Chapter IV: Part 4

May-blossom is called in, her blue-veined wrist consigned to the doctor's big feelers; her tongue submitted to a critical inspection; and, after undergoing a prolonged professional thumping and hearkening, she is soundly hugged and kissed, and, with a nod and a smile, dismissed. After this, Doctor Foster and the lady of the mansion are closeted awhile together. The buggy then passes down the drive, and disappears on the long dusty road. Soon after, the south door opens, and a face, pale and sad, but very calm, bends over the child, who has again returned to her out-door seat. Very tenderly is the warm afghan folded about the small, fragile form. The robins no longer sing. The sun, half-obscured, is going down. The burying-ground stands drearily out against the murky sky. The pines wail mournfully, and the river--at ebbing tide--murmurs in sad refrain. Old Harmy, moulding tea-biscuits at her kitchen window, imparts to Mandy Ann--who is shaving the dried beef for tea--her belief that Miss Paulina "hes gone clean crazy, settin' out-doors with that child, an' the dew a fallin' this very minnit, like sixty!" Miss Paulina--recovering her wits--hurries her darling in. The tea-table is already laid in the south keeping-room, beside the wide fireplace, with its ancient crane, and its Scriptural border of watery blue Dutch tiles; and, in the cheerful apple-wood blaze, the two partake together of that now almost obsolete meal--a substantial six o'clock tea. May-blossom is then snugly settled among the cushions of a wide chintz lounge, and the elder lady, in a low seat beside her, and holding lovingly her small wasted hand,--as is her wont,--chats pleasantly with her darling, in the soft, quiet gloaming. At nine, they pass, hand in hand, to Miss Paulina's own chamber, where the child's cot has long been established. May-blossom undressed, kissed, and blessed, creeps drowsily between its warm blankets, and is soon sound asleep. Miss Paulina, in her dressing-gown, broods over the dying fire, far into the night. Alas! have not all her best beloved gone from her? Why might not Heaven have spared to her this last--the one ewe lamb, so tenderly carried in her arms, and warmed in her lonely bosom? Why not; ah, _why_? She recalls the blessed comfort of two love-lightened years; the daily lessons, when to teach this bright little creature had been a mere pastime; their woodland fern and flower-gatherings, their winter fireside cosiness, all the nameless homely delights of love's dear fellowship--wayside flowers, that, scarce perceived, blossom along life's trodden ways. And now it is all coming to an end! Nothing will be left her but one small, grass-grown grave! As if there were not already graves enough in her world!

May-blossom, though not a sickly child, had never been robust; and when, at midwinter, she had taken the measles, this epidemic of childhood had gone hard with her. She had convalesced but slowly; an ugly cough had set in, and could not be routed; and now there were hectic afternoons, debilitating night-sweats, succeeded by mornings of lassitude; and, to-day, Doctor Foster had summed up his diagnosis in one dreadful word--_consumption_!

"The child," explained the good doctor--tears blinding his kind old eyes--"has grown up (as it were) in the cellar; delicate nervous organization; too much brain; too little out-door life; and the outcome of it all is simply this--with that cough, and that constitution (God help us!) an angel from heaven couldn't save her!"

* * * * *

Summer is coming. The buttercups are here. May-blossom is better. She sleeps well, coughs less, and her appetite is mending. Buoyed by deceitful hope, Miss Paulina takes heart, and the train for Boston, from whence,--crowned with the spoil of a half day's shopping,--she is, at this very moment, returning. The carryall fairly groans under its accumulated bundles; and the steel-clasped bag upon her arm is plethoric, to the last degree. Hours have passed since she parted from her darling. Hastily alighting, she hurries in. There is an under-quaver of anxiety in her voice as she calls, "May! May, May, dear!" Where _can_ the child be, that she has not run to meet her! "May!" again, and louder--still no reply. Yet now a never-to-be-mistaken voice comes cooingly from the kitchen. "Who _can_ the darling be fondling? (Harmy Patterson, though staunch and loving, is not one to unbend to endearments!) Her kitten, most likely."

She softly opens the kitchen door. Amazement stays her feet upon the threshold! Harmy, mute with horror, indicates with stretched forefinger her own clean patchwork-cushioned rocker, wherein, bolt upright, sits an unknown man,--and _such_ a man! His coarse, dusty garments (evidently fashioned without the slightest reference to their present wearer) hang scarecrow-wise upon his graceless form. Under his slouched hat (which he democratically retains) he seems to skulk abjectly from the gazer's eye; as well he may, for, unshaven and unshorn, his wide mouth stained with tobacco, his hands and face begrimed with dust, he looks, every inch, the wretched outcast that he _is_! And (no wonder that old Harmy gapes distraught), seated lovingly upon this creature's knee, her dainty fingers clasping his dirty hand, her golden curls brushing his grimy neck, is May-blossom,--yes, May-blossom, her own sweet self, beaming, and fond, and absolutely unconscious of the incongruity of the situation. And this forlorn being, craving still of humanity but leave to carry on its shoulders the shamed head of a man, is a convict,--our old prison acquaintance, Peter Floome, May-blossom's sometime nurse, and always friend!

Lightly springing from her unseemly perch, the child hastens to greet Miss Paulina, and, hanging fondly upon her hand, cries eagerly, "Oh, auntie, darling, I'm so glad you've come! Here's Peter, dear old Peter! He's pardoned out, auntie, and, isn't it nice? He can come and see me every day now if he likes.

"Why, auntie! (somewhat crestfallen) aren't you glad? and won't you shake hands with him? Peter is nice, auntie, and he used to take _such_ care of me when I was _ever_ so little. You'll like Peter when he's washed up, and so will Harmy, though she _does_ mind him just a little _now_, because she's not acquainted with him." (Harmy, _sotto voce_, and emphatically, "Lord sakes, no; an' don't never want to be!") Here, reminiscences of prison etiquette visiting Peter's dazed mind, he shuffles bashfully to his feet, and, pulling distractedly at his matted forelock, goes through a certain gymnic performance, supposed, by himself, to constitute a bow. The ice thus broken, Peter finds his tongue, and blurts out a "Good day, marm, hope I see yer well, marm."

