“I have such a lovely new writing-desk that I wish her to see. How did you ever think about writing, Miss Wells?” began Carrie. Then, without waiting for her to answer, she continued, “Did Beth ever finish the story she meant to write? She had a fine one last fall for the Literary. I wonder if she ever wrote the story.”
This was one of the things of which Miss Eliza had not heard. Beth had planned a story about the beautiful woman who had visited school and who had kissed her so rapturously. She had written it, too, and had it hidden away. She could not have shown it to anyone.
Mrs. Laire chatted on and Carrie threw in questions. All Eliza could do was to sit and listen.
This was not the only visitor. They came by the dozen, and each one chided Eliza for never telling them, and for modestly keeping her ability hidden so long. Eliza could not fully explain. She could not tell them that she herself had never known that she had a wonderful imagination and artistic spirit. Could she tell them that a wanderer, a tramp, had bade her to be a “Columbus” to her own soul, and he had proved her Queen Isabelle who made it possible? She could only listen in silence and to thank them for their good opinion of her.
When Beth came home from school, she brought the news that the doctor’s sleigh had just driven away from the Oliver cabin. Furthermore, Sam Houston’s little Jim-boy had met her and told her that the tramp was ill.
“Did he mean Mr. Hillis?” asked Eliza. She blushed when she said it and let her glance wander toward the roses which had passed their beauty and were now but dried leaves. She had not destroyed them. They were the first flowers that had ever been given her.
“Well, I thought he was a tramp. You know, that very day that we saw him months and months ago, you told me that he was a tramp.”
“I did not know then. He’s a gentleman, and we will always call him Mr. Hillis and never think of him as a tramp.”
“I’m very glad to. He never seemed a bit like such a horrid person. I’m sorry he’s sick. Couldn’t we take him something to eat, or help him some way, Adee? It must be awful to be sick and alone.”
Adee had been thinking of just that thing. Now, the custom of the country declared it to be highly improper for an unmarried woman to visit a man in his home. All the old, trite conventions were live issues with Adee. On the other hand, all the laws of Christian charity and gratitude told her to visit the stranger who had been a friend to her and who had brought inspiration and breadth to her life. She considered for a moment and decided that there were things bigger and better than convention.