At Last: Six Days in the Life of an Ex-Teacher/Chapter 4

HE ice of my reserve having been entirely melted by the shower, there was nothing to prevent little Alice being made entirely at home at my boarding-house the next day, which also was rainy. She entered with a cheery "Here we are again," which I was inclined to criticise as ungrammatical until Mistress Drusilla told me it was a common salutation of the child's father when he reached home Saturday evenings. The uniform failure of my criticisms of anything which had emanated from "my fahver" had warned me to ignore that gentleman's ways whenever they were brought to my notice by his daughter.

Besides, little Alice's voice was not the only one which broke the stillness of my temporary home. There arose to my room, as I prepared to descend, the wail of a cat. I knew my hostesses disliked cats; as for me, I hated them. Many a night had I been roused from slumber by the cries of pussies in city yards, until I wondered how Noah's family got any sleep at all while cruising about in the Ark. The cat whose voice mingled with that of little Alice seemed to be protesting against something, and its notes were high and piercing.

"You know, pet, we never liked cats," I heard Mistress Drusilla say as I entered the old-fashioned sitting-room.

"Never, darling," declared Miss Dorcas.

The child looked hopefully towards me, but in return I gazed icily at a small feline head which rested on little Alice's elbow, as I said,—

"I'd about as lieve have a snake in the house as a cat."

"Well, I never!" said the child, looking curiously at me. "Where did you ever get used to snakes so as to like 'em?"

Mistress Drusilla suddenly hurried to a corner window, saying, under her breath, that she believed there was a draught coming from that way somehow; Miss Dorcas found a button loose on the back of the venerable hair-cloth sofa. But the child continued to stare at me, and soon exclaimed,—

"Say,—where did you? Dere's a picture on a fence down in de village, 'bout a big girl dat tamed snakes an' is goin' to play wiff some of 'em in de circus dat's a-comin'; but she don't look like you."

"Miaouw!" exclaimed the cat. For the first time in my life I felt grateful to a member of the feline species.

"Poor kittie!" said the child.

"Miaouw!" repeated the animal.

"It's such a poor little fing," said Alice, sitting down and arranging the beast—a half-grown kitten—on her lap, handling it in sections, as if it were a thing of pasteboard and joints, such as I had owned when a child. It certainly was "a poor little fing." It had been thoroughly soaked by the rain, and, apparently, rolled in the mud afterwards, it seemed as thin as a lizard, as ugly as one of Doré's imps, and as frightened as a child of the slums brought suddenly into decent surroundings. When it cried the two old women put their fingers to their ears. Finally, Mistress Drusilla, with her ears still closed, said, in a very loud voice,—

"Alice, pet, if you like you may take her to the kitchen and put her in the basket where we keep new-hatched chickens until they're a few hours old. Then put the basket in front of the stove."

"I don't fink," said the child, as she carefully smoothed the wretched animal's ears, "dat you'd like it, if you'd got all wet an' knocked in de mud, to be put in a chicken-basket an' set in front of de fire. You'd want somebody to pet you an' comfort you, an' tell you how sorry dey was, an' somebody to listen to you while you told 'em all about how it happened. Folks dat's in trouble likes to be coddled; dey don't like to be stuck off in a basket all alone to coddle 'emselves: do dey, kittie?"

"Miaouw!" responded the waif.

"You coddle the kitten, then, pet," said Mistress Drusilla, cautiously removing her fingers from her ears, "but let her tell you about her troubles some other time, when she won't have to feel unpleasant at having so many other people around. You wouldn't like a whole lot of folks listening if you were going to tell some of your troubles to a friend, would you? Besides, you wouldn't scream out everything you had to say, like that dreadful kitten."

"Don't you fink so? Well, mebbe not; but if you lived at our house an' had to hear de folks dat come in to tell deir troubles to gran'ma, you'd see,—dat's all."

