CHAPTER XIX
FIRE!
A little after the first of the year Daniella and her mother were on their way to Texas. Daniella's departure was not made without tears and vows of eternal friendship. "If I can't write very well yet," she said, "I'll try, and somebody kin tell me how to spell the words."
"We'll all write," the four girls promised, "and some day we shall expect to see you again."
"Where?" asked Daniella eagerly.
"We don't know just where," returned Nan, "but one never knows what will happen in this world, Aunt Sarah says, and so I am going to say we will meet again." It always pleased Nan to anticipate the improbable.
They all went to the station to see the Boggs's off, and, as the train moved out, they saw a pair of tearful eyes at the car window, and that was the last of Daniella for many a day. Both she and her mother had been comfortably provided for through many contributions of clothing and money, so they did not go away empty-handed.
"Well," said Nan with a long sigh as they watched the smoke from the train drift toward the mountains, "I am glad we can think of them somewhere else than in that lonely little cabin up there."
"It is a comfort," said Mary Lee, "but I really shall miss Daniella very much, and hasn't she learned a lot since that time we found her, a wild, little scary thing in the mountains?"
"Aunt Helen says there are all sort of possibilities in Daniella, if she ever gets any sort of a chance."
"She won't get much on a ranch," returned Mary Lee.
"Who knows?" said Nan thoughtfully.
Nan's music lessons commenced before the holidays were over. She went three times a week to her Aunt Helen, and, although there were days when instead of wrist movements, five finger exercises, and close legato, she gave more time to playing tunes by ear, on the whole, she was conscientious in her practicing, and it took very few words to fire her ambition or to make her appreciate the necessity of patient striving.
"All musicians must go through just this uninteresting drudgery," her aunt would tell her. "Think, Nan, even Beethoven and Chopin and Wagner had to train their fingers by these exercises and scales, so you must not expect to do less." Then Nan would try her utmost and the next time would show the improvement naturally following diligent, painstaking study. It was fortunate for her that Miss Helen knew how to appeal to her imagination and that she varied her talks, upon the dry details, with little anecdotes of the great masters, and with snatches of their best compositions to illustrate what she was saying, so that Nan, with her knowledge of the rudiments of music, gained also a knowledge of musical history which made her work much more interesting.
At this time Nan and Mary Lee, too, were fired with an ambition to further improve their minds, this following certain talks with their Aunt Helen, and they determined upon a course of reading.
"We'll take Macaulay's History of England," said Mary Lee; "it will be the most useful."
The two girls were on their knees before the old bookcase which held mostly old standard works, and few modern books.
"We must have some maps and dictionaries and things," said Nan, clapping the covers of a volume together to beat out the dust. So with maps and books of reference, they established themselves in a quiet corner upon two or three consecutive Saturdays, but at the end of the third Saturday, they found themselves always starting with a sentence which read: "The king had no standing army." Beyond this, they never seemed able to go, mainly because the book to girls of their age meant simply a very dry record, and they found it more interesting to read some anecdote from one of the books of reference, and to talk about what their aunt had told them of England of the present day. Therefore, at last Macaulay was laid aside, and the only fact they remembered reading from the book was that the king had no standing army.
Although Miss Sarah had never set foot across the brook, she tacitly permitted the intercourse between the two families, and even admitted that Miss Helen was not to be included in the censure which she so sweepingly bestowed upon her mother. Of the children's grandmother, she would never speak, and only by a toss of the head and a sarcastic smile did they know that she had not altered her opinion of the elder Mrs. Corner. Every attention or gift the girls received was attributed to the influence of Miss Helen, and Miss Sarah honestly believed that in her opinion she was right.
As for Miss Helen, she never came to her sister-in-law's house. "I am biding my time," she told her mother. "When Mary comes back, I think we shall have matters on a different footing."
"I'm afraid I can never bring myself to going there," sighed Mrs. Corner. "I'm too old to give up all my prejudices, Helen, but I shall try to meet my son's wife half way."
"If I know Mary Gordon Lee," said Helen, "you will not have to go even half way."
And indeed there was no going half way for anybody, as an occurrence soon changed everything for those who lived at Uplands. It took place one night when the winds of March were sweeping through the mountain forests, sighing through the pines in Nan's summer retreat, and uncovering the young pushing blades, already started from the ground down by the brook.
