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CHAPTER XI. SUSPENSE

“It doesn’t somehow seem natural,” said Mr. Crump, as he took his seat at the tea-table, “to sit down without Ida. It seems as if half of the family were gone.”

“Just what I’ve said twenty times to-day,” remarked his wife. “Nobody knows how much a child is to them till they lose it.”

“Not lose it, mother,” said Jack, who had been sitting in a silence unusual for him.

“I didn’t mean to say that,” said Mrs. Crump. “I meant till they were gone away for a time.”

“When you spoke of losing,” said Jack, “it made me feel just as Ida wasn’t coming back.”

“I don’t know how it is,” said his mother, thoughtfully, “but that’s just the feeling I’ve had several times to-day. I’ve felt just as if something or other would happen so that Ida wouldn’t come back.”

“That is only because she has never been away before,” said the cooper, cheerfully. “It isn’t best to borrow trouble; we shall have enough of it without.”

“You never said a truer word, brother,” said Rachel, lugubriously. “‘Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.’ This world is a vale of tears. Folks may try and try to be happy, but that isn’t what they’re sent here for.”

“Now that’s where I differ from you,” said the cooper, good-humoredly, “just as there are many more pleasant than stormy days, so I believe that there is much more of brightness than shadow in this life of ours, if we would only see it.”

“I can’t see it,” said Rachel, shaking her head very decidedly.

“Perhaps you could if you tried.”

“So I do.”

“It seems to me, Rachel, you take more pains to look at the clouds than the sun.”

“Yes,” chimed in Jack; “I’ve noticed whenever Aunt Rachel takes up the newspaper, she always looks first at the (sic) death’s, and next at the fatal accidents and steamboat explosions.”

“It’s said,” said Aunt Rachel, with severe emphasis, “if you should ever be on board a steamboat when it exploded you wouldn’t find much to laugh at.”

“Yes, I should,” said Jack. “I should laugh–”

“What!” said Aunt Rachel, horrified.

“On the other side of my mouth,” concluded Jack. “You didn’t wait till I had got through the sentence.”

“I don’t think it proper to make light of such matters.”

“Nor I, Aunt Rachel,” said Jack, drawing down the corners of his mouth. “I am willing to confess that this is a serious matter. I should feel as they said the cow did, that was thrown three hundred feet into the air.”

“How was that?” inquired his mother.

“A little discouraged,” replied Jack.

All laughed except Aunt Rachel, who preserved the same severe composure, and continued to eat the pie upon her plate with the air of one gulping down medicine.

So the evening passed. All seemed to miss Ida. Mrs. Crump found herself stealing glances at the smaller chair beside her own in which Ida usually sat. The cooper appeared abstracted, and did not take as much interest as usual in the evening paper. Jack was restless, and found it difficult to fix his attention upon anything. Even Aunt Rachel looked more dismal than usual, if such a thing be possible.

In the morning all felt brighter.

“Ida will be home to-night,” said Mrs. Crump, cheerfully. “What an age it seems since she left us!”

“We shall know better how to appreciate her presence,” said the cooper, cheerfully.

“What time do you expect her home? Did Mrs. Hardwick say?”

“Why no,” said Mrs. Crump, “she didn’t say, but I guess she will be along in the course of the afternoon.”

“If we only knew where she had gone,” said Jack, “we could tell better.”

“But as we don’t know,” said his father, “we must wait patiently till she comes.”

“I guess,” said Mrs. Crump, in the spirit of a notable housewife, “I’ll make up some apple-turnovers for supper to-night. There’s nothing Ida likes so well.”

“That’s where Ida is right,” said Jack, “apple-turnovers are splendid.”

“They’re very unwholesome,” remarked Aunt Rachel.

“I shouldn’t think so from the way you eat them, Aunt Rachel,” retorted Jack. “You ate four the last time we had them for supper.”

