FullReads

The room was the usual village sitting-room. A cylinder heater full of wood stood at one side of it. A rag carpet, much faded, covered the floor. The paper on the wall was like striped candy, and the chairs were nondescript; but everything was clean–worn more with brushing than with use.

A slim woman of fifty, with hollow eyes and a patient smile, came in, wiping her hands on her apron.

“How d’ye do? Did you want to see me?”

“Yes,” said Hartley, smiling. “The fact is, we’re book agents, and looking for a place to board.”

“Well–a–I–yes, I keep boarders.”

“I was sent here by a brakeman on the midnight express,” put in Bert,

“Oh, Tom,” said the woman, her face clearing. “Tom’s always sending us people. Why, yes; I’ve got room for you, I guess–this room here.” She pushed open a folding door leading into what had been her parlor.

“You can have this.”

“And the price?”

“Four dollars.”

“Eight dollars f’r the two of us. All right; we’ll be with you a week or two if we have luck.”

Mrs. Welsh smiled. “Excuse me, won’t you? I’ve got to be at my baking; make y’rselves at home.”

Bert remarked how much she looked like his own mother in the back. She had the same tired droop in the shoulders, the same colorless dress, characterless with much washing.

“Certainly. I feel at home already,” replied Bert. “Now, Jim,” he said, after she left the room, “I’m going t’ stay right here while you go and order our trunks around–just t’ pay you off f’r last night.”

“All right,” said Hartley cheerily, going out.

After getting warm, Bert returned to the sitting-room, and sat down at the parlor organ and played a gospel hymn or two from the Moody and Sankey hymnal. He was in the midst of the chorus of Let Your Lower Lights, etc., when a young woman entered the room. She had a whisk-broom in her hand, and stood a picture of gentle surprise. Bert wheeled about on his stool.

“I thought it was Stella,” she began.

“I’m a book agent,” Bert explained. “I might as well out with it. There are two of us. Come here to board.”

“Oh!” said the girl, with some relief. She was very fair and very slight, almost frail. Her eyes were of the sunniest blue, her face pale and somewhat thin, but her lips showed scarlet, and her teeth were fine. Bert liked her and smiled.

“A book agent is the next thing to a burglar, I know; but still–“

“Oh, I didn’t mean that, but I was surprised. When did you come?”

“Just a few moments ago. Am I in your way?” he inquired, with elaborate solicitude.

“Oh no! Please go on. You play very well. It is seldom young men play at all.”

“I had to at college; the other fellows all wanted to sing. You play, of course.”

“When I have time.” She sighed. There was a weary droop in her voice; she seemed aware of it, and said more brightly:

“You mean Madison, I suppose?”

“Yes; I’m in my second year.”

“I went there two years. Then I had to quit and come home to help mother.”

“Did you? That’s why I’m out here on this infernal book business–to get money to go on with.”

She looked at him with interest now, noticing his fine eyes and waving brown hair.

“It’s dreadful, isn’t it? But you’ve got a hope to go back. I haven’t.” She ended with a sigh, a far-off expression in her eyes. “It almost killed me to give it up. I don’t s’pose I’d know any of the scholars you know. Even the teachers are not the same. Oh, yes–Sarah Shaw; I think she’s back for the normal course.”

“Oh yes!” exclaimed Bert, “I know Sarah. We boarded on the same street; used t’ go home together after class. An awful nice girl, too.”

“She’s a worker. She teaches school. I can’t do that, for mother needs me at home.” There was another pause, broken by the little girl, who called: