Half a Dozen Girls Part 31

"She'd think 'twas signing her death warrant," answered Polly, laughing. "You know he did duty at the funeral of Mrs. Baxter the first."

"Oh dear, it seems as if they never would come!" sighed Jessie impatiently. "What does keep them so long?"

"Do somebody tell another story," said Florence. "Can't you, Katharine?"

"I should never dare, after Alan's wonderful success," replied Katharine lightly, as she took out the daffodil she had been wearing in her b.u.t.tonhole and tossed it over to her cousin. Then she added soberly, "It isn't any story at all, but I believe, while we wait, I'll tell you about the saddest funeral I ever saw in my life."

"Go on, Kit; you have the floor," said Alan encouragingly.

"It isn't much to tell, but you've no idea how pitiful it was to see," the girl went on thoughtfully. "Just a year ago this spring, papa had to go West on business, and he took me with him. We had to stay two or three days in a little bit of a town up in the Rocky Mountains, and while we were there, a young woman died. She had only been married a month, and had just come out from New England, to live in the cunning little new house that her husband had built. It was a winter of very deep snow, even for that region, and when it melted, it grew soft all the way down through, before it seemed to go away, any at all. The cemetery was away from the town, up on the side of the mountain, just the loneliest, most desolate place you can imagine; and it seemed so sad to take her away and leave her there all alone. It was a long, long procession, and papa and I stood at the window to watch it, as it went through the town, and on out into the open country, where no road had been broken. Then, for a mile or two, the long black line crawled along over the snow, while the horses floundered about, half buried in the drifts, and the hea.r.s.e tipped this way and that, as first one wheel would sink down out of sight, and then another. At last it wound around the foot of the hill, and we couldn't see it any more; but I kept feeling so sorry for the poor little wife and for the lonely husband in his new house."

Katharine paused, but there was no word spoken, so she went on,--

"A month later we spent Sunday there, on our way home. The snow had all melted and, in the afternoon, I teased papa to walk up to the cemetery with me. We remembered the name, so we could find the grave easily enough. It was perfectly bare, without any gra.s.s on it, but at the head was a rough little cross made of two boards nailed together, with her name painted on it, in black letters that were a little unsteady, as if somebody's hand shook when he was making them; and at the foot of the cross lay one tiny bunch of white immortelles, to show that she wasn't quite forgotten. But when we turned to look at the view, it didn't seem sad, any more.

The little, low, dingy town lay below us, as if she had risen above it, and all around us, the great, soft, kind mountains stood up in the sun to guard her and watch over her, in her sleep. The shabby cross and the little posy and the magnificent brown mountains were all so much more kind and loving than our piles of marble and fussy flowers arranged for show, that when I came down the hill, I didn't feel sorry for her, any longer."

The hush that followed Katharine's simple story was unbroken for some moments. Then Polly sprang up excitedly,--

"The drums! Don't you hear them?" And she rushed away to call her mother.

The procession was moving, at last, and the distant roll of m.u.f.fled drums could be plainly heard by the girls, as they pressed closely to the window. Touched, as they had been, by the account of that far-away funeral among the mountains, they were in just the mood to be impressed by the scene which was pa.s.sing before them. And, in truth, any one who stood looking on, that day, must have felt the impressiveness of the long line as it slowly filed down the broad street under the graceful arches of the tall old elms, in the cold light of the cloudy afternoon. First came the drum corps, with wailing fife and m.u.f.fled drum; next appeared the gray uniforms of the company who marched two by two, with bowed heads and reversed arms, to escort the hea.r.s.e in their midst.

Directly behind the hea.r.s.e trotted a small, yellow figure, at sight of whom Alan stealthily drew his hand across his eyes. It was Pete's faithful friend, the little Scotch terrier, who was following his master to his last resting-place, with a st.u.r.dy determination not to leave his good old master with whom he had spent such a happy little life. Then followed the line of carriages and the straggling groups on foot; but the girls paid little heed to them, for Polly said, in a sudden whisper,--"Just look at Job!"

