A Little Girl in Old Washington

"No," answered Annis, with a kind of wistful regret, raising her eyes shyly.

"We have another lot out at the Pineries. It's queer, but we don't call them uncles and aunts, except Aunt Jane, because she is married and the oldest. And we always dispute – it's very funny and queer. Grandfather is a Federal – well, a sort of Tory, too – and father's a Republican. People who live in a republic ought to be Republicans. That's what we fought for."

Annis stared. "Out home – there," indicating the West with her head, "they fought the Indians."

"Well – it is all about the same thing, only there are not many Indians around here. And we don't fight each other."

"I don't know about that!" and the young man who was toying with the ears of an English hound laughed.

Then had come the puzzling question, and Annis Bouvier wondered what side she must take and was sadly mystified.

CHAPTER II.

THE PINERIES

Annis ran and threw her arms around her mother's neck and kissed her fervently.

"Are you glad to come here and do you like them all?" she asked when she found her breath. "And it is so queer, with all the black people and the great house and – and everything!"

"It is a little strange. You will like it better by and by," glancing tenderly down in her child's eyes.

"And you – must you be mother to all the children? Am I never to have you any more?"

"You have me now. Yes, you will always have me. Don't you remember you used to wish for a sister like Sallie Reed? Her mother loved all the children."

"But she had them when they were cunning little babies," was the decisive reply.

"Dear," – her mother knelt down and put her arms around the child, – "it is this way. We have come to this lovely home which is to be ours, and all the pleasant things a good friend can give – a kindly, generous friend. I used to feel anxious and worried about your future. There was no good school. The life was very narrow. And if I had been taken away – "

"But they never would let the Indians take you. Oh, mother dear!" with a fervent embrace. She had not meant that, but she would not give the other explanation.

"And all these children are going to share their father's love with you. He will give you this beautiful home, clothe you, educate you, and he puts me in the place of their dear mother who is dead. He is going to care for me and keep me from toil and sorrows and perplexities. When you are older you will understand better. I hope you will try to love them all, and this good dear friend who will be a father to you."

"But I shall love you the best."

"Yes, dear," with a proud certainty.

"And you will love me better than anyone else?" and Annis clasped her mother with a child's unreasoning exclusiveness.

"Yes, dear."

A merry voice went lilting through the hall. Jaqueline paused a moment at the door. She was in her pretty green riding habit, and her straw hat had a bunch of iridescent cock's-plumes. She held her riding whip in one gloved hand, and she really was a picture good to look at.

"Oh, are you ready?" Mrs. Mason asked.

"Yes, and the carriage has come, but father is still down at the stables. Rene doesn't want to go, from some queer freak, and Patty does. I don't believe father would mind – would you?"

"Why, of course not," in a cordial tone.

"Rene is queer sometimes." Jaqueline studied Annis, and smiled in an odd fashion, for Varina had just declared she "wouldn't go anywhere with that new girl, and that she did not mean to like her, for after all she was not a real sister, and they had done very well without any mother, and she just wished father had not brought her home."

"It's the big carriage," said Patty, "and I could go if Rene did not want to. I hate to stay home all alone."

Jaqueline understood that this would be the easiest way of settling the matter, for Varina had a streak of obstinacy that was conquered soonest by "giving her her head," as Phillis said.

"Never mind about the box," as one of the men had come in with hatchet and hammer. "I won't unpack it this morning," began Mrs. Mason. "Is Patricia getting ready?" She tied Annis' hat in a big bow under her chin, and then putting on her own they walked downstairs while Jaqueline went for Patty. Varina was nowhere to be seen.

Mrs. Mason had hardly noted her new home in the dusk of the evening, except to be aware that it was very large. The broad veranda was like a hall. Four fluted columns ran up to the second-story windows, with vines trained on trelliswork in between. The house had but two stories, and an extensive observatory on the top that really was a delightful room during the spring and autumn. A lawn filled with clumps of shrubbery and well-grown trees stretched down to the road, the drive winding around in a half-curve. From the front there was nothing to mar the handsome outlook where the ground lay in a line of curves to the Potomac. The stables, the workshops, and the negro quarters were cut off by a tall, thick hedge.

Mr. Mason came around the corner of the house. Jaqueline was feeding Hero lumps of sugar, to the amazement of Annis. Patty flew across the veranda in a whirl, and her father merely nodded to her explanations as they were put on the back seat. Jaqueline waved her hand, and Hero started off at a sharp canter.

Patty could not keep still very long, and began to question Annis as to what the Kentucky home was like, and if she was glad or sorry to leave it. There had been only Seth Bowers, who worked the farm, and an Indian woman to help about the house, but just across a little yard space the Browns had lived, and beyond were the stockade and the blockhouse. Then the log houses were ranged around.

