and red, Rebecca, and so homely in drab and brown!”
“I know it,” sighed Rebecca “I wish I was like you—pretty in all colors!” And Rebecca looked longingly at Emma Jane’s fat, rosy cheeks; at her blue eyes, which said nothing; at her neat nose, which had no character; at her red lips, from between which no word worth listening to had ever issued.
“Never mind!” said Emma Jane comfortingly. “Everybody says you’re awful bright and smart, and mother thinks you’ll be better looking all the time as you grow older. You wouldn’t believe it, but I was a dreadful homely baby, and homely right along till just a year or two ago, when my red hair began to grow dark. What was the nice man’s name?”
“I never thought to ask!” ejaculated Rebecca. “Aunt Miranda would say that was just like me, and it is. But I called him Mr. Aladdin because he gave us a lamp. You know the story of Aladdin and the wonderful lamp?”
“Oh, Rebecca! how could you call him a nickname the very first time you ever saw him?”
“Aladdin isn’t a nickname exactly; anyway, he laughed and seemed to like it.”
By dint of superhuman effort, and putting such a seal upon their lips as never mortals put before, the two girls succeeded in keeping their wonderful news to themselves; although it was obvious to all beholders that they were in an extraordinary and abnormal state of mind.
On Thanksgiving the lamp arrived in a large packing box, and was taken out and set up by Seesaw Simpson, who suddenly began to admire and respect the business ability of his sisters. Rebecca had heard the news of its arrival, but waited until nearly dark before asking permission to go to the Simpsons’, so that she might see the gorgeous trophy lighted and sending a blaze of crimson glory through its red crepe paper shade.
Chapter XV.
The Banquet Lamp
There had been company at the brick house to the bountiful Thanksgiving dinner which had been provided at one o’clock,—the Burnham sisters, who lived between North Riverboro and Shaker Village, and who for more than a quarter of a century had come to pass the holiday with the Sawyers every year. Rebecca sat silent with a book after the dinner dishes were washed, and when it was nearly five asked if she might go to the Simpsons’.
“What do you want to run after those Simpson children for on a Thanksgiving Day?” queried Miss Miranda. “Can’t you set still for once and listen to the improvin’ conversation of your elders? You never can let well enough alone, but want to be forever on the move.”
“The Simpsons have a new lamp, and Emma Jane and I promised to go up and see it lighted, and make it a kind of a party.”
“What under the canopy did they want of a lamp, and where did they get the money to pay for it? If Abner was at home, I should think he’d been swappin’ again,” said Miss Miranda.
“The children got it as a prize for selling soap,” replied Rebecca; “they’ve been working for a year, and you know I told you that Emma Jane and I helped them the Saturday afternoon you were in Portland.”
“I didn’t take notice, I s’pose, for it’s the first time I ever heard the lamp mentioned. Well, you can go for an hour, and no more. Remember it’s as dark at six as it is at midnight Would you like to take along some Baldwin apples? What have you got in the pocket of that new dress that makes it sag down so?”
“It’s my nuts and raisins from dinner,” replied Rebecca, who never succeeded in keeping the most innocent action a secret from her aunt Miranda; “they’re just what you gave me on my plate.”
“Why didn’t you eat them?”
“Because I’d had enough dinner, and I thought if I saved these, it would make the Simpsons’ party better,” stammered Rebecca, who hated to be scolded and examined before company.
“They were your own, Rebecca,” interposed aunt Jane, “and if you chose to save them to give away, it is all right. We ought never to let this day pass without giving our neighbors something to be thankful for, instead of taking all the time to think of our own mercies.”
The Burnham sisters nodded approvingly as Rebecca went out, and remarked that they had never seen a child grow and improve so fast in so short a time.
“There’s plenty of room left for more improvement, as you’d know if she lived in the same house with you,” answered Miranda. “She’s into every namable thing in the neighborhood, an’ not only into it, but generally at the head an’ front of it, especially when it’s mischief. Of all the foolishness I ever heard of, that lamp beats everything; it’s just like those Simpsons, but I didn’t suppose the children had brains enough to sell anything.”
“One of them must have,” said Miss Ellen Burnham, “for the girl that was selling soap at the Ladds’ in North Riverboro was described by Adam Ladd as the most remarkable and winning child he ever saw.”
“It must have been Clara Belle, and I should never call her remarkable,” answered Miss Miranda. “Has Adam been home again?”
“Yes, he’s been staying a few days with his aunt. There’s no limit to the money he’s making, they say; and he always brings presents for all the neighbors. This time it was a full set of furs for Mrs. Ladd; and to think we can remember the time he was a barefoot boy without two shirts to his back! It is strange he hasn’t married, with all his money, and him so fond of children that he always has a pack of them at his heels.”
“There’s hope for him still, though,” said Miss Jane smilingly; “for I don’t s’pose he’s more than thirty.”
“He could get a wife in Riverboro if he was a hundred and thirty,” remarked Miss Miranda.
“Adam’s aunt says he was so taken with the little girl that sold the soap (Clara Belle, did you say her name was?), that he declared he was going to bring her a Christmas present,” continued Miss Ellen.
“Well, there’s no accountin’ for tastes,” exclaimed Miss Miranda. “Clara Belle’s got cross-eyes and red hair, but I’d be the last one to grudge her a Christmas present; the more Adam Ladd gives to her the less the town’ll have to.”
“Isn’t there another Simpson girl?” asked Miss Lydia Burnham; “for this one couldn’t have been cross-eyed; I remember Mrs. Ladd saying Adam remarked about this child’s handsome eyes. He said it was her eyes that made him buy the three hundred cakes. Mrs. Ladd has it stacked up in the shed chamber.”
“Three hundred cakes!” ejaculated Miranda. “Well, there’s one crop that never fails in Riverboro!”
“What’s that?” asked Miss Lydia politely.
“The fool crop,” responded Miranda tersely, and changed the subject, much to Jane’s gratitude, for she had been nervous and ill at ease for the last fifteen minutes. What child in Riverboro could be described as remarkable and winning, save Rebecca? What child had wonderful eyes, except the same Rebecca? and finally, was there ever a child in the world who could make a man buy soap by the hundred cakes, save Rebecca?
Meantime
