That Little Girl of Miss Eliza's Part 3

During July, Eliza had prefaced the duties of each morning with the reflection, "Her own kin will come for her before the week is out."

During August, she changed her views. "'Tain't likely they'll come this week. The weather is so uncertain. There might be a downpour any hour."

But it was not until September set fairly in that the hope was fixed.

She grew fearful that they would come. Her anxious eyes followed every strange vehicle which came down the road. She gave a sigh of relief when it pa.s.sed her door.

"We'll have a nice winter together-Beth and me. 'Hain't likely that they'll come at winter time."

So she satisfied her longings and kept the child with her.

CHAPTER IV.

The months pa.s.sed. Before Eliza was aware of it, the winter had pa.s.sed.

They had been strange months, filled with new experiences to the woman.

When twilight fell, Beth had always crawled up into her lap and, snuggling close, demanded a story.

Eliza had never been fed on stories. She knew absolutely nothing about them. She had never tried to make up any, for the demand for them had never come.

"Tory, Adee. Tory, Adee." There was no resisting that little appeal.

There could be no denial for the tender caressing hands, and the sweet rose-bud mouth.

"What shall I tell about?" asked Eliza pausing for a time.

"Anyfing. F'owers what talk and tell tories; efefants, and Santa Claus and fings like that."

Eliza gasped for breath. Flowers were the only things she knew about.

She did her best with the material on hand. She told a story of a poppy which was proud and haughty because its gown was gay and because it stood high above the other flowers. In its pride it ignored the humble, modest little violet which could barely raise its head above the sod.

But when the second morning had come, the petals of the poppy lay scattered. Its glory was gone; but the violet yet smiled up from its lowly place and gave color to all about it.

"I's booful, Adee. Tell me-a more one."

Eliza put her off. One story at bed time was quite enough. A strange sensation of thrills had gone through her body while the story had been growing. She had never believed herself capable of anything half so fine. She had created something. The sensation of power was tingling through every nerve and muscle. She did not know it; neither did the child whose eyelids were closing in slumber; but with this experience she had crawled from the sh.e.l.l of dead customs, hide-bound, worn-out ideas and laws. There had been a real self hidden away for many years.

It had never found a way for self-expression until now.

The black silk gown had undergone renovation since the day of the accident. A new sleeve had replaced the torn one, and the torn breadth in the skirt had been hidden by a broad fold. It was quite as good as ever.

The first time Eliza put it on, Beth took exception to it. The child stood in the middle of the room at a distance from her foster-parent, and could not be induced to come near her.

"Ug-e, ug-e dwess. Baby don't like ug-e dwess."

"Don't you like Adee's Sunday dress?" asked Eliza. The child shook her head to and fro, and persisted in calling it "ug-e dwess".

"Then I shall wear another," said Eliza. She made her way upstairs and Beth toddled after her. Going to the closet, the child began to tug and pull at a cheap little gown of dimity. Eliza had paid a s.h.i.+lling a yard for it the season before and had made it for "comfort". But she could not keep the artist soul from showing in it any more than she could keep it from showing in the living room and gardens. The neck was just a little low and the sleeves reached just to the elbow. The ground was white with sprigs of pale pink roses scattered over it.

"Pitty dwess-pitty dwess," Beth kept repeating. To please her, Eliza took it down and put it on. She looked at herself in the mirror and was better pleased with what she saw than she had been with the reflection of the black-robed figure. While she was dressing, Beth danced about her, exclaiming with delight at her pretty lady and the pretty dress.

So two things became fixed habits in the new household,-a story before bedtime and the pretty dresses in place of black.

So the year pa.s.sed. The Jersey cow, the chickens, the vegetables from the summer provided for their needs. They needed little money. Wood was supplied from the trees on Eliza's land.

Beth needed clothes; but her dresses were yet so small that little material was needed, and the shoes were so tiny that they cost but little.

