Reels and Spindles: A Story of Mill Life

"Yes – yes," answered Fayette, in breathless eagerness.

"Now, the condition: if you ever again, by word or deed, do any sort of injury to any human being or to any helpless animal, I will have you punished, punished in full for all you have done wrong in the past. Do you understand?"

"Yes," sobbed the grateful and greatly excited youth. Somewhere he had heard, maybe from Cleena's lips, something about heaping coals. He felt at that moment as if the living coals were lying upon his own poor head.

"Then go; and if it will give you any pleasure to know it, I believe that you are now about the richest of the mill operatives living in Ardsley village."

Stumbling, through his tears, and truly far more grateful for the prevention of his crime than even for his unexpected good fortune and full forgiveness, Cleena's Fayetty went.

As his footsteps died away, Amy, who seemed given to outbursts to relieve her full heart, threw her arms about the old man's neck and kissed him over and over.

"That's better, child, that's better. The first time thee planted it on my nose, I seemed to have a dim perception that this was not the regulation feature for such gifts, but it answered; though I like them better on my cheek, child. Thee's improving. Now let's go home. Yes; it's the carryall. There's room for us all. On the way I'll tell thee – "

"No, no; wait till we get home. Don't let's leave anybody out any more. By thy face I can see it's something delightful thee is going to tell. Oh, make the old horse travel, travel – fast, fast!"

CHAPTER XXIX.

CONCLUSION

On half-holidays Cleena had always the best dinner of the week. To its enjoyment were usually brought the best appetites of the week as well; for there was leisure and talk and laughter, and that interchange of experiences which kept their family life so united.

Archibald Wingate joined the party at this present half-holiday dinner; yet even with such cheerfulness about him could not but shiver now and then, as he recalled his narrow escape of the afternoon. To have taken his meal alone, on that day, would have been to suffer greatly.

But Amy had brought him in and placed him in the seat of honor, and amid the general rejoicing over Hallam's wonderful recovery and surprise, they had made him feel that he was a sharer. They had just drawn back from the table, and were going into the sitting room, when there came a tap at the door that Cleena answered. It was a small tap, very low down on the panel, but it was given due importance; for wasn't the visitor Master "Willyum Gladstone Jones," and wasn't Cleena just making fine progress in teaching him his "manners"?

So they all paused to wait the child's important entrance, and to smile over Goodsoul's greeting: —

"The top o' the evenin' to you, Mister Jones. An' what may be givin' us the pleasure of a visit from your lordship the now? A what? Speak up; a box is it? Miss Amy's box. Never a doubt I doubt you've made messes of its insides, by the way. No? Then your improvin', to that extent I must even be givin' ye a bite o' this fine apple pie. Hmm; exactly. Well, give the young lady her bit property, again' I slips on a plate an' teaches ye how to eat decent, as ye should."

So the little fellow, who had just been promoted to his first trousers and felt as all boys do in such a case, walked proudly across the room and offered Amy a japanned casket.

"Why, Sir William, how came you by that? I haven't seen it for ever so long. I used to keep my few letters in it. I wonder if they're here now."

"Ev'y one. My mamma seen 'em all. She said the top one – I don't know. Somefin."

"Arrah musha! but I remember one day, long syne, he was aye botherin' an' I set him to orderin' the box neat an' nice. He must ha' took it away with him an' me not payin' no attention. Well, a box o' such truck's neither here no more there, I forecast."

Amy had stopped to admire the new garment, fashioned from an old one of Hallam's, and having thus satisfied the little one's innocent pride, now opened her recovered keepsake. She lifted the letters idly, dropped them, and again catching one that had, indeed, lain upon the top, sprang up and waved it overhead.

"The letter! the letter! The lost one of Adam!"

"No; is it really? To come in such a way – "

"On such a day – oh, Hal!"

She caught her brother's hands and wrung them in delight, then ran to her father and placed the letter before him.

He looked at it critically.

"Yes; that is Adam Burn's handwriting. His own familiar seal. These people who have had it in keeping – "

"I hided it. Zen I dugged it out. Same like Fayetty," explained Sir William, between mouthfuls.

"The blessed baby! that explains."

"Let us go into the parlor and read it. It is yours, daughter; you must yourself break the seal."

"Oh, I'll break it fast enough."

"Hmm. Young lady, I thought you were the girl who didn't want to be an heiress," commented Uncle Fred, teasingly.

Amy's face sobered.

"You are right. I didn't so wish then, when the shock and sorrow were fresh; but now I do. Just think of all the comfort for all you folks in that lovely home."

"Then I must lose my tenants, eh?" asked Mr. Wingate, smiling.

"Thee'll lose nothing! Wait. If thee has plans to tell, so have I."

The letter was a simple one, plain, and leaving no room for any sort of legal difficulty. Amy could enter upon her heritage that day, if she wished. The place where the will was stored was designated, and they knew it would there be found. But after the reading a little silence fell upon them all.

The old mill owner was the first to break this. He did it almost reverently.

"Speaking of wills, and after the events of the day, I've been thinking of mine. By the way, Amy, I suppose thee'll cease to work for me now."

"I don't see why I should, unless my father needs me at home. We will see about that afterward. Tell us thy plans, please. I'd like to hear them."

"And I'd like to have thee make them for me."

"Make them? I?"

"Yes; in truth and deed. If thee were me and had as much money as I have, and were just such a lonely, childless, forlorn old man, what would thee do, that would accomplish the most good? according to thy judgment, which I have found a fairly sound one."

The elder Kayes listened in astonishment. They had been prepared by various matters for a great change in their kinsman, though not for one so radical. But the father began to perceive how this change had been wrought, and his heart gave thanks for the devoted, sunshiny daughter who seemed to shed an influence for happiness and goodness on all whom she knew. It was due to her, he believed, that this new Archibald had replaced the old.

"Does thee mean it, truly?"

"Yes; I mean it. Let me hear. If it is possible, I will carry out the wishes thee expresses, knowing they will be all for the benefit of somebody deserving."

"Well, then, I'd help the unpractical Kaye family to get settled at Burnside Farm, on the condition that for my services I was given a big, delightful room in the old farmhouse, to live in and with them, forever and ever and ever, so long as the dear Lord permitted – that's if I were thee, Cousin Archibald."

"But would that ne'er-do-well Kaye family take in an old curmudgeon, does thee think?"

"Never. A curmudgeon is a thing they detest. They'd take in a nice, fat, old fellow, whose heart was so big it made his body grow to hold it, and who meant to do all the good with his money that his money would do, and not leave it for anybody to squabble over after he died."

"Excellent, Miss Wisdom; proceed."

"After I'd got a niche at Burnside, I'd take 'Charity House' and remodel it into a Modern Industrial School. I'd have 'designing' taught, in regular classes, by a well-known artist, named Cuthbert Kaye. I'd have agriculture under the instruction of another expert, Frederic Kaye. I'd have a school of scientific cookery – not by you, my Cleena, but by somebody who hates pies and adores oatmeal and et cetera. No, really, I do think the mill folks should understand more about foods and their uses. They'd save so much money and – dyspepsia."