The S. P. Mystery

by Harriet Pyne Grove

Before night Greta rose, bathed a little to refresh her tired body and lit a short candle which she kept on her small stand. She read by this light until she heard the family coming up to bed. Then she blew out her candle and crept into her bed with her book, happier than she had been for many a long day. And a little prayer in English came to her that night.

“Was it being frightened by a storm in the woods that made me sick that time?” she asked her mother the next day, interested to see Mrs. Klein look up quickly, as if a little startled.

“Nein, Nein!” she exclaimed, but she told Greta to stop thinking about that time. She might get sick again. Greta said nothing more, but she noticed that her mother looked at her from time to time with a frown. There was something about that time and about those earlier years of Greta’s that she must know, Greta thought, and she would know! Another thing. She would not stay in the same room with the man that she had always thought her father when he was in those ugly moods. No more waiting on him and dodging his ready hand. Still, if she stayed in his house,—and it had belonged to his father and grandfather,—how could she manage it? It did look like a hopeless future until she could in some way free herself of the family life, and work away from home. Her mind was busy as she worked.

Life went on as usual, except that Jacob Klein was drinking less and was working on his little farm, all that was left of his larger inheritance. They sold eggs and some vegetables from the garden and even the milk from the one cow to the few families in the cottages. But when Greta was out in the boat, fishing occasionally, she noticed that there was more building in different places around the lake. That any of those cottages would mean anything to her, she had no idea other than that they might make more work for her to do. There were two more along the lake where she docked her rowboat to collect and deliver the clothes. The Wizard shack she could see from the lake; but that of the girls she had not noticed at all, for her fishing ground was not in that direction as a rule and a turn in the shore concealed with the foliage of many trees the little bay on which the new cottage stood.

The fifteenth of June came. Greta had kept her promise firm in regard to that date. She was doing the larger part of the work as she had since she was at all able to do it. It would do no harm to run away from it all for one day. She was sorry for her mother, but it was becoming a question in her mind whether a real mother could put such heavy work on a young girl that was her own child. If her leaving for a day made trouble, she would walk to the village and ask for work. That was settled.

As she was supposed to get up earlier than the rest, it made little difference whether the attic boards creaked under her light footsteps or not. She went quietly down the stairs and heated coffee for her breakfast. The feeding she did first, though she did not let the dogs out to follow her. They would go with Jacob Klein, who had said that he was going to the village. She hesitated about milking the cow, but finally did so, for fear that the family would sleep too late or it would not be done at all.

Then away she sped, fleet-footed, feeling that if anyone called her back it would be a calamity that she could not bear. Her book was under her arm. The sagging pockets of her old black sweater carried bread and cheese. But she did not take her usual dive and swim. It was too near home. Someone might waken and come to find her. On and on she went, into a part of the woods that she scarcely ever had visited. Sometimes she went down to the shore, but not till she was far enough away to prevent her being seen from the shore near home. Squirrels scolded a little. Nesting birds fluttered past, or sang. She found the nest of a wood thrush, with its usual bit of cloth interwoven. It was in plain sight, in the crotch of a tree, with the mother bird upon it. Her mate sat on the branch of a neighboring tree and sang his “Come to me,” with variations. Over the lake a great bald eagle flew with a fish. Swallows skimmed the water. Greta felt as free as the birds, and since that blow of Jacob Klein’s she had no sense of neglected duty.

Rounding the curve of the east shore, she caught her first glimpse of the cottage built for the S. P.’s. At first she stepped back behind the trees and bushes for fear of being seen. Then she saw that there was no one about. Gradually she drew nearer. She climbed the gentle ascent, cautiously approached, looked into the windows and went all around the house. What a pretty, new cottage it was, with its brown and yellowish trimmings, its golden-brown floor inside and neat, light cots. No one was living there yet, that was certain, for there was nothing on the table and the cots were bare. How clean it all was!

Greta sat down on the front step to rest and look about, but she had been there only a few minutes when she heard voices. Some one was coming! She flew across the cleared space, where a few evidences of sawdust and chips remained. To conceal herself from view was easy enough in the clump of trees and young growths near at hand. Girls, laughing and talking! And a few boys with them!

“Go easy on that suitcase, Billy. That’s got our ducky breakfast set in it. Dishes, Billy, the sweetest set, yellow and white, with daisies. That’s our company set. Our common dishes are in those other baskets. Here, Jimmy, let me help you with that one.”