By the Light of the Soul Part 41

"There are enough for her to be warmly clothed, and you will see to it that she has them on, won't you?" said Maria. Her voice was quite sweet and ingratiating, and not at all patronizing.

Suddenly the woman made a clutch at her arm. "You are a good young one, doin' so much for my young one," she whispered. "Now you'd better git up and git. They've been drinkin'. Git!"

"You will see that Jessy has the things to wear Monday, won't you?"

said Maria.

"Sure." Suddenly the woman wiped her eyes and gave a maudlin sob.

"You're a good young one," she whimpered. "Now, git."

Maria ran across the road as the door closed after her. She did not know that Mrs. Ramsey had given the parcels which she had brought a toss into another room, and when she entered the room in which the men were carousing and was asked who had come to the door, had replied, "The butcher for his bill," to be greeted with roars of laughter. She did, indeed, hear the roars of laughter. Lily slunk along swiftly beside the fence by her side. Maria caught her by the arm. Curiously enough, while she was not afraid for herself, she did feel a little fear now for her companion. The two girls hurried until they reached the bridge, and ran the whole length. On the other side, coming into the lighted main street of Amity, they felt quite safe.

"Did you see any of those dreadful men?" gasped Lily.

"I just caught a glimpse of them, then Mrs. Ramsey shut the door,"

said Maria.

"They were drunk, weren't they?"

"I shouldn't wonder."

"I do think it was an awful place to go to," said Lily, with a little sigh of relief that she was out of it.

The girls went along the street until they reached the Ramsey house, next the one where Maria lived. Suddenly a man's figure appeared from the gate. It was almost as if he had been watching.

"Good-evening," he said, and the girls saw that he was George Ramsey.

"Good-evening, Mr. Ramsey," responded Maria. She felt Lily's arm tremble in hers. George walked along with them. "I have been to carry the presents which I bought with your money," said Maria.

"Good heavens! You don't mean that you two girls have been all alone up there?" said George.

"Why, yes," said Maria. "Why not?"

"Weren't you afraid?"

"Maria isn't afraid of anything," Lily's sweet, little, tremulous voice piped on the other side.

George was walking next Maria. There was a slight and very gentle accusation in the voice.

"It wasn't safe," said George, soberly, "and I should have been glad to go with you."

Maria laughed. "Well, here we are, safe and sound," she said. "I didn't see anything to be much afraid of."

"All the same, they are an awful set there," said George. They had reached Maria's door, and he added, "Suppose you walk along with me, Miss Edgham, and I will see Lily home." George had been to school with Lily, and had always called her by her first name.

Maria again felt that little tremor of Lily's arm in hers, and did not understand it. "All right," she said.

The three walked to Lily's door, and had said good-night, when Lily, who was, after all, the daughter of her mother, although her little artifices were few and innocent, had an inspiration. She discovered that she had lost her handkerchief.

"I think I took it out when we reached your gate, Mr. Ramsey," she said, timidly, for she felt guilty.

It was quite true that the handkerchief was not in her m.u.f.f, in which she had carried it, but there was a pocket in her coat which she did not investigate.

They turned back, looking along the frozen ground.

"Never mind," Lily said, cheerfully, when they had reached the Ramsey gate and returned to the Edgham's, and the handkerchief was not forthcoming, "it was an old one, anyway. Good-night."

She knew quite well that George Edgham would do what he did--walk home with her the few steps between her house and Maria's, and that Maria would not hesitate to say good-night and enter her own door.

"I guess I had better go right in," said Maria. "Aunt Maria has a cold, and she may worry and be staying up."

Lily was entirely happy at walking those few steps with George Ramsey. He had pulled her little hand through his arm in a school-boy sort of fashion. He left her at the door with a friendly good-night, but she had got what she wanted. He had not gone those few steps alone with Maria. Lily loved Maria, but she did not want George Ramsey to love her.

When Lily entered the house, to her great astonishment she found Dr.

Ellridge there. He was seated beside her mother, who was lying on the sofa.

"Why, mother, what is it--are you sick?" Lily cried, anxiously, while the doctor looked with admiration at her face, glowing with the cold.

"I had one of my attacks after supper, and sent Norah for Dr.

Ellridge. I thought I had better," Mrs. Merrill explained, feebly.

She sighed and looked at the doctor, who understood perfectly, but did not betray himself. He was, in fact, rather flattered.

"Yes, your mother has been feeling quite badly, but she will be all right now," he said to Lily.

"I am sorry you did not feel well, mother," Lily said, sweetly. Then she got her fancy-work from her little silk bag on the table and seated herself, after removing her wraps.

Her mother sighed. The doctor's mouth a.s.sumed a little, humorous pucker.

Lily looked at her mother with affectionate interest. She was quite accustomed to slight attacks of indigestion which her mother often had, and was not much alarmed, still she felt a little anxious. "You are sure you are better, mother?" she said.

"Oh yes, she is much better," the doctor answered for her. "There is nothing for you to be alarmed about."

"I am so glad," said Lily.

She took another st.i.tch in her fancy-work, and her beautiful face took on an almost seraphic expression; she was thinking of George Ramsey. She hardly noticed when the doctor took his leave, and she did not in the least understand her mother's sigh when the door closed. For her the gates of love were wide open, but she had no conception that for her mother they were not shut until she should go to heaven to join her father.

Chapter XX

The next evening Maria, as usual, went to church with her two aunts.

Henry Stillman remained at home reading the Sunday paper. He took a certain delight in so doing, although he knew, in the depths of his soul, that his delight was absurd. He knew perfectly well that it did not make a feather's weight of difference in the universal scheme of things that he, Henry Stillman, should remain at home and read the columns of scandal and politics in that paper, instead of going to church, and yet he liked to think that his small individuality and its revolt because of its injuries at the hands of fate had its weight, and was at least a small sting of revenge.

He watched his wife adjust her bonnet before the looking-gla.s.s in the sitting-room, and arrange carefully the bow beneath her withered chin, and a great pity for her, because she was no longer as she had been, but was so heavily marked by time, and a great jealousy that she should not lose the greatest of all things, which he himself had lost, came over him. As she--a little, prim, mild woman, in her old-fashioned winter cape and her bonnet, with its stiff tuft of velvet pansies--pa.s.sed him, he caught her thin, black-gloved hand and drew her close to him.

"I'm glad you are going to church, Eunice," he said.

Eunice colored, and regarded him with a kind of abashed wonder.