintendent, an Englishman of fifty or so who had received his art training at South Kensington and brought it to market in America, confused by his surroundings, but of course pleased at the gift by which his school benefited, made haste to leave, feeling that he was intruding in a gathering where a family storm was brewing.

"Mebbe there's something _in_ the tea-pot," suggested the minister's wife, hopefully, "else I can't think she knew her own mind."

"There's surely something in it," echoed Mrs. Dr. Jedd.

The lawyer, who himself had thought this possible, went upstairs, and took down the battered bit of pewter from the best bedroom shelf, where it had remained since the day Mrs. Lane had placed it there at Aunt Jimmy's request, opened it, shook it, and held it toward the eager group,--it was absolutely empty!

Mrs. Lane stretched out her hand for the legacy, but her husband grasped her arm and asserting himself for the first time in his married life, said: "Lauretta Ann, don't you tech it; it'll go down in the swamp hole with the other trash for all of you. I'll not have you a-harbourin' a viper. I'll do my lawful duty, but, by crickey, I'll not have you put upon no more."

This very ambiguous speech so impressed the hearers that it was reported that "Joshua Lane wasn't tied to Lauretta's apron-strings and could hold his own equal to anybody," which had been seriously doubted, while the news was a surprise and disappointment to every one but Mrs. Slocum, who said, "Dough! I told you so,"--and actually cut a big slice of cake for Hope Snippin to take home for tea.

As for Lammy he seemed dazed for a while, and then set to work daily with his father on the fruit farm, so that he might earn the tickets to send to Bird when hot weather and the time for her visit came. His mother noticed that he did not gaze about as much as usual, and, while he was picking berries for market, he said to himself, "I'll snake a root of those red pineys for Bird anyhow before the auction, 'long in November, and maybe before then something 'll turn up."

IV

A CAGED BIRD

When the high banks of the cut shut off Lammy from Bird's sight, she followed her uncle into the car, vainly trying to blink back her tears. He, however, did not notice them; but, putting her valise on a seat, told her she had better sit next to the window so that she could amuse herself by looking out, as it would be two hours before they changed cars at New Haven, and then, taking another seat for himself, pulled his hat over his eyes and promptly fell asleep.

At first the poor child was content to sit quite still and rest, trying to realize who and where she was. The changes of the past two weeks had been so sudden that she did not yet fully realize them. Beginning with the day when her father, all full of hope, had been soaked by the rain in walking back from Northboro, where he had gone to buy materials for beginning his work for the wall-paper man, and caught the deadly cold, until now when she was leaving the only friends she had ever known, seemed either a whole lifetime or a dream from which she must awake.

But as the train flew on and the familiar places one by one were lost in the distance, little by little the bare cold truth came to her. Not only was she going to a strange place to live among strangers, but the hope that had comforted her the previous night had been swept away when her uncle had refused to let her bring her paint-box, and she knew by the contemptuous way he spoke that he was even more set against her father's work than their farming neighbours had been.

"Never mind," thought the brave, lonely little heart, "I simply _must_ learn somehow, and perhaps my aunt and cousins may be different and help me to persuade Uncle John to let me go on with drawing at the school he sends me to, for I heard him tell Mrs. Lane that I should go to school." Then Bird began to imagine what the aunt and cousins would be like, and what sort of a house they would live in. She thought the house would be brick or stone like some in Northboro, and she did not expect that there would be a very big garden, perhaps only at the back with a little strip at the sides and in front, but then that would hold enough flowers for her to draw so that she need not forget the way in which Terry had taught her to do it from life, and even if she had no paints and only bits of paper and a pencil, she could work a little out of the way up in her room so as not to annoy her uncle and yet not quite give up. That she was determined she would never do, for Bird had, in addition to a talent that was in every way greater than her father's, something that came from her mother's family and that he had wholly lacked,--perseverance, a thing that people are apt to call obstinacy when they do not sympathize with its object.

