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Aunt Jane, never demonstrative, cried with
Rebecca as she attempted to soothe her.

"You must be patient," she said, wiping first her
own eyes and then Rebecca's. "I haven't told you,

for it isn't fair you should be troubled when you're
studying so hard, but your aunt Miranda isn't well.

One Monday morning about a month ago, she had
a kind of faint spell; it wasn't bad, but the doctor

is afraid it was a shock, and if so, it's the beginning
of the end. Seems to me she's failing right along,

and that's what makes her so fretful and easy vexed.
She has other troubles too, that you don't know

anything about, and if you're not kind to your aunt
Miranda now, child, you'll be dreadful sorry some

time."
All the temper faded from Rebecca's face, and

she stopped crying to say penitently, "Oh! the poor
dear thing! I won't mind a bit what she says now.

She's just asked me for some milk toast and I
was dreading to take it to her, but this will make

everything different. Don't worry yet, aunt Jane,
for perhaps it won't be as bad as you think."

So when she carried the toast to her aunt a little
later, it was in the best gilt-edged china bowl, with

a fringed napkin on the tray and a sprig of geranium
lying across the salt cellar.

"Now, aunt Miranda," she said cheerily, "I expect
you to smack your lips and say this is good; it's not

Randall, but Sawyer milk toast."
"You've tried all kinds on me, one time an'

another," Miranda answered. "This tastes real
kind o' good; but I wish you hadn't wasted that

nice geranium."
"You can't tell what's wasted," said Rebecca

philosophically; "perhaps that geranium has been
hoping this long time it could brighten somebody's

supper, so don't disappoint it by making believe you
don't like it. I've seen geraniums cry,--in the very

early morning!"
The mysterious trouble to which Jane had alluded

was a very real one, but it was held in profound
secrecy. Twenty-five hundred dollars of the small

Sawyer property had been invested in the business
of a friend of their father's, and had returned them

a regular annualincome of a hundred dollars. The
family friend had been dead for some five years,

but his son had succeeded to his interests and all
went on as formerly. Suddenly there came a letter

saying that the firm had gone into bankruptcy,
that the business had been completely wrecked, and

that the Sawyer money had been swept away with
everything else.

The loss of one hundred dollars a year is a very
trifling matter, but it made all the difference between

comfort and self-denial to the two old spinsters
Their manner of life had been so rigid and careful

that it was difficult to economize any further, and the
blow had fallen just when it was most inconvenient,

for Rebecca's school and boarding expenses, small
as they were, had to be paid promptly and in cash.

"Can we possibly go on doing it? Shan't we
have to give up and tell her why?" asked Jane

tearfully of the elder sister.
"We have put our hand to the plough, and we

can't turn back," answered Miranda in her grimmest
tone; "we've taken her away from her mother

and offered her an education, and we've got to keep
our word. She's Aurelia's only hope for years to

come, to my way o' thinkin'. Hannah's beau takes
all her time 'n' thought, and when she gits a

husband her mother'll be out o' sight and out o' mind.
John, instead of farmin', thinks he must be a doctor,--

as if folks wasn't gettin' unhealthy enough
these days, without turnin' out more young doctors

to help 'em into their graves. No, Jane; we'll skimp
'n' do without, 'n' plan to git along on our interest

money somehow, but we won't break into our principal,
whatever happens."

"Breaking into the principal" was, in the minds
of most thrifty New England women, a sin only

second to arson, theft, or murder; and, though the
rule was occasionally carried too far for common

sense,--as in this case, where two elderly women
of sixty might reasonably have drawn something

from their little hoard in time of special need,--it
doubtless wrought more of good than evil in the

community.
Rebecca, who knew nothing of their business

affairs, merely saw her aunts grow more and more
saving, pinching here and there, cutting off this

and that relentlessly. Less meat and fish were
bought; the woman who had lately been coming

two days a week for washing, ironing, and scrubbing
was dismissed; the old bonnets of the season

before were brushed up and retrimmed; there were
no drives to Moderation or trips to Portland. Economy

was carried to its very extreme; but though
Miranda was well-nigh as gloomy and uncompromising

in her manner and conversation as a woman could
well be, she at least never twitted her niece of being

a burden; so Rebecca's share of the Sawyers'
misfortunes consisted only in wearing her old dresses,

hats, and jackets, without any apparent hope of a
change.

