The little house of the Morrisons had only two rooms and a lean-to kitchen. The front was grandmother's, and had a carved high-post bedstead with faded silk curtains from the tester poles. There was a curious chest of drawers with a kind of cabinet that had glass doors. Behind these were china and silver that did betoken former grandeur. Granny drank from the cups and took her sugar out of the silver bowl, her milk from the silver cream jug. In pleasant weather she sat out of doors a good deal in a great chair stuffed around with pillows. It had rollers, and when the street was passable she would sometimes be pushed up and down by her daughter, who was a veritable slave. A little shrivelled up old woman with a long nose and a sharp chin, but her still fine teeth would always keep them from meeting. She wore a cap and a false front of faded black, and was bundled up in shawls. Her stick kept away curious children. I think they felt there was something uncanny about her. People had ceased to cultivate them, if they ever had, but Polly was welcome for her fun and brightness.
I had noticed and Mrs. Chadwick had spoken of a great improvement in the town. Education had really begun to educate. Provincialisms, elisions, and what father had called outlandish talking was falling into disuse. Of course, families coming from different States had brought in accents, pronunciations and adages, some bright and to the point, it must be confessed, but these were being toned down and refined. I had been a good deal amused at the manner in which Ben had corrected his mother, and she had protested with the tart rejoinder, "that her talk was plenty good enough for her, and she didn't expect to put on French airs at her time of life," but she did take more pains.
Once she said, "Dear me! We shall all have to spruce up when Norme comes back so he won't be ashamed of us. I think father'll get the new house also."
"Norme!" How dear the old boyish nickname sounded.
I was just past fifteen when the real things began to happen to me. The year had been very pleasant, and I rather reluctantly did my hair up high and wore a bonnet for Sunday best, and a long skirt—not very long either—what they would have been like trailing over dust and mud! Father was prospering, raising wheat and pigs and corn and buying up a bit of property or acres of prairie land. Jolette and I managed very well. Mrs. Hayne occasionally suggested that girls of fifteen ought to be able to keep house, but now we had two cows and a great flock of poultry. Jolette made fine butter, and our eggs found a ready sale. Even at that time we sent some across the lake, for now vessels were coming and going continually, except in extreme weather.
"I was married when I was sixteen and did my washing and scrubbing and cooking. But such hands as those don't look like near kin to a washboard;" and she caught mine in hers so large and strong.
They were slim and small. We had not begun to cultivate points of aristocracy in that early period, or talk of claims to good birth, but I had often noted that father's hands were small and shapely for all his hard work, though I am not sure but he managed to get the hardest and roughest out of other people.
We heard at intervals from Norman, who was busy and full of enjoyment. Paris was wonderful. The new physician had at first given Mr. Le Moyne a good deal of hope, except that the treatment could not be rapid. Then had intervened a really serious illness, and during this time the optic nerve of one eye had been paralyzed. After that a winter in Spain, which was enchanting.
"I am afraid I see many years of exile before me," Norman wrote in my letter. "What can I do? Mr. Le Moyne is the most delightful, the sincerest and certainly the most generous of friends. Through his convalescence he has said so many times, 'What could I do without you, Norman, when I have no son or nephew even?' He has one sister, who is an invalid from a broken hip and partial paralysis, and her daughter is a fashionable and titled lady. He is very fond of travelling and enjoys society, but now he needs some one continually. I know he fears he will be blind, and he wants to be sure of a permanent stay and solace. Can I relinquish some of the best hopes of my life—yet I feel that I ought. It seems as if God had given me this work to do, that it was not of my own seeking, and I must trust Him to make it right in the end. It is very hard, but must I not go on in this straight path? Pray that I may have strength, little girl. If I could not see it so clearly, but I do, and whatever may be said, remember that I would rather come home without a dollar and trust for a welcome than remain away years and reap a fortune."
But I thought even years, five or seven, would not be so very long.