Eliza made the little dresses. She went to the Bend for patterns and material. She even bought a book of styles to see how a child should be dressed. When she sat in the big living room with needle and thread, Beth sat beside her sewing diligently at doll clothes, or cutting fantastic shapes out of paper.

Beth quite fell in love with the pictures in the fas.h.i.+on plates and selected the finest ones of all as Adee.

"'Is is Adee and 'is is Adee," she would repeat again and again, laying her finger on the representations of splendid womanhood shown on the pages.

Eliza began to look beyond the year. She felt now that no one would ever claim Beth. She would have the child always. She was glad of that. She would need money to educate her. She would need more each year as the child grew older. So she watched the pennies closely. She wore shabby gloves all year in order to lay the money by.

"We'll both need new clothes by summer time," she told herself.

"There'll not be much. We'll get along on little."

Indeed they needed little. The people about them had enough to keep them warm-and no more. So Eliza and the little girl needed, for the time, only necessities. The flowers which filled the bay windows; the great fire-place with its burning, snapping logs; Old Jerry, the cat, who made up the domestic hearth; Shep, the dog, who played guard to them, and the stories at twilight were sufficient to develop the cultural, sentimental side of life.

During the winter, few callers came. The roads were not good. Sometimes for days the drifts would fill them. It was impossible to go out at night, for no way was lighted. There were services of some kind each Sunday morning; Sunday-school and prayer meeting combined. Twice a month the supply minister came from one of the adjoining towns and held regular services, yet in spite of being alone, these two were never lonely.

The following summer, Eliza found that she would find an unexpected expense in her household account. The sugar box was emptied more quickly than ever before. Sometimes, she would fill a sugar bowl after the midday meal and would find it empty before supper time.

Yet Beth did not care for sugar. She would not touch it in her victuals, if it were there in sufficient amount to be noticeable.

One afternoon, Eliza found Beth standing on a chair before the shelf which bore the household supplies. Her little fists were crammed with sugar.

"What are you doing with it, Beth?" asked Eliza.

"I'se feed'n em. Ey wikes it. Tome and see."

She made her way out the back door, crossed the yard and garden to where, at the border of the woodland, was a slight elevation.

Eliza followed. The slopes of the hill were alive with ants hurrying to and fro, each carrying a burden. Round about the entrance to the ant hills, Beth had made a circle of sugar.

"Ey wike it so. Ey is so very hungry." Eliza did not scold her. She herself had been repressed along such lines when she was a child.

Although she had long since forgotten the experience, the sympathy and understanding still remained with her.

Later she explained to Beth about not helping herself from the household store. She compromised, however, by promising to fill, and place where Beth could reach it, a small tin cup of sugar with which to feed the ants for the day.

Two years pa.s.sed in such fas.h.i.+on. There came a time when Beth was undoubtedly of school age. The towns.h.i.+p school was a mile or more from the old Wells place.

Eliza thought little of that. A mile meant little to one accustomed to walking. She remembered something of the conditions of the school in her own childhood. She herself had been of such a nature that she had not been contaminated. Her presence had repudiated all that was not pure and fine. From the standpoint of a woman, she saw the matters in a different light. She visited the school several times. Forty children were packed in one small room. There were cla.s.ses from primary to grammar grades.

The poor little tots in the chart cla.s.s sat on hard seats until their backs ached. At recess and noon-almost all carried their dinners-they were turned out to play without restraint, the rough and boisterous with the gentle and timid, the vicious and unruly of older age with the tractable little folks whose minds were as a sheet of clean paper upon which no impression had been made.

Miss Eliza decided then that that particular school was not what she wished for the little girl she was to train for womanhood. For some months, she had learned all she could of new methods of teaching. For the first time in her life, she knew that the A, B, C's were out of date and that children were taught after a different fas.h.i.+on.

The school at the Bend had grown during the last five years. A supervisor with new ideas, and trained progressive teachers were making the grades equal to the best in the country. Eliza had heard of the work. Because she was interested, she had questioned and investigated.