Elsie Singmaster

THE BLOW FALLS

Sarah never forgot the wet, cold walk across the fields. The stars were out, and there was promise of a clear day, but the melted snow made the soil wet and muddy, and the air was damp. Uncle Daniel strode on, without remembering to moderate his long steps, and Sarah almost ran by his side.

She was wide awake now, the cool air on her face banished all drowsiness of body, and Albert's danger roused every faculty of her mind.

"How long was he sick already?" she asked.

"Since this morning. But he has been for a couple of days not so good."

"Where is he sick?"

"He won't eat nothing, and—and he don't know us. He—he—" Uncle Daniel's voice shook. He had had a hard day. He was desperately frightened about Albert, and Aunt 'Liza had not made him more comfortable by insisting that it was a punishment for wanting his sister's farm.

"He will know me," answered Sarah with conviction. Then she began to run up the lane toward the house. She could see a light in an upstairs room, and Aunt Eliza's face was already peering anxiously out of the kitchen door.

"Albert is worse," she called. "He is talking all the time."

Sarah pushed past her into the kitchen. She had not been in the house since she was a little girl,—so entirely apart had been the lives of the two families,—but she knew the way to the stairway door. One after another the natural ills of childhood came to her mind. Albert and the twins had had chickenpox and measles and whooping-cough and mumps, and she had nursed them all. She thought of the dreaded scarlet fever and diphtheria. But there was none in the neighborhood.

She hurried up the stairway, as there floated down a tiny, querulous voice,—

"I want my Sarah! I want my Sarah!"

Albert lay deep in the great feather-bed, his cheeks a flaming crimson, his arms tossing restlessly. Even when Sarah bent over him, he did not know her, but kept on with his restless crying. She put her hand on his hot forehead, she opened the collar of his night-gown.

When Aunt Eliza and Uncle Daniel came into the room, she turned upon them a look of such anguish that Aunt 'Liza began to cry, and Uncle Daniel sat down weakly in a chair.

"Is it the smallpox?" asked Aunt 'Liza fearfully.

Sarah did not answer. She looked at Albert once more. Long before, when her mother was living, the twins had found the Christmas candy, and had eaten it all in a day. Then the twins had had a sorry time. They had looked just like this.

"What did you give Albert to eat?" she demanded.

"Ach! bread and meat and potatoes and pie, like always, and—"

"And what?" insisted Sarah.

"And a few crullers."

"And what yet?"

"And a little candy."

"How much candy?"

"Ach, such a little bag full."

"And what yet?"

"A few peanuts," answered Uncle Daniel doggedly.

"Get me warm water and mustard," commanded Sarah.

"C-can you make him well, Sarah?" faltered Aunt 'Liza. But she did not stop to hear the answer. At that moment she did not even feel the humiliation of having to obey fifteen-year-old Sarah.

In less than an hour, a watcher might have seen the lights in the Swartz farmhouse go out, one by one. Albert was asleep long before that, the flush faded from his cheek, the fever gone, a faint smile upon the little face on Sarah's arm. It would have been hard to tell which slept more soundly, doctor or patient.

In the next room Daniel Swartz lay wide awake. These weeks of Albert's stay with them had not been easy. It was not entirely pie and cake and candy which had made Albert sick; it was a disease which no heroic measures could cure, homesickness, and Uncle Daniel knew it.

"I never saw such a young one," he said angrily. "I was never so very for my brothers and sisters when I was little."

"Will you let him go home?" asked Aunt 'Liza timidly. The last weeks had worn more heavily upon her than upon her husband, since she had to watch all day long that white, woe-begone little face.

"Let him go home!" repeated Swartz. "When I am to be guardian to-morrow! I guess not. To-morrow Sarah has to come here. That will cure him."

It was long after daybreak when Sarah woke. Albert slept quietly beside her, and it was not likely that he would wake for several hours. She dressed hurriedly and went downstairs.

There she found Aunt Liza washing dishes and Uncle Daniel moving impatiently about, dressed in his best clothes.

"I didn't go yet to town, because I want to talk to you a little, Sarah," he began. "Sit down once and Aunt 'Lizie will give you your breakfast."

"But I must go home," objected Sarah. "Albert will be all right, only he must not have anything to eat yet awhile, only milk to drink. And he mustn't have candy, or he will get just so sick for you again. He is too little to have so much candy."

