That Little Girl of Miss Eliza's: A Story for Young People. Jean Katherine Baird

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      Eliza never could sit there. She always felt irritated and fussy whenever she put it to rights, but yet she had not reached the stage of advancement which seeks the cause and removes it.

      Bracing herself against the jamb of the door, she raised her aching, bruised hand and pushed aside the rope drapery. The center-table with its marble top had been removed from its accustomed place and something else was there.

      Eliza stood for a moment to look about her. Squire Stout stood by, leaning on his cane. He was a little shriveled-up creature with snowy hair. His lips were thin and cruel. There was the air of an autocrat, a demagogue about him. Near him was Doctor Dullmer, whose face even now had lost nothing of its helpful, cheery, optimistic expression. There were other men in the group. They had all been talking; but they ceased at the sight of Miss Eliza standing in the doorway.

      “You?” exclaimed Doctor Dullmer, advancing and extending his arm for support. “What do you mean? You should be in bed!”

      “I am all right. Just bruised. That is all.”

      She clung to his arm as she moved toward the little group, which separated to make room for her as she advanced.

      Then she saw why the center-table with its square marble top had been pushed to the wall The woman lay there. Her beautiful yellow hair was coiled about her head like a golden crown. She looked so smiling and happy that Eliza could not feel one pang of sorrow for her. She bent over and smoothed the stranger’s forehead.

      “I wonder who she was,” she said at length.

      “Don’t you know?” the question came from every man there and from the group of women who had packed the narrow doorway. They were too fearful and too nervous to enter.

      “No, I do not,” said Eliza. “I know neither her name nor her destination.”

      “Sit down,” said Doctor Dullmer brusquely, pushing forward a chair and forcing her, none too gently, into it. She sat bolt upright and looked at the men about her. She forgot that her arm was aching with its bruises, and that a great cut near her temple, which the doctor had stitched, was making her head throb and tremble like an over-pressure of caged steam.

      “But she was with you.” – “You were driving her.” “We supposed right along that she was some of your kin.”

      Eliza shook her head. “I’ll tell you how it happened so,” she began. “I never saw her – ”

      “Don’t talk about it now. Better wait until to-morrow, until you are better,” advised Doctor Dullmer.

      “I must talk now. It’s better to tell about it at once so there can be no misunderstanding. It will help me to get it off my mind.”

      “Well, just as you please,” said he, but he drew a chair beside her and watched her closely. He alone realized that she was on the point of collapse which might come suddenly upon her. He thought only of her physical condition. He had not estimated the power of will which is able to put aside all physical discomfort and carry a thing through because it is right to do so.

      So Eliza sat bolt upright in the stiff chair, hideous with its red plush upholstery, and related all that had happened the several hours before.

      The men listened with a question at intervals. When the story was ended, Miss Eliza got upon her feet.

      “You’ll go to bed now,” said the doctor.

      “Send everyone home but Mrs. Kilgore. I cannot rest with so many about me.”

      Mrs. Kilgore had overheard the words and was already ridding the house of the neighbors.

      “You’d better go, Granny. Your old man will want supper soon.”

      “I think your baby would be crying for you, Mrs. Duden.”

      “Hain’t you afraid to leave the twins alone in the house with matches and oil about?” So by dint of suggestion, she turned them all homeward and locked the door.

      Miss Eliza went back to the davenport and, arranging the pillows, laid down her throbbing head and closed her eyes.

      Mrs. Kilgore bustled about, closing doors and drawing shades. She was as happy as could be. She was in her element in the sick-room. She found thorough enjoyment in officiating at the house of sorrow. She drew down the corners of her mouth and assumed a doleful expression, but a pleased excitement showed itself in spite of all.

      “Pitty adee – pitty adee.” A few toddling steps, and the child came close to the davenport where Eliza lay. Her baby hands rested lightly against the bandaged head.

      “Pitty adee – hurted. Me’s sorry. Me kiss ’ou an ’ou get well.” Standing on tip-toe, she put her lips again and again against the bandage.

      Miss Eliza trembled. A strange thrill went through her. She had never known much about children. She had been the only chick and child of her parents. She had not realized that a baby could be so sweet. A strange joy filled her at the touch of the lips. The term ‘Pretty lady’ found a responsive chord in her heart which vibrated. She had lived alone all her life. No one had ever touched lips to hers. No one had ever found her attractive or beautiful. For as many years as she could remember, no one had ever called her ‘pretty’. She did not think whether it were true or false. She accepted it as something new and delightful. She was a human being, though she had always been alone, and she craved affection just as every one of humanity does.

      She drew the child close to her. It cuddled up as though it had known only love and tenderness and feared no one. At length it crawled up on the davenport and nestled close in her arms, with the little head on her breast. All the while, it kept up a prattle of sympathy for the ‘pitty adee who was hurted’ and the baby hands touched Eliza’s cheek lightly. So both fell asleep.

      The news of the accident had spread quickly enough. Telegrams had flashed over the country and local newspapers sent reporters at once to secure particulars. Williamsburg was the nearest city of importance. The Herald was the daily with the largest circulation. It was always looking for a “scoop.”

      When the telegrams came in telling of the accident, Morris was the only man in the outer office. McCoy nailed him at once.

      “Get to Shintown as fast as you can. Find out everything. Write a column or two and get back before the press closes for the morning edition.”

      Morris started. Until this time, he had written nothing but personals. He was eager to advance. This looked to him like a rung in the ladder. He would “make good” for himself and his paper. There was no passenger train due, but he caught a fast freight and “bummed” his way to the Bend and walked from there to Shintown.

      He was admitted without question to the parlor of the old Wells place. The men had departed, leaving only a watcher beside the dead.

      The boy took out his note-book and asked questions which the man who sat in waiting and Mrs. Kilgore eagerly answered. He looked at the woman with her mass of yellow hair about her head like a crown. He had been brought up inland. He knew little of that great wave of surging humanity which yearly seek СКАЧАТЬ