Jane met and exchanged a breathless embrace.
“Something awful has happened,” panted Emma Jane.
“Don’t tell me it’s broken,” exclaimed Rebecca.
“No! oh, no! not that! It was packed in straw, and every piece came out all right; and I was there, and I never said a single thing about your selling the three hundred cakes that got the lamp, so that we could be together when you told.”
“OUR selling the three hundred cakes,” corrected Rebecca; “you did as much as I.”
“No, I didn’t, Rebecca Randall. I just sat at the gate and held the horse.”
“Yes, but WHOSE horse was it that took us to North Riverboro? And besides, it just happened to be my turn. If you had gone in and found Mr. Aladdin you would have had the wonderful lamp given to you; but what’s the trouble?”
“The Simpsons have no kerosene and no wicks. I guess they thought a banquet lamp was something that lighted itself, and burned without any help. Seesaw has gone to the doctor’s to try if he can borrow a wick, and mother let me have a pint of oil, but she says she won’t give me any more. We never thought of the expense of keeping up the lamp, Rebecca.”
“No, we didn’t, but let’s not worry about that till after the party. I have a handful of nuts and raisins and some apples.”
“I have peppermints and maple sugar,” said Emma Jane. “They had a real Thanksgiving dinner; the doctor gave them sweet potatoes and cranberries and turnips; father sent a spare-rib, and Mrs. Cobb a chicken and a jar of mince-meat.”
At half past five one might have looked in at the Simpsons’ windows, and seen the party at its height. Mrs. Simpson had let the kitchen fire die out, and had brought the baby to grace the festal scene. The lamp seemed to be having the party, and receiving the guests. The children had taken the one small table in the house, and it was placed in the far corner of the room to serve as a pedestal. On it stood the sacred, the adored, the long-desired object; almost as beautiful, and nearly half as large as the advertisement. The brass glistened like gold, and the crimson paper shade glowed like a giant ruby. In the wide splash of light that it flung upon the floor sat the Simpsons, in reverent and solemn silence, Emma Jane standing behind them, hand in hand with Rebecca. There seemed to be no desire for conversation; the occasion was too thrilling and serious for that. The lamp, it was tacitly felt by everybody, was dignifying the party, and providing sufficient entertainment simply by its presence; being fully as satisfactory in its way as a pianola or a string band.
“I wish father could see it,” said Clara Belle loyally.
“If he onth thaw it he’d want to thwap it,” murmured Susan sagaciously.
At the appointed hour Rebecca dragged herself reluctantly away from the enchanting scene.
“I’ll turn the lamp out the minute I think you and Emma Jane are home,” said Clara Belle. “And, oh! I’m so glad you both live where you can see it shine from our windows. I wonder how long it will burn without bein’ filled if I only keep it lit one hour every night?”
“You needn’t put it out for want o’ karosene,” said Seesaw, coming in from the shed, “for there’s a great kag of it settin’ out there. Mr. Tubbs brought it over from North Riverboro and said somebody sent an order by mail for it.”
Rebecca squeezed Emma Jane’s arm, and Emma Jane gave a rapturous return squeeze. “It was Mr. Aladdin,” whispered Rebecca, as they ran down the path to the gate. Seesaw followed them and handsomely offered to see them “apiece” down the road, but Rebecca declined his escort with such decision that he did not press the matter, but went to bed to dream of her instead. In his dreams flashes of lightning proceeded from both her eyes, and she held a flaming sword in either hand.
Rebecca entered the home dining-room joyously. The Burnham sisters had gone and the two aunts were knitting.
“It was a heavenly party,” she cried, taking off her hat and cape.
“Go back and see if you have shut the door tight, and then lock it,” said Miss Miranda, in her usual austere manner.
“It was a heavenly party,” reiterated Rebecca, coming in again, much too excited to be easily crushed, “and oh! aunt Jane, aunt Miranda, if you’ll only come into the kitchen and look out of the sink window, you can see the banquet lamp shining all red, just as if the Simpsons’ house was on fire.”
“And probably it will be before long,” observed Miranda. “I’ve got no patience with such foolish goin’s-on.”
Jane accompanied Rebecca into the kitchen. Although the feeble glimmer which she was able to see from that distance did not seem to her a dazzling exhibition, she tried to be as enthusiastic as possible.
“Rebecca, who was it that sold the three hundred cakes of soap to Mr. Ladd in North Riverboro?”
“Mr. WHO?” exclaimed Rebecca.
“Mr. Ladd, in North Riverboro.”
“Is that his real name?” queried Rebecca in astonishment. “I didn’t make a bad guess;” and she laughed softly to herself.
“I asked you who sold the soap to Adam Ladd?” resumed Miss Jane.
“Adam Ladd! then he’s A. Ladd, too; what fun!”
“Answer me, Rebecca.”
“Oh! excuse me, aunt Jane, I was so busy thinking. Emma Jane and I sold the soap to Mr. Ladd.”
“Did you tease him, or make him buy it?”
“Now, aunt Jane, how could I make a big grown-up man buy anything if he didn’t want to? He needed the soap dreadfully as a present for his aunt.”
Miss Jane still looked a little unconvinced, though she only said, “I hope your aunt Miranda won’t mind, but you know how particular she is, Rebecca, and I really wish you wouldn’t do anything out of the ordinary without asking her first, for your actions are very queer.”
“There can’t be anything wrong this time,” Rebecca answered confidently. “Emma Jane sold her cakes to her own relations and to uncle Jerry Cobb, and I went first to those new tenements near the lumber mill, and then to the Ladds’. Mr. Ladd bought all we had and made us promise to keep the secret until the premium came, and I’ve been going about ever since as if the banquet lamp was inside of me all lighted up and burning, for everybody to see.”
Rebecca’s hair was loosened and falling over her forehead in ruffled waves; her eyes were brilliant, her cheeks crimson; there was a hint of everything in the girl’s face,—of sensitiveness and delicacy as well as of ardor; there was the sweetness of the mayflower and the strength of the young oak, but one could easily divine that she was one of
“The souls by nature pitched too high,
By suffering plunged too low.”
“That’s just the way you look, for all the world as if you did have a lamp burning inside of you,” sighed aunt Jane. “Rebecca! Rebecca! I wish you could take things easier, child; I am fearful for you sometimes.”
