PAGE 7
A Late Supper
by
“Does your aunty care any thing about cream?”
“She likes it dearly,” said the girl, looking so much pleased. “I had half a mind to ask you if you could spare just a little;” and Miss Ashton’s little tumbler was at once delightedly filled to the very brim.
Its owner said she had not tasted any thing so delicious in a long time; and would not Miss Spring take some little biscuit and some grapes to eat while she waited in the station? Yes, indeed: they had more than they wanted, and she must not forget it was tea-time already. Alice would wrap some up for her in a paper.
And at last they shook hands most cordially, and were so sorry to say good-by.
“I never shall forget your kindness as long as I live,” said Miss Catherine; and Alice helped her off the car, and nodded good-by as it started.
“I wish with all my heart we could board with that dear good soul this summer,” said Miss Ashton, “and I believe she has been dreadfully grieved because her advertisement was not answered; perhaps it may be yet. She looked sad and worried, and it was something besides this mishap. What a kind face she had! I wish we knew more about her. I’m so glad we happened to be just here, and that she didn’t have to go into the car.”
“Yes,” said Alice; “but, aunty, I think it was the funniest thing I ever saw in my life, when she appeared to me with that horror-stricken face and her cream-pitcher.”
And Miss Catherine, as she seated herself in the little station to wait for the down-train, said to herself, “God bless them! how good they were! How I should have hated to go into the car with all the people, and be stared at and made fun of.” They had been so courteous and simple and kind: why are there not more such people in the world? And she thought about them, and ate her crackers and the hot-house grapes, and was very comfortable. It might have been such a disagreeable experience, yet she had really enjoyed herself. It did not seem long before she again took her seat in the cars, with the cream-pitcher respectably disguised in white paper, and herself looking well enough in the soft little white hood, with its corner just in the middle of her gray hair over her forehead; she paid her fare as if her pocket were full of money, and watched the other people in the car; and by the time she reached home she was her own composed and reliable self again.
There had been a great excitement at her house. The biscuit were done and the gingerbread; and the niece took them out of the oven, and thought her aunt was gone a good while, and went back to the sitting-room. After a few minutes she went to the front-gate to look down the street. Miss Stanby joined her; and they stood watching until Joseph Spring came hurrying back, thinking he was late, and ready with his apologies, when they told him how long Miss Catherine had been gone.
“She’s stopped for something or other: they’re always asking her advice about things,” said he carelessly. “She will be along soon.” And then they went into the house; and nobody said much, and the tall clock ticked louder and louder; and Joseph began to whistle and drum with his fingers, meaning to show his unconcern, but in reality betraying the opposite feeling.
“You don’t suppose she’s sick, do you?” asked Miss Stanby timidly.
“More likely somebody else is,” said Mr. Spring. “Did you say she had gone to Mrs. Hilton’s, Martha? I’ll walk down there, and see what the matter is.”
“I wish you would,” said his wife. “It’s after six o’clock.”
“Hasn’t got home yet!” said Mrs. Hilton in dismay. “Why, what can have become of her? She came in before half-past five, in a great hurry; and she left her pitcher here on the table. I suppose she forgot it. I lent her mine, because it was bigger. There’s no house between but the Donalds’, and they’re all off at his mother’s funeral to Lancaster. You don’t suppose the cars run over her?”