<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></SPAN>CHAPTER VIII</h2>
<h3>THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN</h3>
<p><span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_58" id="Page_58"></SPAN></span>Life on any shore is a dull affair,—ever degenerating
into commonplace; and this may account for the eagerness
with which even a great calamity is sometimes accepted in
a neighborhood, as affording wherewithal to stir the deeper
feelings of our nature. Thus, though Mrs. Kittridge was
by no means a hard-hearted woman, and would not for the
world have had a ship wrecked on her particular account,
yet since a ship had been wrecked and a body floated
ashore at her very door, as it were, it afforded her no
inconsiderable satisfaction to dwell on the details and to
arrange for the funeral.</p>
<p>It was something to talk about and to think of, and
likely to furnish subject-matter for talk for years to come
when she should go out to tea with any of her acquaintances
who lived at Middle Bay, or Maquoit, or Harpswell Neck.
For although in those days,—the number of light-houses
being much smaller than it is now,—it was no uncommon
thing for ships to be driven on shore in storms, yet this
incident had undeniably more that was stirring and romantic
in it than any within the memory of any tea-table
gossip in the vicinity. Mrs. Kittridge, therefore, looked
forward to the funeral services on Sunday afternoon as to
a species of solemn fête, which imparted a sort of consequence
to her dwelling and herself. Notice of it was to be
given out in "meeting" after service, and she might expect
both keeping-room and kitchen to be full. Mrs. Pennel
had offered to do her share of Christian and neighborly<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_59" id="Page_59"></SPAN></span>
kindness, in taking home to her own dwelling the little
boy. In fact, it became necessary to do so in order to
appease the feelings of the little Mara, who clung to the
new acquisition with most devoted fondness, and wept
bitterly when he was separated from her even for a few
moments. Therefore, in the afternoon of the day when
the body was found, Mrs. Pennel, who had come down to
assist, went back in company with Aunt Ruey and the two
children.</p>
<p>The September evening set in brisk and chill, and the
cheerful fire that snapped and roared up the ample chimney
of Captain Kittridge's kitchen was a pleasing feature. The
days of our story were before the advent of those sullen
gnomes, the "air-tights," or even those more sociable and
cheery domestic genii, the cooking-stoves. They were the
days of the genial open kitchen-fire, with the crane, the
pot-hooks, and trammels,—where hissed and boiled the
social tea-kettle, where steamed the huge dinner-pot, in
whose ample depths beets, carrots, potatoes, and turnips
boiled in jolly sociability with the pork or corned beef
which they were destined to flank at the coming meal.</p>
<p>On the present evening, Miss Roxy sat bolt upright, as
was her wont, in one corner of the fireplace, with her spectacles
on her nose, and an unwonted show of candles on
the little stand beside her, having resumed the task of the
silk dress which had been for a season interrupted. Mrs.
