"It is a beautiful piece of wood," commented Linda, "and it is certainly curious enough. I do love this room, with all this beautiful old furniture. How do you manage to keep it so beautifully polished?"
"Give it a rub up once in a while; and, you see, between whiles there is no one to abuse the things, so they keep bright. Let us see about the potato-masher; Phebe's found it, I declare. I venture to say it won't lie out of doors for a week, while she's here."
[CHAPTER IV]
"DEPARTED DAYS"
Miss Parthy Turner's back garden was separated from Miss Maria Hill's by a fence in which a gate was cut that the two might sociably jog back and forth without going around the block. One of Linda's windows overlooked these gardens, where apple-trees disputed right of way with lilac bushes and grape-vines, and where, just now, late roses were cast in the shade by the more brilliant chrysanthemums. Miss Parthy, it may be said, was of a more practical turn than her neighbor in that she gave over to vegetables a larger part of her garden space, so that there were still discernible rows of cabbages, slowly-ripening pumpkins, high-poled beans, and a few late tomatoes.
The morning after her arrival, Linda noticed in the garden, beyond the dividing line, a young man walking about with an evident eye to the quality of the apples shining redly above his head. She regarded this person with some curiosity, conjecturing that he was the mysterious stranger who had taken the photographs for Miss Ri. "He doesn't look like a fake," she told herself. "I suppose his story may be true. By the way, Miss Ri didn't tell me his name nor where he hails from." However, her thoughts did not long dwell upon the stranger, for this was to be her initial morning at school, and she was looking forward to it with dismay and dread. She scarce tasted her breakfast and looked so pale and anxious, that Miss Ri's heart ached for her. Mammy, too, was most solicitous, but knew no better way to express her sympathy than by urging hot cakes upon the girl with such persistence that at last, to please her, Linda managed to eat one.
In spite of fears, the morning went more smoothly than she had anticipated, for Miss Patterson remained to coach her and she became familiarized with the routine, at least. Her pupils were little boys, none too docile, and naturally a new teacher was a target for tricks, if so she did not show her mettle. Under Miss Patterson's watchful eye there was no chance for mutiny, and Linda went home with some of her qualms allayed. She had passed her examinations creditably enough and felt that she could cope with the mere matters of teaching, but the disciplining of a room full of mischievous urchins was quite another question, and the next morning her heart misgave her when she met the rows of upturned faces, some expressing mock meekness, some defiant bravado, some open mirth. Courageously as she met the situation, it was a trying morning. If her back was turned for but an instant, there were subdued snickers; if she made a statement, it was questioned; if she censured, there were black looks and whispers of disapproval. At last one offender, sneaking on his hands and knees to the desk of another boy, was captured and marched off to the principal, a last resort, as poor Linda's nerves could stand no more. She was near to crying, her voice trembled and her heart beat fast. She scarcely knew how she went through the rest of the morning, for, though her summary act had quelled open rebellion, she was not at ease and keenly felt the undercurrent of criticism. She did not realize that the boys were trying her spirit, and she went home discouraged and exhausted, a sense of defeat overcoming her.
As she was entering the gate, she met someone coming out, a young man, rather heavily built, with a keen, clever face, rather than a handsome one. "Ah, Miss Linda," he exclaimed, holding out his hand, "I've just been hearing about you."