BOOKS BY

MARGARET SIDNEY

A LITTLE MAID OF CONCORD TOWN

Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill

A LITTLE MAID OF BOSTON TOWN

Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill

THE FAMOUS PEPPER BOOKS

IN ORDER OF PUBLICATION

Twelve Volumes Illustrated

FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS AND HOW THEY GREW
FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS MIDWAY
FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS GROWN UP
PHRONSIE PEPPER
THE STORIES POLLY PEPPER TOLD
THE ADVENTURES OF JOEL PEPPER
FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS ABROAD
FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS AT SCHOOL
FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS AND THEIR FRIENDS
BEN PEPPER
FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS IN THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE
OUR DAVIE PEPPER

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., BOSTON

“My! don’t you hear the logs crackle, and isn’t this blaze perfectly beautiful!”—Page [124].

OUR DAVIE PEPPER

BY
MARGARET SIDNEY
Author of “Five Little Peppers and How They Grew,”
“Five Little Peppers Midway,” “Five Little
Peppers Grown Up,” etc.

ILLUSTRATED BY ALICE BARBER STEPHENS

BOSTON
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.

PEPPER
TRADE-MARK
Registered in U.S. Patent Office

Copyright, 1916
By Harriett M. Lothrop

All rights reserved
Published, August, 1916
OUR DAVIE PEPPER

Norwood Press
BERWICK & SMITH CO.
NORWOOD, MASS.
U. S. A.

PREFACE

I often run down to Badgertown and into the little brown house to talk things over with the Peppers, and every single time they one and all tell me they don’t think I have told enough about David.

It quite cut me to the heart the other day to hear Polly say mournfully, “You’ve made a book about Ben and one about Phronsie, and you’ve told all about Joel’s Adventures, and stories that I made up; and you never let Davie have a book—and he is our Davie.”

“Oh, I will, Polly—I will!” I promised. And she laughed gleefully, and Ben smiled in great satisfaction, and Joel said: “Whickets! Now, Dave, you’re going to have a book all to yourself.” And Phronsie crowed and gurgled, and made a cheese right in the middle of the old kitchen floor. As for Mother Pepper, the look she gave me, well—wasn’t I glad that I had promised!

But David ran up to me and whispered, “I’d rather you made another book about Joel.”

“I can’t, Davie,” I whispered back, “the children all over the country have been teasing me for years to give them a book about you. And now as all the rest of the Pepper family want it, why, you see, I just must write it.”

“O dear!” said David.

Polly ran over to our corner. “Dear Margaret Sidney,” she begged, clasping her hands, “please tell all about Davie when he was a little boy. That’s what we want; because you see you told ever so much more about the rest of us than you did about him. And Davie was always just splendid! Why, he was our Davie!”

So now here is “Our Davie Pepper,” just as the Little Brown House people wanted me to write it.

Margaret Sidney.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

OUR DAVIE PEPPER

CHAPTER I
DAVIE AND OLD MAN PETERS

“MY sakes! David Pepper, you can’t get it in.”

“Perhaps I can, Mrs. Peters.”

“No, you can’t. There, give it to me. You’re all het up, runnin’ on arrants for Mr. Atkins. He shouldn’t ’a’ told you to hurry clear down here from th’ store.”

David sank down on the wooden box turned upside down outside the Peters kitchen door, and watched Mrs. Peters’s vigorous efforts to crowd a long woolen coat, very much frayed on the edge, one sleeve gone, and various other dilapidations that might be noticed, into a round, splint-bottomed basket. “Your ma c’n do th’ mendin’ better’n me,” she said, during the process, and dropping her voice as her eyes roved anxiously. “I put th’ pieces underneath. O my!” she whirled around suddenly, her back to the basket, and brought up a red face. “How you scar’t me, Tildy!” as the kitchen door was flung wide and a head thrust out.

“’Tain’t Pa—you needn’t be afraid.” Yet Tildy looked over her shoulder and grasped her apron tighter over something huddled up within its folds, as she skipped over the big flat stone. “You know as well as I do that he’s well off toward the south medder.”

“’Tain’t nothin’ to be certain sure of, if your pa is headed for th’ south medder, that he won’t see what we’re doin’ here,” said her mother hopelessly. “Well, what you got in your apron?”

Matilda knelt down by the basket on the grass, and flung her apron wide. “It’s some o’ my quince sass.”

“You ain’t goin’ to give that away!” cried Mrs. Peters in alarm, and resting both hands on her knees. “Gracious, your pa—”

“Let Pa alone, can’t you?” cried Matilda lifting the coat-edge to tuck in the big glass jar. “I guess he won’t rage an’ ramp no more at th’ sass, than your lettin’ Mis Pepper mend this coat.”

“Well, I d’no. Sass is sass, an’ your pa knows how many jars you put up—O dear me, Matilda!” She gazed helplessly off toward the south meadow.

Davie got off from the wooden box. “Oh don’t, Mrs. Peters,” he begged in great distress, “send the jelly to Mamsie.”

“’Tain’t jell—it’s sass,” said Matilda, pushing the jar in further, and flapping the coat till it bulged over the basket. “An’ I guess I ain’t goin’ to let your ma have all them measles to your house, an’ not do nothin’. There—” She jumped to her feet. “You got to carry it careful, Davie. It’s too bad there ain’t no handle.” She twitched the frayed cord that served as one, “I’ll get another string.”

“Come back here, Tilly,” cried her mother. “Ain’t you crazy! Your pa’ll be back. Let Davie go.”