Kittridge, with her spectacles also mounted, was carefully
and warily "running-up breadths," stopping every few
minutes to examine her work, and to inquire submissively
of Miss Roxy if "it will do?"</p>
<p>Captain Kittridge sat in the other corner busily whittling
on a little boat which he was shaping to please Sally,
who sat on a low stool by his side with her knitting, evidently
more intent on what her father was producing than
on the evening task of "ten bouts," which her mother<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_60" id="Page_60"></SPAN></span>
exacted before she could freely give her mind to anything
on her own account. As Sally was rigorously sent to bed
exactly at eight o'clock, it became her to be diligent if she
wished to do anything for her own amusement before that
hour.</p>
<p>And in the next room, cold and still, was lying that
faded image of youth and beauty which the sea had so
strangely given up. Without a name, without a history,
without a single accompaniment from which her past could
even be surmised,—there she lay, sealed in eternal silence.</p>
<p>"It's strange," said Captain Kittridge, as he whittled
away,—"it's very strange we don't find anything more
of that ar ship. I've been all up and down the beach
a-lookin'. There was a spar and some broken bits of
boards and timbers come ashore down on the beach, but
nothin' to speak of."</p>
<p>"It won't be known till the sea gives up its dead," said
Miss Roxy, shaking her head solemnly, "and there'll be
a great givin' up then, I'm a-thinkin'."</p>
<p>"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Kittridge, with an emphatic
nod.</p>
<p>"Father," said Sally, "how many, many things there
must be at the bottom of the sea,—so many ships are
sunk with all their fine things on board. Why don't people
contrive some way to go down and get them?"</p>
<p>"They do, child," said Captain Kittridge; "they have
diving-bells, and men go down in 'em with caps over their
faces, and long tubes to get the air through, and they walk
about on the bottom of the ocean."</p>
<p>"Did you ever go down in one, father?"</p>
<p>"Why, yes, child, to be sure; and strange enough it
was, to be sure. There you could see great big sea critters,
with ever so many eyes and long arms, swimming
right up to catch you, and all you could do would be to
muddy the water on the bottom, so they couldn't see you."<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_61" id="Page_61"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>"I never heard of that, Cap'n Kittridge," said his wife,
drawing herself up with a reproving coolness.</p>
<p>"Wal', Mis' Kittridge, you hain't heard of everything
that ever happened," said the Captain, imperturbably,
"though you <i>do</i> know a sight."</p>
<p>"And how does the bottom of the ocean look, father?"
said Sally.</p>
<p>"Laws, child, why trees and bushes grow there, just as
they do on land; and great plants,—blue and purple and
green and yellow, and lots of great pearls lie round. I've
seen 'em big as chippin'-birds' eggs."</p>
<p>"Cap'n Kittridge!" said his wife.</p>
<p>"I have, and big as robins' eggs, too, but them was off
the coast of Ceylon and Malabar, and way round the Equator,"
said the Captain, prudently resolved to throw his
romance to a sufficient distance.</p>
<p>"It's a pity you didn't get a few of them pearls," said
his wife, with an indignant appearance of scorn.</p>
<p>"I did get lots on 'em, and traded 'em off to the Nabobs
in the interior for Cashmere shawls and India silks and
sich," said the Captain, composedly; "and brought 'em
home and sold 'em at a good figure, too."</p>
<p>"Oh, father!" said Sally, earnestly, "I wish you had
saved just one or two for us."</p>
<p>"Laws, child, I wish now I had," said the Captain,
good-naturedly. "Why, when I was in India, I went up
to Lucknow, and Benares, and round, and saw all the Nabobs
and Biggums,—why, they don't make no more of
gold and silver and precious stones than we do of the shells
we find on the beach. Why, I've seen one of them fellers
with a diamond in his turban as big as my fist."</p>
<p>"Cap'n Kittridge, what are you telling?" said his wife
once more.</p>
<p>"Fact,—as big as my fist," said the Captain, obdurately;
"and all the clothes he wore was jist a stiff crust<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_62" id="Page_62"></SPAN></span>
of pearls and precious stones. I tell you, he looked like
something in the Revelations,—a real New Jerusalem
look he had."</p>
<p>"I call that ar talk wicked, Cap'n Kittridge, usin' Scriptur'