Miss Paulina bows, a pause, ensues. Peter looks admiringly at May-blossom, and, thereby gaining inspiration, finds himself equal to a second attempt at conversation.

"She's growed, marm, like the mischief!" he asserts; "but I knowed her, I _did_, the minute I sot eyes on her out there in the mowin' lot! an' she knowed _me_, she did! Yes, yes, she knowed Peter; she knowed him. Poor old Peter! who don't hardly know himself nowerdays." Here Peter's voice gets husky, and, brushing away a dirty tear, with his greasy coat sleeve, he seems to await the issue. Peter Floome is downrightly the social antipodes of the lady of the homestead. Conventionally they do not stand side by side in the human group, but, like Swedenborg's unfraternal angels, "feet to feet." Yet in the artless harangue of this poor creature there is a touch of honest nature that at once makes them kin.

"And I, too, must know you, Peter," she says, cordially advancing and taking in her own clean palm his dirty hand.

Unable to express his appreciation of the honour thus conferred, Peter twirls his thumbs, ventures a side glance at Harmy, and, again utterly disparaged in his own eyes, looks uneasily at the floor.

Prompt to reconcile the cowed creature to himself, Miss Parker courteously says: "And now, Peter, you would, I think, like to go up to Reuben's bedroom and have a good wash. By and by Harmy shall give you tea, and then we must hear all about the pardon, and how you happened here, and what you mean to do with yourself, and what _we_ can do for you. Come, Mabel, dear; Peter, you know, is _your_ company. Show him up-stairs, my darling."

Again the small, soft hand is laid in the rough, brown paw, and Peter Floome,--in a state of absolute bewilderment as to his personal identity,--shuffles awkwardly off with the delighted child. And what says Harmy Patterson to all this? "Here's a convict, a horrid convict," cries she, "and invited to tea, an' that child a huggin' an' kissin' him, in cold blood! Lord! Lord! what _is_ the Parkers comin' to?" Here, unable further to pursue the fallen social fortunes of the house, Harmy covers her face with her checked apron and bursts into tears. Grieved at the discomfiture of her old servant and friend, Miss Parker essays a word of expostulation. She appeals to her hospitality, her humanity, reminds her of her professed discipleship of Him who "sat at meat" with the sinner. In vain! as well might she have addressed herself to Harmy's stone molasses jug, which, dropped from her grasp in the sudden shock of Peter's advent, now lies prone upon the kitchen floor. Foiled in her kindly endeavour, the mistress quietly withdraws. Harmy, left alone, sobs herself into a comparatively tranquil frame of mind. Coming to the rescue of her molasses jug, she carefully ascertains that no minute fracture is consequent upon the fall, and that no wasteful drop has exuded from the wooden stopper, and, forthwith, sets vigorously to, on a batch of soft gingerbread, whose manufacture had been interrupted by the entrance of Peter Floome. While she stirs her cake, Harmy sighs, and profoundly resolves in her mind "the fitnesses." In her social lexicon a convict is a vile wretch. In her catechism he is given over to damnation from the foundation of the world--God-devoted to the very devil himself!

Miss Paulina Parker, in her chamber, washes her hands, and also ponders the "fitnesses." This starved outcast is her brother. She has taken him by the hand. Christian ethics demonstrate the fitness of this act. The hand was, no doubt, dirty. Yet, what matters it? Soap and water set one right again. Soap and water tell, too, upon Peter Floome, when, after a characteristically superficial ablution, he emerges from Reuben's bedroom, a trifle improved in complexion, but still a sorry specimen of humanity, and, escorted by May-blossom, is whisked out-of-doors, on a hasty tour of inspection. Led by this happy little creature (now holding his hand, now dropping it to run on and, turning, take in his effect, and then skip gayly in advance), Peter visits the chicken-coop, the beehive, the flower garden, the stables, and the pig-pen, and, last of all, the apple orchard, now rosy-white with bloom.

There, reclined upon the grass, beneath the flowering boughs of a patriarch tree, Miss Paulina ere long comes upon the oddly matched pair. Peter, wreathed with buttercups and dandelions, and wearing his flowery honours like another "Bottom," sits beside his "Titania," who in fond infatuation "His amiable cheek doth coy."

"Pity," thinks the intruder, "to spoil so quaint a picture." The sun is, however, already low, and she calls her darling in from the dewfall. In the kitchen, Harmy has made reluctant preparations for Peter's inner man; grimly remarking to Mandy Ann (who has meantime returned from an errand at the store) that "it does go agin' her, to put on span clean table-cloths for sich creeturs, an' to waste good vittels where they can't no how be sensed." A convict being, at Mandy Ann's estimate, an ineligible, if not dangerous guest, as Peter and May-blossom enter at one door, she vanishes by another. Harmy dons her cape-bonnet, and marches stiffly into the kitchen garden, leaving the disreputable visitor to his child hostess.