So busy was she with castle-building that she was quite surprised when the brakeman called: "New Haven! Last stop. Change cars for New York and Boston. Passengers all out!" and her uncle jumped up, flushed and stupid with sleep and bundled her out of the train into the station restaurant "to snatch a bite of dinner" before they went on.

Now Bird, being a perfectly healthy child, even though overwrought and tired, was hungry and gladly climbed up on one of the high stools that flanked the lunch counter, while her uncle gathered a sandwich, two enormous doughnuts, and a quarter of a mince pie on one plate and pushed it toward her saying: "Tea or coffee? You'd better fill up snug, for we won't be home until well after dinnertime," then John O'More proceeded to cool his own coffee by pouring it from cup to saucer and back again with much noise and slopping.

"Please, I'd rather have milk," answered Bird, rescuing the sandwich from under the pie and making a great effort not to stare at her uncle, who had begun by stuffing half a doughnut into his mouth and pouring the larger part of a cup of coffee after it before he swallowed, so that his cheeks bulged, his eyes seemed about to pop from their sockets, and beads of sweat stood on his forehead, while the next moment he was shovelling up great mouthsful of baked beans and ramming them down with cucumber pickles, very much as she had seen Lammy charging his father's old muzzle-loading shot-gun when going to hunt woodchucks.

Though sometimes the food at home had not been any too plentiful, Bird's parents had always been particular about her manners at table. She had had their example before her and was naturally dainty in her own ways, so that her uncle's gorging gave her another shock, and unconsciously she began to pick at her food like a veritable feathered bird.

"The country ain't what it's cracked up to be," remarked O'More, when he was able to speak. "I thought country girls was always fat and rosy and ate hearty. Just wait until you get to New York and see my kids stoke in the vittles; it'll learn you what it means to eat right."

"Express train for New York, stopping at Bridgeport and Stamford only," called a man through the open door.

"Come along," shouted O'More, wedging in another doughnut, throwing the pay to the waiter and seizing a handful of toothpicks from a glass on the counter, and before Bird had but half finished the sandwich and milk, she found herself on the train again.

The second part of the journey passed more cheerfully, for all along at the east side of the road were beautiful glimpses of the Sound and silvery creeks and inlets came up to the track itself.

Bird had never before seen the sea, or any river greater than the mill stream, and she exclaimed in delight.

"Like the looks of salt water, do you? Then you're going to an A 1 place to see it. New York's an island, and you only have to go to the edge anywhere to see water all round, not forsaken lookin' empty water like this either, but full of ships and boats and push. Down at the far end of the town is Battery Park, smash on to the water, and there's sea air and seats in it and music summer nights, along with a building full of live swimmin' fishes that little Billy's crazed over goin' to see. Oh, you'll find sport in the city for sure."

"Who is little Billy?" asked Bird, feeling that she was called upon to say something, and now realizing that she knew nothing about the cousins she was to meet.

"Little Billy? Oh, he's the youngest of the four boys. Tom, he's the eldest, and a wild hawk; he's got a rovin' job, and he seldom turns up lest he's in trouble, but for all that his mother's crazed after him. Jack, he's next, seventeen, and fine and sleek and smart with the tongue, and keeps the clean coat of a gentleman; he's in a clerking job, but he goes to night school, and he'll be somebody. Larry's fifteen, and he's just quit school and got a place helping a trainer on the race-track; he's minded to make money quick, and thinks that's the road, which I don't. Then little Billy,--he's turning six, and he's worth more'n the whole lot together to me, if he is only a four-year size and hops with a crutch. Ah, but he's got the head for thinkin', and he's every way off from the rest of us, pale and yellow-haired, while the others are coloured like sloes and crows' wings in the eyes and hair."

As O'More spoke his whole face softened and lightened up, and it was plain to see that little Billy filled the soft spot that is in every heart if people only have the eyes to see it.

"Until little Billy was turned three he was as pretty as an angel," he continued, "and sturdy as any other child. Then come a terrible hot summer,--oh, I tell you it was fierce; you couldn't draw a breath in the rooms, and so the missis she fixed a bed for Billy out on the fire-escape and used to take him there to sleep."

