The Opened Shutters Part 17

"There. Walk in. This is your chamber."

Mrs. Lem threw open the door of a blue-papered room whose ceiling sloped at one side, while on the other were two windows curtained in dimity.

"I didn't expect to see a room of this size," said Sylvia.

"Oh, it's quite a copious house," returned Mrs. Lem leniently, "for a country place. It took me some while to get used to these slopin' kind o' rooms. I ain't from these parts. I lived to Clarksville before I was married. There, you can loop them curtains back more if you want to."

"They're very pretty," commented the girl.

"Yes. Of course they ain't point de spray, but they do well enough for here."

"Looped back. Oh, I should think so," said Sylvia, pus.h.i.+ng the folds aside and looking down the western decline of the hill, where a wide reach of Cas...o...b..y came in view. Small snowy sails were flying out to sea, like a flock of white b.u.t.terflies.

"I guess the fishermen think handsome weather's set in. Them are the mackerel boats," explained Mrs. Lem. "They ain't had a good chance for a fortnight. It's ben so cold and homely 'twa'n't plausible for 'em to go out." Mrs. Lem patted her pompadour.

"I can see a thousand Christmas trees from this window," said Sylvia.

"Yes, it's real sightly. Judge Trent has just the same view from his room. It's his favorite."

Sylvia's face fell. "When does he come?" she asked.

"Oh, he comes and goes all summer. He don't make no long stay except in August."

Here the two men with Sylvia's trunk and bag came noisily up the narrow stairs. It was a very moderate-sized trunk as those of summer people go, and the visitor lost some social prestige in Mrs. Lem's eyes as the latter observed it. Moreover, Boston was not the girl's home.

Nevertheless, there was that unmistakable air of the world. Possibly she was from wicked, fas.h.i.+onable, reckless New York, and being in mourning had come here with but few possessions to recuperate.

"Wall, how are ye likin'?" asked Cap'n Lem, when they had deposited the trunk.

He set his arms akimbo and smiled toothlessly upon the visitor. "I said 'twas Miss Lacey, didn't I?" he added to Mrs. Lem, with a delighted wink.

"Yes, and you said somethin' else, too," retorted Mrs. Lem. "You say a lot o' things beside your prayers."

Upon this Cap'n Lem's cackling laugh burst forth. "She don't look it, does she?" he responded. "So ye're likin' all right, air ye, Miss Sylvy?"

"I could sit by these windows twenty-four hours," returned the girl.

"Might git a little hungry, mebbe?"

"Yes, Mrs. Lem," put in Thinkright. "Sylvia and I have had only sandwiches and sponge cake since this morning. We're all ready as soon as she has washed her face."

Mrs. Lem bowed affably, and the three went out and closed the door.

Sylvia moved to the dimity-draped dresser and took off her hat. She smiled at the memory of her recent interview. "Cousin Thinkright says she can cook, though," she reflected. "I hope he's a judge."

CHAPTER IX

EDNA DERWENT

The supper was good, and for many weeks Sylvia had not eaten so hungrily. Minty's eyes continued to devour her as the guest devoured the biscuit and honey; and it required an occasional warning, "Eat your supper, Minty," from Mrs. Lem, to deliver Sylvia periodically from the round, expressionless stare.

"What delicious milk!" said the girl, as she set down her empty gla.s.s; "and this cream would make city people open their eyes."

"It don't seem to me it's quite as rich as common," returned Mrs. Lem.

"We often have it so thick it has to be dilated with water."

Sylvia met Thinkright's eyes and laughed. "That is a frequent necessity in the city," she said. "I wish it weren't."

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Lem raised her eyebrows, "I know it. Of course it takes such legions o' milk to supply the cities you can't trust 'em around a pump. Have some more o' the lobsters, Miss Lacey."

"Oh, no, thank you."

"Then," said Thinkright, "perhaps you'd like to go and help Minty bring home her Daisy."

"Who is Daisy?" asked Sylvia of the solemnly staring child, who had been mute throughout the meal.

"My cow," drawled Minty.

"I'm mortally afraid of cows," declared Sylvia.

"Daisy ain't ugly," returned Minty.

"Then if you'll promise to take care of me"--

"I will," declared the child, her cheeks flus.h.i.+ng with the pleasure that her drawl could not convey.

"She usually gits the cow afore supper," explained Mrs. Lem, "but to-day she couldn't very well." She looked complacently at her child's toilet. "You needn't mind the dishes, Minty."

At the permission the child fled from the room and clattered up the back stairs. The others rose from the table, and Mrs. Lem a.s.sumed a large ap.r.o.n and began gathering up the dishes.

"You may help if you like, Sylvia," said Thinkright. "We want you to feel at home."

The girl hesitated. She disliked wrecks of meals, and the way for her to feel at home was to do nothing at all. She began awkwardly to take up the silver.

"No, no, don't do it, Miss Lacey." Mrs. Lem perceived at once the unaccustomed touch, and her New York hypothesis was strengthened. "You hain't any apern, and I do think," with an airy laugh, "you might git unpacked afore they set you to work."

"Oh, yes, let her help till Minty comes," said Thinkright, with the manner of conferring a favor upon the guest, who echoed a faint agreement and went on gathering up the knives and forks, while her host left the house. Her ordeal did not last long, for Minty, still flushed of cheeks from the excitement of the occasion, soon reappeared, the splendors of her recent costume as completely vanished as were Cinderella's at the stroke of twelve.

Her dark calico clung around her slim little body, and the white string that tied her braid was in evidence.

"Put on your sweater, Minty, and run up and git Miss Lacey's jacket for her. It's real fresh," said her mother.

The sun had ceased casting sparkles across the sea when they went out of doors, and the shadows were lengthening. The loveliness of the increasing rose-light in the west caused Sylvia to forget all annoying doubts as to where to pour the water from the half-empty gla.s.ses, and all objections to the remains of lobster.

"What a pretty place you live in, Minty!" she exclaimed, as they walked back of the house through an orchard of small apple trees, gnarly and stunted enough from their struggle with the elements through the winter, but with all b.u.mps and twists veiled now in rose-tinted clouds of white bloom.