david rushed into the old kitchen in a whirlwind of distress. there was no one there, and stumbling
over to mamsie’s big calico- covered chair, he flung himself down and buried his head on the
cushion.
“now, phronsie,” said polly, running in, “you’ve been such a good girl, i’m going to give you a piece
of that gingerbread dear mrs. beebe gave us the other day. shut the door, child.”
phronsie obediently pushed the big green door to, and pattered after polly.
“you see,” said polly, running her head into the old corner cupboard, “ben and joel will have a good
dinner at deacon blodgett’s, and davie is at the parsonage—i’m so glad he was such a good boy to
help mrs. henderson.”
“ugh!” came a noise from the corner over by mrs. pepper’s big chair.
“what was that?” cried polly, pulling her head out of the cupboard. “don’t be afraid, child,” as
phronsie huddled up to her.
“but i am, polly,” said phronsie, snuggling up closer than ever, “very much afraid.”
“mamsie said we weren’t to be afraid at things, but to see what they were, so i’m going to.” polly ran
across the old kitchen, phronsie hanging to her.
“why, david pepper!” cried polly, nearly tumbling over him as she ran around mother pepper’s big
chair. then she turned very white.
“what is it, davie? oh, where are you hurt?” she asked, while phronsie with a little wail, threw her
arms around him, too.
“i’m not hurt,” sobbed david. “o dear, dear!”
“not hurt!” gasped polly, hanging to the chair.
“i’ve been a bad boy,” cried david in a spasm of grief, and holding to the old cushion with desperate
little hands.
“oh, never, davie,” exclaimed polly, “you couldn’t be ever in all this world. why, you are our
davie.”
at this davie’s despair was greater than ever, and he burrowed his face deeper in the old chair.
“you see, davie,” polly ran on, “mamsie trusts you, so you couldn’t be bad.” phronsie meanwhile
had sunk to the floor, and was silently gazing at the misery, lost to everything else. “no, you couldn’t
be bad, because mamsie trusts you so,” she repeated.
this was so much worse that david began to scream, and without any more words, polly lifted him
up and sitting down in mamsie’s chair, she held him tightly in her lap.
“now, david pepper,” she said sternly, “you’ve just got to tell me what you’ve done.”
“i—i—can’t,” david hid his wet little face on her shoulder.
“mamsie tells us not to say ‘can’t,’” said polly decidedly. “begin and tell me.”
“she—told—me—” began david in a shaking voice.
“mrs. henderson?”
david bobbed his head.
“go on.”
“she—told—me—to—”
“yes.”
“to dust—the—books—and—”
“well, go on.”
“and i didn’t—o dear!”
“and you disobeyed dear mrs. henderson! oh, david pepper, how could you!” polly turned very
white again, and cold little shivers ran up and down her back. to think that the parsonage people
should ever have one of the pepper children disobey them!
when polly said, “david pepper, how could you!” it wasn’t to be lightly borne. so now davie raised
such a despairing little face that polly hastened to say, “well, you must tell me all about it.”
“there was a boy in the book—”
“what boy?” said polly, very much puzzled.
“i was going to dust him, and the other books.”
“oh, you mean you were going to dust the books,” said polly, beginning to see a little light.
“yes,” said david, trying to keep back the sobs.
“well, stop crying and tell me all about it—every single thing.” polly gathered him up more closely.
“now then, davie, you began to dust the boy.”
“no, i didn’t,” said davie in a fresh anguish; “i didn’t dust him a bit; not once, polly—o dear!”
“why?” asked polly.
“he had a slate and pencil, and—and—he was going to school,” said davie in another outburst of
grief.
“oh, i see,” said polly with more light, “and you wanted to read about him?”
“yes, i did,” said davie; “it told all about him.”
“well, why didn’t you dust the books just as mrs. henderson told you? it didn’t take long, i’m sure,
to find out about that boy.”
“i wanted to see if other boys were going to school, and had slates and pencils—o dear!” he sobbed.