that ar way," said his wife.</p>
<p>"Why, don't it tell about all sorts of gold and precious
stones in the Revelations?" said the Captain; "that's all
I meant. Them ar countries off in Asia ain't like our'n,—stands
to reason they shouldn't be; them's Scripture
countries, and everything is different there."</p>
<p>"Father, didn't you ever get any of those splendid
things?" said Sally.</p>
<p>"Laws, yes, child. Why, I had a great green ring, an
emerald, that one of the princes giv' me, and ever so many
pearls and diamonds. I used to go with 'em rattlin' loose
in my vest pocket. I was young and gay in them days,
and thought of bringin' of 'em home for the gals, but
somehow I always got opportunities for swappin' of 'em
off for goods and sich. That ar shawl your mother keeps
in her camfire chist was what I got for one on 'em."</p>
<p>"Well, well," said Mrs. Kittridge, "there's never any
catchin' you, 'cause you've been where we haven't."</p>
<p>"You've caught me once, and that ought'r do," said
the Captain, with unruffled good-nature. "I tell you,
Sally, your mother was the handsomest gal in Harpswell
in them days."</p>
<p>"I should think you was too old for such nonsense,
Cap'n," said Mrs. Kittridge, with a toss of her head, and
a voice that sounded far less inexorable than her former
admonition. In fact, though the old Captain was as unmanageable
under his wife's fireside <i>régime</i> as any brisk old
cricket that skipped and sang around the hearth, and though
he hopped over all moral boundaries with a cheerful alertness
of conscience that was quite discouraging, still there
was no resisting the spell of his inexhaustible good-nature.<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_63" id="Page_63"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>By this time he had finished the little boat, and to
Sally's great delight, began sailing it for her in a pail of
water.</p>
<p>"I wonder," said Mrs. Kittridge, "what's to be done
with that ar child. I suppose the selectmen will take care
on't; it'll be brought up by the town."</p>
<p>"I shouldn't wonder," said Miss Roxy, "if Cap'n Pennel
should adopt it."</p>
<p>"You don't think so," said Mrs. Kittridge. "'Twould
be taking a great care and expense on their hands at their
time of life."</p>
<p>"I wouldn't want no better fun than to bring up that
little shaver," said Captain Kittridge; "he's a bright un,
I promise you."</p>
<p>"You, Cap'n Kittridge! I wonder you can talk so," said
his wife. "It's an awful responsibility, and I wonder you
don't think whether or no you're fit for it."</p>
<p>"Why, down here on the shore, I'd as lives undertake
a boy as a Newfoundland pup," said the Captain. "Plenty
in the sea to eat, drink, and wear. That ar young un may
be the staff of their old age yet."</p>
<p>"You see," said Miss Roxy, "I think they'll adopt it
to be company for little Mara; they're bound up in her,
and the little thing pines bein' alone."</p>
<p>"Well, they make a real graven image of that ar child,"
said Mrs. Kittridge, "and fairly bow down to her and worship
her."</p>
<p>"Well, it's natural," said Miss Roxy. "Besides, the
little thing is cunnin'; she's about the cunnin'est little
crittur that I ever saw, and has such enticin' ways."</p>
<p>The fact was, as the reader may perceive, that Miss
Roxy had been thawed into an unusual attachment for the
little Mara, and this affection was beginning to spread a
warming element though her whole being. It was as if a
rough granite rock had suddenly awakened to a passionate<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_64" id="Page_64"></SPAN></span>
consciousness of the beauty of some fluttering white anemone
that nestled in its cleft, and felt warm thrills running
through all its veins at every tender motion and
shadow. A word spoken against the little one seemed to
rouse her combativeness. Nor did Dame Kittridge bear
the child the slightest ill-will, but she was one of those
naturally care-taking people whom Providence seems to
design to perform the picket duties for the rest of society,
and who, therefore, challenge everybody and everything to
stand and give an account of themselves. Miss Roxy herself
belonged to this class, but sometimes found herself so
stoutly overhauled by the guns of Mrs. Kittridge's battery,
that she could only stand modestly on the defensive.</p>
<p>One of Mrs. Kittridge's favorite hobbies was education,
or, as she phrased it, the "fetchin' up" of children, which
she held should be performed to the letter of the old stiff
rule. In this manner she had already trained up six sons,
