“You don’t! well, gosh all hemlocks! If I ain’t gladder’n I would be to be struck by lightning and pretty much on the same order of things. A girl from Cawnco’d! Shake. Name, please, as it is and as it was.”
“Briggs now, Badger it was. My father was the village shoemaker and cobbler when the town was young and small,” cried the thin old lady, her voice vibrant with unexpected delight, and so joyously altered in appearance that Sophy ceased staring at her new frock and stared at her grandmother instead.
“Well, well, well! I haven’t a word to say; except that it’s just as my good mistress, Gabriella Trent says, the Lord does lead. To think of it! Just to think of the strangeness of it for one single minute! Your father was the shoemaker that my father, the tanner, sold his skins to! Well-tanned hides they were, too, same as my own! Tanned so well and so often that I got a little tired of the business and lit out ’fore I was more’n half grown. Sophia Badger! Well, then, I reckon I will stay and take a bite with you, just for the sake of old times; only, I guess, by the look of things you haven’t been used to men-folk’s appetites, lately. I saw a real decent-looking grocery store as I came by. I’ll step down and pick up a few odds and ends, if you’ll let me. I’ve been doing the cooking myself, lately, for the oddest family I ever struck and ’twould be an agreeable change to eat somebody else’s truck for once. More’n that, there never was a New Hampshire woman that couldn’t cook to beat the world. How’s a rasher of bacon with eggs, potato chips, and a prime cup of coffee? If I fetch ’em will you cook them, Sophy Badger?”
“Will I not?” cried the now happy old woman, no whit ashamed to take charity from such as hailed from Concord—magic word! In a moment “Forty-niner” had disappeared, the bundle of work had been recklessly tossed into a corner, the oil-stove had been lighted, Sophy dispatched to a neighbor’s to borrow some needed dishes and frying pans, and the whole atmosphere changed to that of a sunny room in a well furnished home. Even the “poor smell” vanished when the sizzling bacon sent up its own appetizing odors and Granny set the window wide to let in the evening air. With that sunset breeze came, also, something which these two had long needed and sadly; and that was—happiness.
Blessed Buster! Whose careless speed had brought it all about! Such a supper as that Sophy Nestor could not remember. There was neither stint nor caution about it, and though her elders’ soon satisfied their own appetites, finding in their reminiscences a more delightful mental food, the girl ate on and on, and when she could do no more was not even bidden to take care of what was left against the morrow’s breakfast.
But at last the feast was over. “Forty-niner” resolutely rose and tore himself away. He had remembered with compunction that not only the older people in Washington Square would also need their supper but that Jessica would, too. So even this old friendship could not interfere with his love for his “Little Captain” whose history he had given, with all the tender embellishments his fond fancy pictured. Till even the world-soured old Granny began to think the girl whom Sophy had called an “angel” must be such, in truth; and left alone with her grandchild, clasping the twenty-five good dollars which Madam had sent, with the offer of more if this should not be satisfactory, the poor soul burst into tears and expressions of affection. This almost frightened Sophy, to whom such demonstrations were new, and she was glad when she was bidden:
“Go to bed now, child, and dream of the good luck has come to us this day! And to-morrow I’ll write my duty on a decent sheet of paper and you shall carry it to that old Madam with a nice bunch of daffies—not too stale nor faded. Go to bed, but—you may kiss me first.”
Back hurried Ephraim to that so different home in Washington Square; and for once regardless of the etiquette he now so faithfully tried to practice burst into Madam Dalrymple’s presence, exclaiming:
“That does beat all my first wife’s relations, as Aunt Sally Benton would say. That little hunchback’s grandmother is no real pauper as we thought. She’s just a bit down on her luck and as nice as lives. Why, woman alive, she hails from Cawnco’d! Think of that! We were both little tackers together in that blessed old town and my father used to sell her father shoe-leather! Hooray, ‘Little Captain!’ That was a lucky strike Buster made, when he hit Sophy Nestor!”
Even Jessica looked up disturbed at this unwonted behavior on her “man’s” part, knowing full well how greatly Cousin Margaret would disapprove, but the expression of that great dame’s countenance was worth a study.