Phebe, Her Profession Part 19

Her eyes flashed at the use of her nickname once more. She felt that the feud was forgotten, as she asked, with an interest which was not all feigned,--

"Have you any of them?"

"Not here; but lots of them in my room. I do them, evenings and all sorts of off times, and some of them aren't so simple as they look, either."

"Has anybody seen them?"

He shook his head.

"What's the use? Phebe's bones are bad enough. The house wouldn't hold two cranks. n.o.body else knows."

"I want to see them," she a.s.serted.

"They aren't anything to see. Besides, you couldn't understand them."

"I'm not so sure of that. At least, you might try me."

"Anyhow, I like them lots better than I do this stuff." He thumped the German grammar viciously.

"Why don't you do them then?"

"No good."

"I mean instead of college."

"Papa wouldn't let me."

"Have you ever asked him?"

"What's the use? He wants me to be a doctor."

"Do you want to?"

"No. Babe is enough to make me sick of doctors," he answered with brotherly frankness.

"I like doctors, myself; but I'd rather be a good machinist than a bad doctor."

"So would I, a plaguy sight," he muttered; "but the others wouldn't stand it."

"I can't see why," Cicely said thoughtfully. "It is s.m.u.tty work, and it doesn't sound exactly aristocratic; but soap is cheap, and you aren't obliged to eat out of a tin pail. Allyn, I'd do it if I were in your place."

He turned to face her, and his brown eyes were lighted with his enthusiasm.

"I wish I could," he said excitedly, his words tumbling over and over each other. "Ever since I was a little bit of a fellow, I've liked such things, machinery and all that. I've felt at home with it and wanted to handle it. I hate school and the things the fellows care for, girls and dancing school and that stuff--I don't mean you, Cis; you're more like a boy,--and I hate worst of all the everlasting Greek and Latin. It is out of my line; I can't see anything in it. There's some sense in machinery. You can handle it, and mend it, and make it go, and maybe improve it. That's enough better than things you get out of books. Do you suppose there would be any chance of their letting me cut school and go into a shop?"

With a boy's eager haste, now that his secret was out, he was for dropping everything else and rushing headlong into his hobby. Cicely counselled patience.

"Wait," she said, as she rested her hand on his for an instant. "You're only fifteen, and there is plenty of time to decide. It is worth trying for, and I think perhaps you may get your way; but, first of all, you'll have to prove that it isn't just because you are too lazy to study Greek and German that you want to give it up. If you pa.s.s good examinations, this June, your chance will be all the better. Then you can go off, this summer, and take time to think it over. By fall, you can tell what you really do want; and, if your father is the man I think he is, and if you behave yourself in the meantime, I believe you will get it." She paused and, for the second time in her acquaintance with him, she felt Allyn's fingers close warmly on her own; but he only said,--

"You're not half bad for a girl, Cis."

"And when shall we begin our Dutch?" she asked, determined to clinch the fact of their treaty of peace.

"When can you?"

"To-night. Come over at eight, and I'll be ready. We'll take an hour, every evening and I'll do fudge afterward."

The dinner bell was sounding at The Savins, as Cicely and Allyn came strolling homeward. It was evident that they had been for a long walk.

Melchisedek's tail drooped dejectedly, and Allyn carried a sheaf of nodding yellow lilies, while Cicely had the despised grammar tucked under one arm and a bunch of greenish white clovers in the other hand. They came on, shoulder to shoulder, talking busily, and Theodora as she watched them, was well content.

At the table, Cicely ignored the events of the afternoon

"Allyn is having a bad time with his German and I am going to see if I can help him," was all she said. "Are you going to use the library, this evening?"

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"'Lit-tle ones to him be-long, Vey are weak, but he is strong.'

"Mam-ma-a-a!" Mac's burst of psalmody ended in a roar.

"Yes, Mac. Here I am."

"Where?"

"Upstairs, packing."

Mac toiled up the stairs and into his mother's room.

"I fought maybe you wanted to see me," he observed. "What for you putting all vose fings into ve box?"

"Because we are going to see grandpapa and Aunt Teddy, and then we are all going to the seash.o.r.e."

"What is ve seash.o.r.e?"

"The ocean, the great, broad blue water without any edge to it, where the waves keep tumbling over and over on the beach."

"What's beach?" he demanded. Always used to the mountains, the phraseology of the sea was a new tongue to him.

"It's the edge of the water," his mother said absently, while she tried to fold an organdie gown to the best advantage.

"But you said vere wouldn't be any edge," he protested, for he was nothing if not logical, and he insisted upon logic from others.

"Well, never mind now. Run away, dear, and I'll tell you about it, some other time."

But Mac festooned himself across the open box couch.