who were all following their fortunes upon the seas, and,
on this account, she had no small conceit of her abilities;
and when she thought she discerned a lamb being left to
frisk heedlessly out of bounds, her zeal was stirred to bring
it under proper sheepfold regulations.</p>
<p>"Come, Sally, it's eight o'clock," said the good woman.</p>
<p>Sally's dark brows lowered over her large, black eyes,
and she gave an appealing look to her father.</p>
<p>"Law, mother, let the child sit up a quarter of an hour
later, jist for once."</p>
<p>"Cap'n Kittridge, if I was to hear to you, there'd never
be no rule in this house. Sally, you go 'long this minute,
and be sure you put your knittin' away in its place."</p>
<p>The Captain gave a humorous nod of submissive good-nature
to his daughter as she went out. In fact, putting
Sally to bed was taking away his plaything, and leaving
him nothing to do but study faces in the coals, or watch<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_65" id="Page_65"></SPAN></span>
the fleeting sparks which chased each other in flocks up
the sooty back of the chimney.</p>
<p>It was Saturday night, and the morrow was Sunday,—never
a very pleasant prospect to the poor Captain, who,
having, unfortunately, no spiritual tastes, found it very
difficult to get through the day in compliance with his
wife's views of propriety, for he, alas! soared no higher in
his aims.</p>
<p>"I b'lieve, on the hull, Polly, I'll go to bed, too,"
said he, suddenly starting up.</p>
<p>"Well, father, your clean shirt is in the right-hand corner
of the upper drawer, and your Sunday clothes on the
back of the chair by the bed."</p>
<p>The fact was that the Captain promised himself the
pleasure of a long conversation with Sally, who nestled in
the trundle-bed under the paternal couch, to whom he
could relate long, many-colored yarns, without the danger
of interruption from her mother's sharp, truth-seeking voice.</p>
<p>A moralist might, perhaps, be puzzled exactly what
account to make of the Captain's disposition to romancing
and embroidery. In all real, matter-of-fact transactions,
as between man and man, his word was as good as another's,
and he was held to be honest and just in his dealings.
It was only when he mounted the stilts of foreign
travel that his paces became so enormous. Perhaps, after
all, a rude poetic and artistic faculty possessed the man.
He might have been a humbler phase of the "mute, inglorious
Milton." Perhaps his narrations required the privileges
and allowances due to the inventive arts generally.
Certain it was that, in common with other artists, he required
an atmosphere of sympathy and confidence in which
to develop himself fully; and, when left alone with children,
his mind ran such riot, that the bounds between the
real and unreal became foggier than the banks of Newfoundland.<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_66" id="Page_66"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>The two women sat up, and the night wore on apace,
while they kept together that customary vigil which it was
thought necessary to hold over the lifeless casket from
which an immortal jewel had recently been withdrawn.</p>
<p>"I re'lly did hope," said Mrs. Kittridge, mournfully,
"that this 'ere solemn Providence would have been sent
home to the Cap'n's mind; but he seems jist as light and
triflin' as ever."</p>
<p>"There don't nobody see these 'ere things unless they's
effectually called," said Miss Roxy, "and the Cap'n's time
ain't come."</p>
<p>"It's gettin' to be t'ward the eleventh hour," said Mrs.
Kittridge, "as I was a-tellin' him this afternoon."</p>
<p>"Well," said Miss Roxy, "you know</p>
<p>"'While the lamp holds out to burn,<br/>
The vilest sinner may return.'"<br/></p>
<p>"Yes, I know that," said Mrs. Kittridge, rising and
taking up the candle. "Don't you think, Aunt Roxy, we
may as well give a look in there at the corpse?"</p>
<p>It was past midnight as they went together into the
keeping-room. All was so still that the clash of the rising
tide and the ticking of the clock assumed that solemn and
mournful distinctness which even tones less impressive take
on in the night-watches. Miss Roxy went mechanically
through with certain arrangements of the white drapery
around the cold sleeper, and uncovering the face and bust
for a moment, looked critically at the still, unconscious
countenance.</p>
<p>"Not one thing to let us know who or what she is," she
said; "that boy, if he lives, would give a good deal to
know, some day."</p>
<p>"What is it one's duty to do about this bracelet?"