Nan, who was a light sleeper, was startled from her slumbers by the dashing by of engines, and by hearing cries of "Fire!" She slipped out of bed and drew aside the curtains to look out, wondering if the barn on their own place could have caught, but it was beyond the brook that the sky was red and the flames were mounting high. In an instant, she realized where the danger was. She rushed to the boys' door. "Ran, Ran," she cried, banging on the door, "Uplands is on fire!" She stopped to pound on her Aunt Sarah's door. "Uplands is on fire!" she cried. Then she ran back to her own room and slipped on her clothes.
In a few minutes the bolt rattled at Ran's door and he went flying down-stairs, two steps at a time. Then Aunt Sarah appeared in her dressing gown. "What was it you were saying, Nan?" she asked.
Nan was at the window. "Just come here and see," she said, and Aunt Sarah joined her. "Goodness!" she exclaimed. The fire was burning more fiercely now, fanned by the high winds. They could hear the "Chug, Chug" of the engines, the crackle of the burning, the hoarse cries of the men.
A sob arose in Nan's throat. "I can't bear to look at it, and yet it fascinates me," she said. "Oh, Aunt Sarah, do you suppose they are safe? I wish I could go and see."
"Not a step do you go," decided Aunt Sarah. "I'm going down to put some water to boil and be on hand if I'm wanted. You'd better go back to bed. The others are all fast asleep and that's what you ought to be."
"As if I could sleep," said Nan. "Please let me come down-stairs."
"Come along, then," said Aunt Sarah. And Nan followed.
In a short time there was a sound of voices outside and a knock at the door, then Ran came rushing in. "They are bringing Mrs. Corner and Miss Helen here," he said. "I told them to. That was right, wasn't it? This is the nearest house."
"It was quite right," returned Miss Sarah, stiffening herself, but going to the living-room to make a light, and then to the front door, candle in hand. "Bring them right in," she said, speaking to the forms moving about in the darkness.
"It took a little while to get a carriage," spoke up one of the men, "and the ladies had to stand outside for a time. They'd better have something warm."
Miss Sarah opened the door to admit first Mrs. Corner, helped along slowly by two men, and then Miss Helen. Both had blankets thrown around them over their night-dresses, and both were in their bare feet. "Right in here," repeated Miss Sarah.
The men established Mrs. Corner upon the old threadbare sofa, and Miss Helen sank into a rocking-chair. Nan had immediately gone back to the kitchen and presently appeared with two cups of steaming coffee. She went over at once to the sofa. "Won't you drink this, grandmother?" she said. "It will do you good."
"I am very cold, very cold," returned Mrs. Corner weakly. "Where am I?" she asked as the sense of warmth pervaded her.
"At our house grandmother," Nan answered.
"Where's Helen?" she asked with a bewildered look.
Miss Helen came to her. "Here I am, mother dear, perfectly safe. Drink this hot coffee and you will feel better."
Mrs. Corner took the coffee obediently and then lay back with closed eyes. Nan threw her arms around her Aunt Helen. "Darling," she said, "please drink your coffee, too, before it gets cold, and come over here by the stove."
"I'll sit by mother," returned Miss Helen. "Never mind about me."
"But I do mind about you," said Miss Sarah, standing over her with the coffee. "Drink this right down, Miss Helen." And Miss Helen, with a forlorn little smile, obeyed.
"We must get your mother straight to bed," Miss Sarah continued. "I'll go up and get ready for her. Do you think you could help me carry her up, Ran?" she asked the boy, who was standing by.
"Indeed I can!" he answered. And in a few minutes both Mrs. Corner and her daughter were in Miss Sarah's own bed, and that capable person was grimly seeing to their comfort.
Little was said on either side, but after Miss Sarah had placed hot bricks to Miss Helen's icy feet, she leaned over her and said: "Now, go to sleep and don't worry."
"But we are giving you so much trouble, Miss Dent," said Miss Helen, "and besides – "
"What are we in this world for?" said Miss Sarah. "And as for the rest of it, you're where you ought to be. I know what Mary would want. All you have to do is to get warm and go to sleep." But as she crossed the hall, Miss Sarah drew a long sigh. "I wonder what next," she said. "I suppose the Lord thought He'd teach me and that proud old woman a lesson, and we're learning it here side by side."
Nan laid her cheek against her Aunt Sarah's hand. She had a very good idea of what a bitter lesson it was, and of how hard it was to Aunt Sarah Dent to offer hospitality to Mrs. Corner.
"You're very good to do all this," she said, "and to give up your own room, Aunt Sarah."