Matilda turned away from the kitchen door. “Ain’t you silly, Ma!” yet she came back. “Well there, run along, Davie, an’ carry it careful.”

“An’ you tell your ma,” said Mrs. Peters, “we’re sorry she’s got all the measles to her house, an’ she c’n mend my coat better’n me, an’ she mustn’t tell no one it’s for Mis Peters, an’—”

“Land, Ma, th’ boy can’t remember all that,” said Matilda, giving David a little push.

“I guess I can—I’ll try to,” said David, grasping the old worn string with both hands.

“You go along,” said Matilda, with another push, “an’ if you see Pa comin’ along anywhere, you set th’ basket in behind th’ bushes till he gits by. Remember, David Pepper!”

“Yes,” said David. “I’ll remember.”

“Well, now come along, Ma Peters,” said Matilda; “he hain’t spilled th’ things yit, an’ he’s turned th’ road. We’ve got to git back to work.”

“’Twouldn’t be so bad ef you hadn’t put in that quince sass, Tildy,” mourned her mother, picking up her worn calico gown to step over a puddle of water from a broken drain-pipe. “But I’m awful skeered about that.”

“Oh, Ma, you make me sick.” Matilda gave her a little push into the kitchen, slipped in after her, and slammed the door; but her hand shook as she took up the broom. “I’m goin’ to work anyhow. You c’n set an’ worry about Pa, ef you want to. I’m glad for my part, that Mis Pepper’s goin’ to have that basket o’ things.”

“So be I,” cried Mrs. Peters. “Land sakes! I guess I’m as glad as you be, Tildy Peters. An’ I s’pose Davie’s gittin’ along towards home pretty fast by this time.”

Matilda shook her head and pursed up her lips as she went out to sweep the back entry. “All the same, I wish Davie Pepper was safe home to the little brown house,” she said to herself.

The old cord cut into Davie’s fingers as he trudged along the winding road, the basket wobbling about from side to side; but every step was bringing him home to Mamsie, and he smiled as he went along.

“Hey there!” a sudden turn of the road brought him squarely before a tall gaunt old man leaning against the stone wall on the other side of a scrub oak.

“Where you ben?” demanded Old Man Peters.

“Just—just—” began David.

“Jest where? Stop your hemmin’ an’ hawin’. Where you ben?”

Davie clutched the basket with trembling fingers and a wild despair that it was now too late to consider bushes.

“You ben down to my house, I know.” Old Man Peters’s little eyes gleamed fiercely. “Well, what you got in that basket?” pointing to it.

“It’s—it’s—”

“It’s—it’s— Didn’t I tell you to stop hemmin’ an’ hawin’, you Pepper Boy! I’ll give you somethin’ to hem an’ haw for pretty soon, ef you don’t look out.” He broke off a stick from the scrub oak.

Davie clutched the old string tighter yet.

“Let’s see,” said Old Man Peters, drawing close to poke up a corner of the coat with the stick.

“You mustn’t,” said Davie, drawing back, and putting one hand over the top of the basket.

“Mustn’t,” roared Old Man Peters, shaking the stick at him.

“No,” said Davie. “You mustn’t,” and he tried to edge off farther; but the stick came down across his little calico blouse.

“I’ll give you somethin’ to make you see that you can’t say ‘mustn’t’ to me,” said Mr. Peters, bringing the stick down again. “There, you take that!”

Davie was whirling around now so fast that Old Man Peters preferred to try the stick on the little legs instead of the small shoulders in the calico blouse, while he roared, “I’ll make you dance. Drop that basket, will you!”

“Here—what you doin’?” somebody called out, and a young man leaped the stone wall. “Hulloa, old Peters, you stop that!”

Old Man Peters turned around. He would have dropped the stick, but the young man saved him the trouble by seizing it to break it into two pieces and toss them into the dusty road.

“He’s ben a-sassin’ me,” cried the old man, pointing to David, who had sunk down on the grass by the side of the road, still hanging to the basket.

“Well, you ain’t a-goin’ to beat up any boy in Badgertown. Now I tell you, Peters! And who wouldn’t sass you, I wonder. Here you, get up,” he said, going over to David.

But David showing no inclination to get up, the man turned his face over.

“Well, I’ll be blowed, ef tain’t one o’ th’ Pepper children,” he exclaimed, starting back. “You’ve got to take somethin’ from me, now I tell you, Old Man Peters!” He pushed up his gray cotton shirt-sleeves and advanced on the old man, “for beatin’ up one o’ Mis Pepper’s boys.”

“You git away—tain’t nothin’ to you, Jim Thompson,” cried Mr. Peters, “an’ I’ll have th’ law on you, ef you tetch me!” He put up both horny hands and tried to huddle back of the scrub oak.

“Th’ law’s got to deal with you, Old Peters, first, an’ it’ll fall pretty heavy for hurtin’ one o’ them Pepper children,” declared Thompson, dragging him by an angry hand back to the road side.

“David—David Pepper!” screamed the old farmer, “you tell him. I ’ain’t hurt ye. Tell him, David. Ow! you let me be, Jim Thompson!”

David looked up and tried to speak. Oh, if Mamsie were only here! Then his head fell down on the dusty road.

“Look at that boy, you old scoundrel!” roared Thompson, cuffing Old Man Peters wherever he got a good chance. Then he flung him to the middle of the road. “Lie there till I can ’tend to you.” But the old farmer preferred to attend to himself, and without waiting to pick up his hat that had fallen off in the scuffle, he slunk off as fast as he conveniently could.

