It was a wild night, but the kitchen, the heart of the farmhouse home, was bright with leaping flames and with the strong, vitalizing personality of the mother. For the moment she was alone, sitting at Mark's study table by the east window, which was covered with worn volumes and ponderous lexicons. The sweet serenity of her face bore evidence to her intense intellectual and spiritual life and to her broad culture, to the infinite depths also of her love and self-sacrifice. To such peace a human soul comes only through conflict to victory, through storm and stress to a haven of rest.
"Are you ready for supper, Mark?" said his mother.
"Yes, mother; just let me know that all is safe for the night first. The wind is on a regular March tear, rampaging around like the lion he is.''
The kitchen door shut with a furious bang as he went out, and opened with a swirl of wind as he quickly returned.
"Kind of lonesome without the child, isn't it? Now while we eat let us talk the letter over."
"You read it again, my son," and Mark read:
Wellboro, Mass., March 5, 1843.
Dear Mother and Brother:-
Doris has gone out for an hour with Jimmy and Johnny (who think she is adorable), and I take this time to write a letter of which I want her to know nothing at present. I cannot tell you how much we enjoy having her; she is so bright and sunny that she helps us all. You know that I am a very happy woman, could not be otherwise, with my kind husband and blessed babies, but mother knows how I have to fight a tendency to melancholy. I do believe that I have the victory usually, but Doris so overflows with life and full that I forget that I have such a woeful failing.
But it is not for myself that I am suggesting this plan. I know how much you miss the child, and feel that you have been very good to let us have her for a month, but it seems to me that this is an unusual opportunity for Doris.
We have a remarkable school here now, to which a number of girls of her age are going. The teacher is a graduate of Mt. Holyobe Seminary, and is full of enthusiasm for the advanced education of females. She is making a great impression in the village, and her pupils are doing really remarkable work. Doris is far beyond most girls in her studies, thanks to her mother and brother, but it seems to me that the association with Miss Patience Grey and her pupils would do much for her just now. Can you spare her for a few months? She can never have better teachers than she has at home, best of mothers and brothers, but if you think best we shall be glad to keep her.
Your most affectionate daughter and sister,
Amelia Brewster.
The clock ticked loudly; the flames rushed up the roaring chimney as silent minutes slipped away.
"Well, my son, what do you think? I have been interested in Mt. Holyoke Female Seminary for some years. I was visiting a friend in Wellboro a few years ago - do you remember? - and met the founder, Miss Mary Lyon, a woman of remarkable personality. She was full of the most contagious enthusiasm, and was trying to raise money to put her school on a secure basis. I shall never forget her earnest pleading for the highest opportunities for women. She said:
" 'I do not care by what name the school is called, but it must become a college in fact, where girls may receive as broad an education as is possible to their brothers.
" 'I wander about without a home, scarcely knowing one week where I shall be the next. Had I a thousand lives, I could sacrifice them all in suffering and hardship for its sake. Did I possess the greatest fortune, I could readily relinquish it all and become poor, and more than poor, if its prosperity should demand it.'
"She looked like a pleading prophetess as she talked to us and asked for our help. She was most attractive in her personal appearance and wore a simple green gown, with white lace at her throat. Her eyes were clear and blue, and her curly auburn hair shone through the white turban which she wore, on the evening we called upon her. She had the merriest laugh, but I have never seen her intense earnestness equalled, and she carried a green velvet bag, which she was glad to put the smallest contribution. She showed me a list ranging from six cents to hundreds of dollars. I slipped my offering - that left me another winter in my old cloak - into her hand at parting, and her warm gratitude and earnest 'God bless you!' paid me many fold for the sacrifice I had made."
"But she has met with great success, mother."
"Yes, after heroic labor in face of the greatest discouragements. I know it would be good for Doris to come, even indirectly, under such an influence."
"It seems to me a good thing, mother. There is a blue streak in the house when Doris is away, and a sort of east wind blowing that we don't like, but it may be best for the child. But how will you manage without her help in the house?"
"Keren's time with Mrs. Jones is up. She was over to-day to ask my advice as to what she should do next. Mrs. Jones kindly asks her to stay as long as she chooses, but Keren would like to earn money to go to school. We cannot pay her wages if Doris is to stay in Wellboro, but she can help and study as Doris has done. It is very hard to do without our little girl, Mark, but I believe it will be best. I always have you, my son."
She held out her hand and Mark laid his own, strong and brown, in it with a firm, reassuring pressure. A moment of silent communion passed between them, so rare was this friendship of mother and son, above and beyond their precious relationship.
The plan matured raloidly, and in answer to Mrs. Banner's summons Keren came a day later to the farmhouse on the hill. She was standing by a western window as Mrs. Banner entered the kitchen, pausing for an instant as the growing dignity of the orphan girl and the gleaming beauty of her red-gold hair struck her as they never had before.