The child began to look meditative. Miss Dorcas came slowly from the window, stood behind me, and whispered,—

"Now look out for a story. Her grandmother is a dear, sympathetic soul, and people cry all over her and tell her all sorts of things. It's none of my business; I don't want to know anything about other folks' affairs(!): goodness knows it takes me all my time to look after my own. Still, things do get out in the neighborhood once in a while that some folks wouldn't have get out for anything, and, come to find out, that child has heard them when nobody supposed she was paying any attention to what was being said to her grandmother. Of course the child doesn't know what it means to be a tale-bearer; she repeats other people's stories just as she does her father's; but they do make the greatest row in the neighborhood sometimes, because they're always laid to somebody else."

Little Alice still remained in a brown study; the kitten, cuddled in her lap, and pacified by gentle treatment and the warmth of the room, began purring softly. Miss Dorcas moved softly to the other side of the room, so as to attract the attention of her sister; Mistress Drusilla caught her eye, and there was an exchange of expectant glances. The kitten yawned. The child, recalled from contemplation, caressed the animal, and roused herself.

"Now," said Miss Dorcas again, tiptoeing up to me and whispering, "she's thought it out, and she's been so long about it that I'm sure it'll be specially interesting."

"Teacher," said the child, looking earnestly at me, "I do wish you'd tell me how you learned to like snakes as much as kittens. I fink it's de awfullest fing I ever heard tell of."

The two old women seemed to shrink as they sat in their chairs: although I did not look at them, I could not help seeing that Miss Dorcas acted exactly like a school-child caught at some flagrant offence against school discipline. Mistress Drusilla arose hastily, and said,—

"I'm sure that poor kitten needs something to eat, pet, after its dreadful wetting. I'll go get you some milk for it."

"I'll do it, Mistress Drusilla," said Miss Dorcas. Both old people left the room in haste, to my great relief, and they were not more than out of the door when Miss Dorcas shouted,—

"Bring her to the kitchen right away, darling."

"Come along, teacher," said Alice.

"No, no; I mean the kitten, child," came quickly back from the hall.

Bless the old women for their sympathy! I began to feel that they must have come from very good stock. As for little Alice, she started with the waif, but stopped in the door-way, and said,—

"I'll tell you what I'll do; I'll let you keep Agonies in your room all de time you's here if you'll tell me how you learned to like nasty old snakes as much as"

A thin, withered hand came silently but swiftly from beside the door, clutched the child's arm, snatched the questioner away, and, from sounds that followed, was apparently applied firmly to a small mouth.

Relieved of my tormentor, my first impulse was to go to my room and remain there. The sky was gloomy, so to look forward to a whole day of reading was not cheering; but anything would be preferable to chance questioning, before witnesses, by an irresponsible being like Miss Alice Hope. Yet I had become so fond of the child that it seemed to me the day would be darker if I were deprived of her companionship. If I could get her to my own room and have her to myself, I could ignore unpleasant speeches and direct conversation to suit myself; but from what I already had learned of other people's affairs through my landladies I could not doubt that as soon as I concluded my brief summer outing all that passed between us in conversation would become known to everybody who might care to listen. I had half a mind to take refuge in water-proof cloak, overshoes, and the outer air; but as I stood at a window and debated the question with myself, the old women and child, without the cat, reappeared in the sitting-room, and little Alice remarked, solemnly,—

"I'm not goin' to talk any more about snakes. Miss Dorcas an' Mistress Drusilla says it ain't polite to talk about what other folks don't like; an', besides, dere's reasons why dey wants you to like me ever so much: so you can go on an' like me just as much as you wants to, dough I don't see what de reasons is dat dey talks about"

Then the old women looked guilty again, and made excuses for disappearing: so I was soon left alone with little Alice. That young woman didn't seem to realize that she had said anything unusual: she took a look at the weather, and for some moments did not seem to see anything but threatening skies and dishevelled phloxes and petunias; uat soddenly she turned and said, with the air of a Pharisee of the Pharisees,—

"Well, I's been a good Smatteran, anyway,"

"You've what?" I asked.

"I's been a good Smatteran,—don't you know? I fought ev'rybody knew all about dat."

"I'm not everybody, dear," said I. "I wish you would tell me what you mean by a 'good Smatteran.'"

