CHAPTER XIII
A DOOR OPENS
The stage stopped at the business end of Farmdale. Around three sides of a sandy square were grouped the village hotel, the post-office, and its few stores and shops; on the fourth side this square opened on a long stretch of velvety green turf, around which, set in deep yards, surrounded by trees, and embowered in shrubbery, were the comfortable, well-ordered village homes. In the centre of this green, and midway its length a fountain was falling into a circular stone basin and from that flowing into a stone watering-trough, where a white horse with a barefooted boy on its back was drinking. Beyond the fountain the ground rose slightly and crowning this gentle swell three white churches set side by side lifted their spires against the blue sky.
Posey walked slowly along the maple-shaded path, with bright colored leaves above her and bright colored leaves rustling under her feet, charmed with the peaceful air, the quiet beauty, and looking carefully for a house to answer Ben Pancost’s description. It was not long till she saw it—a modest white house with green blinds, the walls almost covered with climbing roses and honeysuckles, while over the front door hung the sign, its gilt lettering somewhat faded by time and storms,
MILLINERY AND DRESSMAKING.
A great lilac bush stood on each side of the small white gate by which she entered, while syringas, flowering quince, and thickets of roses gave promise of springtime bloom. The narrow, stone-flagged walk that led to the side door was fringed with flowers, and ran along the edge of a grassy bank or low terrace, below which were more flower beds bordered with China pinks, besides homelier beds of garden vegetables, while under sheltering rows of currant bushes a flock of white chickens rolled in the dirt at their ease. Beyond the house lay an orchard, and the side porch at which the walk ended was shaded by a great grapevine heavy with purple clusters. A Maltese cat, sunning itself in sleepy content on the steps, roused as she came up and rubbed against her with a friendly purr. Over all the sunny little homestead rested an air of thrift, order, peace, that filled Posey with a sense of restfulness; why she could hardly have told.
Her knock on the green-paneled door was answered by Miss Silence Blossom, one of the two whom Ben Pancost had described as “not young, or really old,” but with the brightness of youth still lingering in her eyes and her smile. The room into which she led Posey was large and sunny with windows facing the south. In one corner was an open sewing machine from which she had evidently just risen. In another corner stood a square table covered with boxes of flowers and ribbons beside which trimming a bonnet sat Mrs. Patience Bird, a younger sister of Miss Silence, her sweet, gentle face touched by a shade of sadness, reflected in the mourning dress she still wore for the young husband whose picture was in the little pin at her throat. Behind the low chair in which she sat was a tall case with long glass doors, filled with ribbons, flowers, and hats, all in orderly array, for though this was the work-room of busy workers there was no trace of litter or confusion.
Mrs. Blossom, the mother, with a strong but kindly face, was watering a stand of house plants. She, too, was a widow, but of more than half a lifetime. The years when she had gathered her fatherless children around her and, still a young woman, taken up a life alone and bravely for herself and them had left their lines of energy, decision, and firmness. And, last of the family group, in a large armchair by one of the sunny windows with some white knitting in her hands, sat an old lady, whose peaceful face not less than her drab dress, close white cap, and snowy, folded kerchief, told that she was of the Quaker faith.
Posey took the chair offered her, suddenly embarrassed and shy under the gaze of so many questioning eyes, and at last stammered abruptly, “Ben said you would know where the old lady lived.”
“Ben who; and what old lady?” demanded Miss Silence, who in spite of her name was the talker of the family.
“Why, the nice old lady who wants a girl to live with her. And you know Ben; he’s the boy who drives the red tin peddler’s cart.”