Peter Floome had not figured at a tea-drinking for many a long year, and, naturally, his company manners are somewhat rusty. Possibly, his table etiquette (or, rather, his entire lack of it) might have shocked his too partial entertainer (who, with fine innate courtesy, has laid herself a cup and plate, and is keeping her guest in countenance by taking her own tea with him), had not his evident satisfaction in the meal entirely engrossed her mind, for (Harmy to the contrary, notwithstanding) Peter is inherently inclined to "sense good vittels." It is quaintly picturesque, this tea-drinking of "Bottom" and "Titania;" this odd contrast of loutishness and elegance, although (as I grieve to record) "Bottom" does absolutely ignore the butter-knife; does thrust his wet spoon into the sugar bowl; and, vigourously blowing his hot tea, in scorn of popular prejudice, lap the same from his slopping saucer, and shovel in the apple sauce with his knife-blade. "Titania's" pretty efforts to put "Bottom" at his ease are, indeed, a thing to behold; for, conscious of his own want of keeping with the unwonted occasion, Peter is, to the very last degree, awkward and abashed. Nevertheless, the encouraging smiles of his small hostess carry him victoriously to the end of this harrowing experience. Other social exigencies yet await this much-tried man. Directly after tea, he is taken by May-blossom to that inner sanctuary, Miss Parker's parlour, where, amid oppressively elegant surroundings, he is further weighed to earth by the disparaging sense of his own abjectness.

Prison life, on the solitary plan, is not conducive to colloquial glibness, nor is Peter Floome habitually garrulous. Many cups of Harmy's strong green tea have, however, limbered his tongue, and, once he is well seated, and has made a final, though terribly unsatisfactory, disposal of his long arms and obtrusive legs, he finds himself sufficiently at ease for narrative effort, and, at the request of his gracious hostess, wades desperately into his subject.

"I s'pose now, marm," he begins, "that you dun' know as my real name ain't Peter Floome. No more, either, does this pretty little creetur. The Ballous, you see (Ephryam Ballou's _my_ name), was allers stuck on theirselves, an' when it come to prison, I says to myself, anyhow, _I_ won't spile the fambly-tree, so I got put down anonermous-like on them prison books, an' Ephe Ballou ain't never been heerd on to the 'palace,' you bet. Its twenty-three years, come next fall, marm, sence I sot Hiram Hall's barn afire. I was mighty peppery in them days, an' Hiram an' me, we had a fallin' out. He served me darned mean, Hiram did, an' my dander was up an' so was his'n, an' we had it hot an' heavy, an' (savin' your presence, marm, an' hern) I told Hiram I'd give him h--l some day. After that, I cooled off some, and went home. I was pretty riley yit, though, an' all suppertime I sot thinkin' to myself how I'd come up with that d--d blasted sneak. That's what I called him then, marm, fur I'd had a leetle too much old cider, an' didn't feel like pickin' out my words. 'By jiminy!' says I to myself, 'I've got it now! I'll hide in Hiram's barn, an', when folks is turned in, I'll jest let the critters out, and set fire to the old shebang! That'll plague him fust-rate.' Well, arter supper, I sez to mother, sez I, 'I'm goin' to be out middlin' late to-night, mother, an' you better not set up for me. Put the key under the door-mat, an' I'll be all right,' sez I.

"Poor old mother!" continued Peter, reflectively, and lowering his voice. "Arter that I _was_ out; and a long while, too, an' she sot up fur me, mother did. Bless her patient old soul! Yes, yes, she sot up fur her bad boy jest five year an' six months, an' then her old heart broke, an' she turned in for good an' all, mother did, an' I couldn't so much as see her kivered up!"

Here Peter is fain to take breath and heart, and Miss Paulina (herself in tears) comforts May-blossom, who is sobbing aloud. After this pathetic interruption, Peter, apparently composed by a prolonged fit of sneezing, regains the thread of his narrative.

"'Scuse me, marm," he apologizes, "I b'leeve thinkin' o' mother I got a leetle grain ahead o' my story, but, as I sed, I'd made up my mind how to come up with Hiram, an' that night I got ahead on him sure afore he locked up, for there I was, stowed away in his haymow, as slick as grease! Well, jest as the Presberteren meetin'-house time struck 'leven, I crep' down to the stalls, turned out the cow an' the horse, an' druv 'em down to the medder lot; then I walked back, put a match er two under the mow, an' made tracks fer hum. Well," sighed Peter, "the rest on it's an ugly story, marm, an' p'r'aps you druther this innocent little creetur shouldn't hear it." May-blossom is now "all ears," and Miss Parker, signifying her assent, Peter goes on. "Well, 'bout 'leven the wind riz, an' afore that barn got well agoin' it blowed a perfect harrycane, an' them sparks was a flyin' like the mischief! 'Lord help us,' sez I, looking out my bedroom winder, 's'pos'n' it kerries 'em as fur's Hiram's house!' An' sure 'nuff, it _did_; an' it bein' a dry spell, the ruff blazed up like tinder! I was there in a jiffy, helpin' on' em git out the truck. I'd got all over my huff now. I was sober as a jedge, an' I'd' a' gin my head for a football to had that night's work undid! Well, there was lots o' furnitoor in the house, an' Hiram he was a graspin' man, an' bound to git the hull on it out, an' arter it got too hot fur the rest on us, he hung on, an'--well--the last time he went in, he _stayed_. Poor Hiram! I could e'en a'most have changed places with him; for arter _that_, I wa'n't no ways sot on livin'. I knowed I wa'n't nothin' less than a murderer, an' I wa'n't easy nowhere, 'specially to hum, where mother was round, settin' as much store by me as ever. Well, by'm by, when folks got wind o' my havin' a spat with Hiram, an' his owin' on me, they put this an' that together, an' I was took up for arson; an' I can't say as I was sorry, neither.

"Well, to make short on't, I was nigh about hung; but the governor, he stepped in at the last minnit, an' sent me to State Prison for life. When it come to that pass, 'I won't disgrace the fam'ly,' sez I. 'The Ballous figgered pooty well in the revelooshing,' sez I, 'an' that name sha'n't never be writ in the prison 'count book, ef I kin hinder it.' So, es I've told you, marm, I had myself writ down as Peter Floome. I hadn't no nigh relations 'cept mother and sister Betsy. Uncle George's family'd settled in Illi_noise_, an' we didn't hear from 'em once in a dog's age. Betsy was a young gal then an' had a beau. She was allus pooty toppin', an' sez I, 'it don't stan' to reason she'll be comin' to the State Prison to see her _own_ brother; but there's mother,' sez I, '_she'll_ come reg'lar, I reckon; same's she did to the _jail_;' so I writ her a letter, an' gin her word how I was, an' who she must ask arter in case she come. Bless her dear old soul!