Keren listened eagerly as her friend spoke of the opportunity so unexpectedly offered to Doris and the needed help in the home.
"Would you like to come, Keren, and help me and study as Doris has done?" she asked gently.
"Will I come? Oh, Mrs. Banner, do you know what this means to me? I do not need to wait to give you an answer. I cannot take Doris's place. I can work as hard, but I can't be like her: she is so gay and sweet, and I am quiet and sober. But I ought to be able to relieve you more than she in the work, for I am older and stronger. I will try my best, dear Mrs. Banner, and I may really go on with my Latin?"
"Yes; Mark says that he will find time for the Latin, and I will undertake the rest. What do you say to reviewing your arithmetic, grammar and history and fitting yourself to teach a district school? I feel sure you can do it."
"Oh, I never dreamed of doing that! and you think I can? Then I will!" She drew herself up to a stately height, her girlish figure a lovely silhouette against the sunset sky.
Keren was soon established in her new home, and life at the farm slipped quickly into quiet routine, despite the daily and hourly missing of a curly brown head, dewy violet eyes, and a merry laugh that filled the house with light and joy. Mother and brother lingered long over the bright letters that came from the absent child. Her heart was like a mountain spring whose clear waters held no hidden darkness, where sunshine lay on its sparkling surface and no less on the pebbles in its limpid depths. One summer day brought a characteristic message:
Wellboro, Mass., June 30, 1843.
Dear Mother and Brother - Dearest Dears:-
I don't know how I ever live away from you and the farm (I love every bit of it and every stick and stone on it) and the old kitchen and my own little room and - oh, most of all - you dearests! Sometimes I cry little weeps on my pillow at night. Then I have to say Latin subjunctives and imperatives before I can go to sleep. I wish that those old Romans had never said "ut," but I know them all right, Mark; yes, I do. Catch me if you can.
'Melia is a dear big sister, and the twinny boys blessed torments who have no respect for lessons. Brother Charles is very good to me too, but . . . that is a homesick blot. I cried ink.
The school is different, very different, from our district school. Miss Grey makes us feel as if we must study because we want to know, not because we have to please her or would get bad marks. We sit up nights parsing "Paradise Lost," and try to trip each other up the next day. Only one boy and I study Latin. His name is John Allen and his father is the minister here. He studied with his father as I did with you, and we are trying to get ahead of each other. We had a terrible time over the fourteenth chapter of the first book of Caesar this week. He did better than I (I'm sure his father helped him), but he shall not do it often. I'm only a female girl, but I'll make Mr. John work until he gets sick if I can.
Miss Grey gives us half-hour talks every Friday morning on serious subjects. Often she tells us what Miss Lyon said at Mt. Holyoke. Sometimes she comments on things she has noticed during the week, but mentions no names. Then again she will give us a talk on the "Purpose of School Days" or something like that, till we feel very solemn. At least some of us do. I am trying to be good. I love to study for its own sake, and I want to please you more than anything, but there is such a funny side to everything, and I can't (truly I can't, mother) help seeing it, so that I often get reproved for laughing in the wrong places, and I'm afraid that I help the other girls to laugh in the wrong places too.
This morning, when I was looking solemn and every one around me was laughing (I knew why well enough), dear Miss Grey sat down beside me and, turning the leaves of my New Testament, pointed to this verse: "He that is faithful in the least is faithful also in much," and never said a word. Oh, how ashamed I was! The tears ran down my cheeks. I am dreadfully ashamed and sorry, dear mother, and I want to confess just as if I could lay my head on your lap and feel your hand on my hair. I deserved it every bit, naughty me! Can you forgive me?
Just before school closes in the afternoon Miss Grey says, "You may all rise." Then she gives us different tests, and we never know what to expect. Last night it was: "If you have not whispered without permission since you came in this morning, you may take your seat."
The night before it was:
"If you have not borrowed anything of your neighbor to-day, you may take your seat."
It is dreadfully awkward to be left standing, and it doesn't seem quite fair to me, for it might be a temptation not to tell the truth, but Amelia says that she is trying to teach us good habits. The very worst one is: "If you have committed no misdemeanor during the day." A card hangs by Miss Grey's desk with a list of "misdemeanors" on it. I call it the assistant teacher, "Miss Demeanor."
I am afraid I have made Miss Grey some trouble. I went to her after school to-day and asked her to forgive me, and she was so kind. She said: "You are not wilfully naughty, Doris, but only thoughtlessly so. So far as your lessons are concerned you are only a pleasure to me. You will try to be more careful, I am sure."
Won't I just try! You will see! I shall cry - more - ink - if - I - don't - stop, so good-by
Your own little Doris.
P.S. - Give my love to Keren and tell her that she is always my best friend and very clever. I wonder if her butter is better than mine.
