Kathie's Soldiers

Like a flash a consciousness came over her, and although she heard Aunt Ruth's voice, she could not resist the desire to look at her letter.

A coarse, irregular hand, with several erasures and blotted words, but the name at the bottom – Sarah Ann Strong – made it all plain. The Sary Ann of the Soldiers' Fair. Kathie's heart gave a great bound.

"Come!" exclaimed Uncle Robert; "are you ready?"

There was no time for explanations. She laid the letter and parcel in her drawer in the great bookcase, thrust her ungloved hands into her muff, and ran out to Aunt Ruth, who stood on the step, waiting to be assisted into the carriage.

"Was it some more Christmas?" asked Uncle Robert, "or is it a secret?"

"It is no secret, but a very odd circumstance, and has quite a story connected with it. I think I will wait until we get home," she continued, slowly, remembering how short the distance was to church, and that a break in the narrative would spoil it.

But she had very hard work to keep her mind from wandering during the service, she wondered so what Sarah had to say, and how she came to remember the simple talk about the brackets. And was Sarah having a bright Christmas?

Afterward she told her small audience, beginning with the unlucky remarks about the purple bonnet. Uncle Robert admired the lichen very much, and Aunt Ruth declared that she had never seen its equal.

Then came Sarah's letter. What pains and trouble and copying it had cost the poor girl Kathie would never know.

"To Miss Kathie Alston," it began. "I take my pen in hand to let you know that" – here were two or three words crossed out – "I want to send you a cristmas present. I haint forgot about the fair, and how good you was to me, I made some straw frames and they're real hansum, and I put the picture you give me in one and it hangs up in the parlor, and I've got some brackets, but Jim found this splendid one, and I want to send it to you for cristmas, for I don't think you have forgotten all about me. I've been going to school a little this winter again, for Martha is big enough to help mother and i only stay home to wash. I always remember how beautiful you talked and my teacher says its grammar which I'm studying, but I cant make head nor tail of it, but he told me never to say this ere, and I don't any more, but I never could be such a lady as you are. I spose you've got beautiful long curls yet. I do love curls so and my hair's straight as a stick. Mother says i must tell you if you ever come to Middleville to stop and see us, we live on the back road, Jotham Strong, and we'll all be glad to see you. I hope you'll like the bracket, and I wish you merry cristmas a thousand times. Jim went to town one day and found out who you was – he seen you the night of the fair too. Excuse all mistakes. I aint had much chance for schooling, but I'm going to try now. I spose you are a lady and very rich, and don't have to do housework, but you're real sweet and not stuck up, and so you'll forgive the boldness of my writing this poor letter.

"Yours respectfully,"Sarah Ann Strong."

Kathie had been leaning her arm on Uncle Robert's knee as she read aloud.

"Not such a bad letter," he said. "I have known some quite stylish ladies 'who didn't have to do housework' to make worse mistakes than this girl, who evidently has had very little chance. And then country people do not always understand the advantages of education."

"I wanted to ask her that evening not to say 'this 'ere,' or 'that 'ere' so much, but I was afraid of wounding her feelings. I thought there was something nice about her, and her mother was very generous in buying. But to think that she should have remembered me all this while – "

"'A cup of cold water,'" repeated Aunt Ruth, softly.

"It was such a very little thing."

"One of the steps."

Yes. It was the little things, the steps, that filled the long, long path. A warm glow suffused Kathie's face. She was thinking far back, – an age ago it appeared, yet it was only two years, – that her mother had said the fairies were not all dead. If Puck and Peas-blossom and Cobweb and Titania no longer danced in cool, green hollows, to the music of lily bells, there were Faith and Love and Earnest Endeavor, and many another, to run to and fro with sweet messages and pleasant deeds.

"I am very glad and thankful that you were polite and entertaining," Uncle Robert remarked, presently. "We never know what a kind word or a little pains, rightly taken, may do. It is the grand secret of a useful life, – sowing the seed."

"I must answer her letter, and express my thanks. But O, isn't it funny that she thinks me such a great lady!"

"Suppose we should drive out to see her on some Saturday? Where is Middleville?"

"North of here," returned Aunt Ruth, "in a little sort of hollow between the mountains, about seven or eight miles, I should think."

