Reels and Spindles: A Story of Mill Life

"Thee is right though, about the middle of life, little Amy. It is a time of struggle and rebuff."

"But to-night it seems as if it could never have been so with thee. Tell me, father Adam, how thee has kept thyself so simple and good."

"Nay, little one, not that. Simple, indeed, but not good. There is none good but One. Yet there are certain things that help. I'll tell thee what has helped me most, that is, in my daily life in the world, from which we can never escape while the heart beats."

The dear old man rose, limped toward an ancient secretary, and took from it a small book. Just an ordinary account book, ruled for the keeping of small affairs, but arranged with every page inscribed by the trembling fingers of this all-thoughtful friend.

"I have been thinking what a muddle it would be to thee, Amy, and I fixed this for thee. On one side is the debt and the other side the credit. Thee will have to keep the reckonings for thy family, I foresee; for thee is practical. Look. Is the light sufficient?"

Amy held the little volume so that the rays of the harvest moon fell clearly over them, and the old, quaint script was as legible as copperplate. She questioned, and he explained just how the book should be kept, and she found his "system" exceeding plain and direct, as was everything about him. But there were two legends inscribed upon the covers which had little in common with the figuring to be done between them, – or so Amy thought; and when she asked him what they meant, he quietly explained: —

"They have been my rules of life, Amy, and I think it would be well for thee if thee also adopted them. They are short and easy to remember, but they cover all. 'Simplicity, Sincerity, Sympathy,' on the front page; and on the last, when the first rule seems sometimes to fail and the heart needs cheer, there is this other: 'Love is all powerful.'"

"Thank thee, dear Adam, so much. Not only for the book and the help it will be, but for the 'Rules' and – for thyself. I will make them mine, and thee shall tell me if I am succeeding. Now, I know thee is sitting up beyond thy time. I'll help thee to the living room and then to thy own."

Nor was Amy ever to forget that peaceful hour with this ripe old Christian; and she never again sat in the rays of the harvest moon without recalling the lessons she learned that night.

CHAPTER XI.

THE YOUNG OLD MAN AND THE OLD YOUNG GIRL

It seemed to Amy that she had never remembered so lovely a First Day as that one at Burnside Farm. Things happened just as she had foretold. Mrs. Kaye and Adam went to meeting in the little phaeton into which it was so easy for him to climb, and Hallam and she rode beside it; for "Old Shingleside," as the meeting-house was called, was at some distance from the Clove. It crowned a wooded hill-top, and behind it lay the peaceful burying-ground, with its rows of modest tombstones and wider rows of grass-covered, unmarked mounds.

The windows of the meeting-house were all open, and the mild air came in and warmed them; for as yet the plain box stoves held no blazing logs within, and the rows of old-time foot-stoves reposed securely upon their tops. Later, when the weather turned, these little wood-rimmed, perforated tin boxes would be filled with coals from the fire and placed beneath the feet of the elderly folk who came to worship.

The girl looked into her mother's face and found it beaming with the still delight of one whose heart was deeply moved. She had always been a member of this simple congregation, but of late years Salome Kaye had been obliged to forego the pleasure of gathering with it. The distance from Fairacres was too great for her to walk, and it was long since the horses and carriages that had once filled Fairacres stables had disappeared.

Hallam, also, from his place on the men's side, saw the joy in the face he loved, and thought: —

"I wish mother would consent to ride one of the burros to meeting, then she could come as often as she wished. But she doesn't think it decorous. Well, I'm glad she's having the comfort to-day; but what is Friend Adam saying? It sounds like a farewell."

He shot a startled glance across to Amy, among the women, and she responded. Then both regarded Adam anxiously. He stood in the speaker's place, where he was always found in meeting time. His body swayed gently back and forth, though his hands rested upon his cane as if he needed its support. His voice fell into the rhythmic measure to which they were accustomed whenever he became the mouthpiece of the Spirit, but his words were as of one who departs for a distant country and wishes many things to be remembered.

His message was brief, yet delivered with all the fire and eloquence of youth; but when he had finished and cast his eyes about him, something like a sob burst from his withered lips: —

"It's so queer. He looks so happy and yet so sad. Well, he's giving the hand of greeting to his neighbor, and so meeting's over."

There was no trace of sadness now. In the friendly hand-shaking that became general was, as Amy had seen, the signal for the closing of the meeting, whereupon old neighbors and friends fell promptly to giving and receiving news of mutual welfare or trouble, as the case might be; and after a while there was a driving away of vehicles, the nods and signals of gray bonnets and broad brims, until the while party from the Clove were the very last left lingering on the grass before the steps.

"Well, it's been a good day, Salome. And now the Word comes: 'For here we have no continuing city, but seek one to come.'"

The old man's eyes fixed themselves earnestly upon the weather-beaten structure; then with a bright smile he turned away and climbed into the phaeton which Amy had brought.