"Dear me! I should fink you'd never been to Sunday-school in your life," said the child, with a pitying look. "Don't you know de story about de man dat had all his fings hooked?"

"I've heard of so many affairs of that kind," said I, "that I can't be sure as to which you allude."

"Why, I mean dat man dat went from Jerusalem, where King David used to live, to a town named Jericho. My fahver says dere wasn't any p'licemen in dem days, an' maybe he went after dark, when dere wasn't any 'lectric lamps or uvver lights 'long de road to let 'em see what was in front of 'em. Anyhow, some bad old fiefs come along an' knocked him down an' stole his money an' his clothes, an' left him layin' in de road about half dead; dat's worse dan bein' all dead, my fahver says.

"Well, along come a preacher, an' seen dat man a-layin' dere, but he didn't have noffin' to do wiff him. My fahver says he guesses de preacher fought de hooked man was a tramp, an' preachers ain't got no time to fink about tramps when dey knows lots of uvver preachers needs to be set right. Besides, who wants to look at a man dat's been in a fight an' got all mussed up in de dirt? Preachers fink dat p'licemen and constables ought to take care of such folks. So de preacher went across de street, an' walked along where dere wasn't noffin' to look at dat would upset de finks he was finkin' about

"By an' by come along a Levite,—dat was de kind of man dat knowed all about de law. De law was made for sinners, my fahver says, but I guess de law-man finked de man layin' in de dirt wasn't a sinner, 'cause he went along on de uvver side of de street, too. An' all dis time dat poor man dat had his fings hooked was layin' dere half dead, wivout any doctor to make him well, or any gran'ma to tell him to come home right away an' put some clean clothes on 'fore somebody would come along and fink he didn't have nobody to take care of him.

"Den dere come along a Smatteran. Folks didn't fink much of Smatterans in dem days, 'cause dey come from a little town in de back-country where folks didn't know much, an' hadn't read no books, nor made no laws, nor preached no sermons, nor read de newspapers, so dey was just as bad as de folks dat lives down on de beach nere, dat ain't no good except to work cheap for uvver people. Dat Smatteran was ridin' on a donkey: so I s'pose he must have been de donkey-man at a Sunday-school picnic. Well, he got off of his donkey, an' he looked at de hooked man, an' he put court-plaster on de places where he'd been cut, an' he doctored him wiff wine an' oil,—vaseline, I guess,—an' den he put him on de donkey an' took him along to a hotel, an' gave de hotel-man a penny, an' told him to take care of de poor man till he come along oat way again. Like enough de penny de Smatteran gave de hotel-man was one de poor good man had been keepin' to buy a stick of candy or a fig or somefin' to carry home to his own little girl, 'cause dat's what fahvers do wiff deir last pennies: so it was all de harder for him to pay it to de hotel-man, 'cause he wouldn't like his little girl to be disappointed when he got home."

"The penny in the story you are telling," said I, "was a great deal more than what we call a penny nowadays. It was fully enough to pay for the care of a man at a country hotel for a day or two."

"Is dat so?" asked the child, with a very sober face. "Den I wish you hadn't told me about it: I's always been sorry for dat Smatteran's little girl."

"But what has all this to do with you, child, that you should think yourself like the good Samaritan?"

"Well, I declare! You don't know? Dear me! you's about as slow to understand anyfin' as folks was when Jesus used to tell stories. Why, de way is, dere was a poor little kittie along de road dat had got all rained on an' muddy, an' I brought it in, an' nobody wanted to be nice to it a bit. Mistress Drusilla an' Miss Dorcas put deir fingers in deir ears when it cried, an' you said you'd as lieve have a snake as a cat. Say,—I wish I knew—oh, no! I forgot; I mustn't say anyfin' about dat again. But I took care of de poor little fing, an' comforted it all I could, when ev'rybody else was lettin' it alone all dey could. Den I gave it a whole cupful of milk.'

"But 'twas milk that Mistress Drusilla supplied," said I, wishing to have justice done to the priest and the Levite.