"How delightful it would be!" exclaimed Kathie.

"We will try it some day. I am very fond of plain, social country people, whose manners may be unpolished, but whose lives are earnest and honest nevertheless. We cannot all be moss-roses, with a fine enclosing grace," said Uncle Robert.

Kathie read her letter over again to herself, feeling quite sure that Sarah had made some improvement since the evening of the Fair.

"Do you want to put the lichen up in your room?" asked Uncle Robert.

"Not particularly, – why?"

"It is such a rare and beautiful specimen that I feel inclined to confiscate it for the library."

"I will give it up with pleasure," answered Kathie, readily, "since it remains mine all the same."

The Alstons had a quiet Christmas dinner by themselves. Uncle Robert gave the last touches to the tree, and just at dusk the small people who had been invited began to flock thither. Kathie had not asked any of her new friends or the older girls. She possessed by nature that simple tact, so essential to fine and true womanhood, of observing the distinctions of society without appearing to notice the different position of individuals.

Ethel Morrison came with the rest. She was beginning to feel quite at home in the great house, and yielded to Kathie's peculiar influence, which was becoming a kind of fascination, a power that might have proved a dangerous gift but for her exceeding truth and simplicity.

The tree was very brilliant and beautiful. If the gifts were not so expensive, they appeared to be just what every one wanted. Kathie was delighted with the compliment to her discernment.

Charlie Darrell made his appearance quite late in the evening, with Dick Grayson. The tapers were just burning their last.

"Farewell to thee, O Christmas tree!" sang Dick. "Was Santa Claus good to you, Miss Kathie?"

"Very generous indeed."

"But O, didn't you miss Rob?"

Kathie had to tell them about Uncle Robert's visit. "And then, you know, I wasn't home last year" – in answer to their question.

"True. There was a gay time here at Cedarwood. When Rob sets out, he is about as funny as any boy I know. Don't you suppose he is just aching to be at home?"

"I expect to get off next year," said Dick, "to Yale. But I shall be dreadfully homesick at first."

"So should I," responded Charlie; "but Rob is such a jolly, happy-go-lucky fellow."

"Has he been in any scrapes yet, Miss Kathie?"

"Not that I have heard," said Kathie, laughing.

A group around the piano were clamoring for Kathie to play. She had promised them some carols.

Dick and Charlie joined. A happy time they had, singing everything they knew. Kathie had become a very fair musician already.

While the little ones were hunting up their wraps, Kathie lingered a moment beside Charlie.

"How is Miss Jessie to-night?" she asked.

"Quite well." Then, looking into her eyes, "You have heard – "

"About Mr. Meredith? yes."

"It is too bad, – isn't it? And he has had a substitute in the war. I think he ought to have come back."

Kathie was silent. How much duty did a man or a woman owe to these great life questions? And was there not something grander and finer in this last act of heroism than many people were capable of? If she could have chosen for him, like Charlie, she would have desired his return; but if every wife and every mother felt so about their soldiers?

She kissed Ethel with a peculiar sympathy when she bade her good night. Mr. Morrison was well and satisfied with the new life, – liked it, indeed.

For the next fortnight it seemed to Kathie that nothing happened, – school life and home life, and she a little pendulum vibrating between the two, waiting for some hour to strike.

She answered Sarah's letter, and promised that she and her uncle would drive up when there came a pleasant Saturday with the roads in comfortable order.

There had been quite an accession to the school on the first of January. Mrs. Wilder had twenty-one pupils now. Mr. Lawrence came in to give them lessons in music, French, and penmanship. Kathie felt quite small, there were so many young ladies.

Several new families had moved into Brookside the preceding summer, and the Alstons' acquaintance had slowly widened among the better class. Kathie remembered how grand she had once considered Miss Jessie, and now she was really beyond that herself.

At twelve the girls had fifteen minutes' intermission. Sometimes they took a little run through the long covered walk, but oftener gathered around the stove or visited at one another's desks. There was always a vein of school-girlish gossip on dress, or amusements, or parties, or perhaps the books they were reading. This generally took in the circle just above Kathie, yet she used occasionally to listen, and it always brought a thought of Ada to her mind.