said Mrs. Kittridge, taking from a drawer the article in
question, which had been found on the beach in the morning.<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_67" id="Page_67"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>"Well, I s'pose it belongs to the child, whatever it's
worth," said Miss Roxy.</p>
<p>"Then if the Pennels conclude to take him, I may as
well give it to them," said Mrs. Kittridge, laying it back
in the drawer.</p>
<p>Miss Roxy folded the cloth back over the face, and the
two went out into the kitchen. The fire had sunk low—the
crickets were chirruping gleefully. Mrs. Kittridge
added more wood, and put on the tea-kettle that their
watching might be refreshed by the aid of its talkative and
inspiring beverage. The two solemn, hard-visaged women
drew up to each other by the fire, and insensibly their
very voices assumed a tone of drowsy and confidential
mystery.</p>
<p>"If this 'ere poor woman was hopefully pious, and could
see what was goin' on here," said Mrs. Kittridge, "it
would seem to be a comfort to her that her child has fallen
into such good hands. It seems a'most a pity she couldn't
know it."</p>
<p>"How do you know she don't?" said Miss Roxy,
brusquely.</p>
<p>"Why, you know the hymn," said Mrs. Kittridge, quoting
those somewhat saddusaical lines from the popular
psalm-book:—</p>
<p style="margin-left:2em">
"'The living know that they must die,<br/>
But all the dead forgotten lie—<br/>
<i>Their memory and their senses gone,<br/>
Alike unknowing and unknown</i>.'"<br/></p>
<p>"Well, I don't know 'bout that," said Miss Roxy, flavoring
her cup of tea; "hymn-book ain't Scriptur', and I'm
pretty sure that ar ain't true always;" and she nodded her
head as if she could say more if she chose.</p>
<p>Now Miss Roxy's reputation of vast experience in all
the facts relating to those last fateful hours, which are the
only certain event in every human existence, caused her<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_68" id="Page_68"></SPAN></span>
to be regarded as a sort of Delphic oracle in such matters,
and therefore Mrs. Kittridge, not without a share of the
latent superstition to which each human heart must confess
at some hours, drew confidentially near to Miss Roxy, and
asked if she had anything particular on her mind.</p>
<p>"Well, Mis' Kittridge," said Miss Roxy, "I ain't one
of the sort as likes to make a talk of what I've seen, but
mebbe if I was, I've seen some things <i>as</i> remarkable as
anybody. I tell you, Mis' Kittridge, folks don't tend the
sick and dyin' bed year in and out, at all hours, day and
night, and not see some remarkable things; that's my
opinion."</p>
<p>"Well, Miss Roxy, did you ever see a sperit?"</p>
<p>"I won't say as I have, and I won't say as I haven't,"
said Miss Roxy; "only as I have seen some remarkable
things."</p>
<p>There was a pause, in which Mrs. Kittridge stirred her
tea, looking intensely curious, while the old kitchen-clock
seemed to tick with one of those fits of loud insistence
which seem to take clocks at times when all is still, as
if they had something that they were getting ready to say
pretty soon, if nobody else spoke.</p>
<p>But Miss Roxy evidently had something to say, and so
she began:—</p>
<p>"Mis' Kittridge, this 'ere's a very particular subject to
be talkin' of. I've had opportunities to observe that most
haven't, and I don't care if I jist say to you, that I'm
pretty sure spirits that has left the body do come to their
friends sometimes."</p>
<p>The clock ticked with still more <i>empressement</i>, and
Mrs. Kittridge glared through the horn bows of her glasses
with eyes of eager curiosity.</p>
<p>"Now, you remember Cap'n Titcomb's wife, that died
fifteen years ago when her husband had gone to Archangel;
and you remember that he took her son John out with him<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_69" id="Page_69"></SPAN></span>—and
of all her boys, John was the one she was particular
sot on."</p>
<p>"Yes, and John died at Archangel; I remember that."</p>
<p>"Jes' so," said Miss Roxy, laying her hand on Mrs.