“Don’t hurt him,” begged Davie feebly, as Thompson bent over him. “Oh, I want Mamsie!”

“You’re a-goin’ to her—I’ll take you.” The young man lifted him up to his shoulder, Davie still clinging to the basket. “Where did he hurt you?” he asked anxiously.

“I’m not hurt much,” said Davie, trying not to cry.

Jim Thompson set his teeth hard. “Here, give me that basket,” and holding Davie fast by one arm, he strode off, first kicking Old Man Peters’s hat into a neighboring field where it landed in a bog.

“Mamsie—somebody’s coming, and he’s got a big bundle—how funny,” cried Polly, looking out of the window.

“A pedlar, most likely,” said Mrs. Pepper, over in the window, trying to finish a coat to go back to Mr. Atkins at the store. The measles were making it extra hard to keep the wolf from the door.

“Well, he won’t sell anything here,” said Polly with a laugh, and running to the old green door. “Why—” as she flung it open.

It was all over in a minute, and Mrs. Pepper had her boy in her arms. Davie trying to say, “I’m not much hurt,” and Polly running for the camphor bottle, while Jim Thompson set down the basket on the floor, where it rolled over and out flew the “quince sass” from the protecting folds of the coat.

“Old Man Peters was a-beatin’ him up,” said the young farmer, working his hands awkwardly together and wishing he could help.

“Mamsie,” said Davie, both hands around her neck, and cuddling up to lay his white cheek against her face, “I didn’t let him have the basket—and you are to mend the coat. You can do it so much better, she says, than she can.”

“Mrs. Peters, Davie?”

“Yes, and Miss Matilda sent the jelly—no, it isn’t jelly—but—I forget—”

“Yes, I know, dear. Now let Mother see where you are hurt.”

“Oh, Mamsie!” Polly, flying back with the camphor bottle, was aghast as Mrs. Pepper stripped off the calico blouse.

“Put down the camphor, Polly,” said Mother Pepper. Her lips were set very tightly together, and a bright spot burned on either cheek. “Bring Mother the oil bottle and get the roll of old cotton in the lower bureau drawer. Be careful not to wake up Phronsie. Thank you, Mr. Thompson, for bringing home my boy,” as Polly ran off.

“I guess I’ll go back an’ lick Old Man Peters,” said the young farmer, turning off to the door.

“Oh, no,” Mother Pepper spoke quickly. “Say nothing to him. I’ll take care of the matter.”

“I’d love to,” said Mr. Thompson longingly.

“No—No—” Mrs. Pepper shook her head decidedly. And he went off.

“Oh, Mamsie, that wicked Old Man Peters!” Polly clasped her hands, and her brown eyes blazed. “I just want something dreadful to happen to him,” and she hovered over David bolstered up in Mamsie’s rocking chair, his legs and little shoulders bound up in old cotton bandages.

“Polly,” said Mother Pepper sternly, “never let me hear you say anything like that again.”

“I can’t help it,” said Polly, fighting with the tears. Then she gave it up and ran over to throw herself down on the floor and lay her head in Mother Pepper’s lap, “to think of Davie being hurt. Oh, Mamsie!”

“I’m not much hurt,” said Davie, poking up his head from the pillow against his back, “only my legs—they’re a little bad. Don’t cry, Polly,” he begged, dreadfully distressed.

“Our Davie!” sobbed Polly, huddling down further in her mother’s lap, “just think, Mamsie,—our Davie!”

Mrs. Pepper shut her lips together, but she smoothed Polly’s brown head. “Mother will see to it,” she said, “and you must never say anything like that again, Polly. Now wipe your eyes; here comes Dr. Fisher.”

“Well—well—well—” cried the little Doctor, coming in cheerily. He was very happy as Ben was getting along splendidly, while as for Phronsie, why she just got better and better every day. Oh, the measles wasn’t so very bad after all to fight. But now, here was Davie bolstered up in the big calico-covered chair. O dear, that was too bad!

“Well, my boy,” the little Doctor got over to the chair and looked down at him with keen eyes behind the big spectacles, “what’s the matter with you?”

“I’m not much hurt,” said Davie, “only my legs—they feel the worst.”

“Eh?” said Dr. Fisher. Then he set down his bag and looked over at Mrs. Pepper. So then the story had to come out. When it was all told and Dr. Fisher became quiet, for he was almost as bad as Polly in his indignation, and Davie’s legs and shoulders had been taken care of, “You don’t need to do anything, Mrs. Pepper,” he said, “I’ll take care of that brute of a man.”

And Mother Pepper said just as she had told the young farmer, “Oh, no, I will see to the matter myself.”

“Oh, goody—I got the wood all piled at Deacon Blodgett’s.” In rushed Joel. “Come on, Dave,” and he was scurrying over to Mamsie’s big chair, when he spied the basket on the floor, for nobody had thought or cared about it. And there was the jar of Matilda’s “quince sass” that had rolled off by itself. “Oh,” he pounced upon it, “may I have some—may I?” He ran with it to Mrs. Pepper, nearly upsetting the little Doctor on the way.

“Look out there,” cried Doctor Fisher; “here, don’t run me down, Joe,” and then Joel saw Davie propped against the pillows. Down went Matilda’s “quince sass” on the kitchen floor, and he threw himself into the chair on top of Davie, poor bandaged legs and all.

The little old kitchen then was in a hubbub. It all had to be explained to Joel, who made things so very dreadful that finally Doctor Fisher said, “I’ll take him off, Mrs. Pepper. Hold on to that boy, Polly, till I’ve had a look at Ben up in the loft. If Phronsie is asleep, she’s all right. Then, Joel Pepper, you shall hop into my gig.”

