Harper's Round Table, July 16, 1895 Part 5

"Now he will probably never get here," replied Mr. Ryder. "For, on account of that California offer, I shall be obliged to return directly to San Francisco from St. Michaels without even a chance of going up the Yukon, which I know will be a great disappointment to Phil. But look there, Ruth. You have been wanting to see a canoe-load of Indians, and here comes as typical a one as I ever saw. A perfect specimen of an Alaskan dugout, natives in full winter costume, Eskimo dogs, and a sledge."

"And, oh!" cried Miss Ruth, "there is a tiny bit of a child, all in furs, just like its father. See? Nestled among the dogs, with a pair of wee snow-shoes on his back too? Isn't he a darling? How I should love to hug him! Oh, John, we must find them when we get ash.o.r.e; for that child is the very cutest thing I have seen in all Alaska:"

By this time the steamer was made fast, and the pa.s.sengers were already going ash.o.r.e. When Mr. Ryder and his sister gained the wharf they were surprised to see that the canoe in which they were interested had come to the landing-stage, where its occupants were already disembarking.

The next moment she uttered a shriek of horror, for one of them had thrown his arms around her neck and kissed her.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "AUNT RUTH, YOU'RE A BRICK! A PERFECT BRICK!"]

"Aunt Ruth, you're a brick! a perfect brick!" he cried. "To think of you coming away out here to see me!" Then turning to Mr. Ryder, and embracing that bewildered gentleman in his furry arms, the excited boy exclaimed: "And pop! You dear old pop! If you only knew how distressed I have been about you. If you hadn't turned up, just as you have, I should have dropped everything and gone in search of you."

"Oh, Phil! How could you?" gasped Aunt Ruth. "You frightened me almost to death, and have crushed me all out of shape. You are a regular polar-bear in all those furs and things. What do you mean, sir? Oh you dear, dear boy!" At this point Miss Ruth's feelings so completely overcame her that she sank down on a convenient log and burst into hysterical weeping.

"There, you young scamp!" cried Mr. Ryder, whose own eyes were full of joyful tears at that moment. "See what you have done! Aren't you ashamed of yourself, sir?"

"Yes, pop, awfully. But I've got something that will cheer her up and amuse her. And here's Serge and-- No he isn't, either. What has become of Serge? Oh, I suppose he has gone home. Don't see why he needs to be in such a hurry, though. No matter; here's Jalap Coombs. You remember Jalap, father? And here, Aunt Ruth, is the curio I promised to bring you. Look out; it's alive!"

With this the crazy lad s.n.a.t.c.hed Nel-te from the arms of Jalap Coombs, who had just brought him up the steps, and laid him in Miss Ruth's lap, saying, "He's a little orphan kid I found in the wilderness, and adopted for you to love."

Miss Ruth gave such a start as the small bundle of fur was so unexpectedly thrust at her that poor Nel-te rolled to the ground. From there he lifted such a pitifully frightened little face, with such tear-filled eyes and quivering lip, that Miss Ruth s.n.a.t.c.hed him up and hugged him. Then she kissed and petted him to such an extent that by the time he was again smiling he had won a place in her loving heart second only to that occupied by Phil himself.

With this journey's end also came the partings that always form so sad a feature of all journeys' ends. Even the three dogs that had travelled together for so long were separated, Musky being given to Serge, Luvtuk to May Matthews, to become the pet of the _Phoca_'s crew, and big Amook going with Phil, Aunt Ruth, Nel-te, the sledge, the snow-shoes, and the beautiful white thick-furred skin of a mountain goat to distant New London.

Mr. Ryder and Jalap Coombs accompanied them as far as San Francisco.

Dear old Serge was reluctantly left behind, busily making preparations to carry out his cherished scheme of returning to Anvik as a teacher.

In San Francisco Mr. Ryder secured for Jalap Coombs the command of a trading schooner plying between that port and Honolulu. When it was announced to him that he was at last actually a captain, the honest fellow's voice trembled with emotion as he answered:

"Mr. Ryder, sir, _and_ Phil, I never did wholly look to be a full-rigged cap'n, though I've striv and waited for the berth nigh on to forty year.

Now I know that it's just as my old friend Kite Roberson useter say; for he allers said, old Kite did, 'That them as waits the patientest is bound to see things happen.'"

THE END.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 801.

OAKLEIGH.

BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.

CHAPTER IV.

Mr. Franklin's announcement at first almost stunned his children. They could not believe it. Jack and Cynthia were somewhat prepared for it, it is true, but when they heard the news from their father's own lips it was none the less startling.