"I'll slip into your place by Mary Lee," said Aunt Sarah, "and you can get in with the twins; theirs is a mighty wide old bed. I wouldn't turn a dog out under such circumstances, and if Grace Corner can stand it, I can."
They were all at breakfast when Miss Helen came down the next morning. Nan had laid out some of her mother's clothing for her, which sat strangely upon Miss Helen's little figure. "Mother is sleeping," she said, "and I would not disturb her. I am afraid she is a little feverish." She turned to Ran. "Was anything saved, do you know?" she asked.
"Quite a lot of furniture and some of the pictures, I believe," he told her.
"Grandmother's portrait, I hope," spoke up Nan.
"Yes, that was saved, I am sure. It is a little hard to know just what is safe, for everything is so soaked with water in the rooms that were not actually burned, that we can't tell just yet. Half the house is burned out entirely, only the walls stand on that side."
Miss Helen drew a long sigh. "We were to have been very happy there for the rest of our lives," she said plaintively.
"What's become of Baz?" asked Jack anxiously. The children were much excited over the strange news that had met them when they awoke that morning.
"I found Baz in a fence corner," Ran told Jack. "He was scared to death at first but I managed to catch him, and bring him over here. Lady Gray seemed to recognize him at once and they are snuggled up in the box with Ruby."
Jack looked greatly pleased. Her own had come to her again.
Miss Helen said little. There were great circles around her eyes and she was very pale. After breakfast she went to Miss Sarah.
"I know it is hard for you to have us here," she said, "and I cannot consent to giving you extra care. I know how you must feel."
"My dear," said Miss Sarah, "I have no right to feel. It is Mary's house, and I am simply doing as I know she would wish to do. I am not to be considered at all in the matter."
Miss Helen looked at her wistfully and Miss Sarah's face softened. "Please don't give yourself any anxiety," she went on. "When I saw your mother, feeble and dependent; when I saw your white hair, Helen Corner, and realized what the years had done for you, and that you were homeless by the power of the Almighty's elements, do you think I did not understand that He meant to teach me, too, not to set up my puny little will against His? We are all children of one Father and you are one of my sisters."
"Thank you," said Miss Helen gently. "I understand, too, and I thank you. Now, please, may I tell you of a little project of mine?"
Miss Sarah drew up her chair and the two sat down. "I have been thinking," began Miss Helen, "that we could be very comfortable in the wing of this house. There are the two rooms up-stairs besides the attic and the three rooms down-stairs, including the office which we could use as a kitchen. Couldn't we move over such of our things as are saved from the fire and settle there, for the present, at least? Do you think Mary would object?"
"I think Mary would say it was the very thing to do, if it suited you."
"I think it would be better for mother to have a place she could call home. This is where she lived when she was first married, before my grandparents died and she went to Uplands. It is familiar to her. She could be near the children and yet could have the quiet which she is accustomed to. We can have Martha to do our work and I do not see that we could do better. Then, too," she paused in some embarrassment, "mother would want to pay a generous rent."
Miss Sarah raised her hand. "That must be settled by you and Mary," she said. "As for the rest, I know she will consent."
"Then will you send for Martha? And I am sure we shall be able to get settled very soon."
The result of this planning was that within a week Miss Helen and her mother were established in the old wing. During the time of preparation, Mrs. Corner did not leave her room, and seemed still dazed and shattered, but was quiet and docile, seldom showing any evidence of her old spirit. The furniture saved was supplemented by such new pieces as were needed and it really was a cozy little home into which Miss Helen took her mother. There was no lack of helpers. Friends, neighbors and kinsfolk were only too ready to lend their aid, though by far the most eager were the boys and girls of the house, who were willing runners of errands and did much toward making the rooms pretty and cozy.
Still, from the moment of her removal from Uplands, Mrs. Corner failed visibly. She rallied a little after going into the rooms prepared for her, and took a passing interest in them, but it was only a short time after that she grew weaker and at last could not even leave her bed. "It is the shock and the exposure," said Dr. Ward, looking grave when Miss Sarah questioned him. "I doubt if she gets over this, but we must try to keep Miss Helen in good heart." And with the knowledge that a broken, feeble old woman was nearing the brink of the dark river, the last vestige of ill-will left Miss Sarah, and she was a tower of strength to Miss Helen in her hour of trial.
