  “Lenora, dearie, can you spare Jenny a spell! I want her to tote a basket of fresh eggs over to Poindexter Arms, and a few jars o’ honey. Like as not the poor sick missus will be glad of somethin’ different and tasty. Don’t let her pay for ’em, Jenny-gal. Tell her they’re a welcome-home present from all of us. Tell her how we’re hopin’ the sea air’ll bring back her strength soon, and that ol’ Susan Warner will pay her respects as soon as she’s wanted. Jenny, dearie, can you recollect all that?” The girl, who had been seated on the top step of the seaward veranda shelling peas and reading to her best friend, had leaped up when her dear old grandmother had appeared. Laughingly she slipped an arm about her, when she finished speaking, and kissed both of her cheeks. Then she peered into the faded blue eyes that were smiling at her so fondly as she entreated, “Granny Sue, wouldn’t it do as well if I left the basket at the kitchen door and asked a maid to give the message?” The old woman looked inquiringly into the flower-like face so close to her own. “Would you mind seein’ the missus, if you was let to? I’d powerful well like to hear the straight of how she is, and when she’d like to have me pay my respects. You aren’t skeered of her, are you, dearie?” “Of course not, Granny Sue. Although I must confess I was terribly scared of her when I was little. I thought she was an ogress. I do believe I will put in some of our field poppies to golden up the basket. Would she like that, Granny, do you think? I gathered ever so many this morning.” “I reckon she’d be pleased, an’ if I was you. I’d put on that fresh yellow muslin. You look right smart in it.” Lenora was an interested listener. She had heard all about the proud, haughty woman who was owner of the farm, and mother of the disagreeable Gwynette and of the nice Harold. She knew he must be nice by the way all three of the Warners spoke of him. She now put in: “O, Jenny, do wear that adorable droopy hat with the buttercup wreath. You look like a nymph of sunshine when you’re all in yellow.” “Very well, I will! I live but to please.” This was said gaily. “Be prepared now for a transformation scene: from an aproned sheller of peas to a nymph of sunshine.” In fewer minutes than seemed possible, Jenny again appeared, and spreading her fresh yellow muslin skirt, she made a minuet curtsy. Then she asked merrily, “Mistress Lenora, pray tell how a nymph of sunshine should walk and what she should say when she calls upon the most Olympian person she knows. Sort of a Juno.” “Just act natural, dearie,” the proud grandmother had appeared with the basket of eggs, poppies and honey in time to reply to this query, “and no nymphs, whatever they be, could be sweeter or more pleasin’.” Then she added, “Your grandpa’s got Dobbin all hitched an’ waitin’ for you. Good-bye, dearie! Harold’ll be glad to have you kind to his ma. He sets a store by her.” It was the last remark that gave Jenny courage to ask if she might see Mrs. Poindexter-Jones, twenty minutes later, when she had driven around to the side door of the mansion-like stone house. Cecile looked doubtful. “Ef eets to give the basket, the keetchen’s the place for that.” Jenny smiled on Cecile, and the maid found herself staring in puzzled amazement. Who was this girl who looked like that other one who had just left; looked like her and yet didn’t, for she was far prettier and with such a kindly light in her smiling brown eyes. “Please tell Mrs. Poindexter-Jones that Susan Warner, on the farm, sent me over and would like me to deliver a message myself if she wishes to see me.” There was nothing for Cecile to do but carry the message, and, to her amazement, Mrs. Poindexter-Jones looked pleased and requested that the maid show the girl at once to the pond-lily garden. Almost shyly Jenny Warner went down the box-edged path. The elderly lady, not vain and proud as she had been in her younger days, lying back on soft silken pillows, watched her coming. How pretty the girl looked in her simple yellow muslin frock, with her wide drooping hat, buttercup wreathed, and on her arm a basket, golden with field poppies. As she neared, Mrs. Poindexter-Jones felt a mist in her eyes, for this girl looked very like the other only there was such a sweet, loving expression in the responsive face, while Gwynette’s habitual outlook on life had made her proud, critical and cold. The woman impulsively held out a hand. “Jenny Warner,” she said as she lifted the mist-filled eyes, “won’t you kiss me, dear?” Instinctively Jenny knew that this invalid mother of Harold was in real need of tenderness and love. Unhesitatingly she kissed her, then took the seat toward which Mrs. Poindexter-Jones motioned. The basket she placed on the table. “Grandmother wished me to bring you some of our strained honey and fresh eggs and to ask you when you would like her to come and pay her respects.” The woman smiled faintly. She seemed very very tired. Thoughtfully she replied, “Tomorrow, at about