Charley wouldn’t say another word––so Hart had one more drink, for luck, and then he went home. He looked real relieved.
When Santa Fé went to Hart’s place, next afternoon, he had on his best black clothes, with a clean shirt and a fresh white tie; and he was that serious-looking you’d have sized him up for a sure-enough fire-escape anywhere on sight. Hart hadn’t had no trouble, it turned out, keeping his aunt to home––she’d been working double tides ever since she got up, he said, making him things to eat and fussing over his clothes. They was all ready when Santa Fé come along, and the three of ’em stepped off down the track together––Hart having his aunt on his arm, and Santa Fé walking on ahead over the ties. Most of the boys was standing about watching the procession; but the girls––the Hen, likely, having told ’em to––was keeping on keeping quiet, and got what they could of it peeping through chinks in the windows and doors.
“Why, where are all the ladies, Mr. Charles?” Hart’s aunt asked. “Except that sweet young wife of yours, it’s just the mortal truth I haven’t seen a single lady since I came into this town!”
“They usually keep in-doors at this time of day, madam,” Charley said. “They’re attending to their domestic duties––and––and most of them, about now, are wont to be enjoying the tenderest happiness of motherhood in nursing their little babes.”
“It’s very creditable they’re such good housewives, I’m sure,” said Hart’s aunt; “only I do wish I could have met some of ’em and had a good dish of talk. But we’ll be finding your wife at the kindergarten, I s’pose, and I’ll have the pleasure of a talk with her. I’ve been looking forward all day to meeting her, Mr. Charles. She has one of the very sweetest faces I ever saw.”
“I deeply regret to tell you, madam,” said Santa Fé, “that my wife was called away suddenly last evening by a telegram. She had no choice in the matter. Her call was to minister to a sick relative in Denver, and of course she left immediately on the night train. Her disappointment at not meeting you was great. She had set her heart on showing you over our poor, half-ruined kindergarten––the fire did fearful damage––but 110 her duty was too manifest to be ignored, and she had to leave that pleasant task to me.”
“Now that is just too bad!” said Hart’s aunt. “At least, Mr. Charles, I don’t mean that exactly. It’s very kind of you to take her place, and I’m delighted to have you. But I did so like your wife’s looks, and I’ve been hoping she and I really’d have a chance to get to be friends.”
That brought ’em to the Forest Queen, and Charley was more’n glad he was let out from making more excuses why his wife had shook her kindergarten job so sudden. “Here we are,” he said. “But I must warn you again, madam, that our little kindergarten is only the ghost of what it was before the fire. We are hoping to get a new outfit shortly. On the very morning after the disaster a subscription was started––your nephew, as always, leading in the good work––and that afternoon we telegraphed East our order for fresh supplies. By the time that the epidemic of whooping-cough has abated––I am glad to say that all the children are doing well––we trust that our flock of 111 little ones again can troop gladly to receive the elementary instruction that they delight in, and that my wife delights to impart.”