CHAPTER I.
"Ain't it about time for the stage, Cynthy?"
"Why, no, Aunt Patty! Just look at the clock; it's only half past four. The stage doesn't leave the station until five."
"This day's seemed dreadful long, somehow."
"That's because we are expecting Ida," said Cynthia, who was patching a sheet by the light of a west window. "And I suppose the day has seemed long to her, too."
"Yes, poor child, travellin' since ten o'clock this mornin'," said Aunt Patty. "I guess she'll relish our cold chicken 'n' orange marmalade, Cynthy."
"I wonder if she's changed much?" Cynthia put down her work and looked meditatively from the window. "Six years is a long time, Aunt Patty."
"Yes, Ida's a young lady now, dearie," Aunt Patty sighed. "And she's lived so different from what we have, Cynthy. We mustn't expect her to fall into our ways right away. She'll have to learn to love us all over again, you see."
Cynthia turned a tender glance upon the little plainly dressed old woman sitting in the open doorway sewing carpet rags.
"SHE WON'T HAVE ANY TROUBLE LEARNING TO LOVE YOU."
"She won't have any trouble learning to love you, Aunt Patty," she said. "Just think what we owe to you! Neither of us can ever forget for a moment all you've done for us."
"I haven't done anything but what was my duty, child. When your poor mother died, there wasn't any one but me to take you 'n' Ida; but I've never been able to do for you as I'd like."
"You've done more than one person out of a thousand would have done!" and Cynthia threw down the sheet, crossed the room, and put both arms around the old woman's neck. "Aunt Stina Chase could have taken us. She was rich even then, and could have borne the burden of our support better than you. But she didn't even consider it, and she never did anything for us until she took Ida. And you know it was only because Ida was so pretty that she wanted her. Now that she is going to Europe, she sends Ida back without even consulting you about it."
"Well, dearie, we're glad enough to take her back, I'm sure. She'll be company for us both these long summer days. And we oughtn't to expect Aunt Stina to take her to Europe. I guess it's pretty expensive livin' in those foreign places."
"I only hope Ida didn't want to go," rejoined Cynthia, returning to her seat by the window. "She'll find it very dull here, anyhow, I'm afraid, after the gay times she's had in the city."
"Yes, poor child," said Aunt Patty, "and we mustn't feel put out if she seems down-hearted just at first. I guess I'd better set about gettin' supper, Cynthy; it's strikin' five."
"Very well; and I'll set the table," said Cynthia, beginning to fold the sheet, "I'm going to put a big vase of flowers in the middle, and I'll give Ida one of the best damask napkins, if you don't mind?"
"Do just as you like, child," said Aunt Patty.
They went into the big pleasant kitchen together. The setting sun filled it with a golden glory; on the braided rug by the stove lay a big Maltese cat, in the south window was a wire stand of plants, and in one corner a tall eight-day clock with a moon on its face. Everything was scrupulously clean and in perfect order. The floor was as white as soap and sand could make it; the pans on the big dresser reflected everything about them, and the stove shone with its coat of polish.
Cynthia sang as she moved about putting the dishes on the table. She was of a happy contented disposition, and never grumbled at anything. She loved her home, plain as it was; she didn't mind hard work, and her simple pleasures satisfied her, though she had often longed for a peep into the great busy world outside Brookville. She had sometimes envied Ida, though she had never allowed Aunt Patty to suspect it, and had wished that she might have shared with her sister the many advantages afforded by city schools and teachers.
Aunt Stina Chase was her father's only sister, and had never known what it was to be poor. She had married a rich man at a very early age, and had been left a widow within a few years. She took her luxurious home, her many servants, her carriage, and her diamonds as a matter of course. But her easy, untroubled life had made her selfish, and when her brother and his wife died within a few months of each other, leaving two little girls to the mercy of the world, she had not thought it incumbent on her to take the children. She had left that to Aunt Patty, who was only a half-sister of the dead mother. But when, years after this, she heard from an acquaintance that Ida, the elder of the two little girls, was exceedingly pretty and attractive, a whim seized her to send for the child.
Aunt Patty had thought it her duty to let Ida go, for Mrs. Chase promised to have the girl instructed in music and the languages, and there was no opportunity at the Brookville school for anything except the plainest sort of an education.
So for six years Ida had made her home in the city, and her occasional letters to Cynthia, who was a year her junior, gave evidence that she was well satisfied with the change of homes.
It was Mrs. Chase who had written that Ida was about to return to Brookville. It was apparently taken for granted that Aunt Patty would welcome her gladly, and there was no hint about reclaiming her when the European trip should be over.
Cynthia thought the letter cold and heartless, and her tender heart ached for her sister. She wondered if Ida had not been cruelly hurt at being so summarily disposed of when her presence was found inconvenient. She wondered, too, how Ida would bear the change from luxury to a very plain way of living, for Cynthia was quite conscious of the limitations of her home, much as she loved it.
"There's the stage, now!" cried Aunt Patty, as the rumble of wheels and the heavy trot of horses' hoofs were heard on the hard road which ran before the house.
They both hurried out to the front gate. The stage had stopped in a cloud of dust, and a tall, slender girl, fashionably attired in a dark blue suit, and hat of rough straw trimmed with blue ribbons, was descending from it.
The driver, assisted by another man, who had volunteered his help, was engaged in taking down a large canvas-covered trunk, on one end of which were the initials "I. S. W."