FullReads

Something in the homely but true words seemed to rebuke the three listeners for wasted lives, and for a moment there was no sound but the crackle of the fire, the brisk click of the old lady’s knitting needles, and Ruth’s voice singing overhead as she made ready to join the party below.

“To judge by that sweet sound you have done one of your ‘chores’ very beautifully, Mrs. Basset, and in spite of the follies of our day, succeeded in keeping one girl healthy, happy and unspoiled,” said Emily, looking up into the peaceful old face with her own lovely one full of respect and envy.

“I do hope so, for she’s my ewe lamb, the last of four dear little girls; all the rest are in the burying ground ‘side of father. I don’t expect to keep her long, and don’t ought to regret when I lose her, for Saul is the best of sons; but daughters is more to mothers somehow, and I always yearn over girls that is left without a broodin’ wing to keep ’em safe and warm in this world of tribulation.”

Aunt Plumy laid her hand on Sophie’s head as she spoke, with such a motherly look that both girls drew nearer, and Randal resolved to put her in a book without delay.

Presently Saul returned with little Ruth hanging on his arm and shyly nestling near him as he took the three-cornered leathern chair in the chimney nook, while she sat on a stool close by.

“Now the circle is complete and the picture perfect. Don’t light the lamps yet, please, but talk away and let me make a mental study of you. I seldom find so charming a scene to paint,” said Randal, beginning to enjoy himself immensely, with a true artist’s taste for novelty and effect.

“Tell us about your book, for we have been reading it as it comes out in the magazine, and are much exercised about how it’s going to end,” began Saul, gallantly throwing himself into the breach, for a momentary embarrassment fell upon the women at the idea of sitting for their portraits before they were ready.

“Do you really read my poor serial up here, and do me the honor to like it?” asked the novelist, both flattered and amused, for his work was of the aesthetic sort, microscopic studies of character, and careful pictures of modern life.

“Sakes alive, why shouldn’t we?” cried Aunt Plumy. “We have some eddication, though we ain’t very genteel. We’ve got a town libry, kep up by the women mostly, with fairs and tea parties and so on. We have all the magazines reg’lar, and Saul reads out the pieces while Ruth sews and I knit, my eyes bein’ poor. Our winter is long and evenins would be kinder lonesome if we didn’t have novils and newspapers to cheer ’em up.”

“I am very glad I can help to beguile them for you. Now tell me what you honestly think of my work? Criticism is always valuable, and I should really like yours, Mrs. Basset,” said Randal, wondering what the good woman would make of the delicate analysis and worldly wisdom on which he prided himself.

Short work, as Aunt Plumy soon showed him, for she rather enjoyed freeing her mind at all times, and decidedly resented the insinuation that country folk could not appreciate light literature as well as city people.

“I ain’t no great of a jedge about anything but nat’ralness of books, and it really does seem as if some of your men and women was dreadful uncomfortable creaters. ‘Pears to me it ain’t wise to be always pickin’ ourselves to pieces and pryin’ into things that ought to come gradual by way of experience and the visitations of Providence. Flowers won’t blow worth a cent ef you pull ’em open. Better wait and see what they can do alone. I do relish the smart sayins, the odd ways of furrin parts, and the sarcastic slaps at folkses weak spots. But massy knows, we can’t live on spice-cake and Charlotte Ruche, and I do feel as if books was more sustainin’ ef they was full of every-day people and things, like good bread and butter. Them that goes to the heart and ain’t soon forgotten is the kind I hanker for. Mis Terry’s books now, and Mis Stowe’s, and Dickens’s Christmas pieces,–them is real sweet and cheerin’, to my mind.”