"But if de kittie hadn't' drinked it I could have drinked it myself," said the child, with a sigh. "It's just like de Smatteran's penny: dat's what makes me like de Smatteran. I wish, dough, dat I could have felt like you, 'cause I'd have been all de gooder if I'd liked snakes as much as—oh, pshaw! dere I goes again, after I promised I wouldn't! I do wish I didn't always have to be wonderin' about fings!"

"Come up to my room, dear, and see if we can't find something else to think about. If I can do anything to take your wondering out of you, I'll take pains to do it."

"Oh, will you?" said the child, with a look of ecstatic longing. "Den tell me when you saw de snakes dat"

I hastily picked up the child, carried her to my room, placed her on my bed, kissed her several times, and finally said,—

"Now let us have a good time. I wish you had all your dolls here; but, as you haven't, I'll do anything else that will make you happy."

"Will you, really?" she asked. "Den s'pose you cut me some paper dolls."

"Paper dolls?"

"Yes,—don't you know? You cut dolls out of paper an' make believe dey's people."

"I don't believe I've ever done that," said I, after rapidly reviewing the amusements of my own juvenile days.

"Haven't you? Well, my fahver says it's never too late to learn. If you'll get some paper and scissors, I'll show you de rest."

I quickly found the material and tools, and the child laboriously carved from a sheet of paper a fire which in outline resembled some of the dreadful idols I had seen exhibited in church missionary-meetings*

"Dere," she exclaimed, as she held the hideous thing up in full view, "dat's a boy doll, if you fink so hard enough."

I wondered if any amount of thought which I could exert would make the scrap of paper seem anything but grotesque. Suddenly, however, I remembered that I had brought a box of water-colors with me. I shall never forget the exclamation of delight which escaped the child as I floated some carmine wash into the top of the "boy doll."

"Oh-h-h!" Alice murmured, as she looked at the bedaubed bit of paper; "he's almost like real folks, ain't he? Now let's make some girl dolls; den you can paint all you want to wivout doin' too much."

The girl that was evolved from the paper appeared so quickly that some essentials were noticeable principally by their absence. But little Alice did not miss them; she was awaiting the touch of the paint-brush; and as I endeavored to bestow a dull-red skirt, a light-green waist, and a citrine sash, the child's breath came quick and fast, and she finally exclaimed,—

"How lovely! Don't de little girls in your school like you to paint deir paper dolls?"

"They don't have paper dolls, dear: I don't suppose one of them ever thought of a paper doll."

"Wha-a-a-a-a-at? Why, de poor little fings! Don't dey ever fink about dolls at all?"

"I don't know, dear. How should I know what they think about, or what they like?"

"Well," she replied, dropping the scissors and paper, "if you don't know, I'd like to know who does? Doesn't you ever make 'em paper dolls, or paint 'em for 'em?"

"The idea! If any school-teacher were to do such things for her pupils the Board of Education would think she was good for nothing."

"Den who does make your school-children paper dolls? 'Cause I 'member you said most of em didn't have fahvers or muvvers dat could do nice fings for 'em."

"Nobody, I suppose," said I, carelessly.

"You don't mean dat dey don't have any paper dolls at all, do you?" asked the child, with wondering eyes.

"That is just what I do mean," I replied; "and you will learn one of these days, my dear, that the children you are talking about don't know the difference, and don't miss paper dolls at all. Probably they never saw paper dolls: so how can they think about them and want them?"

"H'm," said the child, pressing a partly-painted doll to her heart and leaving on the front of her white pinafore a red blotch which might be taken for a pink jockey-cap or a half-ripened strawberry. "I wonder where you was brought up, to fink dat way. Don't you ever fink about fings yon never saw, an' want to have 'em?"

The child's question set me to thinking, and I am not sure that I made any reply. I went on coloring dolls, working very slowly, and indulging in all sorts of vagaries of color, contrast, and combination. The longer I thought, the more point there seemed to the child's question. Certainly I had never wasted much time in wishing for pleasures that money could buy; I had been trained to believe that "a man's life (or a woman's) consisteth not in the abundance of the things that he or she) possesseth." It was a matter of family pride that none of my ancestors, on either side, had ever taken part in the mad race for wealth and luxury. For what had I most longed? I could honestly answer, a contented mind and a useful life, with the love of those about me. If Frank Wayne had only

"Say,—don't you?" exclaimed the child. The question recalled me from my revery. I did not want to make a father confessor of a child, but I could not help snatching the little torment into my arms and kissing her repeatedly.

