Children's Book Classics - Kate Douglas Wiggin Edition: 11 Novels & 120+ Short Stories for Children. Kate Douglas Wiggin
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I don’t know, I’m sure, why I should have baked a pot o’ beans in the middle of the week, but they’ll come in handy. Father used to say there was nothing that went right to the spot with returned missionaries like pork ‘n’ beans ‘n’ brown bread. Fix up the two south chambers, Rebecca.”
Rebecca, given a free hand for the only time in her life, dashed upstairs like a whirlwind. Every room in the brick house was as neat as wax, and she had only to pull up the shades, go over the floors with a whisk broom, and dust the furniture. The aunts could hear her scurrying to and fro, beating up pillows and feather beds, flapping towels, jingling crockery, singing meanwhile in her clear voice:—
“In vain with lavish kindness
The gifts of God are strown;
The heathen in his blindness
Bows down to wood and stone.”
She had grown to be a handy little creature, and tasks she was capable of doing at all she did like a flash, so that when she called her aunts at five o’clock to pass judgment, she had accomplished wonders. There were fresh towels on bureaus and washstands, the beds were fair and smooth, the pitchers were filled, and soap and matches were laid out; newspaper, kindling, and wood were in the boxes, and a large stick burned slowly in each air-tight stove. “I thought I’d better just take the chill off,” she explained, “as they’re right from Syria; and that reminds me, I must look it up in the geography before they get here.”
There was nothing to disapprove, so the two sisters went downstairs to make some slight changes in their dress. As they passed the parlor door Miranda thought she heard a crackle and looked in. The shades were up, there was a cheerful blaze in the open stove in the front parlor, and a fire laid on the hearth in the back room. Rebecca’s own lamp, her second Christmas present from Mr. Aladdin, stood on a marble-topped table in the corner, the light that came softly through its rose-colored shade transforming the stiff and gloomy ugliness of the room into a place where one could sit and love one’s neighbor.
“For massy’s sake, Rebecca,” called Miss Miranda up the stairs, “did you think we’d better open the parlor?”
Rebecca came out on the landing braiding her hair.
“We did on Thanksgiving and Christmas, and I thought this was about as great an occasion,” she said. “I moved the wax flowers off the mantelpiece so they wouldn’t melt, and put the shells, the coral, and the green stuffed bird on top of the what-not, so the children wouldn’t ask to play with them. Brother Milliken’s coming over to see Mr. Burch about business, and I shouldn’t wonder if Brother and Sister Cobb happened in. Don’t go down cellar, I’ll be there in a minute to do the running.”
Miranda and Jane exchanged glances.
“Ain’t she the beatin’est creetur that ever was born int’ the world!” exclaimed Miranda; “but she can turn off work when she’s got a mind to!”
At quarter past five everything was ready, and the neighbors, those at least who were within sight of the brick house (a prominent object in the landscape when there were no leaves on the trees), were curious almost to desperation. Shades up in both parlors! Shades up in the two south bedrooms! And fires—if human vision was to be relied on—fires in about every room. If it had not been for the kind offices of a lady who had been at the meeting, and who charitably called in at one or two houses and explained the reason of all this preparation, there would have been no sleep in many families.
The missionary party arrived promptly, and there were but two children, seven or eight having been left with the brethren in Portland, to diminish traveling expenses. Jane escorted them all upstairs, while Miranda watched the cooking of the supper; but Rebecca promptly took the two little girls away from their mother, divested them of their wraps, smoothed their hair, and brought them down to the kitchen to smell the beans.
There was a bountiful supper, and the presence of the young people robbed it of all possible stiffness. Aunt Jane helped clear the table and put away the food, while Miranda entertained in the parlor; but Rebecca and the infant Burches washed the dishes and held high carnival in the kitchen, doing only trifling damage—breaking a cup and plate that had been cracked before, emptying a silver spoon with some dishwater out of the back door (an act never permitted at the brick house), and putting coffee grounds in the sink. All evidences of crime having been removed by Rebecca, and damages repaired in all possible cases, the three entered the parlor, where Mr. and Mrs. Cobb and Deacon and Mrs. Milliken had already appeared.
It was such a pleasant evening! Occasionally they left the heathen in his blindness bowing down to wood and stone, not for long, but just to give themselves (and him) time enough to breathe, and then the Burches told strange, beautiful, marvelous things. The two smaller children sang together, and Rebecca, at the urgent request of Mrs. Burch, seated herself at the tinkling old piano and gave “Wild roved an Indian girl, bright Alfarata” with considerable spirit and style.
At eight o’clock she crossed the room, handed a palm-leaf fan to her aunt Miranda, ostensibly that she might shade her eyes from the lamplight; but it was a piece of strategy that gave her an opportunity to whisper, “How about cookies?”
“Do you think it’s worth while?” sibilated Miss Miranda in answer.
“The Perkinses always do.”
“All right. You know where they be.”
Rebecca moved quietly towards the door, and the young Burches cataracted after her as if they could not bear a second’s separation. In five minutes they returned, the little ones bearing plates of thin caraway wafers,—hearts, diamonds, and circles daintily sugared, and flecked with caraway seed raised in the garden behind the house. These were a specialty of Miss Jane’s, and Rebecca carried a tray with six tiny crystal glasses filled with dandelion wine, for which Miss Miranda had been famous in years gone by. Old Deacon Israel had always had it passed, and he had bought the glasses himself in Boston. Miranda admired them greatly, not only for their beauty but because they held so little. Before their advent the dandelion wine had been served in sherry glasses.
As soon as these refreshments—commonly called a “colation” in Riverboro—had been genteelly partaken of, Rebecca looked at the clock, rose from her chair in the children’s corner, and said cheerfully, “Come! time for little missionaries to be in bed!”
Everybody laughed at this, the big missionaries most of all, as the young people shook hands and disappeared with Rebecca.
Chapter XX.
A Change of Heart
“That niece of yours is the most remarkable girl I have seen in years,” said Mr. Burch when the door closed.
“She seems to be turnin’ out smart enough lately, but she’s consid’able heedless,” answered Miranda, “an’ most too lively.”
“We must remember that it is deficient, not excessive vitality, that makes the greatest trouble in this world,” returned Mr. Burch.
“She’d make a wonderful missionary,” said Mrs. Burch; “with her voice, and her magnetism, and her gift of language.”
“If I was to say which of the two she was best adapted for, I’d say she’d make a better heathen,” remarked Miranda curtly.
“My sister don’t believe in flattering children,” hastily interpolated Jane, glancing toward Mrs. Burch, who seemed somewhat shocked, and was about to open her lips to ask if Rebecca was not a “professor.”
Mrs. Cobb had been looking for this question all the evening and dreading some allusion to her favorite as gifted in prayer. She had taken an instantaneous and illogical dislike to the Rev. Mr. Burch in the afternoon because he called upon Rebecca to “lead.” She had seen the pallor creep into the girl’s face, the hunted look in her eyes, and