walked through all the old playgrounds and favorite haunts of her early childhood; all her familiar, her secret places; some of them known to John, some to herself alone. There was the spot where the Indian pipes grew; the particular bit of marshy ground where the fringed gentians used to be largest and bluest; the rock maple where she found the oriole’s nest; the hedge where the field mice lived; the moss-covered stump where the white toadstools were wont to spring up as if by magic; the hole at the root of the old pine where an ancient and honorable toad made his home; these were the landmarks of her childhood, and she looked at them as across an immeasurable distance. The dear little sunny brook, her chief companion after John, was sorry company at this season. There was no laughing water sparkling in the sunshine. In summer the merry stream had danced over white pebbles on its way to deep pools where it could be still and think. Now, like Mira, it was cold and quiet, wrapped in its shroud of snow; but Rebecca knelt by the brink, and putting her ear to the glaze of ice, fancied, where it used to be deepest, she could hear a faint, tinkling sound. It was all right! Sunnybrook would sing again in the spring; perhaps Mira too would have her singing time somewhere—she wondered where and how. In the course of these lonely rambles she was ever thinking, thinking, of one subject. Hannah had never had a chance; never been freed from the daily care and work of the farm. She, Rebecca, had enjoyed all the privileges thus far. Life at the brick house had not been by any means a path of roses, but there had been comfort and the companionship of other children, as well as chances for study and reading. Riverboro had not been the world itself, but it had been a glimpse of it through a tiny peephole that was infinitely better than nothing. Rebecca shed more than one quiet tear before she could trust herself to offer up as a sacrifice that which she so much desired for herself. Then one morning as her visit neared its end she plunged into the subject boldly and said, “Hannah, after this term I’m going to stay at home and let you go away. Aunt Miranda has always wanted you, and it’s only fair you should have your turn.”
Hannah was darning stockings, and she threaded her needle and snipped off the yarn before she answered, “No, thank you, Becky. Mother couldn’t do without me, and I hate going to school. I can read and write and cipher as well as anybody now, and that’s enough for me. I’d die rather than teach school for a living. The winter’ll go fast, for Will Melville is going to lend me his mother’s sewing machine, and I’m going to make white petticoats out of the piece of muslin aunt Jane sent, and have ‘em just solid with tucks. Then there’s going to be a singing-school and a social circle in Temperance after New Year’s, and I shall have a real good time now I’m grown up. I’m not one to be lonesome, Becky,” Hannah ended with a blush; “I love this place.”
Rebecca saw that she was speaking the truth, but she did not understand the blush till a year or two later.
Chapter XVIII.
Rebecca Represents the Family
There was another milestone; it was more than that, it was an “event;” an event that made a deep impression in several quarters and left a wake of smaller events in its train. This was the coming to Riverboro of the Reverend Amos Burch and wife, returned missionaries from Syria.
The Aid Society had called its meeting for a certain Wednesday in March of the year in which Rebecca ended her Riverboro school days and began her studies at Wareham. It was a raw, blustering day, snow on the ground and a look in the sky of more to follow. Both Miranda and Jane had taken cold and decided that they could not leave the house in such weather, and this deflection from the path of duty worried Miranda, since she was an officer of the society. After making the breakfast table sufficiently uncomfortable and wishing plaintively that Jane wouldn’t always insist on being sick at the same time she was, she decided that Rebecca must go to the meeting in their stead. “You’ll be better than nobody, Rebecca,” she said flatteringly; “your aunt Jane shall write an excuse from afternoon school for you; you can wear your rubber boots and come home by the way of the meetin’ house. This Mr. Burch, if I remember right, used to know your grandfather Sawyer, and stayed here once when he was candidatin’. He’ll mebbe look for us there, and you must just go and represent the family, an’ give him our respects. Be careful how you behave. Bow your head in prayer; sing all the hymns, but not too loud and bold; ask after Mis’ Strout’s boy; tell everybody what awful colds we’ve got; if you see a good chance, take your pocket handkerchief and wipe the dust off the melodeon before the meetin’ begins, and get twenty-five cents out of the sittin’ room match-box in case there should be a collection.”
Rebecca willingly assented. Anything interested her, even a village missionary meeting, and the idea of representing the family was rather intoxicating.
The service was held in the Sunday-school room, and although the Rev. Mr. Burch was on the platform when Rebecca entered, there were only a dozen persons present. Feeling a little shy and considerably too young for this assemblage, Rebecca sought the shelter of a friendly face, and seeing Mrs. Robinson in one of the side seats near the front, she walked up the aisle and sat beside her.
“Both my aunts had bad colds,” she said softly, “and sent me to represent the family.”
“That’s Mrs. Burch on the platform with her husband,” whispered Mrs. Robinson. “She’s awful tanned up, ain’t she? If you’re goin’ to save souls seems like you hev’ to part with your complexion. Eudoxy Morton ain’t come yet; I hope to the land she will, or Mis’ Deacon Milliken’ll pitch the tunes where we can’t reach ‘em with a ladder; can’t you pitch, afore she gits her breath and clears her throat?”
Mrs. Burch was a slim, frail little woman with dark hair, a broad low forehead, and patient mouth. She was dressed in a well-worn black silk, and looked so tired that Rebecca’s heart went out to her.
“They’re poor as Job’s turkey,” whispered Mrs. Robinson; “but if you give ‘em anything they’d turn right round and give it to the heathen. His congregation up to Parsonsfield clubbed together and give him that gold watch he carries; I s’pose he’d ‘a’ handed that over too, only heathens always tell time by the sun ‘n’ don’t need watches. Eudoxy ain’t comin’; now for massy’s sake, Rebecca, do git ahead of Mis’ Deacon Milliken and pitch real low.”
The meeting began with prayer and then the Rev. Mr. Burch announced, to the tune of Mendon:—
“Church of our God I arise and shine,
Bright with the beams of truth divine:
Then shall thy radiance stream afar,
Wide as the heathen nations are.
“Gentiles and kings thy light shall view,
And shall admire and love thee too;
They come, like clouds across the sky,
As doves that to their windows fly.”
“Is there any one present who will assist us at the instrument?” he asked unexpectedly.
Everybody looked at everybody else, and nobody moved; then there came a voice out of a far corner saying informally, “Rebecca, why don’t you?” It was Mrs. Cobb. Rebecca could have played Mendon in the dark, so she went to the melodeon and did so without any ado, no member of her family being present to give her self-consciousness.
The talk that ensued was much the usual sort of thing. Mr. Burch made impassioned appeals for the spreading of the gospel, and added his entreaties that all who were prevented from visiting in person the peoples who sat in darkness should contribute liberally to the support of others