There was, however, no concealing the state of
things at Sunnybrook, where chapters of accidents

had unfolded themselves in a sort of serial story that
had run through the year. The potato crop had

failed; there were no apples to speak of; the hay
had been poor; Aurelia had turns of dizziness in

her head; Mark had broken his ankle. As this was
his fourth offense, Miranda inquired how many

bones there were in the human body, "so 't they'd
know when Mark got through breakin' 'em." The

time for paying the interest on the mortgage, that
incubus that had crushed all the joy out of the

Randall household, had come and gone, and there
was no possibility, for the first time in fourteen

years, of paying the required forty-eight dollars.
The only bright spot in the horizon was Hannah's

engagement to Will Melville,--a young farmer
whose land joined Sunnybrook, who had a good

house, was alone in the world, and his own master.
Hannah was so satisfied with her own unexpectedly

radiant prospects that she hardly realized her mother's
anxieties; for there are natures which flourish,

in adversity, and deteriorate when exposed to sudden
prosperity. She had made a visit of a week at

the brick house; and Miranda's impression, conveyed
in privacy to Jane, was that Hannah was close

as the bark of a tree, and consid'able selfish too;
that when she'd clim' as fur as she could in the

world, she'd kick the ladder out from under her,
everlastin' quick; that, on being sounded as to her

ability to be of use to the younger children in the
future, she said she guessed she'd done her share

a'ready, and she wan't goin' to burden Will with
her poor relations. "She's Susan Randall through

and through!" ejaculated Miranda. "I was glad to
see her face turned towards Temperance. If that

mortgage is ever cleared from the farm, 't won't be
Hannah that'll do it; it'll be Rebecca or me!"

XXIV
ALADDIN RUBS HIS LAMP

Your esteemed contribution entitled Wareham
Wildflowers has been accepted for

The Pilot, Miss Perkins," said Rebecca,
entering the room where Emma Jane was darning

the firm's stockings. "I stayed to tea with Miss
Maxwell, but came home early to tell you."

"You are joking, Becky!" faltered Emma Jane,
looking up from her work.

"Not a bit; the senior editor read it and thought
it highly instructive; it appears in the next issue."

"Not in the same number with your poem about
the golden gates that close behind us when we leave

school?"--and Emma Jane held her breath as she
awaited the reply.

"Even so, Miss Perkins."
"Rebecca," said Emma Jane, with the nearest

approach to tragedy that her nature would permit,
"I don't know as I shall be able to bear it, and if

anything happens to me, I ask you solemnly to bury
that number of The Pilot with me."

Rebecca did not seem to think this the expression
of an exaggerated state of feeling, inasmuch as

she replied, "I know; that's just the way it seemed
to me at first, and even now, whenever I'm alone

and take out the Pilot back numbers to read over
my contributions, I almost burst with pleasure; and

it's not that they are good either, for they look
worse to me every time I read them."

"If you would only live with me in some little
house when we get older," mused Emma Jane, as

with her darning needle poised in air she regarded
the opposite wall dreamily, "I would do the housework

and cooking, and copy all your poems and
stories, and take them to the post-office, and you

needn't do anything but write. It would be
perfectly elergant!"

"I'd like nothing better, if I hadn't promised to
keep house for John," replied Rebecca.

"He won't have a house for a good many years,
will he?"

"No," sighed Rebecca ruefully, flinging herself
down by the table and resting her head on her hand.

"Not unless we can contrive to pay off that detestable
mortgage. The day grows farther off instead

of nearer now that we haven't paid the interest
this year."

She pulled a piece of paper towards her, and
scribbling idly on it read aloud in a moment or two:--

"Will you pay a little faster?" said the mortgage to the farm;
"I confess I'm very tired of this place."

"The weariness is mutual," Rebecca Randall cried;
"I would I'd never gazed upon your face!"

"A note has a `face,'" observed Emma Jane, who
was gifted in arithmetic. "I didn't know that a

mortgage had."
"Our mortgage has," said Rebecca revengefully.

"I should know him if I met him in the dark. Wait


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