Bird was just about to ask what sort of a place a fire-escape was, for this was the second time her uncle had mentioned it that day having said that if she had a dog, it would likely fall from it, but he talked so quickly that she forgot again.

"As luck had it, one night the wind come up cool, and, the woman bein' dead tired, never woke up to notice it, and in the morning little Billy set up a terrible cry, for when he tried to get up he couldn't, for the wind had checked the sweat and stiffened his left leg, as it were. Of course we had a big time and had in full a dozen doctors, and some said one thing and some another, but they all give it the one name 'the infant paralysis.'

"The doctors they wanted him to go to the 'ospital and have the leg shut into a frame and all that, but I said 'twas a shame to torment him, and I'd have him let be till he could say for himself.

"The woman takes him awful hard, though, as if he was a reproach to her for not wakin' up, which is no sense, for what be's to be, be's--that's all," which shiftless argument Bird afterward found was her uncle's answer to many things that could have been bettered.

"I hope Billy will like me," said Bird, half to herself after a few minutes' silence; "somehow I think I like him already."

"If you do that and act well by him, I buy you a hat with the longest feather on Broadway for your Christmas," said O'More, grasping her slender fingers and almost crushing them in his burst of enthusiasm. "But whist a minute, girl, for we're most home now. If the woman,--I mean my missis, your Aunt Rosy,--is offish just at the start, don't get down-hearted, for you see as she don't expect I'm bringing you, she may be--well--a trifle startled like. She'll soon settle down and take what be's to be straight enough," and with this rather discouraging remark the train crossed the Harlem River and entered the long tunnel that is apt to cast a gloom over every one's first entrance to New York, even when they are bent on pleasure and not sad and lonely.

"We're in now," said O'More in a few minutes, as the echo of the close walls ceased and the train slid across a maze of tracks into an immense building with a glass roof like a greenhouse.

"Grand Central Station--all out," called a brakeman, and Bird found herself part of a crowd of men, women, children, and red-capped porters moving toward a paved street, full of carriages, wagons, trucks, electric cars, besides many sort of vehicles that she had never seen before, coming, going, dashing here and there in confusion, while on every side there was a wall of houses, and below the earth was upturned and trenched, not a bit of grass or tree to be seen anywhere, and the sky, oh, so far away and small. Bird almost fell as she stumbled blindly along toward a trolley car after the uncle, for what could seem more unreal to this little wild thrush from the country lane, with song in her throat, and love of beauty and colour born in her heart, than Forty-second Street in the middle of the first warm summer afternoon?

* * * * *

The car they boarded went through another short tunnel, and on every side could be heard the noise of hammers or drilling in the rock.

"Is this a stone quarry?" asked Bird, innocently, not understanding, and wondering why the near-by passengers smiled as her uncle replied: "Lord bless yer! no; it's the subway, a road below ground they're building to let out folks from where they work to where there's room to live; there's such push here below town there's little room for sitting, let alone sleeping. Oh, but it's a fine city is New York, all the same."

Next a broad avenue with a jumble of old, low shops and fine new buildings side by side; still Bird looked anxiously out for some place where it seemed possible that people might live and found none.

"Here's 2--th Street where we land," said O'More, presently looking up, and when the car had stopped, Bird found herself walking along a sidewalk between another wall of buildings without gardens, while the heat of the first warm day rising from the pavement made her dizzy, and she asked, "Is it far from here to where you live, Uncle John?"

"No, right close by, only a few steps farther. We're facing east now and down yonder half a dozen blocks is the river, the same as we crossed coming in saving a turn in it.

"Getting tired, ain't yer? Well, it's been a long day for us, and I'm mighty glad to be gettin' to a homelike place myself."

"Do you live right by the water, and is there any garden?" Bird continued, a feeling of nameless dread creeping over her as she saw nothing but buildings still closing in on all sides; even a blacksmith's shop, from which a spirited pair of horses were coming with newly shod polished hoofs, seemed strange and out of place. Then there were more poor looking buildings, and a great stable with many men standing about and horses being constantly driven in and out to show the people who waited on the curbstone.