To Edith it came like a thunderbolt. She had never had the smallest suspicion that her father would marry again. She had always supposed that she would be sufficient for him. She would never marry herself, she thought, but would stay at home and be the comfort of his declining years. It had never occurred to her that her father, still a young and good-looking man of barely forty, would be exceedingly likely to marry a second time.

And now what was to happen? A stranger was coming to rule over them.

Edith would never endure it, never! She would go away and live with Aunt Betsey. Anything would be better than a step-mother.

When she spoke her voice was hard and unnatural.

"Haven't I done right, papa? Weren't you satisfied with me? I have tried."

"My dear child, you have done your best, but you are too young. No one can expect a girl of sixteen to take entire charge of a house and family. And it is not only that. Hester is a charming woman. She reminds me something of your mother, Edith. It was that which first attracted me. She will be a companion to you--a sister."

"Thank you, but I don't need either. Cynthia is all the sister I want.

Oh, papa, papa, why are you going to do it!"

She went to her own room and shut the door. After this one outbreak she said no more. Small things made Edith storm and even cry, dignified though she was. This great shock stunned her. She did not shed a tear, and she bore it in silence; but a hard feeling came into her heart, and she determined that she would never forgive this Miss Gordon who had entrapped her father (so she put it), and was coming to rule over them and order them about. She, for one, would never submit to it.

Jack did not mind it in the least, and Cynthia, who idolized her father, was sure from what he said that he was doing what he considered was for his happiness. Of course it was terrible for them, but they must make the best of it.

They pa.s.sed a dreary Sunday, but Monday was expected to be an exciting day, for on that date the chickens were to appear. But when the children returned from school there were but small signs of the antic.i.p.ated hatch in the incubator; one sh.e.l.l only had a little crack on the end.

Cynthia took up her position in front of the machine with a book, and waited patiently hour after hour. Nothing came. The next morning there was another crack in the next egg, and the first had spread a little, but that was all. The children all went to school but Edith, and she felt too low-spirited to go down to the cellar to watch.

Janet and w.i.l.l.y were forbidden to go near the place. As punishment for their conduct on Sat.u.r.day, they were not to be present at the hatching.

It was thought that owing to what they had done the chickens were not forth-coming, and indeed it had been most disastrous.

When Jack and Cynthia returned from school they found that two little chicks--probably the only two which had escaped the cold bath--had emerged from their sh.e.l.ls, and were hopping dismally about in the gravel beneath the trays. One hundred and ninety-eight hoped-for companions failed to appear.

Jack's first hatch was anything but a success. He bore it bravely, but it was a bitter disappointment. After waiting many hours in the vain hope of seeing another sh.e.l.l crack, he removed the two little comrades to the large brooder built to hold a hundred, and then, nothing daunted, sent for more eggs. He still had some of Aunt Betsey's money left.

Jack was plucky, and his pride would not permit him to give up. He would profit by his experience, and next time he would be victorious. He feared that, besides the mischief done by the children, he had been overfussy in his care of the eggs, and he determined to act more wisely in every respect.

In after-years Cynthia looked back upon the first hatch as one of the most depressing events in her life. The children in disgrace, Edith silent and woe-begone in her own room, she and Jack watching hour after hour in the big cellar for the chickens that never came, and, above all, the impending arrival of the second Mrs. Franklin.

Aunt Betsey journeyed down from Wayborough as soon as she heard the news. They did not know she was coming until they saw one of the station carriages slowly approaching the house, with Miss Trinkett's well-known bonnet inside of it. She waved her hand gayly, and opened the subject at once.

"Well, well," she cried, "this is news indeed! I want to know! Nephew John going to be married again! Just what I always thought he had best do for the good of you children. Have you seen the bride, and what is she like?"

It was a warm June day, and the Franklins were on the piazza when this was shouted to them from the carriage in their aunt's shrill voice.

Edith writhed. Though the news was all over Brenton by now, this would be a fine bit for the driver to take back.

Jack and Cynthia offered to help Aunt Betsey to alight, but she waved them aside.

"Don't think you must help me, my dears. This good news has put new life into me. How do you all do?" giving each one of her birdlike kisses, and settling herself in a favorite rocking-chair.

The younger children ran to her, hoping for treasures from the carpet-bag.

"I do declare," exclaimed she, "if I didn't forget all about you in the news of the bride! Never mind; wait till next time, and I'll bring you something extry nice when I come to see the bride."