CHAPTER II
MRS. PEPPER ATTENDS TO THE MATTER

PARSON HENDERSON shut the gate with a firm hand, and stepped out into the road.

The parsonage door opened, and the minister’s wife ran down the path. “Here, Adoniram, take this to Mrs. Pepper.” She put a clean folded napkin, from which came a nice smell of something newly baked, into his hand. “Oh, I do hope Mrs. Pepper will let you see that horrible Mr. Peters,” she began anxiously.

“Mrs. Pepper always knows her own mind,” said the parson, “and if she wants to attend to the matter, it’s not for us, Almira, to interfere.” He handled the napkin bundle gingerly and moved off.

“It was perfectly dreadful, Jim Thompson said, and you know he tells the truth, husband.” She pattered after him. “Do see if you can’t persuade her to let you see Mr. Peters. You know you want to.”

“That I do!” declared the parson, his eyes flashing. “Well, don’t you worry, Almira; it will be attended to.”

“He ought to be driven out of town—that old creature had,” cried his wife, with very red cheeks. “Everybody hates him. Now I hope this will make him leave Badgertown.”

“Softly there, Almira,” the parson patted one of the red cheeks. “Badgertown must be careful what it does. There are his poor wife and Matilda to consider.”

“Oh, I know it,” groaned Mrs. Henderson. “Well, do try and get Mrs. Pepper to let you fix the matter up.” She hurried over the old flat stone. There in the doorway stood Miss Jerusha.

“I sh’d think Adoniram had enough to do, without taking up with Mis Pepper’s troubles,” she said tartly.

“Oh, it’s his business to do what he can for Badgertown people, Jerusha,” said Mrs. Henderson.

“Badgertown people!” sniffed Miss Jerusha. She set her spectacles straighter, and glared at the parson’s wife. “You’ve all gone mad over that little brown house family,” she said. “For my part, I hate shiftless folks who expect to be looked out for all the while.”

“Don’t you ever call the little brown house people shiftless again in my presence.” The parson’s wife got as tall as she could, even up to her tiptoes. “Anybody with a heart would be sorry for that poor brave woman, and those dear children who are trying to help her. I can’t think, Jerusha, how you can be so—so—”

She left the last word to look out for itself, her voice trailing off. But she marched with a high head past the long angular figure, and the door of her husband’s study closed with a snap.

“Let me see ’em—let me see ’em!” Joel prancing around in the little brown house kitchen, stopped suddenly and twitched the small calico sleeve.

“No,” said David, edging off. “I don’t want anybody to see ’em.”

“I’m going to,” declared Joel, holding on with both hands to the blouse as David whirled around. “I saw ’em yesterday, and I’m going to see ’em again. Hold still, Dave. Zip!”

“There, now you’ve torn it!” Davie gave a small cry of distress.

Joel’s stubby hands dropped and he stood quite still in dismay.

“’Tisn’t torn—torn—much,” he said quite aghast.

“It’s torn—and now Mamsie will have to work and mend it. O dear!”

With that the tears fell, and Davie threw himself on the floor, and sobbed as if his heart would break.

“What is the matter?” cried Polly, rushing in from the bedroom, where she had been giving Phronsie her breakfast of mush. For once there was some real milk, for Doctor Fisher had set a bottle on the kitchen table after his visit to see how the measles were coming on. “Oh, Davie!” She threw herself down beside him. “Where are you hurt?”

Mrs. Pepper hurried over the steps from the provision room, where she had been looking over the potatoes to see how long they would last.

“I tore—tore—” said Joel, in the middle of the kitchen floor. His face was working dreadfully and he twisted his hands together trying not to cry.

“What did you do, Joe?” cried Polly, running over to him.

“Mamsie,” cried Davie, throwing his arms around her, “he didn’t mean to.”

“There—there,” said Mrs. Pepper, taking him up to her lap. “Joel, come here and tell Mother all about it.”

“He didn’t mean to,” began Davie again, wiping up his tears.

“I don’t believe Joey did mean to, Mamsie, whatever it is,” said Polly, pulling him along. He was digging one small fist into first one eye and then the other, and saying at every step, “I didn’t mean to, Mamsie,” and he threw himself down and burrowed his face on top of Davie’s legs in Mrs. Pepper’s lap.

“Stop saying you didn’t mean to, Joel, and tell Mother what you did to Davie,” said Mrs. Pepper firmly.

Joel put out a shaking hand and felt for the torn place in the little calico blouse, Polly hanging over them in great anxiety. “There,” he said, “I didn’t mean to do it, Mamsie.”

“He means he’s torn Davie’s jacket,” said Polly with a little gasp. “O dear me, Joel, you’ve scared us almost to death!”

“Mamsie will have to work and mend it,” howled Joel. With that Davie began again to cry, and to burrow deeper against Mrs. Pepper’s neck.

“For shame, Joel!” cried Polly. “It’s ever so much worse to cry now than it was to tear Davie’s jacket.”

“Is it?” cried Joel, bringing up his head suddenly and gazing at her out of two black eyes; the tears trailed down over his snubby nose. “Is it really, Polly?”

“Indeed it is, Joe,” she said decidedly.

“Then I’m not going to cry any more,”, declared Joel, wiping off the last tear with the back of one brown hand, and jumping up.

“Now, that’s Mother’s good boy,” said Mrs. Pepper approvingly.