“I didn’t think you’d begrudge me the little I eat,” said Rachel, dolefully. “I didn’t think you took the trouble to keep account of what I ate.”

“Come, Rachel, this is unreasonable,” said her brother. “Nobody begrudges you what you eat, even if you choose to eat twice as much as you do. I dare say, Jack ate more of them than you did.”

“I ate six,” said Jack.

Rachel, construing this into an apology, said no more; but, feeling it unnecessary to explain why she ate what she admitted to be unhealthy, added, “And if I do eat what’s unwholesome, it’s because life ain’t of any value to me. The sooner one gets out of this vale of affliction the better.”

“And the way you take to get out of it,” said Jack, gravely, “is by eating apple-turnovers. Whenever you die, Aunt Rachel, we shall have to put a paragraph in the papers, headed, ‘Suicide by eating apple-turnovers.’”

Rachel intimated, in reply, that she presumed it would afford Jack a great deal of satisfaction to write such a paragraph.

The evening came. Still no tidings of Ida.

The family began to feel alarmed. An indefinable sense of apprehension oppressed the minds of all. Mrs. Crump feared that Ida’s mother, seeing her grown up so attractive, could not resist the temptation of keeping her.

“I suppose,” she said, “that she has the best claim to her; but it will be a terrible thing for us to part with her.”

“Don’t let us trouble ourselves in that way,” said the cooper. “It seems to me very natural that they should keep her a little longer than they intended. Besides, it is not too late for her to return to-night.”

This cheered Mrs. Crump a little.

The evening passed slowly.

At length there came a knock at the door.

“I guess that is Ida,” said Mrs. Crump, joyfully.

Jack seized a candle, and hastening to the door, threw it open. But there was no Ida there. In her place stood William Fitts, the boy who had met Ida in the cars.

“How do you do, Bill?” said Jack, endeavoring not to look disappointed. “Come in, and take a seat, and tell us all the news.”

“Well,” said William, “I don’t know of any. I suppose Ida has got home.”

“No,” said Jack, “we expected her to-night, but she hasn’t come yet.”

“She told me that she expected to come back to-day,” said William.

“What! have you seen her?” exclaimed all in chorus.

“Yes, I saw her yesterday noon.”

“Where?”

“Why, in the cars,” said William, a little surprised at the question.

“What cars?” asked the cooper.

“Why, the Philadelphia cars. Of course, you knew that was where she was going?”

“Philadelphia!” all exclaimed, in surprise.

“Yes, the cars were almost there when I saw her. Who was that with her?”

“Mrs. Hardwick, who was her old nurse.”

“Anyway, I didn’t like her looks,” said the boy.

“That’s where I agree with you,” said Jack, decidedly.

“She didn’t seem to want me to speak to Ida,” continued William, “but hurried her off, just as quick as possible.”

“There were reasons for that,” said Mrs. Crump, “she wanted to keep secret her destination.”

“I don’t know what it was,” said William; “but any how, I don’t like her looks.”

The family felt a little relieved by this information; and, since Ida had gone so far, it did not seem strange that she should have outstayed her time.

CHAPTER XII. HOW IDA FARED

WE left Ida confined in a dark closet, with Peg standing guard over her.

After an hour she was released.

“Well,” said Peg, grimly, “how do you feel now?”

“I want to go home,” sobbed the child.

“You are at home,” said the woman. “This is going to be your home now.”

“Shall I never see father and mother and Jack, again?”

“Why,” answered Peg, “that depends on how you behave yourself.”

“Oh, if you will only let me go,” said Ida, gathering hope from this remark, “I’ll do anything you say.”

“Do you mean this, or do you only say it for the sake of getting away?”

“Oh, I mean just what I say. Dear, good Mrs. Hardwick, just tell me what I am to do, and I will obey you cheerfully.”

“Very well,” said Peg, “only you needn’t try to get anything out of me by calling me dear, good Mrs. Hardwick. In the first place, you don’t care a cent about me. In the second place, I am not good; and finally, my name isn’t Mrs. Hardwick, except in New York.”