“well, now i guess i know all about it,” said polly. “phronsie, you must stop crying,” for phronsie
was softly wailing on the floor in front of mamsie’s old chair. “you forgot about dusting the books,
davie?”
“yes, i did,” said davie. “o dear!” and he burrowed further than ever in her arms.
“well, that was bad,” said polly, “when she told you to do it. but it’s worse to cry about it now—
because crying doesn’t help it any. well, now, is there anything else to tell me?”
“peletiah came up in the attic, and told me to come down to dinner. and mrs. henderson called me
and—”
“and you didn’t go?” cried polly in astonishment.
“no, i couldn’t have any dinner, i’d been bad—and i ran home.”
“o dear—dear!” exclaimed polly in great distress. to have one of the children lacking in politeness
was a terrible thing, and here was a blow that quite unnerved her. when david saw that, he was quite
overcome, and he cried on steadily.
“something must be done,” thought polly. “o dear, if mamsie were only here.”
“david,” she said, “you must go straight back to the parsonage, and beg mrs. henderson to forgive
you.”
david shrank into a little heap. “oh, i can’t do that, polly; she’ll make me stay to dinner.”
“that would never do,” said polly.
so she hopped out of the big chair and set him on his feet. “i’ll get you something to eat, and then
you can tell her you have been to dinner if she asks you.” and presently david was seated before the
old table, and eating, as well as he could for his tears, a cold potato well sprinkled with salt and a
generous slice of brown bread.
but he didn’t get to the parsonage after all, for just as he was swallowing the last mouthful, in walked
the parson’s wife.
“i want you to come over to-morrow, davie,” she said, just as if nothing in the world a bit unpleasant
had happened, “and you and i will work in the attic.”
“dear mrs. henderson, davie has something he wants to say to you,” polly began in a trembling
voice.
david got out of his chair and went over on unsteady feet to her.
“i didn’t mean to be bad,” he said, his poor swollen little face working dreadfully.
“i know, dear,” said the parson’s wife, bending over him sympathetically, and stroking the soft, wavy
hair with a kind hand.
“but it was bad,” said polly, “for him to forget, and not obey you.”
“yes,” said mrs. henderson.
“and i’m sorry,” said davie, his hands twisting together.
“and you’ll come to-morrow, and help me, and that will show that you are sorry,” said the parson’s
wife.
“i’ll go to-morrow,” said david, with a crooked little smile.
“and peletiah and ezekiel are going away to their grandmother’s again to- morrow,” said mrs.
henderson, “just as they did to-day. so, you see, i shall need you very much, davie.”
“now, how in the world can i find any one to take mrs. pepper’s place nursing miss babbitt?” the
parson’s wife puckered up her forehead all the way down the road with anxious thought. “if here
doesn’t come dr. fisher!” as the old gig swung into view at the turn of the road.
dr. fisher pulled up suddenly. but she didn’t wait for the old horse to stop. “dr. fisher,” she began,
hurrying up to the side of the gig, “can’t we find some one to take mrs. pepper’s place over at miss
babbitt’s?”
dr. fisher looked out at her gloomily. “i’d give a good deal if we could,” he said. “that idiot of a
bunce woman—she was there when miss babbitt fell down the cellar stairs, and she began to scream
for mrs. pepper. and she rushed out—the bunce woman—and caught mr. tisbett going by on the
stage, and sent him for mrs. pepper. and now mrs. pepper won’t desert miss babbitt.” he switched
the whip gloomily from side to side, his face getting more and more sober every moment.
“but she must desert miss babbitt,” declared the parson’s wife frantically.
“you know mrs. pepper will never desert any one in trouble.” the little doctor slapped the whip into
its socket and glared at her through his big horn spectacles.
“there’s polly doing her best to keep things together,” cried mrs. henderson; “’twould go to your
heart, dr. fisher, to see her!”
“it’s gone to my heart a good many times,” said the little doctor, relapsing into gloom again, “to see
her. but what can we do? there isn’t a woman fit to take care of miss babbitt, who’d be willing to
go.”