"By the river, and do I have a garden," he echoed, laughing heartily. "Do you think I'm one o' the millionnaires you read about in the papers, my girl? Do I keep an automobile and eat at the Waldorf-Astoria?" and then, seeing that Bird could not understand the comparison, he patted her good-naturedly on the shoulder.

As they passed the stable quite a number of the men spoke to her uncle, but instead of resenting it as she expected, he joked and laughed and seemed very glad to see them.

"It's called the 'Horse's Head,' and it's out of there my job is," he said to Bird, pointing over his shoulder at the stable, "for half the time I'm over the country from Kentucky to Canada picking up horses, and the other half of the time I'm helping to sell them out again, so I live as near by as may be for convenience."

At this Bird's heart sunk still farther, for in the prim New England town where she was born and bred a Puritan, a horse-dealer meant either some oversharp farmer who could outwit his neighbours or a roving fellow, half gypsy, half tramp, of very ill repute, who went about from town to town buying and selling animals who mostly had something the matter with them that had to be concealed by lying.

John O'More, striding on ahead, did not notice her expression, nor would he have understood if he had read her thoughts, for he was perfectly satisfied with himself and everything else in his surroundings, except the fact of little Billy's lameness, and for a man of his class he was roughly honest and good-hearted.

"Here's where!" he said at last, turning into the doorway of a tall building with one door and many windows. The square vestibule was dusty and had a ragged mat in the centre, while on one side were ten letter-boxes in a double row, with a bell knob and speaking-tube, as O'More explained, over each.

"Is this your house? It seems pretty big," said Bird, wearily.

"One floor of it is," he answered, laughing again; "it's what's called 'a flat house,' because each tenant lives flat on one floor, with conveniences at hand and no water to carry, which beats the country all out," he added slyly. "See, I'll but touch the bell and the door 'll open itself."

And he suited the action to the word, the door opening to reveal a narrow, dark hall with a flight of steep stairs covered with a shabby red carpet.

As Bird groped her way up, one, two, three flights, fairly gasping for breath in the close, hot place, she stumbled against groups of children who were sitting or playing school on the stairs.

"It's lighter near the top; that's why I choose it," called her uncle, himself puffing and blowing as he climbed. "Here we are," and he pushed open a door into an inner hall, and then another into a sort of sitting room where a tall, red-haired woman, clad in a collarless calico sack was sewing on a machine, while a pile of showy summer silks and muslins was lying on a chair beside her.

"Hello, Rosie, old woman; here's Bird O'More, Terry's orphan, that I brought back to stop a bit until we see where we're at," and he gave his wife a knowing wink as much as to say, "I know it's sudden on you, but let her down as easy as you can."

The "old woman," who was perhaps forty, or at most forty-five, glanced up, and then, either not understanding or pretending not to, her face flushed as she jerked out, her eyes flashing, "Well, if you ain't the aggravatment of men, John O'More, to bring company just when I've got Mame Callahan's trou-sew to finish, and she gettin' married next week, and Billy bein' that cantankerous with cryin' to go over to the park or down to see them fishes that my head's ready to split," she whimpered.

With all his will the man cowered before her tongue, and in spite of her own pain Bird's womanly little heart pitied him. She saw the piled-up garments and knew at once that her aunt was a dressmaker, and her gentle breeding led her to say the one thing that could have averted an explosion.

"Aunt Rose, I could take Billy to see the fish or something if you'll tell me the way."

"That's what I figured on when I brought her," said O'More, greatly relieved, and quickly following the lead; "I knew you'd often spoke of gettin' a girl from the Sisters, and that's why I brought Bird instead of leavin' her to slave fer strangers," he stammered.

"Humph," answered Mrs. O'More, at least somewhat pacified, "Billy's fastened in his chair on the fire-escape; she'd better go there and sit with him a while until it's supper-time. It's too late for them to go traipsing around the streets to-night. Can you do anything useful?" she said, fixing her sharp, greenish eyes on Bird, who tried to gather her wits together as she answered, "I can make coffee, and toast, and little biscuits, and two kinds of cake, and--" then she hesitated and stopped, for she was going to say "do fractions, write, read French a little, and draw and paint," but she felt as if these last items would count against her.

