sat down on a stool at his side near the edge of the porch. The beauties of the ornamental box which held the Rose-Red were disclosed, and the prices of both that and the Snow-White were unfolded. Presently she forgot all about her silent partner at the gate and was talking as if she had known this grand personage all her life.
“I’m keeping house to-day, but I don’t live here,” explained the delightful gentleman. “I’m just on a visit to my aunt, who has gone to Portland. I used to be here as a boy and I am very fond of the spot.”
“I don’t think anything takes the place of the farm where one lived when one was a child,” observed Rebecca, nearly bursting with pride at having at last successfully used the indefinite pronoun in general conversation.
The man darted a look at her and put down his ear of corn. “So you consider your childhood a thing of the past, do you, young lady?”
“I can still remember it,” answered Rebecca gravely, “though it seems a long time ago.”
“I can remember mine well enough, and a particularly unpleasant one it was,” said the stranger.
“So was mine,” sighed Rebecca. “What was your worst trouble?”
“Lack of food and clothes principally.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Rebecca sympathetically,—“mine was no shoes and too many babies and not enough books. But you’re all right and happy now, aren’t you?” she asked doubtfully, for though he looked handsome, well-fed, and prosperous, any child could see that his eyes were tired and his mouth was sad when he was not speaking.
“I’m doing pretty well, thank you,” said the man, with a delightful smile. “Now tell me, how much soap ought I to buy to-day?”
“How much has your aunt on hand now?” suggested the very modest and inexperienced agent; “and how much would she need?”
“Oh, I don’t know about that; soap keeps, doesn’t it?”
“I’m not certain,” said Rebecca conscientiously, “but I’ll look in the circular—it’s sure to tell;” and she drew the document from her pocket.
“What are you going to do with the magnificent profits you get from this business?”
“We are not selling for our own benefit,” said Rebecca confidentially. “My friend who is holding the horse at the gate is the daughter of a very rich blacksmith, and doesn’t need any money. I am poor, but I live with my aunts in a brick house, and of course they wouldn’t like me to be a peddler. We are trying to get a premium for some friends of ours.”
Rebecca had never thought of alluding to the circumstances with her previous customers, but unexpectedly she found herself describing Mr. Simpson, Mrs. Simpson, and the Simpson family; their poverty, their joyless life, and their abject need of a banquet lamp to brighten their existence.
“You needn’t argue that point,” laughed the man, as he stood up to get a glimpse of the “rich blacksmith’s daughter” at the gate. “I can see that they ought to have it if they want it, and especially if you want them to have it. I’ve known what it was myself to do without a banquet lamp. Now give me the circular, and let’s do some figuring. How much do the Simpsons lack at this moment?”
“If they sell two hundred more cakes this month and next, they can have the lamp by Christmas,” Rebecca answered, “and they can get a shade by summer time; but I’m afraid I can’t help very much after to-day, because my aunt Miranda may not like to have me.”
“I see. Well, that’s all right. I’ll take three hundred cakes, and that will give them shade and all.”
Rebecca had been seated on a stool very near to the edge of the porch, and at this remark she made a sudden movement, tipped over, and disappeared into a clump of lilac bushes. It was a very short distance, fortunately, and the amused capitalist picked her up, set her on her feet, and brushed her off. “You should never seem surprised when you have taken a large order,” said he; “you ought to have replied ‘Can’t you make it three hundred and fifty?’ instead of capsizing in that unbusinesslike way.”
“Oh, I could never say anything like that!” exclaimed Rebecca, who was blushing crimson at her awkward fall. “But it doesn’t seem right for you to buy so much. Are you sure you can afford it?”
“If I can’t, I’ll save on something else,” returned the jocose philanthropist.
“What if your aunt shouldn’t like the kind of soap?” queried Rebecca nervously.
“My aunt always likes what I like,” he returned
“Mine doesn’t!” exclaimed Rebecca
“Then there’s something wrong with your aunt!”
“Or with me,” laughed Rebecca.
“What is your name, young lady?”
“Rebecca Rowena Randall, sir.”
“What?” with an amused smile. “BOTH? Your mother was generous.”
“She couldn’t bear to give up either of the names she says.”
“Do you want to hear my name?”
“I think I know already,” answered Rebecca, with a bright glance. “I’m sure you must be Mr. Aladdin in the Arabian Nights. Oh, please, can I run down and tell Emma Jane? She must be so tired waiting, and she will be so glad!”
At the man’s nod of assent Rebecca sped down the lane, crying irrepressibly as she neared the wagon, “Oh, Emma Jane! Emma Jane! we are sold out!”
Mr. Aladdin followed smilingly to corroborate this astonishing, unbelievable statement; lifted all their boxes from the back of the wagon, and taking the circular, promised to write to the Excelsior Company that night concerning the premium.
“If you could contrive to keep a secret,—you two little girls,—it would be rather a nice surprise to have the lamp arrive at the Simpsons’ on Thanksgiving Day, wouldn’t it?” he asked, as he tucked the old lap robe cosily over their feet.
They gladly assented, and broke into a chorus of excited thanks during which tears of joy stood in Rebecca’s eyes.
“Oh, don’t mention it!” laughed Mr. Aladdin, lifting his hat. “I was a sort of commercial traveler myself once,—years ago,—and I like to see the thing well done. Good-by Miss Rebecca Rowena! Just let me know whenever you have anything to sell, for I’m certain beforehand I shall want it.”
“Good-by, Mr. Aladdin! I surely will!” cried Rebecca, tossing back her dark braids delightedly and waving her hand.
“Oh, Rebecca!” said Emma Jane in an awe-struck whisper. “He raised his hat to us, and we not thirteen! It’ll be five years before we’re ladies.”
“Never mind,” answered Rebecca; “we are the BEGINNINGS of ladies, even now.”
“He tucked the lap robe round us, too,” continued Emma Jane, in an ecstasy of reminiscence. “Oh! isn’t