The wind-swept, blackened rooms of the house at Uplands gave the children an awed feeling whenever they looked that way. From those of the rooms which were not completely burned out, the water-soaked furniture had been removed, except where, here and there, a scorched piece of drapery flapped from some broken window, or a charred article of furniture was visible through the gaps in the walls. The fire had started in a defective flue and one side of the house was in complete ruins.
It was a desolate sight to those who had known and loved its inmates, and of these perhaps the chief mourner was old Unc' Landy who, in spite of his railings at the former mistress of the mansion, now felt for her only pity. "Hit sho is hard fo' a proud uprighteous pusson lak ole miss ter give up all dese yer flesh-pots ob Egyp'," he said to Nan, "de quails an' de manna an' de gol'en calf what she been a hankerin' arter in de days ob huh youf. Yas, Lord, yuh done lay yo' han' mighty heaby on huh, an' I suttinly does groan in spi'it when I sees how de mighty fallen. I sholy does wrastle wid de Lord in de night season implorin' Him to hab mercy on huh po' soul."
Such talk was awe-inspiring to the children, not one of whom thought of anything but the favors their grandmother had shown them, and all of whom were ready and eager to do the least thing they could to add to her comfort or to their Aunt Helen's.
"It means so much to have you dear children so near," said Miss Helen many times a day. "I don't know what I should do without you."
The March winds were still and the April rains were falling gently when the end at last came to Grandmother Corner's days on earth. In the early evening of a spring Sabbath she called clearly: "Mary Lee, Mary Lee!"
Nan ran for her sister. "Grandmother wants you," she said, and Mary Lee wondering, hurried in to receive no look of recognition. She was as a stranger to her grandmother.
"Here is Mary Lee," said Nan bending over her.
Mrs. Corner shook her head. "Mary Lee, Mary Lee," she whispered.
"It is your mother whom she is calling," said Aunt Sarah as the patient dozed again.
Presently there came a second call: "Helen, Helen!"
"I am here, mother!" said her daughter.
The mother opened her eyes and looked at the little figure by her side. "You will be just, Helen," she said. "Jack was my child as well as you, and his children must have what is right."
"They shall have it," said Miss Helen, laying her cheek against her mother's frail-looking hand.
"There was a will – I forget," and again she dozed.
Aunt Sarah spoke to Nan. "You and Mary Lee go now into the next room. I will stay here, and if Miss Helen wants you, I will call you."
The dusk was settling down on the earth, the mountains were dimly seen through a mist of rain. "There are shadows everywhere," said Nan, as she stood looking out of the window. Jack and Jean were staying with their Cousin Mag, but the two elder girls had kept close together all day.
The dusk had faded into twilight when there was a slight movement in the next room, then the girls heard a footstep on the stair and some one hurried along the hallway. They went to the door. "Where is she?" they heard some one say, and they looked to see their Aunt Helen clasped in the arms of their own mother and heard her say: "Oh, Mary, Mary, you are all I have left me now, you and the children."
CHAPTER XX
LOOKING AHEAD
It was one lovely day in June that Nan hied her to Place o' Pines. She gazed with a half smile at the old log of wood on which the music rack was still fastened. No need now to pretend a piano she remembered with pride and pleasure. She began softly to sing the old tune but this time Little Jamie was not the refrain, but that other one: Dearest Mother.
"The very nicest thing in all the world is a mother," she said to herself. "I believe just as Dr. Woods said to Aunt Helen the other day; she made me say it over so I wouldn't forget it: 'The Being who could conceive and create a good mother must Himself be perfect love.'"
"Nan, Nan," came the voice of some one calling from afar.
Nan started up and listened, then she crept out of the opening in the pines and ran around to the fence, giving the peculiar call which the Corner children always used in answering one another. "Where are you?" Mary Lee's voice came nearer. There was an excited and triumphant ring in it. Evidently, she had something important to tell.
"Here I am," said Nan, squeezing herself through the fence and meeting her sister on the other side. "What do you want me for, Mary Lee?"
"You ought just to hear what mother and Aunt Helen and Aunt Sarah have been talking about; the most exciting things. Come over here and I'll tell you." Mary Lee spoke importantly. It was generally Nan who was the dispenser of news, and Mary Lee seldom had the chance of taking the role of herald, in consequence she carried herself with the little air of superiority which Nan generally assumed upon such occasions.
Nan followed her to a patch of grass by the side of the fence, and they sat down together. This summer the two were more frequently companions, for Phil had suddenly discovered a preference for the company of boys, and was generally with Ashby and Ran pursuing more masculine sports than Mary Lee cared to join.