"I fought you did," she replied, as she straightened a paper doll which between us had been crushed out of all semblance ot shape. "Well, I should fink you might know dat de dreadful poor little children in your school felt de same way, an' felt it awful much, if dey's got such almost noffin' as you say dey has."

Evidently this child knew nothing of class distinctions and the grovelling tastes of the children of the slums. Probably her father was one of the ranting, enthusiastic fellows who imagine every one to be of like feelings and aspirations with themselves. I remembered Frank Wayne once speaking of a school-room—just such a one as I afterwards controlled—that he had accidentally visited, and how he believed its walls should be covered with pictures and its windows filled with flowers. I remembered, too, that when I told him the pupils would quickly disfigure the pictures and destroy the flowers so as to throw them at one another, he retorted that he had seen more flowers blooming in the windows of one block of tenement-houses than in all the windows on Fifth Avenue. This reply made me indignant. It never is pleasant to have one's cherished theories upset by a lot of facts; in such cases one doesn't know what to say.

"I guess," said Alice Hope, with earnest accent upon the last word, "I guess dis paper doll ain't good for much 'xcept to start a hospital wiff! Don't matter, dough; guess we couldn't be happy if we didn't have nobody to be sorry for. I don't want to spoil any more; but say,—if we do, den dis one will have somebody to keep it company."

For a few moments the work of shaping and decorating semblances of humanity continued; I was busy with my thoughts, and the child, I supposed, was giving her entire mind to scissors and paper. When, however, as I finished a doll and a day-dream at the same time and then impatiently threw the doll upon the floor, the child stooped and picked up the discarded scrap of paper, giving me a childish warning at the same time against wastefulness. Suddenly, however, she looked at the recovered doll intently, burst out laughing, and pressed it to her lips.

"You silly child!" said I, smiling at her.

"I ain't silly," she replied, holding the bit of paper at arm's length, and contemplating it with a face full of smiles, but I never saw anyfin' so funny in all my life! Does you know what? You's gone an' made dat doll look just like my fahver!" Then she kissed the daub again and again.

I rose hastily and took the scrap of paper from her hand; as I did so it seemed to me that my face was ablaze. I knew that I had sketched on it, in neutral tints, my recollection of Frank Wayne: that was the reason I had thrown it away. The Hopes and the Waynes were not related, or I should have known it during my acquaintance with Frank; but there is a facial resemblance, I suppose, among men who think alike, and by what the child had for several days been saying about her father I had frequently been reminded of my recreant lover's mental peculiarities.

"I didn't know dat you knew my fahver," said the child, standing very close to me as I looked again at the picture I had thrown away.

"I don't know him. I never saw him in my life," said I.

"Den of course you doesn't," said she, looking depressed; "but when I shows him dat paper doll, he'll fink it's awful funny dat somebody else can be just like him."

"Will he?" thought I. "Not unless my right hand has lost its cunning." Then I said to the child, "The picture isn't done, dear, and I threw it away rather than waste time on it; but I suppose I may as well finish it." Seizing my brush, I quickly made the head bald, covered the eyes with large spectacles, and slightly lengthened the ears.

"You's spoiled my fahver!" exclaimed the child.

"’Twasn't meant for your father, dear," said I, kindly: having destroyed the supposed resemblance, I could afford to be consolatory to any extent. "Don't you see? The man I meant to draw was a man who is so smart that he knows everything, or"

"Den why didn't you leave it like it was?—'cause dat's just de kind of man my fahver is. Can't you make him back again like he was?"