"The very next Friday, there she was on the spot! Arter that, reg'lar as clock work, once in three months, rain or shine, there was mother!

"Mothers, you see, marm, never misses. Wives, an' sisters, an' children, now an' then do keep up to the mark, but mothers, on the hull, is about the only reg'lar prison stan'bys. Well, mother sot a good deal o' store by me, an' when I see her gittin' thin, I knowed what fretted her, an' sez I to myself, 'she won't hold out forever, an' when she's gone, the Lord help _me_!'

"Well," continued Peter, huskily, "by'm by she _went_, mother did; but (dropping his voice to a confidential whisper) mothers is master hands to hang on, an' no mistake! An' sure's you're 'live, ef she didn't keep right on with them visits! jest as reg'lar as ef nothin' hed turned up! Ev'ry time the quarter come round, on a Friday night, jest as the clock struck one, there stood mother, large as life, at the gratin' o' my cell. She never once opened her head; but, when I see her stan' there so smilin' an' pleasant, I sez to myself, 'she's done frettin', anyhow;' an', though I warn't never no great hand at prayin', I _did_ thank God for _that_. I never let on 'bout them visits, for 'bout that time things got pesky upside down with me, an' the boys they used to say, 'Peter's cranky.' 'So,' sez I, 'ef I was to tell 'um, they wouldn't none on 'em b'leeve me.' An' I jest kep' dark, an' year arter year mother come reg'lar, an' we had it all to ourselves. By'm by Hiram, _he_ come. Not reg'lar, like mother did, but off an' on. Well, ghosts is poor company, marm; an' arter a while I got clean upsot, and wa'n't wurth an old shoe.

"But I'm gittin' kinder ahead o' my story. Arter mother died, Betsy she thawed out some, an' come to see me twice, an' then she got married an' went to Californy. She writ one or two letters to me an' I answered 'em punctooal, but by'm by she left off writin', an' I knew _she'd_ gin me up. An' then I got sorter cross-grained an' callous; an' sez I to myself, 'what's the odds anyhow, it can't last to all etarnity; an' by'm by I'll go out o' this, feet fust, an' I hope 't 'ill be the last o' me.'"

"But Peter, my poor fellow," piously interposes Miss Parker, "you read the Bible sometimes, I trust, and found some comfort there; you couldn't have doubted God's providence, all His blessed promises to the penitent and believing soul?"

"Why, yes'm," responds Peter; "I read my Bible _some_, purty reg'lar, too, 'long at fust; an' mother bein' a church-member, I was brung up to set on providence 'en sich like; but them promises you tell on works best outside o' prisons; an' 'long 'bout the time I got upsot, I'd gin up readin' even in the Bible; for 't wa'n't no use; the letters all stood wrong eend up. I _did_ hang on to providence a spell, but by 'm by, I see _that_ wa'n't no use, nuther. 'Providence,' sez I, 'don't take no 'count o' _me_, an' I may as well try to jog along on my own hook.'

"Well, finally, I was took down with roomatic fever, an' went into the hospital a spell; an' arter I got round agin, I wa'n't strong enough to go back to the shoe shop, an' the doctor said a change would set me up agin. Twelve year I'd ben a workin' there at the same bench, an' one day exactly like t'other, till it 'peared to me as ef I was a sewin' one 'tarnal everlastin' shoe, over an' over, an' back an' forth, an' no mortal hope o' comin' to the eend on't in this world or next. An' when they sot me to runnin' arrants in the prison, an' doin' chores fur the warden's folks, I was mighty glad, I tell you! An' things kinder got right eend up agin. 'T wa'n't long arter that, afore this dear little creetur come to town. Children _air_ strange now, ain't they, marm? Would you b'leeve that, afore that child could set alone, she took a reg'lar shine to _me_! I _was_ beat, I tell you! An' when I felt them two little arms 'round my old neck, things somehow lifted up like; an' though I didn't go to prayer-meetin', and didn't ezackly git religin, as some on 'em do, I took a reg'lar hitch on to the Almighty; 'fur,' sez I, 'it's right down handsome in Him to send a blessed little angel to sich a place as this.' Fur she was a reg'lar angel to us, a growin' up there, so innocent, purty an' lovin'; an' she did our souls a heap more good than all the chaplain's Sunday sermons; an' when the boss got killed, an' you took her off, it seemed as ef there wa'n't nothin' left. I s'pose I took on, to myself, a leetle too hard, fur arter I'd had one or two poor spells, the doctor he overhauled me, an' I heered him say there was trouble with the heart; an' sez I to myself, 'you're right there _is_!' Next day as I was cleanin' up his office, the warden asked me 'bout my folks; an' how long I'd ben to the prison, an' how long I'd got to stay, an' so I told him, nigh as I could, the hull story, 'cept 'at I didn't let on 'bout mother, an' them reg'lar visits. He wouldn't 'a' b'leeved me, you see, an' besides, I never did like to let on much about _her_.

"Well, that was long in the neighbourhood o' Fast Day; an' now an' then on holidays, marm, as p'r'aps you know, the gov'nor makes a p'int to pardon a prisoner; an' when the warden gits up them days in chapel, with a paper in his hand, we know what's comin', an' some hearts there gives awful thumps, I tell you! There's lots of 'em, you see, has hopes, havin' folks a tryin' fur 'em outside, or bein' took up by the prayer-meetin' or the inspectors; but I hadn't eny hopes; so that day when the warden riz, with his pardon, an' begun to make a speech, I sot there as unconcerned as ever.

