That Little Girl of Miss Eliza's Part 14

"They are packed away in a trunk in the closet in the spare-room," she said. Beth ran ahead, and in the dark had pulled out the trunk on to the middle of the floor before Eliza appeared.

There was nothing said as they knelt before it and opened the lid. Eliza had put everything away so that moths nor air could destroy it. She slowly removed the papers and covers and at last laid out all on the floor before them.

"This is what your mother wore-that day."

Beth's hands touched the plain black skirt, the belt and waist.

"I'll speak plainly, Beth. It is better so, now. I do not wish you to raise any false hopes about who your parents were. I really think, child, that you are as well off, as far as material affairs are concerned, with me as with them. This is why I think so. Look at the underwear. It is coa.r.s.e and very poorly made. I think your mother was a very good woman. I'm sure she was. She had a good face, and she was gentle with you; but I am quite sure that she was poor and not well educated. Here are the rings which were in the traveling bag. I think they are of some value-not much. I should say ten or twelve dollars.

"I wish you would always keep these until you find your own people. It may be years from now when I am gone. I have written the date and all the circ.u.mstances down in this little book, so that you may have it, if you need it."

She began to fold the articles. She pinned each one close in its foldings of paper as carefully as though it were a most precious thing, and laid them away in the trunk.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _"Permit me, madam, to present the roses."_]

"Some day, we'll know everything about who you are," she said as they were about to leave the room. She tried to speak lightly but failed.

Putting her arm about Beth's shoulders and drawing her close to her, she continued, "But just now you are my own little girl, and I'm thankful for it."

The scene was hard for them both. It was well that an interruption came.

A knock was heard at the living-room door. Beth hurried downstairs.

"Don't open the door until I come. It might be a tramp," Eliza called after her. Beth hesitated. Eliza came into the living-room with a lamp in hand. Beth kept close to her while the door was opened.

It really was a tramp-the same one they had seen at the Oliver place.

But he was good looking, clean and smiling. He even removed his hat while he addressed Miss Eliza.

"Good evening; I have come up to ask a favor," he said.

CHAPTER XIII.

"I'm to be your neighbor for the winter," he said. "My experience as house-keeper is limited. I set up my Lares and Penates to-day and forgot that man must eat. Will you sell me bread and fresh eggs?"

"Lares and Penates," both Eliza and Beth knew the meaning of those words. Roman mythology! A strange tramp, indeed, who could quote this.

"Will you come in?" asked Eliza. Tramp or not, his clear gray eyes were too fine and commanding to permit his being kept outside the door.

He entered and took the proffered seat before the grate in which a few chunks of wood were smoldering.

"These wood-fires are delightful," he said. "I do not wonder that the age of poetry and romance have pa.s.sed away. It was one with the open grate. What mind of man can conceive of poetry being written before a register or radiator?"

Eliza had nothing to say to this. The conversation was not just what she expected from a tramp. She went to the kitchen and counted out the eggs and took a loaf of fresh bread from the box. She was sorry for the man.

He looked so fine and interesting. It was to be regretted that he allowed himself to be a wanderer. Miss Eliza felt a sense of duty. It grieved her to see one who appeared so bright and attractive waste his life wandering upon the earth. When she heard him sing and whistle in the woods that afternoon, she had thought him a young man. There was the joyousness and buoyancy of youth in his looks and voice. To-night, however, she saw that he was not a boy, but a man fully her own age. She prepared his basket for him, while her heart was heavy.

He arose when she re-entered the living-room and extended his hand for the basket, at the same time laying out a dollar upon the table.

Miss Eliza was surprised. "I-I-did not think of pay," she stammered.

"Surely," he said. "You do not think that I came up to beg. While we are on the subject, I'd like to settle about getting milk, eggs and bread regularly from you. I should like plenty of them. I find they are about the only reliable things one can find in tramping over the country. All cooks are not like our blessed Yankee ones."

"You intend to stay about here?"

"Until spring is fairly settled. I've a little place down here in the woods. I'm sure that I shall be mighty comfortable there all winter.

When the weather permits, I suppose I'll wander forth again to find new experiences. When the wanderl.u.s.t takes possession of one-" He waved his hand as though the subject were not worth continuing.

"It must be a very unprofitable life," said Eliza. "You look so well and strong, I should think you would settle down to some useful work. You don't look a bit like a tramp."

"Ah-a-h," the word came from the stranger's lips slowly. A peculiar twinkle shone in his eyes, and for a moment his lips curled into a smile. He controlled himself, however, and said, "But what a gay life it is! One can see so much-now as to the eggs and milk."

Miss Eliza promised that he could get them daily.

"My name is Hillis," he said. Again the amused expression came to him.

"Even a tramp must have a name, you know."

He was gone, leaving Miss Eliza wondering what strange circ.u.mstance made such a man a wanderer upon the face of the earth. Thereafter he came every morning for milk. During the week, he had fresh bread and eggs. He always paid for them as he received them.

In personal appearance he was the most exquisite tramp that Eliza had ever seen. She laid it down to the fact that her acquaintance in the line had been limited. He always sang or whistled as he came up the hill, and after a while, Eliza found herself expecting him at a regular time in the morning and listening for the song which never failed. Such songs as they were! She could not have believed that words and air could be so exquisitely sweet. The tears actually came to her eyes when she heard, for the first time, his voice ringing through the woods:

"I hear you calling me.

Through all the years, dear one, I hear you calling me."

One afternoon as he was pa.s.sing, he paused to speak to Miss Eliza, who was plucking the last of her chrysanthemums.

"You should see them in j.a.pan," he said. "We cannot raise them here as the j.a.panese do. There's something lacking, either in our skill or our soil. You should see the real j.a.panese flower."

He continued in this strain for some time, during which Miss Eliza learned about soils, and chemical compounds and fertilization. She had lived among farmers all her life, but never realized that in the fields lay a study for a lifetime, and that the soil needed as scientific treatment as a child. It was to be fed, to be rested, to be worked, all with judgment and science. All this, she learned from the tramp. She attributed his knowledge to the fact that he had traveled widely, and being naturally of a keen mind, had picked up information from all parts of the globe.

During the winter, he fell into the habit of bringing magazines to Miss Eliza. They opened a new world to her-a world of flowers and sunshine; the world where the artist soul expresses itself in making the world beautiful in color and form. He sometimes lingered to explain some plant or variety of flowers of which the magazines treated. Beth would sit and listen with open eyes. Sometimes she took part in the conversation. Once she laughingly said in connection with some story of his, "That makes me think of the poppy story Adee told me when I was a little girl."

"Tell it to me," he said, seating himself by the fireside. "I fancy Miss Eliza would have a story worth telling."

For some reason which she could not explain, Eliza's face grew crimson at something in his voice, rather than his words, and hurriedly excused herself and went into the kitchen.

"Adee always told me stories when I was little. Because she had never read any children's stories, she had to make them up."

Beth began the story of the poppy, and the "tramp" listened with interest. When she had finished, he said simply, "Tell me more that Miss Eliza told you."

Beth was only too glad to do so. She began at once. Eliza was back in the room before she had finished.

"Where did you get such fairy-tales?" asked the tramp. "I've read all that ever came in book form, but I missed these."

Eliza tapped her forehead. "Here," she said. "Don't you think it was a pleasure to get them out?"