"Humph," said her aunt again, this time more emphatically, "I guess you done well to bring her, Johnny. Turned thirteen, you say. Of course she'll have to make a show of goin' to school for another year on account of the law, but they can't ask it before the fall term. I suppose she'll have to sleep on this parlour lounge, though; there's no other place."

John O'More was now beaming as he led Bird through a couple of dark bedrooms toward the kitchen, where the mysterious "fire-escape" seemed to be located.

Going to an open back window he looked out, motioning Bird to follow. What she saw was a small platform, about three feet wide and ten feet long, surrounded by an iron railing; one end was heaped with a litter of boxes and broken flowerpots that partly hid a trap door from which a ladder led to the balcony belonging to the floor below. At the other end, fastened in a baby's chair by the tray in front, sat a dear little fellow with great blue eyes and a curved, sensitive mouth, while tears were making rivers of mud on his pale cheeks as he sobbed softly to himself, "I want to go; oh, I want to get out and see the fishes."

"So you shall," said O'More, undoing the barrier and lifting the child on his strong arm while he tried awkwardly to wipe his face.

"Let me," said Bird, wetting her handkerchief at the kitchen sink and gently bathing eyes, nose, and mouth carefully, as Mrs. Lane had bathed hers--only a day ago, was it? It seemed a lifetime.

"Who are you?" said Billy, gazing at Bird over his father's shoulder, as he wound his little arms around the thick neck.

"She's your cousin Bird, come from the country to play with Billy and take him to see the fishes. Go out there on the platform with him a spell till the heat dies down; the doctor says he's to get plenty of air you see."

"Where do you get the air here?" asked Bird, wonderingly, looking at the paved yards filled with rubbish, the tall clothes poles, and the backs of the other buildings where more fire-escapes clung like dusty cobwebs.

"Air? Oh, out here and down in the street mostly if there's no time fer going across to any o' the parks. Get a bit acquainted now, youngsters, for I've got to report at the stable before supper," said O'More, putting Billy back into his chair and preparing to leave, wiping the sweat from his face as if he had thus put the whole matter of Bird from him.

For a few minutes the pair were silent. "Is your name Bird?" asked Billy, eying her solemnly, and, upon her nodding "Yes," he rambled on, "There's a yellow bird in a cage downstairs at Mrs. Callahan's--it's name is Canary and it can sing. Can you sing?"

"Yes; that is, I used to last week," she said uncertainly, the tears running between her fingers that she held before her face, for in the past ten minutes her last hope had fled. No room where she could work alone, not even a back-yard garden or a leaf to pick, and the bars of the fire-escape seemed to be closing in like a cage.

"Now you're crying, too," said Billy, prying open her hands with his thin fingers, while his lip quivered; "do you want to get out and see the fishes too?"

"Yes, Billy, I do; but we can't go just now, so we must play we are birds in a cage like the one downstairs," smiling through her tears. "I'll sing for you," and she began in a low voice a song that Terry had taught her:--

"When little birdie bye-bye goes,
Silent as mice in churches,
He puts his head where no one knows
And on one leg he perches."

When she finished, the little arms stole around her neck also, and Billy, his face all smiles, said, "That bird's me, cause I've only got one good leg, and I'm going to have you for my canary, only," looking at her gown and hair, "you're more black than yellow," and giving her a feeble squeeze, "and some day you'll get me out to see the fishes, won't you?"

At his baby caress Love lit a new lamp in her dark path and Hope stole back and led the way as she hugged Billy close and said, "Yes, some day we'll surely get out of the cage together and fly far away."

