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"She's young and attracted to bright things--
that's all. I remember well enough how I felt at her

age."
"You was considerable of a fool at her age,

Jane."
"Yes, I was, thank the Lord! I only wish I'd

known how to take a little of my foolishness along
with me, as some folks do, to brighten my declining

years."
There finally was a pink gingham, and when it was

nicely finished, aunt Jane gave Rebecca a delightful
surprise. She showed her how to make a pretty

trimming of narrow white linen tape, by folding it
in pointed shapes and sewing it down very flat with

neat little stitches.
"It'll be good fancy work for you, Rebecca; for

your aunt Miranda won't like to see you always
reading in the long winter evenings. Now if you

think you can baste two rows of white tape round
the bottom of your pink skirt and keep it straight

by the checks, I'll stitch them on for you and trim
the waist and sleeves with pointed tape-trimming,

so the dress'll be real pretty for second best."
Rebecca's joy knew no bounds. "I'll baste

like a house afire!" she exclaimed. "It's a thousand
yards round that skirt, as well I know, having

hemmed it; but I could sew pretty trimming on if
it was from here to Milltown. Oh! do you think

aunt Mirandy'll ever let me go to Milltown with
Mr. Cobb? He's asked me again, you know; but

one Saturday I had to pick strawberries, and another
it rained, and I don't think she really approves of

my going. It's TWENTY-NINE minutes past four, aunt
Jane, and Alice Robinson has been sitting under

the currant bushes for a long time waiting for me.
Can I go and play?"

"Yes, you may go, and you'd better run as far as
you can out behind the barn, so 't your noise won't

distract your aunt Mirandy. I see Susan Simpson
and the twins and Emma Jane Perkins hiding behind

the fence."
Rebecca leaped off the porch, snatched Alice

Robinson from under the currant bushes, and,
what was much more difficult, succeeded, by means

of a complicatedsystem of signals, in getting Emma
Jane away from the Simpson party and giving them

the slip altogether. They were much too small for
certain pleasurable activities planned for that

afternoon; but they were not to be despised, for they
had the most fascinating dooryard in the village. In

it, in bewildering confusion, were old sleighs, pungs,
horse rakes, hogsheads, settees without backs, bed-

steads without heads, in all stages of disability, and
never the same on two consecutive days. Mrs.

Simpson was seldom at home, and even when she
was, had little concern as to what happened on the

premises. A favorite version" target="_blank" title="n.转移;消遣">diversion was to make the
house into a fort, gallantly held by a handful of

American soldiers against a besieging force of the
British army. Great care was used in apportioning

the parts, for there was no disposition to let
anybody win but the Americans. Seesaw Simpson

was usually made commander-in-chief of the British
army, and a limp and uncertain one he was, capable,

with his contradictory orders and his fondness
for the extreme rear, of leading any regiment to

an inglorious death. Sometimes the long-suffering
house was a log hut, and the brave settlers defeated

a band of hostile Indians, or occasionally were
massacred by them; but in either case the Simpson

house looked, to quote a Riverboro expression, "as
if the devil had been having an auction in it."

Next to this uncommonly interesting playground,
as a field of action, came, in the children's opinion,

the "secret spot." There was a velvety stretch
of ground in the Sawyer pasture which was full of

fascinating hollows and hillocks, as well as verdant
levels, on which to build houses. A group of trees

concealed it somewhat from view and flung a grateful
shade over the dwellings erected there. It had

been hard though sweet labor to take armfuls of
"stickins" and "cutrounds" from the mill to this

secluded spot, and that it had been done mostly
after supper in the dusk of the evenings gave it

a still greater flavor. Here in soap boxes hidden
among the trees were stored all their treasures:

wee baskets and plates and cups made of burdock
balls, bits of broken china for parties, dolls, soon

to be outgrown, but serving well as characters in
all sorts of romances enacted there,--deaths,

funerals, weddings, christenings. A tall, square house
of stickins was to be built round Rebecca this

afternoon, and she was to be Charlotte Corday
leaning against the bars of her prison.

