It must have been a month later that Reuben Gray and his wife were contentedly sitting in the old familiar kitchen of the little brown house.

"I've been wondering, Reuben," said his wife--"I've been wondering if 'twouldn't have been just as well if we'd taken some of the good things while they was goin'--before we got too old to enjoy 'em."

"Yes--peanuts, for instance," acquiesced her husband ruefully.

In the Footsteps of Katy

Only Alma had lived--Alma, the last born. The other five, one after another, had slipped from loving, clinging arms into the great Silence, leaving worse than a silence behind them; and neither Nathan Kelsey nor his wife Mary could have told you which hurt the more,--the saying of a last good-bye to a stalwart, grown lad of twenty, or the folding of tiny, waxen hands over a heart that had not counted a year of beating.

Yet both had fallen to their lot.

As for Alma--Alma carried in her dainty self all the love, hopes, tenderness, ambitions, and prayers that otherwise would have been bestowed upon six. And Alma was coming home.

"Mary," said Nathan one June evening, as he and his wife sat on the back porch, "I saw Jim Hopkins ter-day. Katy's got home."

"Hm-m,"--the low rocker swayed gently to and fro,--"Katy's been ter college, same as Alma, ye know."

"Yes; an'--an' that's what Jim was talkin' 'bout He was feelin'

bad-powerful bad."

"Bad!"--the rocker stopped abruptly. "Why, Nathan!"

"Yes; he--" There was a pause, then the words came with the rush of desperation. "He said home wan't like home no more. That Katy was as good as gold, an' they was proud of her; but she was turrible upsettin'.

Jim has ter rig up nights now ter eat supper--put on his coat an' a b'iled collar; an' he says he's got so he don't dast ter open his head.

They're all so, too--Mis' Hopkins, an' Sue, an' Aunt Jane--don't none of 'em dast ter speak."

"Why, Nathan!--why not?"

"'Cause of--Katy. Jim says there don't nothin'

they say suit Katy--'bout its wordin', I mean. She changes it an' tells 'em what they'd orter said."

"Why, the saucy little baggage!"--the rocker resumed its swaying, and Mary Kelsey's foot came down on the porch floor with decided, rhythmic pats.

The man stirred restlessly.

"But she ain't sa.s.sy, Mary," he demurred. "Jim says Katy's that sweet an' pleasant about it that ye can't do nothin'. She tells 'em she's kerrectin' 'em fur their own good, an' that they need culturin'. An' Jim says she spends all o' meal-time tellin' 'bout the things on the table,--salt, an' where folks git it, an' pepper, an' tumblers, an' how folks make 'em. He says at first 'twas kind o' nice an' he liked ter hear it; but now, seems as if he hain't got no appet.i.te left ev'ry time he sets down ter the table. He don't relish eatin' such big words an' queer names.

"An' that ain't all," resumed Nathan, after a pause for breath. "Jim can't go hoein' nor diggin' but she'll foller him an' tell 'bout the bugs an' worms he turns up,--how many legs they've got, an' all that.

An' the moon ain't jest a moon no more, an' the stars ain't stars.

They're sp'eres an' planets with heathenish names an' rings an' orbits.

Jim feels bad--powerful bad--'bout it, an' he says he can't see no way out of it. He knows they hain't had much schooling any of 'em, only Katy, an' he says that sometimes he 'most wishes that--that she hadn't, neither."

Nathan Kelsey's voice had sunk almost to a whisper, and with the last words his eyes sent a furtive glance toward the stoop-shouldered little figure in the low rocker. The chair was motionless now, and its occupant sat picking at a loose thread in the gingham ap.r.o.n.

"I--I wouldn't 'a' spoke of it," stammered the man, with painful hesitation, "only--well, ye see, I--you-" he stopped helplessly.

"I know," faltered the little woman. "You was thinkin' of--Alma."

"She wouldn't do it--Alma wouldn't!" retorted the man sharply, almost before his wife had ceased speaking.

"No, no, of course not; but--Nathan, ye _don't_ think Alma'd ever be--_ashamed_ of us, do ye?"

"'Course not!" a.s.serted Nathan, but his voice shook. "Don't ye worry, Mary," he comforted. "Alma ain't a-goin' ter do no kerrectin' of us."

"Nathan, I--I think that's 'co-rectin','" suggested the woman, a little breathlessly.

The man turned and gazed at his wife without speaking. Then his jaw fell.

"Well, by sugar, Mary! _You_ ain't a-goin' ter begin it, be ye?" he demanded.

"Why, no, 'course not!" she laughed confusedly. "An'--an' Alma wouldn't."

"'Course Alma wouldn't," echoed her husband. "Come, it's time ter shut up the house."

The date of Alma's expected arrival was yet a week ahead.

As the days pa.s.sed, there came a curious restlessness to the movements of both Nathan and his wife. It was on the last night of that week of waiting that Mrs. Kelsey spoke.

"Nathan," she began, with forced courage, "I've been over to Mis'

Hopkins's--an' asked her what special things 'twas that Katy set such store by. I thought mebbe if we knew 'em beforehand, an' could do 'em, an'--"

"That's jest what I asked Jim ter-day, Mary," cut in Nathan excitedly.

"Nathan, you didn't, now! Oh, I'm so glad! An' we'll do 'em, won't we?--jest ter please her?"

"'Course we will!"

"Ye see it's four years since she was here, Nathan, what with her teachin' summers."

"Sugar, now! Is it? It hain't seemed so long."

"Nathan," interposed Mrs. Kelsey, anxiously, "I think that 'hain't'

ain't--I mean _aren't_ right. I think you'd orter say, 'It haven't seemed so long.'"

The man frowned, and made an impatient gesture.

"Yes, yes, I know," soothed his wife; "but,--well, we might jest as well begin now an' git used to it. Mis' Hopkins said that them two words, 'hain't an' 'ain't, was what Katy hated most of anythin'."

"Yes; Jim mentioned 'em, too," acknowledged Nathan gloomily. "But he said that even them wan't half so bad as his riggin' up nights. He said that Katy said that after the 'toil of the day' they must 'don fresh garments an' come ter the evenin' meal with minds an' bodies refreshed.'"

"Yes; an', Nathan, ain't my black silk--"

"Ahem! I'm a-thinkin' it wa'n't me that said 'ain't' that time,"

interposed Nathan.