The long warm summer passed slowly away, and after the flush of her fruitful days September and October flung their gorgeous pageant of autumn's glory on the hills and valleys of New England, scarlet and amber, russet and gold - a vision, once seen, never to be forgotten; a vision for which the hearts of her children yearn, however far their pilgrim feet have wandered, however dim their eyes have grown.
And now the day of days in the calendar of the year was drawing near. November brought the Thanksgiving Day of the early forties of the nineteenth century, when Home drew her wanderers from far and near to her large embrace.
A ride of fifty miles on the preceding day, from dawn to early candlelight, had brought Amelia and her family, with an eager Doris, home again. Great had been the preparations and hearty was the welcome, as wraps were laid aside in the ''best room,'' aglow with warmth and light.
"Oh, how good it is! This is the very best place in the world, and you are the dearest mother! Keren, there isn't any girl in Wellboro that is half as nice as you! Mother, I must go out and see Mark at the barn."
Doris caught a heavy shawl, threw it over her head and ran swiftly down the familiar path.
"That how-do-you-do wasn't half big enough," she cried, ''and I just couldn't wait for you to come in. Every day it seems as if I could never stand it to live so far away from my big brother."
She clung to his arm as he held a fork full of hay, poised for the manger.
"In a minute, little sister." He threw a strong arm around her.
"I suppose I ought to go back and I do love school, Miss Grey and all my studies, but home is so dear to-night, how can I ever leave it again?"
"When does the term end, Doris?"
"In June, and Miss Grey is not coming back. Then I am sure that you and mother and Doris will say I would better come home to stay, don't you think so?" she asked wistfully.
"Yes, indeed, Crinkles; nobody can fill your place. It is like a big round empty hole when you are gone, but I really think you would best finish the year."
"Keren, doesn't she help to fill my place?"
"No, she makes a pleasant place of her own, and she is very helpful to mother. She is clever too, but no one is like my little sister. Hark, mother is calling."
"Children, children, are you coming?"
"Coming, mother. Catch me if you can, Mark."
Thanksgiving morning broke over a gleaming world. At ten o'clock a roomy sleigh drew up before the farmhouse door. Mrs. Banner and Doris were snugly tucked under buffalo robes on the back seat, while Mark held the reins with brother Charles beside him in front. Many other sleighs, with jingling bells, carried like burdens along the country roads, on their way to the white church in the village of Bellfield, with its tall spire, neat interior and high pulpit. In those New England homesteads the traditional turkey for the table would have been forgotten far sooner than the church service, to which each family sent its large representation.
The proclamation by the Governor of Connecticut was read with dignified emphasis, calling on all citizens to forsake their daily avocations, and, being assembled in their respective places of worship, to give thanks to God for the blessings of the year. An earnest sermon followed, to which all gave at least outward reverent attention. Mr. Mather's scholarly discourse was worthy of the occasion. Doris, listening with demure eyes and folded hands, flashed a question to her brother, at the close of a long, well-rounded period:
"Does he think a female can understand that?"
A general greeting of old acquaintances, returned for the yearly festival, of neighbors and friends, followed the benediction.
"Ah, Mrs. Banner; glad to see ye, Doris; how d'ye do" Come hum to stay, I s'pose, and help mother; that's the place for gals. Got plenty of learnin' now, I hope; gals don't need much," said rotund Deacon Brown, his red face set in a round frame of white hair and whiskers.
"I am going back to finish my term, sir."
"Tut, tut, better stay to hum. Mark now, he's the one to have the schoolin'."
Doris's cheeks flooded with tell-tale color, but she answered courteously:
"He is far more worthy than I, and he is going to college some day."
"Well, well, we shall see, we shall see," and the deacon's ponderous frame passed down the aisle.
Doris was soon the centre of a gay group, whose exuberant greeting was held in check only by the regard in which all held the church in those days of reverence for sacred associations.
"How do you do, James? Yes, I am glad to be at home, Mary. Yes, Martha, I am going back. No, Jane, home is the best place in the world. Yes, I love the school; we have to work hard, but Miss Grey makes study delightful."
"When are you coming back?" shouted a chorus of voices as the Banner sleigh stopped at the horse block.
"In June; good-by."
A wonderful array of good things, known only to New England larders, was spread as the family gathered around the long table, to celebrate the greatest day in the year. It was a day of joyous reunion and one, alas! of longing memories. Only to Amelia and her mother came a vision of the father's face, vanished long since, yet held in tender remembrance.
A great turkey, browned to a turn, waited for the carver. Chicken pies sent out savory odors, while pumpkin and mince pies, 'lection cake and Indian pudding awaited their turn to add to the cheer. Knives and forks clicked merrily, and the twins, with mouths full of good things, found it easier than usual to obey the oft-repeated injunction of that day, "Children should be seen and not heard."
At last night fell and wrapped them all in a cloak of darkness. The mingled aroma of savory meats and spices from the Far East lingered in the air, a fragrance ever after, even in memory, poignantly suggestive of hearthfire, love and home.