"'Twenty-two years ago,' sez he, 'one of your number in a state of intoxication committed a great crime, an' was sentenced for life to this prison. Durin' these twenty-two years,' sez he, 'he hain't sot foot outside these walls; an' durin' the hull o' that time,' sez he, 'he hain't once ben reported for bad conduct. In his sober moments he's allers ben sorry fur his crime,' sez he, 'an' now he's a worn-out old man, an' I have spoken in favour of his pardon. His name,' sez he, 'is Peter Floome.'

"By the Moses, marm! when I heerd _my_ name called, ef I wa'n't beat! Well, I riz up to go forrard. My knees was mighty shaky, an' the chapel was spinnin' round like sixty. I heerd 'em clappin' on me, an' then, well, that pardon was a leetle too much for me; an' I jest up an' fainted dead away. Arter a spell they brung me to; an' arter riggin' me out in a bran-new coat an' weskitt an' trowsis, they brung me into the guard-room. Well, there was the warden, the chaplain, an' the deputy, an' lots o' folks, an' all as smilin' as a basket o' chips. Lots on 'em shook hands with me, an' wished me joy. A tall man in a long, black coat, an' green specs, was a stannin' along side o' the warden. He was powfell glad to see me, an' gin me lots o' good advice (out o' the Scriptures, I should say), though I didn't ezackly sense, bein' cumflustered like. Arter that, I got leave to say good-by to some o' the boys; an' then the warden he sent fur me to come into his office, an' there was two of the inspectors, an' the chaplain, an' the State agent, an' the chap in the long coat an' the goggles, as big as life.

"Well, each on 'em talked a spell to me, an' treated me, on the hull, I should say, considerable han'some. An' the tall man he gin some more d'rections 'bout my behaviour. Some on it, I took it, was his own words, an' some on 't was Bible, an' sounded mighty han'some. The State agent he gin me the four dollars a comin' to me from the State; an' sez he, 'when you've made up your mind what you're goin' to do, come to my office, Peter, en I'll do what I kin fer ye.' An' arter he'd gin me a card with the street an' number o' his place on 't, I shook hands all round agin, an' off I goes. Lord bless you! Marm, when I gits outside that prison ef I ain't e'en a'most as helpless as a baby! an' where to go to, or how to go at all, is more'n _I_ knowed! Howsumdever, I kinder scooted off, best way I could; for thinks I, I'll git over to Boston and put up to a tavern there, where folks don't know me, an' 't won't leak out 'bout my havin' ben in prison. So I goes on, an' arter I turned the corner, an' got into another street, an' walked on a piece, somebody steps up behind me, an' teches me on the shoulder. 'Lord,' thinks I, 'what _is_ comin' now!' but I jest turned round square ter face the music; an' who should I see but Mr. Holt, my old instructor in the shoe shop! An' sez he, 'Peter,' sez he, 'I want you to go 'long o' me. You'll make a poor fist on 't jest now, goin' round streets alone. You come to my house a spell,' sez he. I _was_ glad, I tell you, marm. Well, I staid to his house three weeks in all, an' durin' that time got sorter steady in my head, an' used ter goin' round loose.

"Well, arter goin' to his office five times, I ketched the State agent in, one day. He knew me right off, like a book; but he was awful busy, an' couldn't talk to me but a minute. I told him I had a own uncle an' some fust cousins out to Illi_noise_, an' I reckoned I'd go out there an' stay a spell, ef he'd a mind to put me through. Sez he, 'I can send you as fur as Buffalo, Peter, an' arter you git there, you'll mebbe git a job an' make enough to carry you on to your folks. The West'll be the makin' on you. It's the very place for you convicts,' sez he. So he gin me a ticket, an' hustled me off.

"Well, I went home to Mr. Holt's, an' we talked it over, that night, an' next day he went to Boston with me an' clean over to the deep_ott_ to put me into the right keer, an', arter thankin' on him a thousand times, I set out for Buffalo. But, Lord a massy, marm! how them keers does scoot! It's 'nuff to take away your breath--to say nothin' o' yer senses. Arter a while we come to a stop an' I wa'n't a bit sorry. 'I'll git off a spell,' sez I, 'an' kinder stiddy my head, an' stretch my legs, while the ingine's restin'.' The railroad hedn't come our way till arter I was shet up, so I was middlin' clumsy round keers, an' goin' down them pesky high steps, I gin my left ankle a turn, an' out it goes! I sot down a minnit; folks was goin' an' comin', but nobody twigged me. Arter a spell, I riz up, an' hobbled inside the deep_ott_ buildin', an' jest as I was takin' off my shoe an' stockin' to look at the damage, that plaggy keer-man blowed his whistle, an' afore you could say Jack Robinson, off went them divilish keers, an' me left in the lurch, with a ticket that sez '_good for this trip only_!' 'O Lord,' sez I, 'what _shall_ I do! Fust thing,' sez I, 'I'll count my cash;' so I took out my little wallet, an' there was the four dollars 'at the State agent 'lowed me, an' ten dollars 'at Mr. Holt gin me the day I cum off.

"Well, arter I thought it over, I put on my shoe and stockin', an' sung out to a feller who 'peared to be hangin' 'round for a job, an', sez I, 'Mister, this here ankle's awful; an' I'll be obleeged to you, ef you'll take me to the tarvern; an' mebbe, as we go 'long, you wouldn't mind stoppin' at the 'poth'cary shop to let me git a bottle o' Opedildock?'