“What is it, then?” asked Ida.

“It’s just Peg, no more and no less. You may call me Aunt Peg.”

“I would rather call you Mrs. Hardwick.”

“Then you’ll have a good many years to call me so. You’d better do as I tell you if you want any favors. Now what do you say?”

“Yes, Aunt Peg,” said Ida, with a strong effort to conceal her repugnance.

“That’s well. Now the first thing to do, is to stay here for the present.”

“Yes—aunt.”

“The second is, you’re not to tell anybody that you came from New York. That is very important. You understand that, do you?”

The child replied in the affirmative.

“The next is, that you’re to pay for your board, by doing whatever I tell you.”

“If it isn’t wicked.”

“Do you suppose I would ask you to do anything wicked?”

“You said you wasn’t good,” mildly suggested Ida.

“I’m good enough to take care of you. Well, what do you say to that? Answer me.”

“Yes.”

“There’s another thing. You ain’t to try to run away.”

Ida hung down her head.

“Ha!” said Peg. “So you’ve been thinking of it, have you?”

“Yes,” said Ida, boldly, after a moment’s hesitation; “I did think I should if I got a good chance.”

“Humph!” said the woman; “I see we must understand one another. Unless you promise this, back you go into the dark closet, and I shall keep you there all the time.”

Ida shuddered at this fearful threat, terrible to a child of nine.

“Do you promise?”

“Yes,” said the child, faintly.

“For fear you might be tempted to break your promise, I have something to show you.”

She went to the cupboard, and took down a large pistol.

“There,” she said, “do you see that?”

“Yes, Aunt Peg.”

“What is it?”

“It is a pistol, I believe.”

“Do you know what it is for?”

“To shoot people with,” said Ida, fixing her eyes on the weapon, as if impelled by a species of fascination.

“Yes,” said the woman; “I see you understand. Well, now, do you know what I would do if you should tell anybody where you came from, or attempt to run away? Can you guess now?”

“Would you shoot me?” asked the child, struck with terror.

“Yes, I would,” said Peg, with fierce emphasis. “That’s just what I’d do. And what’s more,” she added, “even if you got away, and got back to your family in New York. I would follow you and shoot you dead in the street.”

“You wouldn’t be so wicked!” exclaimed Ida, appalled.

“Wouldn’t I, though?” repeated Peg, significantly. “If you don’t believe I would, just try it. Do you think you would like to try it?”

“No,” said the child, with a shudder.

“Well, that’s the most sensible thing you’ve said yet. Now, that you have got to be a little more reasonable, I’ll tell you what I am going to do with you.”

Ida looked up eagerly into her face.

“I am going to keep you with me a year. I want the services of a little girl for that time. If you serve me faithfully, I will then send you back to your friends in New York.”

“Will you?” said Ida, hopefully.

“Yes. But you must mind and do what I tell you.”

“O yes,” said the child, joyfully.

This was so much better than she had been led to fear, that the prospect of returning home, even after a year, gave her fresh courage.

“What shall I do?” she asked, anxious to conciliate Peg.

“You may take the broom,—you will find it just behind the door,—and sweep the room.”

“Yes, Aunt Peg.”

“And after that you may wash the dishes. Or, rather, you may wash the dishes first.”

“Yes, Aunt Peg.”

“And after that I will find something for you to do.”

The next morning Ida was asked if she would like to go out into the street.

This was a welcome proposition, as the sun was shining brightly, and there was little to please a child’s fancy in Peg’s shabby apartment.

“I am going to let you do a little shopping,” said Peg. “There are various things that we want. Go and get your bonnet.”

“It’s in the closet,” said Ida.

“O yes, where I put it. That was before I could trust you.”

She went to the closet, and came back bringing the bonnet and shawl. As soon as they were ready, they emerged into the street. Ida was glad to be in the open air once more.

