Page:Peterson Magazine 1869B.pdf/490

 PONTO'S FIRST LESSON, 447

glance in the little mirror. Her steel-gray eyes were luminous—at the prospect of gain, per- haps—and she whispered to herself, ‘How handsome he is—and just old enough!”

Mr. Barstow came, and to Hetty’s delight brought a piano, which Miss Bab was very willing should be put in her parlor. He treated Hetty as if'she had been his little daughter. Presently, to her aunt’s astonishment, as well as her own, he was teaching the child to play, and he found in his pupil much enthusiasm, and some genius. Meantime, was not Hetty the happiest girl alive? She cared little for com- panions and out-door pleasures now; under the magic influence of the new boarder, she applied herself to study with a zest she never knew be- fore. And more than that, she grew careful of her appearance; and at the end of April, some seven months after Mr. Barstow had come, people had, somehow, began to call her Miss Hetty. She was sixteen; and very tall of her Everybody but her aunt considered her § beautiful—to her she was still only a little child.

One night Mr. Barstow received a letter, and after he had read it, he mused awhile, then said that business called him to the city; he should start on the next day.

“I shall leave my piano for Hetty to take care of,” he said to Bab, who could not get over her youthful notions, and had been dressing, smiling, and talking at him ever since he had first made his appearance.

As for Hetty, the whole world grew suddenly dark to her; she turned pale, and her breath came short.

“It may be that, by August, my nephew will take the room I vacate, Miss Barbara,” he said.

“I shall welcome him, sir, for your sake,” said aunt Bab; and went out to look at her pies that were browning in the oven. Presently she came back; Hetty and Mr. Barstow were both absent; the latter had gone for a walk; and poor little Hetty was sobbing upon her pillow in her own room.

The next morning everybody was stirring early.

“I hope we shall see you back again,” said Miss Barbara, as her boarder stood in the little hall, carpet-bag in hand.

“You will see my nephew, if not myself,” he answered. “I can conscientiously recommend your housekeeping, Miss Barbara; you will be  a treasure to him who becomes the fortunate possessor of your hand and heart. If I were not so old a man,” he added, gallantly.

“Dear land!” cried Miss Bab, interrupting him, “I don’t call a man old under eighty.”

“I shall consider that a compliment, Miss Barbara. Now if this little girl will carry this small parcel to the gate for me;” and Hetty, her heart beating fast, and her eyes full of tears, took the package.

“Well, I never!” cried aunt Bab to herself, “if that girl ain’t higher’n his shoulder; but then I s’pose she seems like a daughter to him. Dear me! to think he should say if he were not so old a man. I hope he sees that I am not fishing for a husband.”

Hetty reached the gate a little before Mr. Barstow, and stood looking up the village street with a very queer feeling in her throat.

“I wonder if it will be a comfort to you, my child, to know how miserably I shall miss you,” said Mr. Barstow.

“And I’m sure I shall miss the—the walks down to the point, and the piano-playing, and— and ——

“Me?” asked Mr. Barstow, softly, looking straight at the shoemaker’s sign opposite.

“Yes, of course, you,” said the girl, with a heroic attempt at a laugh, which sounded dismally like a sob at the end.

“Do you know that half reconciles me to going?” he murmured, with his old, tender smile. ‘But then I shall send that nephew to look after you a little. Good-by, there’s the stage; keep up your practice; above all, don’t forget me, little one.”

He stooped a moment, touched her forehead with his lips, and hurried off, leaving her stand- ing there, both grieved and glad.

She was roused by the sharp voice of aunt Bab.

‘Well, now he’s gone, I hope I shall get some attention. I’m half dead with hard work.”

Hetty knew what she had to expect now. There was no kind Mr. Barstow to comfort her —no money coming in. It must be the old life of drudgery, with occasional pauses for practice, and very little time for herself.

“How impudent he spoke this morning,” said aunt Bab, when they talked of him over their work. ‘I dare say he considers himself a young man; he’s forty-six, if he’s a year.”

“No, indeed!” cried Hetty, aghast.

“Yes, I tell you, child; look at his wig.”

“Wig!” Hetty’s face was a study.

“Very cunningly done, my dear, but still a wig, which, with spectacles, insures him for forty-six. Just think of people talking about him and me bein’ engaged! A man can't show any attention to a young woman but every tongue must be wagging. I’m independent of the world’s opinion, however, thank my stars,

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