V

MRS. LANE PLAYS DETECTIVE

For several weeks after the reading of Aunt Jimmy's will, it was the talk of the neighbourhood, the alternate topic of conversation being the death of Terence O'More and the sudden disappearance of Bird. For Bird's Uncle John had come and gone so suddenly that few knew of his flying visit, and those who did turned it into an interesting mystery. Some said that he was a very rich relation from the west, others that he was not an uncle at all, but the agent of the State Orphan Asylum to which the Lanes, afraid of being expected to care for Bird, had hurried her off. It is needless to say that it was Mrs. Slocum, piqued at not securing Bird as a maid of all work and no pay, who concocted this tale.

In due time Probate Judge Ricker appointed Joshua Lane administrator, to take charge of the furniture and few effects that O'More had left and settle up his debts as far as possible. There was a little money left of what his wife had inherited, in the Northboro Bank, but only enough to pay his debts, it was feared, without so much as leaving a single dollar for Bird.

Since the homestead and Mill Farm property that belonged to Mrs. O'More had been forfeited through some defect in the drawing up of a mortgage coupled with O'More's slackness in attending to the matter, Joshua Lane had felt there was something wrong and that a little good legal advice, combined with common sense, might have at least saved something if not the entire property.

When, a year later, the mill had slipped into Abiram Slocum's hands, Joshua's suspicions were again aroused, for Slocum's transactions in real estate were usually adroit and to the cruel disadvantage of some one, if not absolutely dishonest according to the letter of the law; but when Joshua had spoken to O'More about the matter, he, feeling hopeful about his painting, had put him off with a promise to "some day" show him the "letters and papers" that bore upon the unfortunate business.

The day had never come, and now that Joshua had the right he determined to sift the affair thoroughly, but the papers were nowhere to be found. The envelope containing O'More's bank-book held nothing else but the certificate of his marriage with Sarah Turner, and some letters from his mother in the old country.

Joshua, though slow, was not without shrewdness, and he had not only kept the old house where the O'Mores had lived securely locked by day, until when, upon the selling of the furniture, it should again return to the Slocums from whom it was rented, but at Mrs. Lane's suggestion he had Nellis, his oldest son, sleep there at night, as she said, "To keep folks whom I'll not name from prowlin'."

Joshua looked to the sale of the furniture to at least pay the last quarter's rent due. By a strange happening the afternoon before the vendue was to take place, as he was about to drive up to the old house at the cross-roads to make a final thorough search in closets, drawers, and the old-time chimney nooks for the missing papers, a passer-by, hurrying in the same direction, called out to him: "There's a fire up cemetery hill way; smoke's comin' over the hickory woods. Maybe Dr. Jedd's big hay barn or Slocum's old farm, both bein' in a plum line from here." When, sharply whipping up the old mare, much to her astonishment, he hurried to the place, he not only found that it was the old farm-house hopelessly ablaze from roof to cellar, but Abiram Slocum appearing a few moments later by the road that ran north of the place, flew into either a real or well-acted rage, shaking his fist and calling: "It's that there hulking boy, Nellis, o' yourn, that has done me this mischief. Must 'a' smoked his pipe in bed or left his candle lighted until it burned down, for it's plain to be seen by the way the roof's ketched, the fire started upstairs and smouldered around all day until it bust out everywheres to onct."

"I reckon yer insured," said Joshua, dryly, taking little account of what he said, as he began to realize that the fire had put an end forever to the discovery of the papers that might have brought good luck to Bird, as well as destroyed a part of the slender property.

"A trifle--a mere trifle--not the cost of the wood in the house, let alone the labour at present rates. I could hev rented the place tew teachers for a summer cottage for twenty a month, and I intended buyin' in the furniture so to do. If"--and he drew his mean features together, and then spread them out again in a spasm of indignation--"law was just, you'd ought to make it up to me, Joshua Lane,--that you had."

But when he found that the few neighbours who had gathered were not sympathetic, and only seemed to regret the fire on account of the O'More furniture, he disappeared, and, strangely enough, later on no one could tell in which direction he went or if he had gone afoot, on horseback, or in the yellow buckboard in which he was wont to drive about to harry his tenants and surprise his farm hands if they but paused to straighten their backs.