"But you stay here now and take care of him," invited Uncle Daniel pleasantly. Now that he had everything in his hands he was prepared to be thoroughly amiable.

"I can come back," replied Sarah. His good humor frightened her, and she moved a little closer to the door. "But first I must go and milk. It is already late to milk."

"Jacob Kalb's wife went down this long time to milk," put in Aunt 'Liza.

"Jacob Kalb's wife!" repeated Sarah.

"Yes."

"Well, I'll go down and she can go home," said Sarah. "I—I don't need Jacob Kalb's wife to help. Then I can come back to see Albert."

She remembered afterwards that Aunt 'Liza had begun to speak, and that she had been sharply checked by Uncle Daniel. But she did not wait to hear. Jacob Kalb's wife was only a shade less disagreeable than Jacob himself. She could not bear to think of her touching her milk-pans or going into the spring-house or kitchen. She ran as swiftly as she could down across the fields.

When she reached the kitchen door, she was faint with exhaustion. At first everything was black before her. Then she saw Jacob Kalb's wife standing by the stove. She was a large, fair-haired woman, with strong, bare arms. She had just lifted a pie from the oven and stood with it still in her hands, looking at little Sarah.

"I—I—you needn't bake for me," said Sarah when she could get her breath. "I am much obliged that you did the milking, but you need not bake for me."

"I am baking for myself," answered Mrs. Kalb stolidly.

"Well, you needn't bake here," cried Sarah.

Suddenly there came a rush of comprehension. It seemed for an instant as though she could neither breathe nor think. Her uncle had made Albert sick, he had sent for her to cure him, and then he had sent this woman down here to take possession. She moved a step closer.

"Go out of my kitchen," she commanded thickly. "This is my kitchen, it isn't yours. These are my things, they are not yours. They are not my uncle's. He had no right to send you here. You could be arrested for it. It is stealing. Get out of my kitchen."

Suddenly everything seemed to grow black once more, and Sarah reeled. The woman came toward her.

"Are you sick? You better sit down once. It isn't my fault that I have to live here. If I don't live here, somebody else will. Let me take off your shawl for you."

"Ach, no!" cried little Sarah. "Don't touch me! Don't touch me!"

"I guess I won't do you anything if I touch you," answered the woman, the kindness in her voice changing to irritation. "Well, what in the world—"

Sarah had gone, leaving the door open behind her. Mrs. Kalb watched her run down the lane, stopping occasionally to gasp for breath.

"Let her go and talk to Swartz," muttered Mrs. Kalb to herself. Then she went back to her work.

Sarah did not turn to go across the fields to the Swartz house, but went on out to the high-road. There she stood, looking about her, bewildered.

The blow had fallen at last. She had expected it hourly, but she had not foreseen such heartache as this. She had no home, and the children had no home, and William, if he came back, would have no home. The children might grow accustomed to life at Aunt Mena's and Uncle Daniel's,—she knew nothing then of Albert's homesickness,—but it would not be home. They would grow away from one another, they would not be like the children of one family.

She could not cry, she was too wretched for tears, she could only stand there in the road in the sunshine, trying to decide where she should go. Then suddenly there came to her the touch of Miss Miflin's arms and the sound of Miss Miflin's voice.

"To-morrow, you must tell me everything."

She did not stop to listen to another voice, which told her that Miss Miflin was a stranger who could not really care, and who could not help. She started away, not running now,—she was too tired for that,—but walking as fast as she could, toward the Spring Grove Schoolhouse.

Recess had just begun, and the children, all but the twins, who had been granted the treasured privilege of cleaning the blackboards, were in the playground. They looked up curiously as Sarah went by. The Wenners had always been clannish. Even the twins were happier playing by themselves than with the other children.

Miss Miflin was shocked at the sight of Sarah's face. She had not worried about her, because the woman who had come to milk had said that Albert was better, and that Sarah was still asleep. She had made up her mind to go back to the Wenners' that night. Perhaps if there were a grown person in the house Sarah would rest, and thus lose some of the weariness which showed so plainly in her eyes.

Now in addition to the weariness, there was distress such as Miss Miflin had never seen on the face of a young person. She went down the aisle to meet her.

"Well, Sarah," she began. Then she put out both her arms. "Why, you poor little girl! What is the matter?"

