Mrs. Tree

Doctor Stedman rose from his seat. His eyes were very tender as he looked at the sisters from under his shaggy eyebrows.

"Good girls!" he said. "I couldn't afford to lose my best – patients." He straightened his broad shoulders and looked round the room. "When I saw anything new over there," he said, "castle or picture-gallery or cathedral, – whatever it was, – I always compared it with this room, and it never stood the comparison for an instant. Pleasantest place in the world, to my thinking."

Miss Phœbe beamed over her spectacles. "You pay us a high compliment, James," she said. "It is pleasant indeed to feel that home still seems best to you. I confess that, great as are the treasures of art, and magnificent as are the monuments in the cities of Europe, I have always felt that as places of residence they would not compare favorably with Elmerton."

"Quite right," said Doctor Stedman, "quite right!" and though his eyes twinkled, he spoke with conviction.

"The cities of Europe," Mr. Homer observed, "can hardly be suited, as places of residence, to – a – persons of literary taste. There is" – he waved his hands – "too much noise; too much – sound; too much – absence of tranquillity. I could wish, though, to have seen the grave of Keats."

"I brought you a leaf from his grave, Homer," said Doctor Stedman, kindly. "I have it at home, in my pocketbook. I'll bring it down to the office to-morrow. I went to the burying-ground on purpose."

"Did you so?" exclaimed Mr. Homer, his mild face growing radiant with pleasure. "That was kind, James; that was – friendly; that was – benevolent! I shall value it highly, highly. I thank you, James. I – since you are interested in the lamented Keats, perhaps you would like" – his hand went with a fluttering motion to his pocket.

"I must go now," said Doctor Stedman, hastily. "I've stayed too long already, but I never know how to get away from this house. Good night, Phœbe! Good night, Vesta! You are looking a little tired; take care of yourself. 'Night, Homer; see you to-morrow!"

He shook hands heartily all around and was gone.

Mr. Homer sighed gently. "It is a great pity," he said, "with his excellent disposition, that James will never interest himself in literary pursuits."

His hand was still fluttering about his pocket, and there was an unspoken appeal in his mild brown eyes.

"Have you brought something to read to us, Cousin Homer?" asked Miss Phœbe, benevolently.

Mr. Homer with alacrity drew a folded paper from his pocket.

"This is – you may be aware, Cousin Phœbe – the anniversary of the birth of the lamented Keats. I always like to pay some tribute to his memory on these occasions, and I have here a slight thing – I tossed it off after breakfast this morning – which I confess I should like to read to you. You know how highly I value your opinion, Cousin Phœbe, and some criticism may suggest itself to you, though I trust that in the main – but you shall judge for yourself."

He cleared his throat, adjusted his spectacles, and began:

"Thoughts suggested by the Anniversary of the Natal Day of the poet Keats."

"Could you find it convenient not to rock, Cousin Homer?" said Miss Phœbe.

"By all means, Cousin Phœbe. I beg your pardon. 'Thoughts' – but I need not repeat the title.

"I asked the Muse if she had one
Thrice-favored son,
Or if some one poetic brother
Appealed to her more than another.
She gazed on me with aspect high,
And tear in eye,
While musically she repeats,
'Keats!'

"She gave me then to understand,
And smilèd bland,
On Helicon the sacred Nine
Occasionally ask bards to dine.
'For most,' she said, 'we do not move,
Though we approve;
For one alone we leave our seats:
"Keats!"'"

There was a silence after the reading of the poem. Mr. Homer, slightly flushed with his own emotions, gazed eagerly at Miss Phœbe, who sat very erect, the tips of her fingers pressed together, her whole air that of a judge about to give sentence. Miss Vesta looked somewhat disturbed, yet she was the first to speak, murmuring softly, "The feeling is very genuine, I am sure, Cousin Homer!" But Miss Phœbe was ready now.

"Cousin Homer," she said, "since you ask for criticism, I feel bound to give it. You speak of the 'sacred' Nine. The word sacred appears to me to belong distinctly to religious matters; I cannot think that it should be employed in speaking of pagan divinities. The expression – I am sorry to speak strongly – shocks me!"

Mr. Homer looked pained, and opened and shut his mouth several times.

"It is an expression that is frequently used, Cousin Phœbe," he said. "All the poets make use of it, I assure you."

"I do not doubt it in the least," said Miss Phœbe. "The poets – with a few notable exceptions – are apt to be deplorably lax in such matters. If you would confine your reading of poetry, Cousin Homer, to the works of such poets as Mrs. Hemans, Archbishop Trench, and the saintly Keble, you would not incur the danger of being led away into unsuitable vagaries."

"But Keats, Cousin Phœbe," began Mr. Homer; Miss Phœbe checked him with a wave of her hand.

"Cousin Homer, I have already intimated to you, on several occasions, that I cannot discuss the poet Keats with you. I am aware that he is considered an eminent poet, but I have not reached my present age without realizing that many works may commend themselves to even the most refined of the masculine sex which are wholly unsuitable for ladies. We will change the subject, if you please; but before doing so, let me earnestly entreat you to remove the word 'sacred' from your poem."

CHAPTER III.

INTRODUCING TOMMY CANDY AND SOLOMON, HIS GRANDFATHER

"Here's that boy again!" said Direxia Hawkes.

"What boy?" asked Mrs. Tree; but her eyes brightened as she spoke, and she laid down her book with an expectant air.

"Tommy Candy. I told him I guessed you couldn't be bothered with him, but he's there."

"Show him in. Come in, child! Don't sidle! You are not a crab. Come here and make your manners."

The boy advanced slowly, but not unwillingly. He was an odd-looking child, with spiky black hair, a mouth like a circus clown, and gray eyes that twinkled almost as brightly as Mrs. Tree's own.

The gray eyes and the black exchanged a look of mutual comprehension. "How do you do, Thomas Candy?" said Mrs. Tree, formally, holding out her little hand in its white lace mitt. It was afternoon, and she was dressed to receive callers.

"Shake hands as if you meant it, boy! I said shake hands, not flap flippers; you are not a seal. There! that's better. How do you do, Thomas Candy?"

"How-do-you-do-Missis-Tree-I'm-pretty-well-thank-you-and-hope-you-are-the-same."

Having uttered this sentiment as if it were one word, Master Candy drew a long breath, and said in a different tone, "I came to see the bird and hear 'bout Grampy; can I?"

"May I, not can I, Tommy Candy! You mayn't see the bird; he's having his nap, and doesn't like to be disturbed; but you may hear about your grandfather. Sit down on the stool there. Open the drawer, and see if there is anything in it."

The boy obeyed with alacrity. The drawer (it belonged to a sandalwood table, inlaid with chess-squares of pearl and malachite), being opened, proved to contain burnt almonds in an ivory box, and a silver saucer full of cubes of fig-paste, red and white. Tommy Candy seemed to find words unequal to the situation; he gave Mrs. Tree an eloquent glance, then obeyed her nod and helped himself to both sweetmeats.

"Good?" inquired Mrs. Tree.

"Bully!" said Tommy.

"Now, what do you want to hear?"