She sat puzzling over some French verbs one rainy day, while Emma brought out her cathedral that she was doing in India-ink. The talk from the group before them floated to their hearing. It was styles and trimming, velvet and laces that were "real," and gloves with two buttons.

Emma glanced up with an odd smile. Kathie, seeing it, smiled too.

"Let us take a turn in the walk," Emma said.

She was so much taller that she put her arm around Kathie with an odd, elder-sisterly feeling.

"They seem never to get tired of it," she began. "I wonder if there isn't something better to this life than the clothes one wears?"

"Yes," Kathie answered, in a slow, clear tone, though she shrank a little from giving her opinion. She had a shy desire to escape these small responsibilities, yet the consciousness of "bearing witness" always brought her back.

"What is it?"

The blunt question startled her, and a faint color stole into her face.

"I watch you sometimes when I suppose you are not dreaming of it. We have been sitting here together for three months, we were at the Fair, – and there is something different about you from what I find in most girls. I wonder if it is your taste or your nature."

"We are none of us alike," said Kathie, with a peculiar half-smile.

"It is not that specific difference which we all have. You appear to be thinking of others, you never answer crossly, you often give up your own ease and comfort, and there is a little light in your eyes as if something out of your soul was shining through them. And all this talk about dressing and what one is going to do by and by never touches you at all. I suppose you could have everything you want! Lottie Thorne says your uncle idolizes you, and – he is rich, I know."

"I have all that is necessary, and many luxuries," Kathie answered, slowly.

"But what makes you – what keeps you in such a heaven of content? O, I can't explain what I mean! I wonder if you have religion, Kathie Alston."

Do her best, Kathie could not keep the tears out of her eyes. What was there to cry about? But somehow she felt so strange and shy, and full of tender pain.

"I think we ought all to try," she answered, with a sweet seriousness in her voice. "Even if we cannot take but one step – "

"I wish I knew what it was!"

Kathie's heart was in her throat. She only understood part of the steps herself. How could she direct another? So they took two or three turns in silence, then the bell rang.

"There! I had so much to say, and maybe I shall never feel in the mood again. About dress, too. Some of it troubles me sadly."

She stooped suddenly and kissed Kathie on the forehead, gave her hand a sudden, earnest pressure, and then was her olden grave self.

And Kathie wondered a little if she had not shirked a duty! It seemed now as if it would be very easy to say, "I have enlisted in that greater army of the Lord, and will do what service I can." Why had it been so hard a moment ago? Had she been challenged at the outpost and found without a countersign?

CHAPTER VII

A VISIT

"DO you think we could go to Middleville to-day?" Kathie asked, one bright Saturday morning.

It was a sharp, keen winter's day, but the roads had been worn tolerably smooth with the sleighing, and it was by far too cold for alternate freezing and thawing; but the sky was of a clear, steely blue, and the sun as brilliant as a midwinter's sun could be.

"If you did not mind the cold. What is your opinion, Dora?" – turning to Mrs. Alston.

"I suppose you could stand it if you were wrapped up good and warm."

"Would you take the buggy?" asked Aunt Ruth.

"O yes!" answered Kathie, eagerly; "I cannot bear to be shut up in a close prison, as if I was being taken off somewhere for my misdeeds."

"It will be a good deal colder."

Uncle Robert laughed as he met Kathie's mirthful eyes.

"I shall not freeze, auntie. I like the sensation of this strong, fresh wind blowing square into my face; it takes the cobwebs out of my brains."

So the ponies had orders, and pricked up their ears as if they were rather interested in trying the bracing wind as well.

Kathie bundled herself up quite to mamma's liking. She slipped a little parcel under the seat, – two books that she had read time and again, and which she fancied might interest Sarah, and a few other little matters, the giving of which depended upon circumstances.

They said good by, and were off. "Up in the mountains" was always spoken of rather sneeringly by the Brookside community. They really were not mountains, but a succession of rough, rocky hills, where the vegetation was neither lovely nor abundant. Several different species of cedar, scrubby oaks, and stunted hemlocks, were the principal variety, with a matted growth of underbrush; and as there were many finer "woods" around Brookside, these were seldom haunted by pleasure-lovers or wonder-seekers.