“Whatever made you tear Davie’s jacket, Joe?” cried Polly, very much puzzled and running after him.

“I wanted to see the red things on his legs,” said Joel. “Oh, I’d ’a’ made Old Man Peters squinge and squinge if I’d been there! This is the way I’d have done.” Joel ran over to the corner and seized the broom, and landed about him so savagely that Polly flew off laughing, and Davie joined in with a merry shout, until the little old kitchen fairly rang with the noise.

“Yes—sir-ee!” said Joel, prancing madly around, “that’s the way I’d ’a’ squinged him if I’d been there.”

Davie slid out of Mother Pepper’s lap and ran after him, the torn bit of calico flapping at the end of his blouse.

“Let me, Joel,” he cried, trying to reach the broom as Joel pranced on.

“You couldn’t do it,” said Joel. “I must squinge Old Man Peters myself,” holding the broom very high. Then he saw Davie’s face. “You may have it,” he said.

Polly ran into the bedroom and came back on her tiptoes. “Phronsie’s asleep,” she said. “Now I’m awfully glad, for I can clean out the stove. Then I can get the bread in.” She ran over and knelt down before the old stove, and presently there was a great to-do with the brush and the little shovel and the old woolen cloths.

Mrs. Pepper sighed as she rolled up in a newspaper two coats that she had just finished. “I don’t know what I should ever do without you, Polly,” she said, looking over at her.

“Don’t you, Mamsie?” cried Polly in great delight, and sitting back on her heels, she brought up a countenance with long black streaks running across it. “Don’t you really, Mamsie?”

“No, I don’t,” said Mrs. Pepper, “and that is a fact. Mother wouldn’t know what to do without you. But dear me, child, what a pair of black hands—and your face, Polly!” as she went into the bedroom to put on her bonnet.

Polly looked down at her hands. Then she burst out laughing. “I brushed back my hair,” she said, “it tumbled into my eyes so,” and she jumped up and ran to the cracked looking glass hanging over in the corner. “My! what a sight I am!”

“Let me see,” cried Joel, rushing over. “Don’t wash it off, Polly, let me see!”

David flung down the broom and tumbled after. “Let me see, too, Polly.”

“I look just like that old black man who used to come after rags,” said Polly, turning around on them and holding up her hands.

“Oh, you do—you do!” howled Joel in huge delight, while Davie crowed and clapped his hands. “You do, just exactly like him, Polly!”

“Wait a minute,” said Polly. She rushed out and came running back with Ben’s old cap on her head and her arms in his coat. “Now wouldn’t you think I was that old black man?” she said, stalking up and down the kitchen crying out, “Any rags, Mam?” and she swung the big potato bag at them.

“Oh, Polly,” screamed Davie in a transport, “you are that old black man,” while Joel marched after echoing, “Any rags, Mam?” and swinging an imaginary bag at every step he took.

Suddenly Polly stopped, tore off the cap and the coat. “Take back the potato bag into the provision room, Joel,” she said, tossing it to him. “I forgot the stove, and the bread has got to go in. O dear me!” She flew over to the sink, and presently back she came. “There now, I’m scrubbed clean, but I’ll get all black again, I suppose,” and she kneeled down again before the stove.

Mrs. Pepper came out of the bedroom and stopped a minute by the green door to smile at them all. Then she went out with her bundle to take to Mr. Atkins at the store; but first there was another errand of importance to attend to, so she turned off at the cross-road. The smile had dropped away from her folded lips, as she stepped swiftly along toward the Peters farm.

“Here she comes—here’s Mis Pepper!” cried Matilda. “Do stop wringin’ your hands, Ma. You hain’t done nothin’ else sence yesterday. Mis Pepper can’t blame us.”

“O dear,” mourned Mrs. Peters. “’Twas th’ quince sass that made all th’ trouble.”

“’Twarn’t th’ quince sass at all,” contradicted Matilda flatly. “Pa never said a word about it. Do stop—Mis Pepper’s at th’ door.”

“Rat-tat!” went the old iron knocker. Matilda jumped, all her nerves askew, while Mrs. Peters sank down in the nearest chair.

“O dear, there ain’t time to git on a clean apurn.” Matilda opened the big door—her tongue clapped up to the roof of her mouth, and she couldn’t find a word to say.

“Is your father in?” asked Mrs. Pepper pleasantly. Then she looked into the scared face. “Don’t feel badly—you couldn’t help it,” she said.

Matilda twisted her hands in her dirty apron. “We feel dreadful—Ma an’ me,” she said, and burst out crying.

“There—there,” said Mrs. Pepper soothingly, trying to pat the nervous hands. “Don’t, Matilda; your mother will hear you. Can I see your father?” She stepped in and shut the door.

“He’s in there.” Matilda twitched out one hand from beneath the apron, and pointed a shaking finger to the little room that old Mr. Peters called his office. Mrs. Pepper knocked at the door.

“You better go right in ef you want to see him,” said Matilda in a loud whisper, “for he’ll sneak out th’ back door, ef he knows it’s you.” So Mrs. Pepper opened the door, and none too soon. Old Man Peters was crowding his long legs out of the big chair where he sat behind his desk, his eyes on the door leading out to the back yard.

“Oh, come in, Mis Pepper,” he mumbled, his long face getting redder and redder. “Take a chair an’ set.”

“I do not wish to sit down, Mr. Peters,” said Mrs. Pepper. “What I have to say will take but a few moments. I have come to see you about my boy.”