Kittridge's; "he died at Archangel the very day his mother
died, and jist the hour, for the Cap'n had it down in his
log-book."</p>
<p>"You don't say so!"</p>
<p>"Yes, I do. Well, now," said Miss Roxy, sinking her
voice, "this 'ere was remarkable. Mis' Titcomb was one
of the fearful sort, tho' one of the best women that ever
lived. Our minister used to call her 'Mis' Muchafraid'—you
know, in the 'Pilgrim's Progress'—but he was satisfied
with her evidences, and told her so; she used to say
she was 'afraid of the dark valley,' and she told our minister
so when he went out, that ar last day he called; and
his last words, as he stood with his hand on the knob of
the door, was 'Mis' Titcomb, the Lord will find ways to
bring you thro' the dark valley.' Well, she sunk away
about three o'clock in the morning. I remember the time,
'cause the Cap'n's chronometer watch that he left with her
lay on the stand for her to take her drops by. I heard her
kind o' restless, and I went up, and I saw she was struck
with death, and she looked sort o' anxious and distressed.</p>
<p>"'Oh, Aunt Roxy,' says she, 'it's so dark, who will go
with me?' and in a minute her whole face brightened up,
and says she, 'John is going with me,' and she jist gave
the least little sigh and never breathed no more—she jist
died as easy as a bird. I told our minister of it next morning,
and he asked if I'd made a note of the hour, and I
told him I had, and says he, 'You did right, Aunt Roxy.'"</p>
<p>"What did he seem to think of it?"</p>
<p>"Well, he didn't seem inclined to speak freely. 'Miss
Roxy,' says he, 'all natur's in the Lord's hands, and
there's no saying why he uses this or that; them that's<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_70" id="Page_70"></SPAN></span>
strong enough to go by faith, he lets 'em, but there's no
saying what he won't do for the weak ones.'"</p>
<p>"Wa'n't the Cap'n overcome when you told him?" said
Mrs. Kittridge.</p>
<p>"Indeed he was; he was jist as white as a sheet."</p>
<p>Miss Roxy now proceeded to pour out another cup of
tea, and having mixed and flavored it, she looked in a
weird and sibylline manner across it, and inquired,—</p>
<p>"Mis' Kittridge, do you remember that ar Mr. Wadkins
that come to Brunswick twenty years ago, in President
Averill's days?"</p>
<p>"Yes, I remember the pale, thin, long-nosed gentleman
that used to sit in President Averill's pew at church.
Nobody knew who he was, or where he came from. The
college students used to call him Thaddeus of Warsaw.
Nobody knew who he was but the President, 'cause he
could speak all the foreign tongues—one about as well as
another; but the President he knew his story, and said he
was a good man, and he used to stay to the sacrament regular,
I remember."</p>
<p>"Yes," said Miss Roxy, "he used to live in a room all
alone, and keep himself. Folks said he was quite a gentleman,
too, and fond of reading."</p>
<p>"I heard Cap'n Atkins tell," said Mrs. Kittridge, "how
they came to take him up on the shores of Holland. You
see, when he was somewhere in a port in Denmark, some
men come to him and offered him a pretty good sum of
money if he'd be at such a place on the coast of Holland
on such a day, and take whoever should come. So the
Cap'n he went, and sure enough on that day there come
a troop of men on horseback down to the beach with this
man, and they all bid him good-by, and seemed to make
much of him, but he never told 'em nothin' on board ship,
only he seemed kind o' sad and pinin'."</p>
<p>"Well," said Miss Roxy; "Ruey and I we took care o'<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_71" id="Page_71"></SPAN></span>
that man in his last sickness, and we watched with him
the night he died, and there was something quite remarkable."</p>
<p>"Do tell now," said Mrs. Kittridge.</p>
<p>"Well, you see," said Miss Roxy, "he'd been low and
poorly all day, kind o' tossin' and restless, and a little
light-headed, and the Doctor said he thought he wouldn't
last till morning, and so Ruey and I we set up with him,
and between twelve and one Ruey said she thought she'd
jist lop down a few minutes on the old sofa at the foot of
the bed, and I made me a cup of tea like as I'm a-doin'
now, and set with my back to him."</p>
<p>"Well?" said Mrs. Kittridge, eagerly.</p>
<p>"Well, you see he kept a-tossin' and throwin' off the
clothes, and I kept a-gettin' up to straighten 'em; and
once he threw out his arms, and something bright fell out
on to the pillow, and I went and looked, and it was a likeness
that he wore by a ribbon round his neck. It was a
woman—a real handsome one—and she had on a low-necked
black dress, of the cut they used to call Marie
Louise, and she had a string of pearls round her neck, and
her hair curled with pearls in it, and very wide blue eyes.