The dwellers therein were of the oldest-fashioned kind. You could always tell them when they came to shop at Brookside by their queer bonnets and out-of-date garments, as well as by the wonderful contrast of colors. But the small settlements enjoyed their own manner of living and their own social pleasures as thoroughly as their more refined neighbors.

For quite a stretch the road was level and good, then the ascent began, the houses were wider apart, and with an air of indifference as to paint and repairs, while fences seemed to be vainly trying to hold each other up.

The ponies were fresh and frisky, and did not mind the tug. Kathie was silent for the most part, her brain in a kind of floating confusion, not at all unpleasant, but rather restful.

"Now, which is the back road, I wonder?" said Uncle Robert, slowly, checking the horses a trifle.

Both roads were exceedingly dreary-looking, but they decided to take the one farther north, and before they had gone a quarter of a mile they met a team, driven by a young lad.

"Is this Middleville?" asked Uncle Robert.

"Yes."

"Which is the back road?"

"Keep straight along. You're right."

"Where does Mr. Jotham Strong live?"

"Over there in that yaller house," the boy answered, nodding his head.

The place began to take on quite a village look. There was a brown, weather-beaten meeting-house, a small country store, and houses scattered around at intervals. Some were quite tidy-looking, but the most had a kind of dilapidated air.

Mr. Strong's was large and roomy on the ground-floor, as numerous additions had been made on three sides of the building. There was a door-yard in front, where in summer they must have an abundance of roses, and two wide flower-beds down the path. Such signs went to Kathie's heart at once.

Uncle Robert sprang out and knocked at the door. The hard-featured face that Kathie remembered so well in connection with the purple bonnet peered through the kitchen window.

The child would have laughed at the commotion inside, if she could have seen it, – how Sary Ann dragged the floating ends of her hair into a knot, caught up a towel and wiped her face, making it redder than before, jerked down her sleeves, which, having neither hooks nor buttons, hung round her wrists.

She stared as she opened the door to a strange man, but glanced past him to the carriage.

"I have brought Miss Kathie Alston up to see you," Mr. Conover announced, in his warm, cheerful voice, for he recognized Sarah from Kathie's graphic description.

"O my! and I'm all in a heap; but I'm so glad!" and she ran out to the wagon, but stopped at the gate with a sudden sensation of bashfulness, and a wonder if she ought not to have said something more to the gentleman.

"How do you do, Sarah?" Kathie's voice was like the softest of silver bells pealing on the frosty air.

"O, I'm so glad! I didn't hardly believe you'd come. I looked last Sat'day. Your letter was so nice. I'm glad you liked the lichen. Jim and me hunted over hundreds of 'em, and found the very biggest. Do get out and come in the house; you must be perished! Is that the uncle you wrote about in your letter?"

"Yes." Uncle Robert had come down the path by this time. "My uncle, Mr. Conover," Kathie said, gracefully, "and Miss Sarah Strong."

Sarah made a dash at her hair again as if she was afraid of its tumbling down, and courtesied to Uncle Robert so in the style of a country school-girl that he smiled inwardly. "O, coax her to get out!" she exclaimed, appealingly. "I've got a fire all ready to light in the best room, and I want you to see my pictures," – with a very long emphasis on the last syllable. "Mother 'xpects you to stay to dinner, and my Sat'day's work is 'most done. Come in, – do."

By this time Mrs. Strong had made herself tidy and appeared at the hall door.

"Come in," she exclaimed, cordially, – "come in. Sary Ann, show the gentleman how to drive right down to the barn. Jim's there thrashin' and he'll see to the hosses!"

Kathie was handed out. Sarah turned the horses to face the path to the barn.

"Down there," she said. "Steve, come here!"

Steve, thirteen or thereabout, sheepishly obeyed, and took the rest of his sister's order in silence.

"Don't you go," said Mrs. Strong to Mr. Conover. "There's boys enough to the barn, and they know all about hosses. Come in an' get warm. You must be about froze! I'm right glad to see you, child."

Kathie introduced Uncle Robert again. They were marshalled into a large, uncarpeted kitchen, full of youngsters, with a great red-hot stove in their midst.

"Get out of the way, childern! Sary Ann, run light the fire in the parlor while they're gettin' warm."