“This is a little better than being shut up in the closet, isn’t it?” said Peg.

Ida owned that it was.

“You see you’ll have a very good time of it, if you do as I bid you. I don’t want to do you any harm. I want you to be happy.”

So they walked along together, until Peg, suddenly pausing, laid her hand on Ida’s arm, and pointing to a shop near by, said to her, “Do you see that shop?”

“Yes,” said Ida.

“Well, that is a baker’s shop. And now I’ll tell you what to do. I want you to go in, and ask for a couple of rolls. They come at three cents apiece. Here’s some money to pay for them. It is a silver dollar, as you see. You will give this to them, and they will give you back ninety-four cents in change. Do you understand’?”

“Yes,” said Ida; “I think I do.”

“And if they ask if you haven’t anything smaller, you will say no.”

“Yes, Aunt Peg.”

“I will stay just outside. I want you to go in alone, so that you will get used to doing without me.”

Ida entered the shop. The baker, a pleasant-looking man, stood behind the counter.

“Well, my dear, what is it?” he asked.

“I should like a couple of rolls.”

“For your mother, I suppose,” said the baker, sociably.

“No,” said Ida; “for the woman I board with.”

“Ha! a silver dollar, and a new one, too,” said the baker, receiving the coin tendered in payment. “I shall have to save that for my little girl.”

Ida left the shop with the two rolls and the silver change.

“Did he say anything about the money?” asked Peg, a little anxiously.

“He said he should save it for his little girl.”

“Good,” said the woman, approvingly; “you’ve done well.”

Ida could not help wondering what the baker’s disposal of the dollar had to do with her doing well, but she was soon thinking of other things.

CHAPTER XIII. BAD COIN

THE baker introduced to the reader’s notice in the last chapter was named Crump. Singularly enough Abel Crump, for this was his name, was a brother of Timothy Crump, the cooper. In many respects he resembled his brother. He was an excellent man, exemplary in all the relations of life, and had a good heart. He was in very comfortable circumstances, having accumulated a little property by diligent attention to his business. Like his brother, Abel Crump had married, and had one child, now about the size of Ida, that is, nine years old. She had received the name of Ellen.

When the baker closed his shop for the night he did not forget the silver dollar which he had received, or the disposal which he told Ida he should make of it.

He selected it carefully from the other coins, and slipped it into his vest pocket.

Ellen ran to meet him as he entered the house.

“What do you think I have brought you, Ellen?” said her father, smiling.

“Do tell me quick,” said the child, eagerly.

“What if I should tell you it was a silver dollar?”

“Oh, father, thank you,” and Ellen ran to show it to her mother.

“You got it at the shop?” asked his wife.

“Yes,” said the baker; “I received it from a little girl about the size of Ellen, and I suppose it was that gave me the idea of bringing it home to her.”

“Was she a pretty little girl?” asked Ellen, interested.

“Yes, she was very attractive. I could not help feeling interested in her. I hope she will come again.”

This was all that passed concerning Ida at that time. The thought of her would have passed from the baker’s mind, if it had not been recalled by circumstances.

Ellen, like most girls of her age, when in possession of money, could not be easy until she had spent it. Her mother advised her to lay it away, or perhaps deposit it in some Savings Bank; but Ellen preferred present gratification.

Accordingly one afternoon, when walking out with her mother, she persuaded her to go into a toy shop, and price a doll which she saw in the window. The price was sixty-two cents. Ellen concluded to take it, and tendered the silver dollar in payment.

The shopman took it into his hand, glancing at it carelessly at first, then scrutinizing it with considerable attention.

“What is the matter?” inquired Mrs. Crump. “It is good, isn’t it?”

“That is what I am doubtful of,” was the reply.

“It is new.”

“And that is against it. If it were old, it would be more likely to be genuine.”

“But you wouldn’t (sic) comdemn a piece because it was new?”