“Yes—yes—” grunted the old man in a terrible alarm. “Well, p’raps ’twas a mistake,” he twitched the papers on his desk with nervous fingers, then finally ran them through his shock of grizzled hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt th’ boy none. But mebbe ’twas a mistake. You better set, Mis Pepper.” He pointed to a broken-backed chair, the only one provided for his farm-hands when they went to wrangle over their hard-earned wages.

“It was more than a mistake, Mr. Peters,” said Mrs. Pepper in a clear voice, and ignoring the invitation.

“Well—mebbe—mebbe,” said the old man, wriggling around in his big chair. “See here now,” he suddenly stopped and looked in a tremor into her black eyes, “I’ll give you some money, an’ that’ll fix it up. How much do ye want?” he asked in an anguished tone.

“Money could never fix up a thing like this,” said Mrs. Pepper. Her tone was quiet, but the black eyes blazed. Old Man Peters’s hand fell in relief from the handle of his money drawer, but he slunk down in his chair.

“The only reparation you can make, Mr. Peters,” Mrs. Pepper went on, “is to be very sure that you will never lay a hand again on a Badgertown child; not only upon my child, but upon any child. You understand that?”

“Ye—yes,” mumbled the old man.

“And one more thing. That is, that you will treat your wife and Matilda as women should be treated.”

“They’re well enough off,” declared Old Man Peters suddenly. Then he snarled out, “An’ what bus’ness is it of yours, Mis Pepper, I’d like to know.”

“Very well. If you don’t promise this, I shall see that the injury to my boy is atoned for. I shall give the matter into the hands of the town authorities, Mr. Peters.”

“Here—here—” screamed the old man, flinging out both hands, as she moved off. “Stop, Mis Pepper! I didn’t mean to say I wouldn’t promise. Yes—yes—I do! Will you stop! I say I will!”

“And Badgertown will see that you keep that promise,” said Mrs. Pepper. Then she opened the door. Matilda, who had a shaking eye at the keyhole, nearly fell over backward on the entry oilcloth.

“Oh, Mis Pepper,” she gasped, seizing the strong arm. “Ma’s takin’ on somethin’ awful in th’ sittin’ room.”

“She won’t do that long,” said Mrs. Pepper grimly. “Come, Tildy.”

“Oh me—oh my!” old Mrs. Peters was throwing herself from one side of the rickety sofa in the sitting-room and moaning, with her fingers in her ears, when they came in.

“She’s got th’ high-strikes,” declared Matilda with big eyes. “I must go up garret and git some feathers an’ burn ’em right under her nose.”

“Come back—no need for that, Matilda.” Mrs. Pepper sat down on the sofa and drew the poor gray head into her arms. “There—there,” she said, just as if one of the Five Little Peppers was cuddled within them. “You’re going to see better times, Mrs. Peters. Your husband has promised to treat you and Matilda as women should be treated.”

But Mrs. Peters not understanding, wailed on, burrowing deeper into the kind arms.

Tildy jumped to her feet. “Oh my soul an’ body—did you make Pa say that?”

“Mr. Peters promised it,” said Mrs. Pepper with a smile.

“Glory be!” Tildy set up a trot to the other end of the room, coming back to snap her fingers in glee. Then the joy went out of her face. “Pa never’ll keep that promise in all the world,” she gasped, drooping miserably.

“There is no doubt that the promise will be kept, Matilda,” said Mrs. Pepper. “And if it isn’t, why you just come to me.” Then she laid Mrs. Peters’s head back on the old sofa and went out and shut the door.

CHAPTER III
THE DARK CLOUD OVER THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE

“YOU don’t say!” Old Man Beebe turned around on his little ladder where he was reaching down a pair of number six shoes for a customer. “Sho’ now, I am beat, Mis Brown! Mebbe ’tain’t true.” He held the shoes aloft, the long strings dangling down.

“There ain’t no morsel o’ doubt about it,” said Mrs. Brown decidedly. “I’ve jest come from the store, an’ Mr. Atkins himself told me. I can’t wait all day, Mr. Beebe; an’ I said gaiters. I don’t want no shoes.”

“You said shoes,” said Mr. Beebe. “However did I git up here, ef you hadn’t asked for ’em.”

“I don’t know nothin’ about th’ workin’ o’ your mind, Mr. Beebe,” said Mrs. Brown, “I said gaiters as plain as day—and do hurry!” She whipped the ends of her shawl impatiently around her gaunt figure.

“I d’no’s I have any gaiters—that is—that’ll fit you,” said the little shoemaker, putting the “number sixes” into their box, and slowly fitting on the cover. “P’raps I have a pair on the lower shelf.” He got down laboriously from the ladder, put it in the corner and began to rummage his stock.

“An’ there’s my bread waitin’ to go in th’ oven, an’ I’ve got cake to bake for the sewin’ s’ciety,—do hurry, Mr. Beebe.”

“I s’pose they’ve got to have rubber sides,” mused Mr. Beebe, getting down on his knees, to explore behind the chintz curtains that fell from the lowest shelf.

“Why, of course,” said Mrs. Brown, impatiently, “gaiters is gaiters, ain’t they? An’ I never saw a pair without them rubber sides to ’em, did you, Mr. Beebe?”

“I d’no’s I did,” said the little shoemaker, his head under the curtain. “Well, now here’s a pair, I do believe,” and he dragged out a box, whipped off the cover and disclosed a pair with elastic sides. “Them’s Congress gaiters,” he said, “an’ they look as if they’d fit like your skin.”

“I’m sure I hope so,” said Mrs. Brown, putting out her generous foot. “An’ do hurry an’ try ’em on, for mercy’s sakes!”