For a long time the old horse had been quietly grazing, without so much as raising his head to take breath and look about him, so greedy was he for the first tender gra.s.s-blades of the spring.

Suddenly he heard the roll of the drums and threw up his head to listen, with eager ears and dilating eyes, as if the sound recalled to him some vague memory of his far-off youth. So proud and spirited he looked as he stood there, that it was evident that, in fancy, he was living over his former days, perhaps listening to the triumphant strains of music which heralded the close of the rebellion. As the sound came nearer, and yet nearer, he appeared to be under its spell and slowly moved down towards the street, arching his glossy neck and stepping high, in perfect time to the music. Fifty feet from the fence, he stopped and gazed at the scene before him, still spellbound by the martial sounds and the memories they called up in his mind, while the group in the Adams's windows watched him intently, amazed at the life and fire in the old creature's pose and manner. Still Job stood watching the soldiers, listening to the band until it had moved onward, past the spot where he was. Then his eyes fell on the hea.r.s.e, and he took one eager step forward. Surely that was a familiar sight! The carriages came next, and by that time there was no hesitancy in his mind; for at length he recognized all the solemn import of the procession. It was a funeral, and in funerals Job had often borne a conspicuous part. The band was doubtless his call to duty; and should any one say that he had failed, even in his old age, to respond to this call? He took another step forward, paused again, for only one instant; then, just as the last carriage pa.s.sed the gate, he swung his aged tail round and round, in two rapturous, joyful whisks, and with tossing head and flying mane, he trotted rapidly out into the street, overtook the procession and, dropping into a decorous walk just as his nose touched the back of the rear carriage, he marched solemnly off down the street, with patient resignation and unending sadness depicted in every line of his old brown body.

Inside the parlor the girls, without a thought of their past interest in Pete's funeral, turned and gazed at each other in silence for a moment, then sank to the floor, in uncontrollable, though noiseless laughter.

CHAPTER XVII

MISS BEAN'S VISIT IS RETURNED.

Still another month had pa.s.sed and it was late in May when, one bright Sat.u.r.day morning, Jessie, Polly, and Alan drove away through the town and out over the western hills. Cob was as full of life and spirits as they were, and they went gaily onward with no particular destination in view, but only intent on enjoying the soft, warm air and the abundance of spring life all about them.

Birds in every tree, green leaves and bright blossoms on every hand, and over them all the clear, yellow sunlight, these were enough for the happy young people in the carriage.

"Dear me!" sighed Polly. "When we begin to have days like this, it does seem as if vacation never, never would come. I can't bear to stay in school and work over books in such weather. I'd much rather stay outside and watch things grow."

"Let's cut school for the rest of the term, Polly," suggested Alan, "and take Job and drive off out of the world somewhere, and not come back till winter."

"Thank you, no. I'll take Cob, if Jessie is willing, for we couldn't get outside of the town with _Job_, if we had _any_ idea of getting _back_ by Christmas," rejoined Polly, laughing.

"Take Cob and welcome, if I can go with you," said Jessie. "Seems to me I never felt so before, but I don't want to stay in school any more than Polly does. Perhaps it's because your springs are pleasanter than ours."

"I shouldn't wonder if they were," said Polly reflectively, as regardless of freckles, she took off her hat and let the sun strike full upon her ruddy curls. "Isn't this perfect?" she added, with a sigh of content. "I do believe everything is nicer in Ma.s.sachusetts than it is anywhere else. I'm glad I happened to be born in the Bay State."

Jessie laughed outright at the fervor of her tone. Then she said, as she drew Cob down to a slow walk, to enjoy a bit of road that lay under a group of tall pines,--

"After all, I shall be sorry to have vacation come, for as soon as this term is over, we shall have to go home, and I don't want to, one bit."

"Sorry to leave me, aren't you, Cousin Jessie?" asked Alan, with, mock sentiment.

"Don't flatter yourself, young man," said Polly, in parenthesis, as Jessie went on. seriously,--

"Why, yes, I suppose I shall miss you, Alan; but it's the girls that I care most for. We've had such good times doing things together, and next year I shall be forlorn enough, for Kit will come out, and I shall be left all to myself."