"Well, to git to the eend o' my long story, that ankle, marm, laid me up a hull week; an', by the time I got round agin, my cash was 'bout gone. My ticket wa'n't no arthly valloo, nuther. So I gin up Illinoise, paid the damages to the tarvern, bought a lot o' crackers an' cheese, an' sot out on my travels, dead broke. I guess 't wa'n't more'n ten miles from Boston where I bust my ankle; but I made up my mind not to ask no questions, fur, sez I, 'Peter, 't won't do to show your ignorance, ef you do 't may leak out 'bout the prison.'

"Fust, I thought I'd look 'round for a job; but I _dursn't_, fur folks would naterly want to know where I come from, an' ef the boys got wind o' my bein' a convict, they'd prob'ly holler arter me, an' p'rhaps set the dogs on me. So I jest shet my head tight, an' sot out.

"I'd ben travellin' 'bout two days when my grub gin out, an', long in the arternoon o' the third day, I come in sight o' this here buildin'. Thinks I ter myself, 'I can't drag on much furder, anyhow, an' it does look mighty pooty there in that green lot with the yallar buttercups a bloomin' all round. I reckon I better tumble over them bars,' sez I, 'an' lay down a spell under that big warnut tree. Mebbe,' sez I, 'I sha'n't git up in a hurry (fur I was clean beat out), but 't ain't no matter,' sez I, 'there's folks close by, an' when my troubles is over, they'll find me layin' a top o' the buttercups, an' they can't do no less'n put me _under_ 'em.' You see, marm, livin' behind the bars, a feller gits shaky on Providence, and I didn't once suspicion 'at Providence was bringin' me to the right shop; 'at I was makin' a bee-line fur the only creetur in the hull world 'at wouldn't turn the cold shoulder on me. So, when I clim over them bars, I couldn't (beggin' the Almighty's pardon) ha' flipped a cent fer my miserable old life. When I laid down under the warnut tree, I felt kinder drowsy-like, an' so I shet my eyes; but the birds, they was singin' like all possessed, an' the grass smelt sweet as new butter, an' I hadn't seen a mowin' lot risin' o' twenty year. So I riz up on my elbow, to take a squint 'round, an' there, not more'n ten rods off, I seed this blessed little angel a pickin' buttercups. She'd grown, marm, but I knowed her, fur all that, the minnit I sot eyes on her. 'T ain't nateral I _shouldn't_, when there ain't another like her in God's world. Yes, I knowed her, an' she knowed me, she did, though when I sot straight up, an' kinder coughed, she gin a leetle start. An' then I sez to myself, 'O Lord! she's goin' to run away! As sure as the world, she's afeared of her poor old Peter, 'at used to tote her in his arms!' But she didn't _run_. She jest turned round an' gin me a good look, an' then she claps her two hands, she does, an' sez she, 'Peter! Peter! it _is_ Peter!' an' runs straight up to me, with her cheeks as pink as roses, an' puts her two arms 'round my miser'ble old neck. An' then, marm, I broke right down, an' cried like a baby. But I didn't want to make her pooty little heart ache, so I wiped up, an' told her all 'bout the pardon, an' 'bout the folks over to the 'palace' (that's _our_ name, marm, for the prison), an' it 'peared to me she'd never git through askin' questions 'bout one or 'nother, for bein' brung up in the prison, she kinder took to us, though we do seem poor shucks to _you_, I reckon. Use is everything, an' no matter how bad convicts is, they all sot the world by _her_. Well, arter we'd talked a spell, an' I'd et a hunk o' gingerbread she gin me, I perked up, an' told her I'd go along home with her; 'fur,' sez I, 'I _can't_ leave her now, nohow. I've ben starvin' too long for the sight on her,' sez I. So here I am, marm, an' you know the rest.

"Mebbe you'd know some place 'round here where I could do chores for my vittels, or p'r'aps you'd giv' me a job yourself, an then I'd git a look at this little creetur every day, sartin sure. 'Scuse me, marm, ef I make too free ('Titania' had crept close to Bottom and was fondly stroking his hand); but I kerried her in my arms a long spell, an' habit's second natur."

Peter's long story concluded, Miss Paulina kindly assured him that he should not yet be sent far away from his pretty nursling. Already, she had determined where to bestow him for the night. In the rambling old garden stood a small, nondescript erection, supposed to have served, in remote times, as a summer-house, and though now appropriated to the safe-keeping of garden tools, still weather-tight and easily convertible into a sleeping-place, for an unambitious guest. With this energetic lady, to will was to do. And, with the help of Reuben's strong arm, and the half-reluctant aid of Mandy Ann, who had consented to leave for a time the sheltering four walls of her attic bedroom, the tool-house was cleared up and made clean. A light cot-bed was conveyed hither, and duly furnished for Peter's occupancy, and, with his last lingering look devouring May-blossom, he was escorted by Reuben to his new quarters. There, a cup of hot coffee, a generous plate of biscuits, and a clean nightcap awaited him. And, installed in these comparatively elegant lodgings, we leave him to sound sleep, and happy dreams.

Harmy's pet bantam had long since crowed in a new day, and Harmy herself had been two full hours astir, when Peter Floome, rubbing his old eyes, awoke from untroubled slumber. Essaying to rise, and with one foot already planted on the floor, he becomes painfully aware of his inability to do so. A small, round table, the summer-house settee, and chairs reel tipsily in their places. The diamond-paned window wavers before his eyes, the very walls of the apartment seem like--

"The ancient House of Usher,
Tottering to their fall,"

and, catching the general impulse, he, too, lets go his centre of gravity, and falls fainting across the bed. Half an hour later, Peter awakes to conscious life, and an overwhelming smell of camphor. Harmy Patterson, not without evidence of strong repulsion, bends desperately over him. Her expression, in the main, is that of solemn determination. She is "bringing him to." This accomplished, she stiffly beckons to Reuben (who stands "watching afar off"), and, signifying her desire to wash her hands of this disreputable patient, commits Peter to his care, and grimly retires.