"We're not likely to be here six months from now," Mary Lee began with a view to making a sensation.
"What do you mean?" said Nan, startled out of a pretended indifference.
"Just what I say. Of course, Aunt Sarah and the boys will be here but we shall not."
"Oh, Mary Lee, we are not to be sent away to boarding-school, are we?" asked Nan in a horror-stricken voice.
Mary Lee hugged her knees and rocked back and forth in enjoyment of the situation. "No, we're not going to boarding-school. Oh, Nan, it will be perfectly splendid, and you've always longed to travel, you know. It will be so fine to see oranges growing, and all sorts of things, olives and lemons and such oceans of flowers. You used to make such a fuss over that one little palm, and how you will revel in the things we shall see."
"I think you might tell me what you are talking about," said Nan impatiently.
But Mary Lee was enjoying her unwonted pleasure of news-giving too much to let out all her information at once and she went on, "Of course we shall not travel so very much after we once get there for it will be better that mother should settle down in some one place where it will agree with her. Aunt Helen says we must not give up our studies, and that you especially must keep up your music, so we shall probably take some little cottage where we can have a piano. It would be fun to have a Chinese servant, wouldn't it?"
Nan was too quick-witted to let this hint pass. "I know now!" she cried exultantly. "It's California. Now, Mary Lee, don't fool about it any more, but just begin at the beginning and tell me."
Seeing that there was no use in further holding off, Mary Lee smoothed down her frock and began. "Well, I just happened to be on the porch outside the living-room when it all started, and I went in and listened; they let me. It began by mother's saying that the doctor told her it would be perfectly safe to stay here during the summer, but that when November came she must go away again. He said that if she would do that for two or three years he was sure that she could get over all her symptoms. 'It makes my heart sink when I think of being separated for even one more winter from my children, but it must be done,' said mother, 'and it is fortunate that the boys want to come back and that I shall be able to cover my expenses.'
"Then Aunt Helen spoke up. 'Don't say anything about expenses, Mary,' she said; 'you know it was mother's wish that the estate should be divided, and though she did not sign that last will, I consider it just as binding as if she had done it.' Oh, Nan, she said she meant to have grandmother's first will set aside so we could have our share lawfully."
"That is just like Aunt Helen," said Nan. "Go on."
"Then they talked about that for a little while and said a lot about lawyers and trustees and things I didn't understand, then Aunt Helen said, 'What do you think of California for a winter, Mary?'
"'But it is so far,' said mother, 'and it is such an expensive trip. I should like it better than the Adirondacks, but for the distance. But I couldn't be so far from my children. Of course,' she said, 'you and Aunt Sarah would be here, and that would be a great comfort.'
"'I didn't mean for you to go alone,' Aunt Helen said; 'I meant that the children and I would go, too.'
"Mother turned right around and put her hand on Aunt Sarah's. 'But what would my dear auntie do?' she asked.
"'Don't mind me,' Aunt Sarah said. 'I'll manage. If you want to close the house, I'll go to Henry Dent's or somewhere, but if you'd rather keep it open I should like mighty well to stay right here and look after those boys, and perhaps I could get a couple more to come in, so it would keep me interested and occupied.'
"Then I spoke right up, Nan."
"What did you say?" asked Nan, eagerly.
"I said, 'Oh, do let Aunt Sarah stay, mother, for who would take care of old Pete, and what would Lady Gray and Baz and Ruby do without any family, and then there's Unc' Landy and the pig and the chickens.' Then they all laughed, though I don't know why and mother said: 'That settles it, Mary Lee. If Aunt Sarah wants to take such a large family under her wing, I am sure I have no objection.'
"Then Aunt Helen said: 'I've only one thing to say, Mary. If Miss Sarah is to undertake all this, I hope you will feel that you have enough to let her have all she can make out of her – her – '"
"Her experiment," suggested Nan who had a more ready vocabulary than Mary Lee.
"I think she said 'undertaking,'" said Mary Lee, not to be corrected. "Then I said: 'Are we really going to California, Aunt Helen?' And she said, 'I should like to think so. It all rests with your mother. I have always wanted to go there and I can't bear to be parted from you all, so why can't we go together?' Then she asked mother what she thought about it."
"She said yes, of course," put in Nan.