"Perhaps so, when it becomes entirely dry," said I, with a mental reservation that by that time it should be reduced to indistinguishable fragments. That it should not again fall into the youngster's hands, I placed it between the leaves of a sketch-book which I was using on a table. After this the work of making paper dolls continued with industry and interest; to divert the child's thoughts from the unfortunate picture which resembled her father, I devoted myself to brilliant and tasteful coloring, and, remembering that I once had taken lessons in figure-drawing, I outlined men, women, and children with my pencil, and the little fingers guided the scissors over the lines with more or less success until the dinner-bell rang.

"Come on," shouted Miss Alice Hope, as the cheering jingle reached our ears, "I's 'most starved." She slid down the stair-rail, thus gaining some steps on me, and as I approached the dining-room door I heard her exclaim,—

"Say, Mistress Drusilla an' Miss Dorcas, what do you fink? Why, teacher made a paper doll look just exactly like my fahver! Did you ever hear of such a funny fing as dat?"

The old women were exchanging odd smiles as I entered the room, but the exchanges were broken abruptly as I appeared.

"Say,—did you?" the child repeated.

"There's nothing very strange about it, pet, I'm sure," said Mistress Drusilla.

"Nothing at all, darling," said Miss Dorcas.

"There are so many men in the world who look alike," said Mistress Drusilla, "that I sometimes wonder how people can tell men apart 'Twasn't so in my day."

"No, indeed," said Miss Dorcas. "In our time, when we were young, each man had his own style of face and clothes; but now it does seem as if all the men that go to the city have their clothes cut from the same goods and according to the same pattern, and they all wear moustaches turned up at the ends in just the same way. Why, goodness me, last time I was down to the railroad dépôt in the village, and a lot of the young fellows that were summer boarders got off the train, it made me think of war times, when nearly everybody was in uniforms just exactly alike. For the life of me, I couldn't see how gals could tell whether they kissed their own sweethearts or somebody else's."

"You could," said Mistress Drusilla, with a fer-away look, "if you'd ever"

"To be sure,—of course," said Miss Dorcas, hastily rising and helping her sister to potatoes so that she might have an excuse to give the old woman a sly squeeze.

"Well," said Alice Hope, who during these explanations had been stowing away bread and gravy as industriously as if she had no mind for anything else, "I never saw anybody else dat looked like my fahver; an' if dere is a lot of uvver men dat looks dat way I fink dis world is a good deal nicer place dan I ever heard it was before."

"How is the kitten, little Samaritan?" I asked, in order to change the subject. "I'm afraid you've left her entirely to the hotel-keeper, without even paying a penny for her board."

A spoonful of bread and gravy stopped half-way between plate and mouth, but it soon resumed its journey as the child said,—

"I'll give Mistress Drusilla an' Miss Dorcas lots of kisses after dinner; dey often give me pennies for kisses, so it'll be all right."

"To be sure it will, pet."

"Certainly, darling."

"Dat's all fixed, den," said the child, redoubling for a little while her attentions to her plate; then she said, between mouthfuls, "When you see dat picture you'll fink it's like my fahver, too."

"Oh," exclaimed Mistress Drusilla, "I'll be real glad. I always did say that the picture your grandmother has doesn't do your father justice. There's so much in his face that men don't seem to see: it takes a woman's eye to understand all that's good in a man of that kind."

"Little girls' eyes can do it pretty well, I fink," remarked Alice Hope, as she passed her plate for more dinner.

"So they can, pet," said Mistress Drusilla.

"Indeed yes," assented Miss Dorcas. "You'll show us the picture right after dinner, won't you?"

"The silly child," said I, "found a fancied resemblance to her father in a wretched daub of a paper doll, which I afterwards changed to make it look as I wanted it."

"Yes, but you's goin' to make it back again de way it was, don't you 'member, when it gets dry?"

"If I can, dear," said I, controlling by a violent effort my impulse to speak in my severest class-room tone and refuse entirely to touch that detested daub again. Then I mentally informed myself that if I were not wise enough to make away with that scrap of paper before it could make more trouble I was not worthy of my old self.