“there’s mary pote,” said the parson’s wife suddenly with a brightening face.
“mary pote? — well, miss parrott owns her, soul and body.” dr. fisher set his big spectacles
straighter on his nose and glared at the parson’s wife worse than ever.
“’twouldn’t do any harm to try,” said mrs. henderson. “maybe miss parrott would let her go.”
the little doctor sniffed scornfully. “well, will you try?”
mrs. henderson looked off to the distant fields, an awful feeling at her heart. then she swallowed
hard. “yes, i will,” she said, “if i can get over to miss parrott’s.”
“no trouble about that,” cried little dr. fisher joyfully. “hop right in, mrs. henderson,” and before
her resolution had time to cool, there she was in the doctor’s gig and well along on the way to the
estate of the aristocratic miss parrott.
when the gig turned into the handsome stone gateway, the parson’s wife had all she could do to keep
from jumping out over the wheel. suppose she should anger the only rich parishioner of her
husband’s! but she was there on the big stone steps, and the butler was opening the heavy oaken
door. there was nothing to do but to go in, dr. fisher driving off to call for her later. and presently
she was ushered into the long drawing- room, with its rich carpeting, its ancestral furniture and
portraits, all shrouded in the gloom of an apartment little used, and left to her wildly beating heart for
the only sound to entertain her.
and there presently broke in the rustle of a stiff black silk gown advancing toward her, and in the
gloom she saw the tall and haughty figure of the rich miss parrott.
how she told her story, she never could remember, but it was all out at last. and miss parrott sat
erect, without uttering a word until the parson’s wife thought as she told her husband that night, “i
should go through the floor.”
at last miss parrott broke the silence. “it’s those little brown house people you want to help?”
“yes,” said mrs. henderson, unable to get out another word.
“and you want me to let mary pote go to take care of miss babbitt?”
“yes,” said the parson’s wife faintly, “at least till they can get miss babbitt’s niece to come.”
“um—” there wasn’t another sound in the room except the wild beating of mrs. henderson’s heart,
until miss parrott got her long figure out of the high-backed chair, and the stiff black silk gown
rustled over to the bell-cord.
“send mary pote to me,” said miss parrott to the stiff old butler who appeared.
and again there was silence in the long gloomy drawing-room. mrs. henderson couldn’t tell, for the
life of her, whether or no she had harmed her husband’s interests, perhaps driven him from
badgertown parish. at last in came mary pote, a round, roly-poly person, half seamstress—half
dressmaker, solely devoted to the spinster’s interests, who lived in a small cottage on the parrott
estate. who ever thought of asking for mary pote’s services!
“mary pote,” said miss parrott, “you may get your bonnet, and pack your bag. you are to go to take
care of some tiresome old person who had nothing better to do than to fall down the cellar stairs and
break her hip.”
“but i was making over your black batiste, miss parrott,” began mary pote with the privilege of an
old servant.
“when i want my black batiste finished, i will tell you so, mary pote. do as i bid you. oh, one thing
more. you are going so that a mrs. pepper—she’s the mother of some children living in a poor old
brown house in badgertown—”
“i know them,” said mary pote, turning back.
“don’t interrupt me—well, their mother has gone to take care of that odious old miss babbitt, and
you are to take her place.”
“now i’m glad enough to go,” cried mary pote joyfully, “for that mrs. pepper of all folks is the best
woman, and—”
“there, there,” said miss parrott, waving her off with long fingers on which ancestral rings shone.
“get along, mary pote, and do as i say. one thing more—tell simmons to get the brougham ready
and drive mrs. henderson and you down there.”
the parson’s wife got out of her chair. “dr. fisher brought me, and he will take me back,” she said.
miss parrott waved her back with the long fingers.
“i know nothing about how you got here,” she said; “it doesn’t interest me in the least. i am taking
charge of the case now, and not dr. fisher, nor anybody else.”