Miss Paulina is hastily interviewed, and informed of the convict's "faint spell," and his subsequent "bringin' to." And Harmy, forthwith, expresses her decided conviction that "it's ketchin', an' she shouldn't a bit wonder if the hull family was took down with it," and, furtively suggesting the "poorhouse," she withdraws to the more momentous concerns of her kitchen. There she sends cold shivers down Mandy Ann's back, by a recountal of the late occurrence. "I hain't," she declares, "had a wink of sleep the whole blessed night, a thinkin' of that horrid convict, an' not knowin' what might happen, with sich creeturs 'round. At four o'clock I come down and went into the garden to settle my mind, an' pull a few cherry reddishes for breakfast. I jest stepped down to the summer-house a minute, to take a good look 'round, and there was the door wide open!"

Feelin' (as she averred) in her bones that the creetur might ha' gone off in the night with the pillow-case and towels in his trowsers' pocket, she had (to make assurance doubly sure) stepped over the threshold, with them cherry reddishes in her apron, an' her heart a beatin' like a mill-clapper. And, raisin' her two hands, she had let go her apron, an' them reddishes had gone rollin' every which way, while she gin such a screech that Reuben heered it, way off in the cow-yard, and nigh about jumped out of his skin. The hired man arriving on the scene, she had said, "Reuben, is he gone?" and, loosing his shirt collar, Reuben had made answer, "Gone? no, he's alive an' kickin', you bet. Run git the camfire, Harmy, an' don't disturb the folks. _You'll_ fetch him 'round ef ennybody kin." How her camfire, strong enough to bear up an egg, had at length brung the miser'ble creetur round, to give 'em all some dretful sickness he'd ketched, etc., etc.

Mandy Ann's fascinated attention, and her lively alternations of horror and surprise during the above recital, this feeble pen may not describe. Miss Paulina, meantime, visiting the summer-house, detects no evidence of fever in Peter's system, and is convinced that the poor body's ailment is not, as Harmy opines, "ketchin'." Kindly looking after his comfort, she relieves Reuben's watch, and forthwith despatches him for Doctor Foster, who in due time looks in upon the strange patient, and pronounces his sudden illness an attack of heart disease. "Twenty-two years of hopeless toil," declares the good doctor, "short commons, and vitiated air, have damaged the poor human machine beyond repair; and, though it may run a while longer, don't be surprised if it stops any day, and without notice." The doctor rides away on his morning round; Miss Paulina gives May-blossom her late breakfast, and, with many careful admonitions, allows her to go to Peter, who now--tolerably recovered--"is receiving" in an old Boston rocker, hunted up for his special use; and in which, sitting bolt upright, he rocks with indescribable relish, assuring May-blossom that "it's the very spawn o' mother's own rockin'-cheer, an' makes him feel as ef he was right in the old chimbly corner, to hum."

While Peter rocks and chats with his little visitor, the good lady of the house, turning over his affairs in her mind, thus soliloquises: "Poor creature, as Doctor Foster says, he'll not trouble any one long. He loves my precious child. Why should I part the two?--both, alas! going the same sad road. The summer-house could easily be made habitable. He could live there, quite by himself--at least till cold weather sets in. The cost of his maintenance I can well spare from my abundance. The neighbours, to be sure, will object; and there's Harmy to be reconciled; but what is to become of the forlorn, shelterless creature, if I turn my back on him? What indeed (with a resolute nod, and thinking aloud)! My mind is made up. He shall stay. Right is right. One is sure of that; and Providence takes care of the rest."

In accordance with this resolve, Peter Floome, that very day, goes to housekeeping. A Lilliputian laundry-stove, with an improvised flue, is set up in the summer-house by the tinman. An old cupboard, _vis-a-vis_ with the stove, is scoured, and well stocked with provisions and cooking utensils, and a sufficiency of homely table and other furniture is placed at his disposal; and Peter literally groans under "an embarrassment of riches." A box of coal is also appropriated to his use, and, when he receives permission to chop for himself unlimited kindlings from Miss Paulina's teeming woodpile, tears of grateful joy trickle down the worn old cheeks of Peter Floome. From the luxurious depths of his Boston rocker, he watches dazedly these munificent preparations for his housekeeping, declaring over and over to May-blossom (who is in an equal state of delight), that "this does beat the Dutch, an' he never, an' it's jest like bein' took up by one o' them fairy godmothers in the story-book!" But when actually _measured_ by the Saganock tailor, he is subsequently arrayed in a pair of trousers, cut with especial reference to his own clumsy legs, and a coat which, though coarse and homely, has not been fashioned without some slight reference to the dimensions of its wearer; a bran-new necktie, and a decent straw hat, not to mention a clean print shirt (of the latter, there is a magnificent reserve of five others, equally new and clean), his admiration and wonderment, and May-blossom's pride in him, are absolutely indescribable. Even Harmy herself, softened by this metamorphosis of the fairy godmother, becomes distantly amicable, scarcely recognising in this decent old body the objectionable being of her sometime suspicion and aversion. After the lapse of an entire week, she grimly remarks to Reuben that "she hain't missed nothin' yit, tho', to be sure, its awful resky havin' sich creeturs 'round."

Peter Floome, though he takes a whole bottle of Doctor Foster's drops, never quite rallies from that first grave attack of his fatal disease. May-blossom, too, is more ailing. Peter's advent at the homestead, with its attendant excitement, has been too much for the delicate little frame. Already those deceitful tokens of convalescence, so cheering to Miss Paulina's heart, have disappeared. Before the summer roses go, it is plain to all, that, ere long, death will claim for his own this bud that "never will become a rose."