"But were you not afraid?" asked Patty. "Suppose the Indians had come?"

"All the Indians about were friendly. We were not afraid of them."

"But what did you spend your time at – if you didn't go to school?"

"Mother taught me. Sally Brown came in when she wasn't too busy, and we studied. Mrs. Brown spun and knit, and Adam Dodge had a loom where he wove cloth. Oh, there were a great many things!"

"A hard life it was for you," and Mr. Mason glanced at his wife's countenance, which had fallen into thoughtful lines.

"There have been many pioneers," she returned with a half-smile. "Virginia is full of their graves. And the northern coasts. Our people were wiser. They chose a less rigorous clime."

"True. The story North and South is full of romance. But, then, what country is not? The old Romans colonized, sometimes very cruelly, tearing people from their homes. We came of our free will, except such as were redemptioners."

"And slaves," in a low tone.

"That is a serious question," and the squire's rugged brows knit. "That they are better off is beyond cavil. In their own land they fight and destroy each other, make slaves, and many tribes are no doubt cannibals. The President has always considered it bad for the country. But we have needed labor. And in Bible times men were permitted to enslave other nations. The dominant race gets the upper hand, and it is right that knowledge and improvement should have a chance against ignorance and degeneracy. But this is a somber talk for such a fair day. Look! Over yonder is the Capital."

She saw the gleam of the white buildings, and here and there an imposing mansion. It was in truth a magnificent day; the balmy breath of forests and the coolness of the river tempering the heat. In and out by dainty edges fringed with grasses, some standing sentinel-like, some dallying coquettishly with the breeze, flowed the broad river. There were innumerable little islets of rank greenness looking as if they were set asail on its bosom, and here and there a spike of blossom. All this great marsh the hand of man and the wit of his brain were to transform into one of the great cities of the world before the century ended. Long, straight barren places were to be beautiful streets, but now they were gray and dreary in the sunshine. She liked the woods better, the winding road that now was in a dense shade from the overarching trees, and now came out to broad spaces of sunshine. Squirrels chattered and ran about, whisking their feathery tails like a fan; bird notes, clear and sweet, dying to most exquisite softness, made melody in the air; bees hummed and crooned, secure of their hidden sweets. Patricia Mason drank it all in with a great feeling of gladness. It was so unlike the primeval solitudes where the few clung together, when the darkness fell, with a nameless terror, or listened to the great shivering woods, wondering if an enemy lay in ambush. God had watched over her and her child and raised up kindly friends, and had now given her home and rest – and, yes, love. How could she do otherwise than love this large-hearted, generous man! And she must train Annis to pay him something more than mere respect.

The pretty young rider put her horse through his various paces. Now and then she was lost to sight by some turn in the road, then she waited with a laughing face and paced demurely alongside of the carriage, chatting gayly with her father or Patricia. She was not quite at home yet with her new mother.

The day grew warmer. They drew up in a densely shaded place.

"Let us get out and rest," said the squire. "There are some fruit and a little luncheon, for we shall be late at the Pineries. It is too warm to drive fast. But it will be delightful coming back after sundown."

Jaqueline slipped off her horse. Patricia sprang out with the litheness of a kitten. But the squire took Annis in his arms and as he stood her down, kissed her, which brought a quick blush to her cheek.

They found a fallen tree and a great flat rock that looked as if Nature had set her table for travelers coming by. They spread out their lunch. The girls had the ready hunger of youth. Annis went round by her mother. It was all so new and strange. She could not feel afraid of this second father, and yet she did grudge his claim upon her mother a little, the mother who was now in a rather gay conversation with the two young girls. Jaqueline was amusing in her descriptions of the Pineries, and though her father checked her rattling tongue now and then, she did not greatly heed it. Aunt Catharine had been rather free in her strictures on people and events, and the family at the Pineries had not escaped.

Then they resumed their journey, and the road grew wilder. Washington and Georgetown were left behind, the houses were less frequent, but the river still ran along by their sides, and now and then a boat of some kind passed them. Then they came to a clearing and a great stretch of tobacco plantations, a winding drive through giant pines that rustled like a river hurrying over a rocky bed. In the midst of a woods, it seemed, so close were the trees, with a fine open space in the front, stood the mansion.

On the wide porch sat an elderly man with flowing silvery hair, inclined to curl at the ends, but not fastened in the fashion of the day. His frame was large, but one could see there had been a gradual shrinking of the flesh, for his face and his long thin hands were much wrinkled. Still, there was a tint of pink in his cheeks, and his eyes were very blue, rather piercing.

"Randolph Mason!" he exclaimed, standing his big volume down on the porch floor and taking the flight of steps deliberately. "This is indeed a surprise! You have been a great truant, and I hope your quest was satisfactory. When did you return? We have heard nothing for at least a fortnight. Your mother was wondering – "