"Jim Pigeon's right, Mehitable, as he usually is, outside of medicine and politics," declared Doctor John. "The little maid will be ready enough some day, I'll warrant, to acknowledge how lucky she was in having her Aunt Hitty to care for her. But here in Second Westings we are not just at the centre of things exactly, and it may be we get into ruts, thinking our ways are the only ways. Shall we try new ways with this very difficult little maid, Hitty?"
Mistress Mehitable brushed off the tears which had overflowed, and held out a hand to each of the big brothers.
"You are the best friends a woman ever had," she averred with conviction; "and if you both disagree with me, I must be wrong. It shall be your way to the best of my power. After you've had the horses put up, come back here and I'll have a hot bite ready for you. But—oh, I do wish Winthrop had married among his own people!"
"It is late, dear lady, and you are tired after your anxieties," said Doctor Jim. "But, nevertheless, since you are so gracious, we will soon return,—eh, what, John?—for a bowl of that hot sangaree which Mehitable's fair hands know how to brew so delicately."
"Don't misunderstand Jim, Mehitable," said Doctor John, as the two withdrew. "The comfort of your punch is nothing to us as the comfort of your presence. Had you ever consented to make one man happy, how miserable would you have made others, Mehitable!"
There was deep meaning and an old reproach under Doctor John's tender raillery; and Mistress Ladd's cheeks flushed as she stood a few moments motionless, alone in her low-ceiled, wide parlour. She was convicted of failure at every point. Well she knew how happy she might have made either one of the big-limbed, big-hearted brothers, had she not shrunk from making the other miserable. And she had never been able to decide which was the dearer to her heart; for, though she was apt to turn first to Jim in any need, or any joy, the thought of pain for John was ever hard for her to endure. Her heart was very full as she set about preparing the brew which they both loved: and before they came she stole noiselessly up-stairs to the room over the porch, and softly kissed the dark, unrepentant waves of the sleeping Barbara's hair.
CHAPTER XII.
It was late morning when Barbara awoke—so late that she saw, by the position of the square of sunshine on the wall beyond her bed, that the hour for breakfast was over. Her first vague waking sense was one of joy to come, which she presently caught and fixed as the knowledge that her Uncle Bob would soon be with her. Then a great flood of depression rolled over her, blotting out the joy, as she remembered that she had Aunt Hitty yet to reckon with. To make matters worse, she had slept past breakfast time,—which was almost an immorality in that punctual household. A lump came up in her throat, and tears ached behind her eyes, for she had meant to try so hard to make up,—and now she had gone and sinned again. She shut her eyes tight, and made a determined effort to regain hold of the sleepiness which still drenched and clouded her brain. This effort was too much, and on the instant the last vestige of her drowsiness cleared away, and her brain grew keen as flame. She sat up, determined to face the conflict and get it over.
As she sat up, her eyes fell upon the little table by her bedside, whereon she was wont to keep her candle, her filagreed bottle of lavender water, her much marked copy of Sir Philip Sidney's sonnets, and her Bible, which was thumbed chiefly at Isaiah, Ecclesiastes, and the Song of Solomon. Her eyes opened very wide as she saw there now,—event unprecedented and unbelievable,—a little tray with white linen napkin. On the tray were a glass and a jug of milk, a plate of the seed-cakes which she particularly loved, a big slice of barley bread, and a bowl of yellow raspberries. She stared for half a minute, and rubbed her eyes, and thought. Abby, certainly, could not have done it. She would neither have dared nor cared to. Then—it was Aunt Hitty,—and after the way she had treated her,—and after that cold, hateful letter! She reached out a doubtful hand and touched the bread and berries. She started to eat a seed-cake, but it stuck in her throat, quite unable to get past a certain strange, aching obstruction, which had gathered there all at once. Tears suddenly streamed down her face; and springing impulsively out of bed, she ran, barefooted and in her white nightgown, straight to the little bow-windowed sewing-room, where she knew that at this hour her aunt would be busy with the needle.