Well, you see, I didn't look but a minute before he seemed
to wake up, and he caught at it and hid it in his clothes.
Well, I went and sat down, and I grew kind o' sleepy
over the fire; but pretty soon I heard him speak out very
clear, and kind o' surprised, in a tongue I didn't understand,
and I looked round."</p>
<p>Miss Roxy here made a pause, and put another lump of
sugar into her tea.</p>
<p>"Well?" said Mrs. Kittridge, ready to burst with curiosity.</p>
<p>"Well, now, I don't like to tell about these 'ere things,
and you mustn't never speak about it; but as sure as you
live, Polly Kittridge, I see that ar very woman standin'<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_72" id="Page_72"></SPAN></span>
at the back of the bed, right in the partin' of the curtains,
jist as she looked in the pictur'—blue eyes and curly hair
and pearls on her neck, and black dress."</p>
<p>"What did you do?" said Mrs. Kittridge.</p>
<p>"Do? Why, I jist held my breath and looked, and in
a minute it kind o' faded away, and I got up and went to
the bed, but the man was gone. He lay there with the
pleasantest smile on his face that ever you see; and I woke
up Ruey, and told her about it."</p>
<p>Mrs. Kittridge drew a long breath. "What do you
think it was?"</p>
<p>"Well," said Miss Roxy, "I know what I think, but I
don't think best to tell. I told Doctor Meritts, and he
said there were more things in heaven and earth than folks
knew about—and so I think."</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>Meanwhile, on this same evening, the little Mara frisked
like a household fairy round the hearth of Zephaniah Pennel.</p>
<p>The boy was a strong-limbed, merry-hearted little urchin,
and did full justice to the abundant hospitalities of Mrs.
Pennel's tea-table; and after supper little Mara employed
herself in bringing apronful after apronful of her choicest
treasures, and laying them down at his feet. His great
black eyes flashed with pleasure, and he gamboled about
the hearth with his new playmate in perfect forgetfulness,
apparently, of all the past night of fear and anguish.</p>
<p>When the great family Bible was brought out for prayers,
and little Mara composed herself on a low stool by her
grandmother's side, he, however, did not conduct himself
as a babe of grace. He resisted all Miss Ruey's efforts to
make him sit down beside her, and stood staring with his
great, black, irreverent eyes during the Bible-reading, and
laughed out in the most inappropriate manner when the
psalm-singing began, and seemed disposed to mingle incoherent
remarks of his own even in the prayers.<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_73" id="Page_73"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>"This is a pretty self-willed youngster," said Miss Ruey,
as they rose from the exercises, "and I shouldn't think
he'd been used to religious privileges."</p>
<p>"Perhaps not," said Zephaniah Pennel; "but who can
say but what this providence is a message of the Lord to
us—such as Pharaoh's daughter sent about Moses, 'Take
this child, and bring him up for me'?"</p>
<p>"I'd like to take him, if I thought I was capable," said
Mrs. Pennel, timidly. "It seems a real providence to give
Mara some company; the poor child pines so for want
of it."</p>
<p>"Well, then, Mary, if you say so, we will bring him up
with our little Mara," said Zephaniah, drawing the child
toward him. "May the Lord bless him!" he added, laying
his great brown hands on the shining black curls of
the child.</p>
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