"It is not worth while to take that trouble," returned Uncle Robert. "We came up for a call, but judged it best to take the pleasantest part of such a cold day. So do not let us interfere with your usual arrangements."

"You ain't a goin' to stir a step until after dinner. Sary'll be awful disapp'inted. We've plenty of everything, and you won't put us out a bit. We've been looking for you, like, ever sence Sary Ann had her letter. Take off your things, child! Ain't your feet half froze?"

"O no."

There was no resisting, however. Mrs. Strong talked and worked, tumbled over the children, picked them up and set them on chairs, bidding them keep out of the way, insisted that Kathie should sit beside the roasting stove, and presently Sarah returned. She had brushed her hair into a more respectable shape, and tied a most unnecessary scarlet ribbon in it, seeing that the hair was of a sandy reddish color.

But her clean calico dress certainly did improve her. Yet as she entered the room she was seized with a fit of awkward bashfulness.

"I believe I will go out and look at the ponies," remarked Mr. Conover.

"Mind they're put out. You're not going to stir a step till you've had your dinner. Marthy, you peel them taters; quick now." This to a rather pretty girl of ten, who had been writing with a pin on the steamed window-pane.

"Come in the other room," said Sarah to Kathie.

The child followed. It was not very warm yet, but there was a great crackling, blazing fire upon the hearth, which was a delightful picture in itself.

Sarah stood and viewed her guest wonderingly. The long golden curls, the clear, fine complexion, the neat-fitting dress, the small white hands, and the dainty kid boots, were all marvels to her.

"You're very rich," she said, presently, in a peculiar manner, as if she could almost find it in her heart to envy Kathie and grow discontented with herself. Kathie's fine sense and tact detected it.

She stretched out her hand and took Sarah's, – a little rough, but soft and plump. "My uncle is," she answered; "he is very good to us children. My father died when I was a tiny little girl."

"Did he?" Sarah knelt down, and began to wind the silken curls over her finger. "But you are so – so different. You don't have to work, – do you?"

"A little," and Kathie smiled.

"What! a lady like you? Don't you keep servants? For Jim said the place was like a palace!"

"We keep one servant only, and a gardener. Mamma thinks it right that every one should learn to be useful."

"But if I was rich I wouldn't do a thing! I actually wouldn't."

"I am afraid you would soon get tired of idleness."

"O, I'd have books, and read, and paint pictures, and a pianny – "

"Piano," corrected Kathie, gravely, as if she had been a teacher with her class.

Sarah turned scarlet, then gave a little embarrassed laugh. "I never can get the words all right. They do plague me so; but I haven't been to school for two years. Mother wanted me home, for Martha was so little. That's why I'd like to be a lady, and know just what was right to do and say. I thought you was so elegant that night!"

"There are a great many 'ladies,' as you call them, much poorer than you; and some rich people who are coarse and ignorant."

"There ain't only two or three men in Middleville any richer than father. He owns sights of land and timber, but he thinks that if you can read and write and cipher a little it is enough. I don't suppose I could ever be as nice as you are, though," – with a sadness in her tone and a longing in her eyes.

"In what respect?" Kathie smiled encouragingly.

"Well – to talk as you do. I thought that night at the Fair that it was just like a story-book or music. I know I'm always makin' mistakes."

"Then you must try to be careful. Does not your teacher correct you?"

"Well, I am learning a little; but it seems to be such hard work. How did you do it?"

"I have always been sent to school, and then my mother has taken a good deal of pains with me. It seems unfortunate that people should fall into such careless habits of pronouncing, and oftentimes of spelling."

"Was my letter all right?" Sarah asked, with quick apprehension. "I tried so hard, and wrote it over ever so many times."

"I let my uncle read it, and he said he had seen letters from older women that would hardly bear comparison. There were very few mistakes in it."

Kathie's honesty impelled her to say this, though under some circumstances she would have uttered no comment.

"Tell me what they were. I think I could do better now."

"Do you really wish me to?"

"Yes, I do," with a good deal of rising color.

"Your pronoun I, when you speak of yourself, must always be a capital, – never a small i, and dotted."

"But how can you tell?"

"It is a personal pronoun, and is never used in any other way. A single I must always be a capital."

"Always! I'll be sure to remember that," Sarah answered, with great earnestness; "and what else?"