Miss Paulina hears the graveyard pines wailing in weary monotone, while, gliding serenely beneath the sapphire heaven of June, the river repeats the mournful undersong. Alas, and alas, that ever life, and death, and true love should dwell side by side in this goodly world! Faithful old Peter, never wearying in his love-labour, bears hither and thither, in careful arms, the wasted young form, now too feeble to bear its own light weight. On pleasant days he conveys it tenderly from couch to garden. For it is still May-blossom's delight to swing dreamily in a low hammock, hung from the stout boughs of two gigantic elms, sometimes thinking to herself, oftener confiding her innocent dreams to Peter, or Miss Paulina. Often her thought goes back to the gray old prison. Loving memories of her child-life, and tender reminiscences of shabby old friends in that dreary abode, are still with her. To this young, gladsome creature, not yet replete with its sweet new wine, existence is still infinitely dear; and, though Death is coming, she does not hasten to meet him, but, turning her face lifeward, lives (as in God's mercy it befalls many a dying one to live) in the sweet, brief to-day. And well it is, for the coffin and the tomb, even to the "life undone," are not things to brood upon.

While Peter Floome, armed and equipped with a splint fly-brush of his own clumsy manufacture, presides, dragon-like, over the out-door siestas of his enchanted princess, the summer grows old, and it behooves us to look after the ex-convict's housekeeping. Harmy Patterson, has, to be sure, anticipated us, and, as a result of her observations, has long since averred that "it's awful to see that man mess 'round, an' spill grease on the summer-house floor!" And, indeed, even to the unprejudiced eye, it is painfully apparent that Nature, in fashioning Peter Floome, had not in her "mind's eye" a cook, or a housewife, or even a scullion. Although no one could be more willingly helpful, he is so clumsy of touch at all indoor employment, save the gentle tendance of May-blossom, that one half inclines to the fantastic supposition that this exceptional aptness may be the result of some preexistent experience of Peter as child's-nurse.

Peter's gentle inoffensiveness, his ever-respectful deference to Harmy's wishes, and Harmy's judgment, and, above all, his idolatrous devotion to "that blessed lamb, May-blossom," bid fair, at last, to overcome even Harmy's social prejudices. One morning, when the poor man is ailing, and for a day or two has been "sloppy, poky, and messy," beyond his wont, the good woman is encountered by Miss Parker on her way to the summer-house, bearing a breakfast-tray, fit to serve a king. Colouring, as if detected in some covert derogatory act, Harmy apologetically observes that, "when folks is sick, you can't stan' by an' see 'em suffer, an what_ever_ they air, dropped eggs, an' muffins, an' broma'll do 'em no harm. As for men-folks," asserts she, "they never _be_ fit to cook an' do for theirselves, an' p'r'aps, arter all, 'twould be a savin' to the family ef she was to see to his vittels right along."

In these frugal and humane sentiments her mistress hastily concurs; and, henceforth, Harmy _does_ "see to his vittels;" thereby vastly bettering the sanitary condition of poor Peter, whose "messes," whatever other excellence they may boast, are _not_ anti-dyspeptic. Peter, like most of his sex, especially open to the seductions of the cuisine, is deeply impressed with the domestic worth of his caterer, and, in confidential discourse with Reuben, admiringly observes that "Miss Patterson's cookin' does beat the Dutch; an' for scourin' a floor he never see her ekal; an' ef she'd 'a' got hitched in her younger days, what a wife she'd 'a' made!"

Having thus put Peter's kitchen to rights, Harmy suggests to herself the practicability of correcting a certain irregularity in his conduct, "which has (as she expresses it) ben a weighin' on her mind quite a spell."

As this is a reform not to be undertaken lightly or single-handed, she determines to make an alliance with Reuben; and to this effect, one moonlight evening when the two are quite alone, she takes the hired man into her confidence. "For," says the good woman, "I put it to you, now, an' bein' old enough to be your mother, sich things is no harm between us, Reuben. I put it to you, ef it don't seem scand'lus for a man to ondress, an' git into bed with his door wide open, an' a decent woman overlookin' on him from her bedroom winder? To be sure, I never once turn my eyes his way, but I can't help sensin' on it, an' 's true's you're alive, Reuben, ef he don't sleep there night arter night, with his door stretched, right afore my face!"

"P'r'aps he wants air," pleads Reuben, in excuse.

"Then why on airth," returns Harmy, "don't he open his winder! Now, Reuben, to please me, do go this very night an' shet that door. Ef folks don't know what manners is, it's best to give 'em a hint, _I_ say, an', ten to one, he won't be the wiser fur it till mornin', fur, to my knowledge, he's been abed a hull hour by the kitchen clock."

Thus urgently besought, and willing to oblige, Reuben steps gingerly down the garden path, and, reassured by the heavy snores within, softly closes the summer-house door. He is about to retrace his steps when, bounce upon the floor, comes Peter Floome! Open goes the door with a bang, and a voice, so energetically fierce that Reuben turns upon his heel to assure himself that the speaker is really Peter, angrily exclaims, "No, you _don't_, now! Hain't I ben shet up like a dog in a kennel night arter night fur twenty-two year, say? An' what the d--l's the use o' pardonin' a man out, ef you can't give him the swing o' his own bedroom door?"

Reuben, who relishes a bit of humour, details to his mistress, on the morrow, this unsuccessful attempt of Harmy to compel Peter's respect to the proprieties. Miss Paulina, kindly wise, decides in favour of the open door, and thereafter, Peter, like "him that hath the key of David, openeth, and no man shutteth." The intense satisfaction of this cell-worn creature in his open door is, indeed, a thing to contemplate, and, touched, no doubt, by the homely pathos of the bowed, motionless figure sitting (often far into the night) in his low doorway, bathed in the tender beauty of the summer moonlight, or sharply projected on the darkness in momentary silhouette, by lurid flashes of summer lightning, Harmy herself is at length modified, and tacitly condones Peter's bold breach of decorum.