“I’m hurryin’ as fast as I can,” said Mr. Beebe, coming over to the bench where the customers always sat for the shoes to be tried on, “but you’ve upset me so about that bad news. Sho’ now!—to think that anythin’ should happen to the little brown house folks.”

“What’s that—what’s that, Pa?” Mrs. Beebe’s head appeared in the doorway between the little shop and the sitting-room. She had been frying doughnuts and she carried one in now on a blue plate, as she always did while they were nice and hot. “What’s th’ matter with th’ little brown house folks? Oh, how do you do, Mis Brown?”

Mrs. Brown’s nose wrinkled up appreciatively at sight of the doughnut.

“I hope nothin’, Ma,” said Mr. Beebe, not looking at the plate.

“You always have such luck with your doughnuts, Mis Beebe,” said Mrs. Brown longingly.

“Well, what is it, anyway?” demanded Mrs. Beebe, setting down the plate on the counter that ran on one side of the little shop, and coming up to the shoe-bench. “What was you sayin’, Pa, about th’ Pepperses?”

“Polly’s got the measles now.”

“Good land o’ Goshen!” exclaimed old Mrs. Beebe. Then she sat down on the other end of the bench and folded her plump hands.

“P’raps ’tain’t true,” he said, with trembling hands pulling on the gaiter.

“That’s too tight,” declared Mrs. Brown, wrenching her mind from the doughnuts and twisting her foot from one side to the other.

“’Twon’t be when th’ rubber ’lastic has got stretched,” said Mr. Beebe.

“Yes, an’ then the ’lastic will be all wore out, an’ bulge,” said Mrs. Brown discontentedly. “Hain’t you got another pair, Mr. Beebe?”

“Not your size,” said the little shoemaker.

“Well, if Polly Pepper’s got th’ measles, I’m goin’ right down to the little brown house,” declared old Mrs. Beebe, getting up from the shoe-bench. “I’ll set out your dinner, Pa, the cold meat an’ pie, and there’s some hot soup on the stove. I’m goin’ to stay an’ help Mis Pepper,” and she waddled out.

“Well, for mercy’s sake, Mr. Beebe, try on th’ other gaiter. I’ve got to git home some time to-day,” said Mrs. Brown crossly, all hope of a doughnut coming her way now gone entirely.

The little shoemaker stood by the door of his shop thoughtfully jingling the silver pieces in his hands, after his customer had gone out.

“To think o’ Polly bein’ took! O dear, dear! I declare I forgot to give Ma some pink sticks to take to the childern.” He hurried out to the small entry, took down his coat and old cap and rammed his hands into his big pockets.

“Here they are, just as I saved ’em for Joel.” Then he locked up his little shop and ambled down the cobble-stones to overtake old Mrs. Beebe on her way to the little brown house.

But she got there first and opened the old green door without knocking. Mrs. Pepper was coming out of the bedroom with a bowl and a spoon in her hands. Her face was very white, but she tried to smile a welcome.

“Land alive!” exclaimed old Mrs. Beebe in a loud whisper. “Is Polly took?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pepper.

“Well, I never!” Mrs. Beebe sank down in Mother Pepper’s calico-covered chair. “That beats all—to think that Polly’s took! Whatever’ll you do now!”

“Take care,” warned Mrs. Pepper, “she’ll hear you,” and she pointed to the bedroom.

“I’m whisperin’,” said old Mrs. Beebe, holding her plump hands tightly together.

Mrs. Pepper hurried up to the loft to see how Ben was getting on.

And in came the little shoemaker, his round face quite red, he had hurried so.

“Is she bad?” The whisper was so much worse than that of old Mrs. Beebe, that she got out of the big chair and hurried over to him. “Pa, you mustn’t—she’ll hear you.” She pointed to the bedroom and twitched his sleeve.

“I ain’t a-talkin’, I’m whisperin’,” he said. “Is Polly bad, Ma?” He pulled out his bandanna handkerchief and wiped his anxious face.

“Oh, I d’no,” said Mrs. Beebe disconsolately. “Everything bad that Mis Pepper gits, deary me!”

“Well, I brought some pink sticks for Joel and Davie,” said old Mr. Beebe, pulling out the paper from his pocket. “There Ma,” he laid them down on the table. “Where’s th’ boys?” he peered around the old kitchen.

“They’re over to Deacon Blodgett’s, I s’pose,” said Mrs. Beebe. “O dear me, they’ve got to work worse’n ever, now Ben’s sick.”

“Sho, now!” exclaimed the little shoemaker, dreadfully upset. “Where’s Mis Pepper?”

“Up there,” old Mrs. Beebe pointed to the loft stairs.

“I d’no what Mis Pepper is goin’ to do now that Polly is took with th’ measles,” said Mr. Beebe in a loud whisper. “Hem! O dear me!” and he blew his nose violently.

“Hush, Pa! You do speak dretful loud,” as Mrs. Pepper came down the loft stairs.

“It’s good of you to come, Mr. Beebe,” she said, hurrying into the bedroom and closing the door.

“Mamsie,” cried Polly, flying into the middle of the bed; the tears were racing down under the bandage that Dr. Fisher had tied over her eyes that morning. “Whatever will you do now that I’ve got ’em—Oh, Mamsie!” She threw her arms around Mother Pepper.

“Polly—Polly, child!” Mrs. Pepper held her close. “You mustn’t cry. Don’t you know what Dr. Fisher told you. There—there,” she patted the brown hair as Polly snuggled up to her.