The meal proceeded without further disturbing remarks; and as after dinner little Alice was invited to the kitchen to feed the kitten while the hostesses cleared the table, I had time to go to my room, lock the door, and apply a match to the picture which resembled two different men. I even softly crumbled the charred remains into a tiny heap of ashes, and, provokingly enough, dropped a tear upon them. I am sure I did not mean to cry over a lost love,—the memory of a man who had for years been another woman's husband,—yet somehow it happened. Tears are most unreasoning things: they persist in following one another even when they can't help knowing they are not wanted, and the more unconscious one tries to be of their presence the more they persist in reddening the eyes. Fortunately, a child as young as Alice would not notice that I had been crying: so I hastened to wipe my eyes and cool them with a damp handkerchief, and as soon as I heard little footsteps on the floor below I hastened to hum a tune and to begin a water-color sketch of the scene from the window in front of me. It was not difficult work at the start, for a single tone of green answered for the mass of old spruces which shut out everything else but blue sky. As the child bounced into the room and saw what I was doing, she uttered a long-drawn "Oh-h!" and stood motionless, though she broke the silence every two or three moments by softly murmuring, "Dear me!" "Gracious!" "Well, I never!" or some similar expression of wonder. When finally I stopped a moment to contemplate the sketch, she said,—

"Dat's just too lovely for anyfin'. I fink you might let me bring up Mistress Drusilla and Miss Dorcas to look at it. Dey don't have lots to make 'em happy, you know: dey don't have noffin' but me."

"They shall see it, dear, when it is done. You shall give it to them."

"Oh, you dear, good old fing!" the child exclaimed, throwing her arms around me. "But don't you fink 'twould make 'em happier to see it growin'? It's so perfectly wonderful to see a lot of out-doors grow on a piece of paper dat way."

"Very well, dear: you may ask them to come up if you like."

"Goody, goody, goody!" Away went little Alice, and several minutes afterwards the two old sisters came in as softly as if they feared they might break the picture if they made a noise. They were as much pleased as any artist could have hoped: so what I had begun in desperation I began to finish with extreme care. A ring at the door called them away suddenly, and no sooner had they departed than the child said, timidly,—

"Don't it need to get dry before you finish it?"

"Yes, dear."

"Den let it rest a little while, can't you, an' make my fahver's picture back right again,"

"I'm very sorry, dear" (I really was sorry for her sake), "but—I began doing something to it as soon as I came up, and somehow I spoiled it entirely."

"So it can't be fixed, nohow?"

"Nohow, dear."

"Dat's too bad," she said, gravely, as she seated herself on the bed. I was greatly relieved at finding her take the announcement so calmly, and told myself, as I went on with my sketch, that I might have expected as much; children's thoughts are short-lived. Soon, however, a strange sound from the bed made me turn quickly and behold little Alice crying as if her heart would break. Seeing that I noticed her, she sobbed,—

"I ain't seen my fahver in—four whole days, an'—dat picture was 'most as good as seein' him again, an'—I's been finkin' about it ever since you said you could make it over again, an'—an' I can't! Oh, dear, dear!"

"You poor, dear child," said I, hastening to comfort her; "it is too bad; but just think how you'll see your father himself pretty soon, instead of an old piece of paper."

"I know it; but I did—oh, I did want to see dat picture again,—so much!" Then came a fresh flood of tears.

"Alice, dear," I whispered, in desperation, fearing my landladies might return, "if I try to make a picture just like it again, will you promise not to talk about it,—to anybody? I don't like to have my pictures talked about,—by any one."

"I'll promise," she exclaimed, springing up. "I'll promise, certain sure."

I reseated myself quickly, and began to draw. It was not difficult to outline the face I remembered so well, yet I did it with a feeling of savage desperation, wishing heartily that there was no such thing as resemblance in the world. As I dropped my pencil to take a softer one for shading, a little hand stole in front of me, took the paper, and kissed it repeatedly. I attempted to take it back, saying,—

"It isn't finished yet, dear."

"It's finished enough for me," the child replied, still retaining the picture. "Dear old fahver! Don't you fink he's lovely?"

"I think he—the picture—is fine-looking," I admitted.

"Den why don't you kiss it?" she asked. "I don't see how you can help it?"

Then, suiting the action to the thought, she held the picture in front of me, while with one chubby hand she pressed it to my lips.