"Come back here," suggested Alan quite hospitably, considering the frank way in which Jessie had spoken of her slight regret at leaving him.

"Without Kit? Never!" replied Jessie earnestly. "I'd rather be with her and have only a dozen words a day from her, than have to be separated from her. I've always been fond of her, but it seems to me she was never half so lovely as she's been this last year."

Polly stepped on Alan's toe, under cover of the robe, and was met by an answering flash from the gray eyes, but neither spoke, as Jessie continued,--"You do so many more things here, and have so much better times, you girls, that Kit and I both wish papa and mamma would come back here to live. Omaha is pleasant enough, and the river is lovely,--when it isn't muddy; but I shall miss these hills and the elms and the lazy look of the old town. I like old things best. And what do you suppose I shall miss, most of all?"

"Job" and "Aunt Jane," suggested Alan and Polly, in a breath.

"You're too bad to laugh at me." And Jessie tried to pout, but it was too hard work, so she gave up the attempt and laughed instead.

"No, it's the garret at your house, Alan, with all the old spinning wheels and warming pans. Some day, when I get my cats, I'll come back here to live, see if I don't." And Jessie nodded with decision as she started up Cob once more.

"Oh, dear! Next year doesn't mean much fun for me," groaned Polly.

"I shall have to begin Latin and Greek and all sorts of dreadful things, so as to get ready for college."

"Then you are really going," said Jessie. "What makes you do it, if you don't want to?"

"It's been the family plan ever since I was a baby," said Polly; "and there's no use in trying to change it. Besides, I don't think I mind it much, or shan't when I once get there. I want to know a few things when. I'm grown up, even if I'm not a lawyer or a doctor,--but I'm going to leave that for Alan,"

"Don't worry about that, Polly," said Alan. "At present rate of progress, if I lose a month or two of school every winter, I shouldn't get through college till long after you were dead and out of the way. And then, I don't think I want to be a doctor, anyway."

"Now, Alan," retorted Polly; "that's not quite fair of you, when you know how my heart is set on having you. a splendid doctor, and in time taking papa's place. I've told you, time and time again, that if I had a brother, he would have to be one; and, as long as I haven't, you're the next best thing. You'd make such a splendid one, too. I know, for I asked papa if you wouldn't, and he said yes. He said--" Polly came to a sudden pause.

"Said what, Poll? Out with it."

"I wasn't going to tell, for fear 'twould make you conceited,"

returned Polly; "but if I thought it would make any difference with your plans, I'd run the risk, only you must be really in earnest about it, Alan, and think it all over. He said you had just the character that goes to make a good doctor, brave and true and unselfish, and always gentle and calm and jolly. Now doesn't that make you want to be something grand?" And Polly turned to look at the boy, with all her earnestness, all her love for him lighting her face and beautifying it, in spite of the brown freckles on her cheeks.

Alan's face flushed and his eyes were s.h.i.+ning, as he asked eagerly,--

"Did Dr. Adams really say all that about me?"

"Yes, he said so only the other day, and I suppose I oughtn't to have told you; but, ever since our talk one day last winter when you'd been to the hospital, I've been hoping and hoping that some day you'd be just the right kind of a doctor, one that cures his patients, whether they can pay or not, and makes them love him, in spite of the horrid things he has to do to them. If you'd only do that, Alan, I should be so proud of you."

"Should you, Poll? Well, I'll think about it, but it's too soon to make up my mind yet. Mother wants me to be a minister."

"You a minister! Why, Alan, you'd laugh, even in the middle of a sermon; and I know you'd never go to a funeral without thinking how Job went, the other day. And anyway, I'd a great deal rather be a doctor, for they do more good. Ministers _talk;_ doctors _do_."

"Some ministers _do_," said Jessie.

"Yes, some of them; but it's their business to preach, and that's all most of them try to do. You won't hear of many ministers that get up, cold winter nights, every night for a week, to go to see one poor little croupy baby, just for love of it, and not expecting to get a cent. I don't believe that, taken year in and year out, there are many missionaries that work harder or do more good than papa does."