Mary Lee nodded. "Uhm – hm. She did indeed, and I got up and just yelled, and then I told them I was going hot-foot to find you, and I left them there still talking about it."
"Oh, do let's go back and hear the particulars," said Nan. "Isn't it perfectly wildly exciting? Did you ever believe such a thing could happen to us? To think we are all going. I wonder when we shall start, and where we shall go, I mean the exact place. To think of living, really living there. Come, let's find out more."
They went racing toward the house and burst in upon the three ladies still absorbed in making plans. "Are we really going to California?" asked Nan, excitedly. "When shall we start? What place is our cottage to be in? May I take some of my books? What trunk shall I use?"
All three smiled. "Gently, Nan, gently," said her mother. "We are not going to-morrow, and there will be plenty of time to decide on trunks before October."
Nan drew a long sigh, and went to sit down by her Aunt Helen. "Fairy godmother," she said, "the Poppy fairy never brought me this dream. Just wave your wand, please, and make me see it all."
"We shall go to Southern California," said Miss Helen, drawing Nan close to her, "probably to San Diego or Pasadena. We shall travel a little at first and decide upon the best place for your mother, then we will take a little cottage, hire a piano, have some books, engage a teacher for you girls, and settle down to enjoy our winter."
"Do let's have a Chinese servant."
"Perhaps we can try one."
"And we can have a garden?"
"If we can find a house with one attached. I think it is extremely probable that we will have one. A little cottage of about six or eight rooms will be large enough, I think, and, if we can, we will have a garden where the geraniums will grow so high that they will shade our second story windows, and where roses will bloom in January. We will not be too far from orange groves and olive orchards nor too distant from the city, and we must be near enough to slip over into Mexico and to have the Pacific ocean for a neighbor. We shall hear Spanish spoken, and the ancient missions will give an old world air to our surroundings. We shall be where your mother will gain strength and health, and where you will have the opportunity of learning all sorts of new things, where I shall try to forget many sad things of my old life, and shall feel that I have a sister and her children to make me content and give me a new peace. Do you like the picture, West Corner?"
"It is beautiful. Now it all seems real. I can see everything, dearest, it's lovely. Just one thing more: How do we go?"
"I think we shall take the southern route and come back by some other."
"You mean – Just which way is the southern route?"
"Down through New Orleans, Texas, and a bit of Mexico, then up through Southern California. Coming back, we will go through upper California and perhaps come home through the Canadian Rockies, but we will decide that when the time comes."
Nan drew a long sigh of satisfaction. "It is just too lovely for words. I may tell it, may I? It's all going to really happen?"
"So far as any one can say a thing will really happen. Of course, if any one should go prowling around at night in strange places and break an arm or leg and so detain us, we all could not go."
Nan fell upon her aunt with playful beatings of her fist in punishment of this speech. "It won't be me, at any rate," she declared. "I'm going to hunt up the kiddies now before Mary Lee gets hold of them to tell them."
Mary Lee had already flown to Cousin Mag's with the news and Nan was free to be first dispenser of it to the twins. She was but a little way from the house when Jean met her, running, and wiping away tears with two grimy fists. "Whither away, my little maid?" cried Nan, catching her. "Where's Jack?"
"Oh, Nan," said Jean, "come, come crick; Jack is in the pig-pen and the pig is screaling awfully."
"Why in the world did Jack want to get into the pig-pen with the pig?" asked Nan. "Did she want to make piggy 'screal'?"
"No, she fell in. Come, get her out, please, Nan."
Nan followed Jean to the scene of the disaster, but, by the time they reached there, Jack had managed to get out by her own efforts, though she was a sight to behold. "Goodness, child!" exclaimed Nan, "you are a mess. What have you been doing? Here, come along with me. Don't touch me. Unclean! Unclean! Fee-ugh! how does the pig stand that kind of sachet? Go on ahead – No, keep behind. I don't notice it so much, then. Follow, follow." She ran on ahead until she reached the brook, whose waters were warmed by the June sunshine. "Off with your shoes and jump right in," she cried to Jack; "into that nice little smooth pool where the sun is shining. You are the pilgrim in 'Pilgrim's Progress,'" she went on, "and I see that the dirt of the Slough of Despond is upon thee, but that slough is the beginning of the sorrows that do attend those that go on in that way. Hear me, I am older than thou; thou art like to meet within the way that thou goest, Wearisomeness, Pain, Hunger, Perils, Nakedness, Sword, Lions, Dragons, Darkness – "