“Certainly not; but the fact is, there have been lately many cases where spurious dollars have been circulated, and I suspect this is one of them. However, I can soon test it.”

“I wish you, would,” said Mrs. Crump. “My husband took it at his shop, and will be likely to take more unless he is placed on his guard.”

The shopman retired a moment, and then reappeared.

“It is as I thought,” he said. “The coin is not good.”

“And can’t I pass it, then?” said Ellen, disappointed.

“I am afraid not.”

“Then I don’t see, Ellen,” said her mother, “but you will have to give up your purchase for to-day. We must tell your father of this.”

Mr. Crump was exceedingly surprised at his wife’s account.

“Really,” he said, “I had no suspicion of this. Can it be possible that such a beautiful child could be guilty of such a crime?”

“Perhaps not,” said his wife. “She may be as innocent in the matter as Ellen or myself.”

“I hope so,” said the baker; “it would be a pity that such a child should be given to wickedness. However, I shall find out before long.”

“How?”

“She will undoubtedly come again some time, and if she offers me one of the same coins I shall know what to think.”

Mr. Crump watched daily for the coming of Ida. He waited some days in vain. It was not the policy of Peg to send the child too often to the same place, as that would increase the chances of detection.

One day, however, Ida entered the shop as before.

“Good morning,” said the baker. “What will you have to-day?”

“You may give me a sheet of gingerbread, sir.”

The baker placed it in her hands.

“How much will it be?”

“Twelve cents.”

Ida offered him another silver dollar.

As if to make change, he stepped from behind the counter, and managed to place himself between Ida and the door.

“What is your name, my child?” he asked.

“Ida, sir.”

“Ida? A very pretty name; but what is your other name?”

Ida hesitated a moment, because Peg had forbidden her to use the name of Crump, and told her if the inquiry was ever made, she must answer Hardwick.

She answered, reluctantly, “My name is Ida Hardwick.”

The baker observed the hesitation, and this increased his suspicions.

“Hardwick!” he repeated, musingly, endeavoring to draw from the child as much information as he could before allowing her to perceive that he suspected her. “And where do you live?”

Ida was a child of spirit, and did not understand why she should be questioned so closely. She said, with some impatience, “I am in a hurry, sir, and would like to have you hand me the change as soon as you can.”

“I have no doubt of it,” said the baker, his manner changing; “but you cannot go just yet.”

“And why not?” asked Ida, her eyes flashing.

“Because you have been trying to deceive me.”

“I trying to deceive you!” exclaimed the child, in astonishment.

“Really,” thought Mr. Crump, “she does it well, but no doubt they train her to it. It is perfectly shocking, such depravity in a child.”

“Don’t you remember buying something here a week ago?” he said, in as stern a tone as his good nature would allow him to employ.

“Yes,” said Ida, promptly; “I bought two rolls at three cents a piece.”

“And what did you offer me in payment?”

“I handed you a silver dollar.”

“Like this?” asked Mr. Crump, holding up the coin.

“Yes, sir.”

“And do you mean to say,” said the baker, sternly, “that you didn’t know it was bad when you handed it to me?”

“Bad!” exclaimed Ida, in great surprise.

“Yes, spurious. It wasn’t worth one tenth of a dollar.”

“And is this like it?”

“Precisely.”

“Indeed, sir, I didn’t know anything about it,” said Ida, earnestly, “I hope you will believe me when I say that I thought it was good.”

“I don’t know what to think,” said the baker, perplexed.

“I don’t know whether to believe you or not,” said he. “Have you any other money?”

“That is all I have got.”

“Of course, I can’t let you have the gingerbread. Some would deliver you up into the hands of the police. However, I will let you go if you will make me one promise.”

“Oh, anything, sir.”

“You have given me a bad dollar. Will you promise to bring me a good one to-morrow?”

Ida made the required promise, and was allowed to go.