The Opened Shutters Part 13

"To-day--to-night?" eagerly.

He nodded. "We may as well go to Portland to-night as to stay here.

Then we'll go to the farm to-morrow."

Sylvia took his hand in both hers and looked earnestly into his eyes.

"Forgive me," she begged.

"For what?"

"For being so--so snippy when I first came into the room; for not believing in you, nor wanting you."

Cousin Jacob took her chin in his hard hand and his s.h.i.+ning gaze met hers.

"You weren't thinking right, Sylvia. Oughtn't it to make you easier on other folks? Other folks who didn't know you, who didn't believe in you, who didn't want you? They weren't thinking right, and they suffered for it afterward just as we all do. You'd have been kind to your Cousin Jacob in the end, anyway. They'd have been kind in the end to their niece. I saw you weren't glad to see me. I might have picked up my grip and left"--

"Oh, I'm so glad you didn't. I'm so glad you didn't! You'll wait while I pack?"

He patted her shoulder. "Yes, oh, yes. I'll wait."

CHAPTER VII

THE MILL FARM

Sylvia's sleep that night in Portland was profound. A sense of peace and safety had grown upon her from the time she took the train out of Boston with her new companion; and the next morning she awoke refreshed, in a chamber filled with sunlight.

She dressed and went down to the dining-room of the boarding-house where they were staying, and found her cousin standing by the window looking out on the fresh green of tall elms that shaded the quiet street.

"Well, well," he said, turning to meet her bright eyes. "Spring outside, and spring inside. You've had a good sleep, little one."

He held out both his hands, and Sylvia put hers into them.

"Dear me, I'm afraid it's noon," for now she noticed that breakfast had been served.

"No, we have time still to make the train I told Cap'n Lem to meet, and eat a little something into the bargain."

The speaker moved to the table and rang a bell.

"Oh, you've waited too long for your breakfast," said Sylvia.

"No, indeed! Been watching the orioles that are bringing up a family out in that tree. Busy times, I tell you. Makes me think of the day Calvin and I wanted to rob an oriole's nest,--hang-birds, we called them,--and a little girl with short curls and a sunbonnet wouldn't let us do it; a girl who'd stand only a little higher than your elbow."

"Mother?" asked Sylvia softly.

Jacob Johnson nodded, and they sat down to breakfast.

An hour later they were speeding along in the train nearing the town which was their destination.

"I never have been on a farm, Cousin Jacob," said Sylvia.

"'Tisn't much of a farm we have here," he replied. "Just enough to raise a living for ourselves and the stock in the winter. The chief business is fruit and vegetables for the summer folks. Cal--the owner of the place likes this part of the world for what time he can get off in summer, so he bought this little farm and hired me to run it. That was ten years ago. I wasn't enjoying the business I was at in those days, but I was just learning to think right about things then, and I knew I'd be shown something else if it was best, and so I was."

"What made you know it?" asked Sylvia.

Her companion smiled without looking at her. "How do you know the sun is s.h.i.+ning this morning and the apple-trees are in blossom?"

"Why, I can see that."

"I saw, too, Sylvia. It's a great thing when you begin to see."

The girl observed her companion's half-averted face curiously. "Who lives with you at the farm?" she asked.

"My two helpers. Good Cap'n Lem Foster and his daughter-in-law, young Lem's widow. She's an excellent cook. Can you cook, little one?"

"I?" the girl laughed. "I can make Welsh rarebit."

Her companion patted her hand. "Sam Lacey brought you up, didn't he?"

he remarked.

"You see we always boarded," went on Sylvia, "because father--well, it was better; he was contented if he could play cards and go to a show sometimes; and when he had had too much he always kept away from me--he was so good about that."

"Too much?" echoed her companion questioningly.

"Yes, of course he'd go out with the boys some nights, but they always kept him away from me until he was all right again."

The matter-of-fact tone gave the listener a pang. His big hand closed over the one he had been caressing. "You're in a prohibition state now," he remarked.

"Yes, I remember. I've heard father speak of it. I was just thinking of a verse he used to say:--

"'Johnny and Jane, Maiden and swain, Never had tasted a drop of champagne; Reason is plain, They lived in Maine, Where all the folks are obliged to drink rain.'"

"H'm. I wish they were," commented the other, regarding the black-clothed figure beside him. A thin veil was pinned to her hat in such a way as to cover the shortness of the soft curls. Her figure was erect, her coloring exquisite, her eyes innocent. She seemed to him like a jewel which had been set in base metal, carelessly guarded, and was now in danger of sinking into the mud of the highway. Laura's little girl!

He patted her hand again.

"Here we are," he said, as the train slackened and stood still. He took his own limp bag and Sylvia's plump, rubbed old one, and they moved down the aisle and out upon the platform.

"There's Lem." Jacob Johnson moved across the platform, and Sylvia followed him to where stood a two-seated wagon with a pair of strong horses. The driver leaned one arm on his leg as he looked pa.s.sively at Sylvia. He wore a sweater and a felt hat, and had on blue overalls the color of his eyes. He was older than his employer, and a fringe of white whiskers surrounded his red, weather-beaten face.

"Howdy, Thinkright," he said, nodding as the couple approached.

"How are you, Cap'n Lem? This is my little cousin, Miss Lacey."

"Glad to see ye, Miss Lacey. Ye've got hahnsome weather," observed the old man. "Mawdrate, too, to what it has ben. Apple-trees hev all bust out."

"Yes, you must have had a fresh trip in this morning," responded Thinkright, as he saw to having Sylvia's trunk and the bags put on the wagon. At last he climbed in beside his guest. A slap of the reins set the heavy horses trotting deliberately.