Black-Eyed Susan Part 7

Up the steep stairs they toiled softly, and were ushered into a room so darkened that, coming from the glare of the sun outside, it was at first difficult to see anything.

But Phil at length made out a figure, wrapped in a shawl this warm summer day, seated in a cushioned rocking-chair, and felt a cool, slim hand take his own for an instant. He looked timidly into the face above him and saw with a lightened heart that Miss Lunette was not dreadful at all, that she didn't look in the least as he had expected and feared to see her look.

And in the fullness of his heart, little Phil spoke out.

"Why, you are pretty," said he to Miss Lunette.

Miss Lunette's pale, thin face flushed with pleasure, and she laid a hand lightly upon Philip's head.

"I feel so well to-day," said she graciously, "that I want to show you children some toys that I've been making. Some day I mean to sell them in the city, but it won't do any harm, I suppose, to show them to you beforehand. It is what we call wool-work," added she carefully.

On a table, drawn close to Miss Lunette's chair, stood a group of animals made of worsted. There were yellow chickens standing unsteadily upon their toothpick legs. Lopsided white sheep faced a pair of stout rabbits evidently suffering from the mumps. A dull brown rooster suddenly blossomed out into a gorgeous tail of red and green and purple yarn.

For a grown person it would be difficult to imagine who, in the city, would purchase these strange specimens of natural history, but such a disloyal thought did not occur to the children. They admired the toys to Miss Lunette's complete satisfaction, and they had their reward. For Miss Lunette took from the shelf under the table a book, a home-made book, between whose pasteboard covers had been sewed leaves of stiff white paper.

"As a special treat," said Miss Lunette sweetly to her round-eyed audience, "I am going to show you my book."

She paused for an instant to allow Susan and Phil to feast their eyes upon the book in silence.

"This is the cover," said she at last, "and I made the picture myself."

The picture was that of a rigid little boy, in a paper soldier cap, stiffly blowing upon a tin trumpet. The picture was carefully colored with red and blue crayons.

"Oh, it's pretty," said Susan, in honest admiration. She meant to make a book herself as soon as she reached home.

"What's inside?" asked Philip. He felt sorry for that little boy, who, as long as he lived with Miss Lunette, might never make a noise.

"I think the cover ought to be bright and gay, so that it will attract the children," went on the auth.o.r.ess. "Don't you think so, too?"

Yes, Susan and Phil thought so, too.

"But what's inside?" asked Philip again.

How was that little boy going to play soldier, and never once shout or fire off a gun?

"The name of the book is 'Scripture for Little Ones,'" continued Miss Lunette. "I will read parts of it to you if you like." And opening at page one, she began to read.

A is for Absalom who hung by his hair From a tree-How painful to be left swinging there.

B is for Baalam-He had a donkey who spoke- If we heard it to-day we would think it a joke.

C is for Cain-His brother Abel he slew- He was a murderer-May it never be true of you!

D is for Daniel who, in the lion's den, Suffered no harm from beasts or from men.

E is for-

But whom E stood for the children never knew, for Miss Liza appeared in the doorway bearing a tray.

"Here is your dinner, Lunette," said she gently. "Children, you creep downstairs now. You don't want to overdo, Lunette," she added, as she placed the invalid's substantial dinner before her. "You've been talking for an hour now."

Downstairs Miss Liza closed the stairway door that led up to Miss Lunette's room.

"Now you can talk out as loud as you like," said she, "and you won't disturb any one. What's the news up at your house, Susan? Have you and Phil found the buried ten cents yet?"

No, Susan had forgotten all about it.

So, as she stepped about putting their dinner on the table, Miss Liza told Phil the story of the buried ten cents.

"You know, Phil," said she, "you are living in my house,-the house I was born and brought up in. And one day, when I was a little girl eight years old, my uncle, who had a farm a mile or so away, drove past our house and saw me in the road.

"'Here's ten cents,' said he. 'Five for you and five for Jim.' Jim was my brother. Now I was a selfish little thing," said Miss Liza, shaking her head, "and what did I do but dig a hole under the kitchen window and put the ten cents in it. Some day, when Jim was out of the way, I meant to dig it up and spend it all on myself. But do you know, I never have found that money from that day to this. I dug, and Jim dug, and Susan here has dug, and I suppose you will try now. If you find it, be sure you let me know."

"I will find it," said Phil, excited. "I will. You see."

Miss Liza nodded wisely.

"That is what Susan thought," she answered. "Now draw up to the table. I hope you are hungry." And Miss Liza smiled hospitably round at her guests.

They were hungry. The good dinner disappeared from their plates like magic, but the crowning touch came when the little cakes shaped like fish and leaves and stars appeared upon the table.

"I told Phil about them," Susan repeated over and over; "I told him, I told him."

After dinner, Susan and Phil went into the garden to fill their pails with currants and raspberries. It must be admitted that they picked more raspberries than currants, and that they put almost as many berries into their mouths as into their pails.

They were hard at work when Miss Liza joined them.

"It's half-past three," said she, shading her eyes with her hands and looking up at the sky. "And if your Grandmother meant what she said, you ought to start for home. But what I'm thinking of is the weather. It's clear enough overhead, but low down there are black clouds that look like a shower to me. I don't know whether you ought to set out or not."

The clouds looked very far away to the children, and, now that their pails were almost full, it seemed a pity not to stay a little longer.

But Miss Liza took one more look round at the sky and made up her mind once for all.

"You must go right along," she decided, "and hurry, too. I shan't have an easy moment till I think you are safe at home. Here are your hats and slippers. Miss Lunette is napping, now, so I will say good-bye for you.

Hurry right along, children, and don't stop to play by the way."

And all in a twinkling Susan and Phil found themselves walking down the village street, with Miss Liza at the gate, waving good-bye with one hand and motioning them along with the other.

The sun was shining as they left the village and turned into the country road that led past home, but there were low mutterings and rumblings and Phil stopped to listen.

"There's a wagon on the bridge," said he. "Maybe they will give us a ride."

"It's thunder," returned Susan, more weather-wise than he. "Listen. It's getting dark, too. I wish a wagon would come along."

But there was no sound of wheels; only rumblings of thunder growing ever louder, the rustle of leaves in the rising wind, and the call of the birds to one another as they hastened to shelter from the coming storm.

"It's blue sky overhead, anyway," said Susan. "Let's run."

"It's raining," announced Phil, heavily burdened with slippers and pail.