It was a wonderful experience standing inside the
building with Emma Jane's apron wound about her

hair; wonderful to feel that when she leaned her
head against the bars they seemed to turn to cold

iron; that her eyes were no longer Rebecca Randall's
but mirrored something of Charlotte Corday's

hapless woe.
"Ain't it lovely?" sighed the humble twain, who

had done most of the labor, but who generously
admired the result.

"I hate to have to take it down," said Alice,
"it's been such a sight of work."

"If you think you could move up some stones
and just take off the top rows, I could step out

over," suggested Charlotte Corday. "Then leave
the stones, and you two can step down into the

prison to-morrow and be the two little princes in
the Tower, and I can murder you."

"What princes? What tower?" asked Alice and
Emma Jane in one breath. "Tell us about them."

"Not now, it's my supper time." (Rebecca was
a somewhat firm disciplinarian.)

"It would be elergant being murdered by you,"
said Emma Jane loyally, "though you are awful

real when you murder; or we could have Elijah and
Elisha for the princes."

"They'd yell when they was murdered," objected
Alice; "you know how silly they are at plays, all

except Clara Belle. Besides if we once show them
this secret place, they'll play in it all the time, and

perhaps they'd steal things, like their father."
"They needn't steal just because their father

does," argued Rebecca; "and don't you ever talk
about it before them if you want to be my secret,

partic'lar friends. My mother tells me never to say
hard things about people's own folks to their face.

She says nobody can bear it, and it's wicked to shame
them for what isn't their fault. Remember Minnie

Smellie!"
Well, they had no difficulty in recalling that

dramatic episode, for it had occurred only a few days
before; and a version of it that would have melted

the stoniest heart had been presented to every girl
in the village by Minnie Smellie herself, who,

though it was Rebecca and not she who came off
victorious in the bloody battle of words, nursed her

resentment and intended to have revenge.
VII

RIVERBORO SECRETS
Mr. Simpson spent little time with his

family, owing to certain awkward methods
of horse-trading, or the "swapping"

of farm implements and vehicles of various kinds,--
operations in which his customers were never long

suited. After every successful trade he generally
passed a longer or shorter term in jail; for when a

poor man without goods or chattels has the inveterate
habit of swapping, it follows naturally that he

must have something to swap; and having nothing
of his own, it follows still more naturally that he

must swap something belonging to his neighbors.
Mr. Simpson was absent from the home circle

for the moment because he had exchanged the
Widow Rideout's sleigh for Joseph Goodwin's

plough. Goodwin had lately moved to North
Edgewood and had never before met the urbane

and persuasive Mr. Simpson. The Goodwin plough
Mr. Simpson speedily bartered with a man "over

Wareham way," and got in exchange for it an old
horse which his owner did not need, as he was

leaving town to visit his daughter for a year,
Simpson fattened the aged animal, keeping him for

several weeks (at early morning or after nightfall) in
one neighbor's pasture after another, and then

exchanged him with a Milltown man for a top buggy.
It was at this juncture that the Widow Rideout

missed her sleigh from the old carriage house.
She had not used it for fifteen years and might

not sit in it for another fifteen, but it was
property, and she did not intend to part with it

without a struggle. Such is the suspicious nature of
the village mind that the moment she discovered

her loss her thought at once reverted to Abner
Simpson. So complicated, however, was the nature

of this particular business transaction, and so
tortuous the paths of its progress (partly owing to the

complete disappearance of the owner of the horse,
who had gone to the West and left no address),

that it took the sheriff many weeks to prove Mr.
Simpson's guilt to the town's and to the Widow

Rideout's satisfaction. Abner himself avowed his
complete innocence, and told the neighbors how

a red-haired man with a hare lip and a pepper-and-
salt suit of clothes had called him up one morning

about daylight and offered to swap him a good
sleigh for an old cider press he had layin' out in

the dooryard. The bargain was struck, and he,
Abner, had paid the hare-lipped stranger four dollars

and seventy-five cents to boot; whereupon the
mysterious one set down the sleigh, took the press

on his cart, and vanished up the road, never to be
seen or heard from afterwards.

"If I could once ketch that consarned old thief,"
exclaimed Abner righteously, "I'd make him

dance,--workin' off a stolensleigh on me an'
takin' away my good money an' cider press, to say

nothin' o' my character!"


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