Old Fanny mare trotted homeward at an almost giddy pace, and the burros did their utmost to keep up with her, though their chronic laziness overcame them at times, and they fell behind. After which Hallam and Amy would prod their indolent beasts till they had "made a spurt and caught up."

"No use, children," laughed Adam Burn. "Fanny is a well-trained 'Quaker.' She knows meeting days as well as I do, and she never fails to go there as slowly as she returns swiftly. She thinks, if horses think, and I think they think – doesn't thee think so, Amy? She thinks she has done her duty, and her conscience is as clear as her stomach is empty. On meeting days she has always an extra feed. That's why she spins along like this."

He was very jolly, and as full of fun as Amy herself. They found Mr. Kaye pacing the driveway, waiting for them, and as eager for his dinner as Fanny for hers.

They were soon gathered about the table, and again old Adam's jest was the readiest, his cheerfulness the most contagious, and his suggestions the most practical.

"I advise thee, Cuthbert, to have a lot of good soil drawn up and spread over the top of Bareacre knoll. Thee can have the use of the team here till – for some time. There is plenty of muck in the hollow, and I'd be glad to have it cleared out. Then thee must sow grass, or grain and grass mixed, and Salome can have as many roots and cuttings of the green things here as she wishes. Get them all in this autumn. By another spring they will begin to grow, and a little greenery will transform the place."

Mrs. Kaye thanked him, but Amy looked up from her dish of rice pudding and smiled.

"Thee isn't helping us to keep the rule of 'don't run in debt' that thee told me was so good."

"Cuthbert and I will settle that. Eat thy pudding, child." But he shook his head at her so merrily she did not mind the rebuff.

After dinner came the big carryall, with its back part loaded so that the springs touched, and with the "man" upon the front seat, ready to drive the Kayes to their new home.

"Why, Adam, dear old friend, this is too much; it really is. I cannot let thee do it," protested Mrs. Kaye, astonished at the sight. For there were vegetables of every sort that grew at Burnside, with hams and bacon, some very lively chickens, and baskets heaped with the grapes and pears for which the Clove was famous.

"Too much, Salome? I think not. Not judging by the samples of appetites I've seen this noon. Say nothing. Thee knows how gladly I give it, and would give much more. Here, Amy, is a little letter for thee. I wish thee to keep it without reading until – " he hesitated, looked at her gravely, and finished his sentence – "until thy own heart tells thee that the right time is come. For Hallam, too, there is a bit of writing, and that he may read at any time he chooses."

"That's right now, then," laughed the lad, and eagerly tore the sealed envelope.

Adam Burn winced a little at the ragged edge this made on the paper, for he was a careful person and hated slovenliness. But he could not refrain a smile as he saw the expression of disappointment growing upon Hallam's face, where he sat upon black Balaam, his crutches crossed before him, looking down at the open sheet he had found. The envelope dropped to the ground, and Amy picked it up; but her brother did not show her the message he had received, and she was puzzled to hear their old friend say: —

"The truth which I have written there is better for thee than a fortune, Hallam."

"It may be, but, under the circumstances, I'd rather have the fortune."

"Thee'll find it, lad, never fear. Thee'll find it."

Amy thrust the envelope into her pocket, along with the letter Adam had given her, and a moment later they all passed out of the yard, and turned toward the knoll of Bareacre. The last glimpse they had of their friend showed him standing in the sunshine, leaning upon his cane, and gazing after them as they vanished from his sight.

"There is something different about that blessed old man to-day," said Amy to Hallam, riding with him beside the carryall.

"Well, I suppose it makes him feel badly to know we are not going back to Fairacres. He always does feel other people's troubles more than his own."

"What was in your letter, Hal?"

"Humph! It couldn't be called a letter. From anybody else I would have thought it insulting."

"Not from him, dear. He couldn't insult anybody. He'd not have the heart to do it. Do you mind telling?"

"Not a bit. I dare say you could take example by it too. For it was a sort of sermon in few words, – 'The perfection of a man is the stature of his soul.' That's all."

"I don't see yet just what it means, but I think it is that you shouldn't mind being lame. That you should let your soul grow so big you would forget your poor legs, and other folks would forget them too."

Nothing more was said, and even Amy felt that they had had enough of "sermons" for one day, and it was a relief to the thoughtfulness upon them all to reach Bareacre, and to see Cleena, with Fayette beside her, waiting to welcome them.

"Hal, isn't it odd? The poorer we are the more folks we have. Fayette means to live there with us, and so, it seems, do all the little Joneses. My! Who is that?"

"A scarecrow, I should think. Nobody I ever saw before."

Seated upon a rocking-chair which she had herself brought out from the house was a young girl of about Amy's age, though from her dress and manner she might have been at least several years older. Amy caught a vision of something very gay and brilliant, rivalling the forests upon the hillsides in variety of tint, but never in their harmony.