"Jacob Kalb is living in our house," said Sarah hoarsely. "We have no home any more. The twins must go to Aunt Mena, and Albert to Uncle Daniel. We have no home any more. He took it away from us. It is not right."

Miss Miflin helped Sarah to her own chair. Then she took the county paper from her desk.

"Sarah, I saw something about you and the children in the paper last week. Don't you know your uncle is to be your guardian?"

"Guardian?" repeated Sarah.

"Yes, here it is. 'Daniel Swartz, of Spring Grove township, has applied to be appointed guardian of Sarah, Ellen Louisa, Louisa Ellen, and Albert Wenner, minor children of Henry Wenner, deceased.' Oh, Sarah, that means you will have to do as he says!"

"We would have to do as he says whether he was guardian or not," said Sarah dully. "He wants to take the farm. He has already taken the fence down. It is nothing to be done." Then she burst into tears. "If they would only give me a chance once! If they would let me try, I could show them what I could do. I know how the crops should be, and Ebert would work for the half, now like always. It would be just like when my pop was alive. Or if Uncle Daniel would farm and give us the half, like Ebert, so we could get along. Then we could stay together. But now we have nothing. If William comes home, he won't have any place to go. He won't—"

"Listen a minute, Sarah!" said Miss Miflin. Then she did not go on at once, but turned over the paper with hands which trembled.

"Who makes him guardian?" asked Sarah.

"The judge," replied Miss Miflin absently.

"If I only could—"

"Wait a minute," said Miss Miflin again. "It may not have been decided yet. Perhaps if we went in, they would let us talk. Perhaps—"

Her hand went out suddenly to the bell-rope.

"There is a train in half an hour. We shall have to hurry. Come, children, get your caps and shawls. There will be no more school till to-morrow."

Sarah looked at her dully. She had no idea of what Miss Miflin meant to do. The children vanished with whoops of delight over the unexpected holiday.

"Now, Sarah, we are going to town."

"To town! To the county seat?"

"Yes."

"But—but I have no money!"

"Well, I have."

"But I—I cannot leave the twins!"

"They are to come too."

"In these clothes?" Sarah had never been to the county seat but once, and then she had worn her best.

"Yes. There isn't time to get any others."

While Miss Miflin spoke, she locked the door of the schoolhouse, and took Sarah's arm in hers. Her cheeks were flushed, and she looked anxious and worried. She was perfectly aware that it was probably a fruitless errand upon which she was starting. Before they could get to the county seat, the appointment might be made. And even if they did get there in time, she was not sure whether anything could be done. If they failed, it might not only make it harder for the children, but she might lose her school. Daniel Swartz was a man of influence and a school-director, and he could easily prevent her re-election if he tried.

Nevertheless, in spite of all the dictates of reason and common sense, Miss Miflin had an inward conviction that she was right. She knew vaguely that there had been some trouble between the Swartz and Wenner families, and that Henry Wenner would never have chosen his brother-in-law to be guardian of his children. Surely that would have some weight with the judge!

If Sarah could only be led to talk, if she could make the judge believe that she was able to run the farm and look after the children, he might, as Sarah had said, be willing to "let her try." And deep in Miss Miflin's heart was the remembrance of Sarah's anguished cry, "If William comes home, he won't have any place to go."

If William came home! Miss Miflin sighed for some of the childish affection which followed thoughtless, wandering William. Suppose that he should come home, ill, penniless, where would he go? Miss Miflin drew Sarah's hand a little closer within her arm.

"Cheer up, Sarah," she said. "We'll win."

Even the station agent, accustomed to provincial costumes, looked at them curiously as they got on the train. Miss Miflin wore her school suit and hat,—no one could have found fault with them upon the grounds of suitability or becomingness. But Sarah and the twins, in their striped shawls and sunbonnets, were very unlike what one would have expected Miss Miflin's companions to be.

There was no doubt that they were her companions, however, for she asked the conductor to reverse a seat, and with Sarah beside her, and the eager, restless twins opposite, she was as oblivious of the interested stares of the passengers as though she were in her own class-room at Spring Grove. The twins were wild with delight at the journey. Here was another adventure, more exciting than running away from Aunt Mena, or carrying a gun to school.

Meanwhile, with an hour's start, and behind Betty, the fast little mare, Uncle Daniel and Jacob Kalb were just finishing the twelve-mile journey to the county seat.