If I could just have one glimpse of you in your new quarters—but that would only be a wretched aggravation; so I keep saying to myself ‘Some day, some day,’ and try to be patient. God bless you and good-by.”
Donald folded the letter carefully, kissed it, and tucked it away in his pocket. Clasping his hands behind his head, he gazed at the ceiling.
“I wonder if I’d better tell Mrs. Burke about Betty. I don’t care to pass myself off as a free man in a parish like this. And yet, after all, it’s none of their 27 business at present. I think I’d better wait and find out if there’s any possibility of making her happy here.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Talk of angels,” murmured Maxwell, and hurriedly returned the miniature to its case before opening the door to Mrs. Burke, who came to offer assistance.
“Don’t bother to fuss for me,” she said as he hastened to remove some books and clothes from a chair, so that she might sit down. “I only came up for a moment to see if there was anything I could do. Think you can make yourself pretty comfortable here? I call this room ‘the prophet’s chamber,’ you know, because it’s where I always put the visitin’ parsons.”
“They’re lucky,” he replied. “This room is just delightful with that jolly old fireplace, its big dormer windows, and the view over the river and the hills beyond: I shall be very comfortable.”
“Well, I hope so. You know I don’t think any livin’-room is complete without a fireplace. Next to an old friend, a bright wood fire’s the best thing I know to keep one from getting lonesome.”
“Yes—that and a good cigar.”
“Well, I haven’t smoked in some time now,” Mrs. 28 Burke replied, smiling, “so I can’t say. What a lot of things you’ve got!”
“Yes, more than I thought I had.”
“I do love to see a man tryin’ to put things to rights. He never knows where anything belongs. What an awful lot of books you’ve got! I suppose you’re just chuck full of learnin’, clean up to your back teeth; but we won’t any of us know the difference. Most city parsons preach about things that are ten miles over the heads of us country people. You can’t imagine how little thinkin’ most of us do up here. We’re more troubled with potato bugs than we are with doubts; and you’ll have to learn a lot about us before you really get down to business, I guess.”
“Yes, I expect to learn more from you than you will from me. That’s one of the reasons why I wanted to come so far out in the country.”
“Hm! I hope you won’t be disappointed.”
Mrs. Burke adjusted her glasses and gazed interestedly about the room at some pictures and decorations which Maxwell had placed in position, and inquired:
“Who is the plaster lady and gentleman standin’ on the mantelpiece?”
“The Venus de Milo, and the Hermes of Praxiteles.” 29
“Well, you know, I just can’t help preferrin’ ladies and gentlemen with arms and legs, myself. I suppose it’s real cultivated to learn to like parts of people done in marble. Maybe when I go down to the city next fall to buy my trousseau, I’ll buy a few plasters myself, to make the house look more cheerful-like.”
Maxwell caught at the word “trousseau,” and as Mrs. Burke had spoken quite seriously he asked:
“Are you going to be married, Mrs. Burke?”
“No such thing! But when a handsome young widow like me lives alone, frisky and sixty-ish, with six lonesome, awkward widowers in the same school district, you can never tell what might happen any minute; ‘In time of peace prepare for war,’ as the paper says.”
Maxwell laughed reassuringly.
“I don’t see why you laugh,” Mrs. Burke responded, chuckling to herself. “’Taint polite to look surprised when a woman says she’s a-goin’ to get married. Every woman under ninety-eight has expectations. While there’s life there’s hope that some man will make a fool of himself. But unless I miss my guess, you don’t catch me surrenderin’ my independence. As long as I have enough to eat and am well, I’m contented.” 30
“You certainly look the picture of health, Mrs. Burke.”
“Oh, yes! as well as could be expected, when I’m just recoverin’ from a visit from Mary Sam.”
“What sort of a visitor is that?” asked Maxwell, laughing.
“Mary Sam is my sister-in-law. She spends a month with me every year on her own invitation. She is what you’d call a hardy annual. She is the most stingy and narrow-minded woman I ever saw. The bark on the trees hangs in double box-plaits as compared with Mary Sam. But I got the best of her last year. While I was cleanin’ the attic I came across the red pasteboard sign with ‘Scarlet Fever’ painted on it, that the Board of Health put on the house when Nickey had the fever three years ago. The very next day I was watchin’ the ’bus comin’ up Main Street, when I saw Mary Sam’s solferino bonnet bobbin’ up and down inside. Before she got to the house, I sneaked out and pinned up the sign, right by the front door. She got onto the piazza, bag, baggage, and brown paper bundles, before she caught sight of it. Then I wish you could have seen her face: I wouldn’t have believed so much could be done with so few features.”
“She didn’t linger long?” laughed the parson, 31 who continued arranging his books while his visitor chatted.
“Linger? Well, not exactly. She turned tail and run lickety-spindle back for the ’bus as if she had caught sight of a subscription paper for foreign missions. I heard Jim Anderson, who drives the ’bus, snicker as he helped her in again; but he didn’t give me away. Jim and I are good friends. But when she got home she wrote to Sally Ramsdale to ask how Nickey was; and Sally, not bein’ on to the game, wrote back that there was nothin’ the matter with Nickey that she knew of. Then Mary Sam wrote me the impudentest letter I ever got; and she came right back, and stayed two months instead of one, just to be mean. But that sign’s done good service since. I’ve scared off agents and tramps by the score. I always hang it in the parlor window when I’m away from home.”
“But suppose your house caught fire while you were away?”
“Well, I’ve thought of that; but there’s worse things than fire if your insurance is all right.”
Mrs. Burke relapsed into silence for a while, until Maxwell opened a box of embroidered stoles, which he spread out on the bed for her inspection.
“My! but aren’t those beautiful! I never saw the 32 like before. Where did you get ’em?”
“They were made by the ‘Sisters of St. Paul’ in Boston.”
Hepsey gazed at the stoles a long time in silence, handling them daintily; then she remarked:
“I used to embroider some myself. Would you like to see some of it?”
“Certainly, I should be delighted to see it,” Donald responded; and Mrs. Burke went in search of her work.
Presently she returned and showed Maxwell a sample of her skill—doubtless intended for a cushion-cover. To be sure it was a bit angular and impressionistic. Like Browning’s poems and Turner’s pictures, it left interesting room for speculation. To begin with, there was a dear little pink dog in the foreground, having convulsions on purple grass. In the middle-distance was a lay-figure in orange, picking scarlet apples from what appeared to be a revolving clothes-horse blossoming profusely at the ends of each beam. A little blue brook gurgled merrily up the hill, and disappeared down the other side only to reappear again as a blue streak in an otherwise crushed-strawberry sky. A pumpkin sun was disappearing behind emerald hills, shooting up equidistant yellow rays, like the spokes of a cart-wheel. Underneath 33 this striking composition was embroidered the dubious sentiment “There is no place like home.”
Maxwell examined carefully the square of cross-stitch wool embroidery, biting his lip; while Hepsey watched him narrowly, chuckling quietly to herself. Then she laughed heartily, and asked:
“Confess