They turned about, and without any more words measured
back their way to Queechy Run. Mr. Jolly came
out again, brisk and alert as ever; but after seeming
to rack his brains in search of any actual or possible
money-lender was obliged to confess that it was in
vain; he could not think of one.
“But I’ll tell you what, Mr. Ringgan,”
he concluded, “I’ll turn it over in my
mind to-night and see if I can think of any thing that’ll
do, and if I can I’ll let you know. If
we hadn’t such a nether millstone to deal with,
it would be easy enough to work it somehow.”
So they set forth homewards again.
“Cheer up, dear!” said the old gentleman
heartily, laying one hand on his little granddaughter’s
lap,—“it will be arranged somehow.
Don’t you worry your little head with business.
God will take care of us.”
“Yes, grandpa!” said the little girl,
looking up with an instant sense of relief at these
words; and then looking down again immediately to burst
into tears.
Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
Before rude hands have touch’d
it?
Ha’ you mark’d but the fall
o’ the snow,
Before the soil hath smutch’d
it?
Ben Jonson.
Where a ray of light can enter the future, a child’s
hope can find a way—a way that nothing
less airy and spiritual can travel. By the time
they reached their own door Fleda’s spirits were
at par again.
“I am very glad we have got home, aren’t
you, grandpa?” she said as she jumped down;
“I’m so hungry. I guess we are both
of us ready for supper, don’t you think so?”
She hurried up stairs to take off her wrappings and
then came down to the kitchen, where standing on the
broad hearth and warming herself at the blaze, with
all the old associations of comfort settling upon her
heart, it occurred to her that foundations so established
could not be shaken. The blazing fire
seemed to welcome her home and bid her dismiss fear;
the kettle singing on its accustomed hook looked as
if quietly ridiculing the idea that they could be
parted company; her grandfather was in his cushioned
chair at the corner of the hearth, reading the newspaper,
as she had seen him a thousand times; just in the
same position, with that collected air of grave enjoyment,
one leg crossed over the other, settled back in his
chair but upright, and scanning the columns with an
intent but most un-careful face. A face it was
that always had a rare union of fineness and placidness.
The table stood spread in the usual place, warmth
and comfort filled every corner of the room, and Pleda
began to feel as if she had been in an uncomfortable
dream, which was very absurd, but from which she was
very glad she had awoke.
“What have you got in this pitcher, Cynthy?”
said she. “Muffins!—O let me
bake them, will you? I’ll bake them.”
“Now Fleda,” said Cynthy, “just
you be quiet. There ain’t no place where
you can bake ’em. I’m just going to
clap ’em in the reflector—that’s
the shortest way I can take to do ’em.
You keep yourself out o’ muss.”