this hour, if the day is as pleasant as this. I will again be in the garden here. Tell Susan Warner I very much want to see her. I want to ask her a question.” Then she closed her eyes and seemed to be resting. Jenny wondered if she ought to go, but at her first rustle the eyes were opened and the woman smiled at the girl. “Jenny,” she said, somewhat wistfully, “I want to ask your grandmother how she brought you up.” The girl was puzzled. Why should Mrs. Poindexter-Jones care about the simple home life of a family in her employ. But, before she had time to wonder long, the invalid was changing the subject. “Jenny, do you like to read aloud?” she asked. There was sincere enthusiasm in the reply. “Oh, Mrs. Poindexter-Jones, I love to! I read aloud every day to my dear friend Lenora Gale, who is visiting me. We are reading poetry just now, but I care a great deal for prose also. Books and nature are the two things for which I care most.” As she spoke Jenny glanced at the book lying on the small table where she had placed her basket. Almost shyly she asked. “Were you reading this book before I came?” “My nurse, Miss Dane, was reading it to me. She is a very kind, good woman, but her voice is rasping, and it is hard for me to listen. My nerves are still far from normal and I was wishing that I had some young girl to read to me.” Jenny at once thought of Gwynette. Surely she would be glad to read to her mother while she was ill. As though she had heard the thought, the woman answered it, and her tone was sad. “My daughter, unfortunately, does not like to read aloud. She does not care for books—nor for nature—nor for——” the woman hesitated. She did not want to criticize Gwynette before another, and so she turned and looked with almost wistful inquiry at the girl. “Jenny Warner, may I engage your services to read to me one or two hours a day if your grandmother can spare you that long?” Jenny’s liquid brown eyes were aglow with pleasure. This was Harold’s mother for whom she could do a real service. “Oh, may I read to you, Mrs. Poindexter-Jones? I would be so glad to do something—” she hesitated and a deeper rose color stole into her cheeks. She could not say for “Harold’s mother.” Mrs. Poindexter-Jones would not understand the depth of the girl’s gratitude toward the boy who was making it possible for her dear old grandparents to remain on the farm. And the woman, gazing at her, found that just then she could not mention remuneration. “Suppose you come to me day after tomorrow at ten.” Miss Dane had appeared to say that it was time for the invalid to go into the house. “Is it noon so soon?” the woman inquired, then turning back toward the girl who had risen, she added: “Seeing you has done me much good. Good-bye. Tell Susan Warner I want to see her tomorrow.” Jenny returned home, her heart singing. She was to have an opportunity to thank Harold, and she was glad. When Jenny reached the farmhouse she found her family in the kitchen, and by the way they all stopped talking when she entered, she was sure that something had happened during her absence which they had been discussing, nor was she wrong. She looked from one interested face to another, then exclaimed: “You’re keeping a secret from me. What is it, please tell!” Lenora, who had been made comfortable with pillows in grandfather’s easy chair, drawn close to the stove, merrily replied: “The secret is in plain sight. You must hunt, though, and find it.” Jenny whirled to look at the table, already set with the supper things, but nothing unusual was there; then her glance traveled to the old mahogany cupboard, where, behind glass doors, in tidy rows, the best china stood. There, leaning against a tumbler, was an envelope bearing a foreign stamp. With a cry of joy Jenny leaped forward. Instinctively she seemed to know that it was the long watched-for letter from Etta Heldt, nor was she wrong. With eager fingers the envelope was opened. A draft fluttered to the floor. Jenny picked it up, then, after a glance at it, turned a glowing face toward the others. “I knew it!” she cried joyfully. “I knew Etta Heldt was honest! This is every penny that she owes us.” The handwriting was difficult to read and for a silent moment Jenny studied it, then brightly she exclaimed: “Oh, such wonderful news!” Then she read:
There were tears in Jenny’s eyes as she looked up. “Oh, Grandma Sue,” she ran across the room and clung to the dear old woman, “aren’t you glad, glad, glad we brought so much happiness into three lives?” Later, when they were at supper, Jenny told about her visit to Poindexter Arms. There was a sad foreboding in the hearts of the old couple that evening. Although they said little, each was wondering what the outcome of their “gal’s” daily readings would be. “Whatever ’tis, ’twill like to be for the best, I reckon,” was Susan Warner’s philosophic conclusion, and the old man’s customary reply, “I cal’late yer right, Ma! Yo’ be mos’ allays.” |
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