“I can’t help it,” said Polly, the tears tumbling over each other in their mad race down her cheeks. “I don’t mind my eyes, if only I could help you. Oh, what will you do, Mamsie?”

“Oh, I will get along,” said Mrs. Pepper in a cheerful voice. “And just think how good Joel is.”

“It’s good Joey hasn’t got the measles,” said Polly, trying to smile through her tears.

“Isn’t it?” said Mrs. Pepper. “And Deacon Blodgett says he does splendidly working about the place. And Davie, too—oh, Polly, just think what a comfort those two boys are.”

“I know it,” said Polly, trying to speak cheerfully, “but I do wish I could help you sew on the coats,” she said, and her face drooped further within Mother Pepper’s arms.

“It’s just because you have sewed so much that your eyes are bad.” Mrs. Pepper couldn’t repress the sigh.

“Mamsie, now don’t you feel badly,” Polly brought her head up suddenly. “Oh, I wish I could see your face—don’t you, Mamsie?” She clutched her mother tightly, and the tears began to come again.

“Polly,” said Mrs. Pepper, “now you and I have both got to be brave. It’s not time for crying, and you must just be mother’s girl, and lie down and keep warm under the clothes. That’s the very best way to help me.”

“I’ll try,” said Polly, as Mrs. Pepper tucked her in under the old comforter.

But although old Mrs. Beebe was kind as could be, and Grandma Bascom hobbled over every now and then, and Parson Henderson and his wife helped in every imaginable way, a black cloud settled over the little brown house. And one day Badgertown heard the news: “Joel Pepper is took sick with th’ measles, and he’s awful bad.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Mr. Atkins, turning off with the jug he was filling from the big barrel of molasses for a customer, “that boy can’t be sick.”

“Well, he is,” declared the customer. “Look out! th’ ’lasses is all a-runnin’ over th’ floor!”

“Thunderation!” The storekeeper jumped back and picked his foot out of the sticky mess, while he thrust the jug under the bunghole. “Hold your tongue, Timothy Bliss! Joel Pepper was in here yist’day—no, that was David bringin’ back th’ coats Mis Pepper had sewed—’twas day before yist’day Joe came runnin’ in, smart as a cricket. He warn’t goin’ to have no squeezles, he said, No, Sir!” Mr. Atkins turned off the spigot sharply, and set the jug on the counter with a thud.

“He’s got ’em now at any rate,” said Mr. Bliss solemnly. “An’ Mis Beebe says they wouldn’t wonder ef he was goin’ to die.”

“Die!” roared the storekeeper. “Ain’t you ’shamed, Timothy Bliss, to stand there sayin’ sech stuff! Joel Pepper can’t die.” Yet Mr. Atkins gripped the counter with both hands, while everything in his store seemed to spin around.

“Mis Beebe said—standin’ in th’ door o’ th’ shoe-shop as I come by,” began Mr. Bliss, leaning up against the counter.

“Don’t tell me no more,” interrupted the storekeeper, waving both sticky hands excitedly; “it’s scand’lous startin’ such tales.” Then he rushed over to the small door connecting with his house. “Ma—Ma,” he screamed, “Joel Pepper’s awful sick with the measles!”

“You don’t say!” Mrs. Atkins came to the top of the stairs, her sweeping-cap on her head and a dust-brush in her hand. “O me, O my!” she mourned. “What will Mis Pepper do now, with both of her boys took sick?”

“Well, she’s got Davie,” said the storekeeper, determined to get some comfort, and hanging to the newel post.

“Davie’s so little.” Mrs. Atkins sat down on the upper stair. “He’d help all he could, but he’s so little,” she repeated.

“David’s awful smart,” said Mr. Atkins.

“I know it; they’re all smart, them Pepper childern, but Joel’s so up an’ comin’, you can’t think of Davie somehow as takin’ hold o’ things. Seth Atkins, you’ve got ’lasses all over your trousers!”

She ran down the stairs and peered anxiously at her husband’s legs.

The storekeeper twitched away. “That’s Timothy Bliss’ fault. He scaret me so about Joe,” and he darted back into the store.

“I’m goin’ to help Mamsie.” David stood in the middle of the kitchen, twisting his hands together anxiously. “I’m getting to be real big now, Mrs. Beebe,” and he stood on his tiptoes.

“Bless your heart!” exclaimed old Mrs. Beebe, making gruel on the old stove, “so you be, Davie.”

“And pretty soon I’ll be as big as—as Joel.” Then he swallowed hard at the sound of Joel’s name.

“So you will—so you will,” said Mrs. Beebe. “An’ you help your mother now, Davie boy.”

“Do I?” cried David. A little pink spot came on each cheek, and he unclenched his hands, for he wasn’t going to cry now.

“To be sure you do,” declared Mrs. Beebe, bobbing her cap at him. “Your Ma told me yest’day she depended on you.”

“Did she?” David ran over to clutch her apron, the pink spots getting quite rosy. “Oh, I’m going to do just everything that Ben and Joel did—I am, Mrs. Beebe.”

“Well, you look out, you don’t work too hard, Davie,” Mrs. Beebe stopped stirring a minute, and regarded him anxiously, “that would worry your Ma most dretful. There, that’s done.” She swished the spoon about a few times, then poured the gruel into a bowl. “Now, then, I’ll give it to Ben.”

“Oh, let me,” cried Davie, putting up both hands eagerly.

“You’re too tired—you’ve ben a-runnin’ all th’ mornin’,” began Mrs. Beebe, yet her stout legs ached badly.