The Opened Shutters Part 15

"Loved them, of course, and been thankful." Sylvia's angry eyes grew moist.

"That would have been a happier state of mind than what you have now, wouldn't it?"

"Of course." All the girl's sore spots were aching. "Why do you ask such a question?"

"Just to remind you of the fact. Now why should you let them make you lose the joy of being loving and thankful?"

"Why--how unreasonable! I can't help it, of course."

"Yes, you can. It's wonderful, Sylvia, but yes, you can. Think of being able to get out of the heat and turmoil of resentment and anger into the kingdom of heaven! You know where Jesus said it was?"

"No, I don't."

"Within you. The kingdom of heaven is within you."

"I guess not," returned Sylvia, with heaving breast. "Father always said there was plenty of old Adam in me, and I know it isn't human nature to be loving toward people that have treated me as they did."

"No, indeed it isn't. Your only chance is in finding out that you have a higher nature inherited from our Father in heaven, who the Bible declares is Love. When you allow that nature to have sway you will, as somebody has beautifully put it, 'think G.o.d's thoughts after him.' You will think mercifully and lovingly of your uncle and aunt, and forgive them as you would be forgiven. That way lies happiness."

The girl raised her blue eyes to his curiously. "So you consider it thinking right to live in a sort of a fools' paradise?"

Her companion smiled at her and his eyes shone. "I leave it to you if it isn't better than yours," he returned. "You believe in G.o.d, don't you, Sylvia?"

She cast down her glance. "I've thought lately sometimes that I'd like to; but he's so far away, on the outest edge of the universe."

"Why, what's the name of the place he lives in?"

"Heaven, I suppose."

"Well, where did I just remind you is the kingdom of heaven?"

Sylvia shrugged her shoulders. Thinkright's voice had again that tone that tapped at her heart as at a closed door, and instinctively she resisted it.

"Within you, little child," went on her companion, after a waiting pause. "G.o.d far away? 'Nearer than hands and feet,' Sylvia, 'nearer than hands and feet.'"

"I don't understand anything of what you're saying," returned the girl abruptly.

"Well, isn't this a pretty path?" asked Thinkright, looking about them.

"It seems only yesterday that all these evergreens were loaded with snow." As he spoke, a song-sparrow near by poured out a flood of melody.

"Ah!" exclaimed the girl, her eyes glistening.

"Oh, if you like birds you are going to enjoy the Mill Farm. We have a very respectable choir in these woods. Now we could keep on in this path past the mill, 'way out to the end of the peninsula, but we don't this time; instead we turn right here and then"--the speaker waved his hand up a gentle incline, at the head of which stood an oblong white house with green blinds; "that's the Mill Farm."

"Judge Trent's farm." Sylvia's eyes met those of her host. "Why did you deceive me?" she repeated, gazing at him while they stood still in the soft gra.s.s.

Thinkright brought the knuckles of one of his hands into the hard palm of the other. "I asked you to come to the farm, didn't I? You were not thinking kindly of Judge Trent then; you were wasting your time thinking wrong about his wrong doings. If I'd said come and be your uncle's guest at the Mill Farm instead of at the Young Woman's Christian a.s.sociation, you'd have questioned and doubted some time probably, and we might not have caught that evening train to Portland, and it was best for me to get home."

Sylvia bit her lip.

"Now there isn't one thing to do but think right," went on her host kindly, "and you'll be happy as a girl should be. You believe there's satisfaction in slapping back, and it galls you because you can't. It's the greatest mistake you can imagine. The satisfaction of slapping back only leads on to greater complications and final disaster in a logical sequence. Now, I'm not penniless, my little cousin. Just at present you're my guest."

"Oh, am I really, Cousin Thinkright?" cried the girl eagerly.

"Surely you are."

"Then I can begin to have a good time right off," she exclaimed, her white cheeks flushing as she took his arm in her relief.

He smiled as they walked slowly up the incline. "Always have a good time," he said. "The daughter of a great King should hide her head in shame if she admits any other thought."

CHAPTER VIII

IN HARBOR

As Cap'n Lem's team drew deliberately up the hill to the house, his daughter-in-law and grandchild came out on the doorstep. "h.e.l.lo, Lucil; h.e.l.lo, Minty," he cried.

Twelve-year-old Araminta, dressed in a red plaid frock, long of legs and arms, round of eyes, and with her braid beribboned in pink in honor of the unknown, looked her disappointment. "They never come!" she exclaimed. "We might jest as well as not rode to town, ma."

"Well, we couldn't 'a' known it, and no use cryin' over spilt milk,"

returned her mother. Mrs. Lemuel Foster had raised her pompadour exceptionally high this morning, and the knot at the back of her head had the psyche-like protuberance reserved for state occasions.

"Whoa, Jim. Hi thar, Pete," said Cap'n Lem, for his steeds began to exhibit spirit at the proximity of the barn. "Oh, yes, they come all right."

"Then who is it?" cried the two on the doorstep, in perfect unison.

Thinkright's message had not specified the nature of his guest.

"The missin' link," replied Cap'n Lem. "Haw, haw, haw!"

The pent-up roar burst forth at last.

"Father, he _hain't_ brought home a monkey!" Mrs. Lem's consciousness of the trail on her black brilliantine suddenly failed to support her company manner. "Do tell me you're foolin'!" she added acutely.

"Why, I think 't would be splendid!" cried Minty eagerly, watching her grandfather's heaving shoulders. "Where'd ye leave 'em, grandpa?"

"Daown t' the Basin."

Minty clapped her hands, and her round eyes shone. "To let it have a drink and run through the woods. Oh, what fun! I'll let it sleep with me."

Her mother gave her a sounding slap. "Hold your tongue, Minty Foster, and let the cap'n speak. Why did Thinkright ask me to get the best room ready, then? If a monkey comes into this house I go out of it, and I _stay_ out."

"'Tain't a monkey, no, 'tain't," returned Cap'n Lem tearfully but pacifically; "but I made the best joke, Lucil, if I do say it. I'm laughin' yit. Ye couldn't 'preciate it till ye see her, then I'll tell ye, an if yew don't bust your sides"--

"Her? Is she young or old?" demanded Mrs. Lem, recovering a sense of the l.u.s.tre on her brilliantine.