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Title: The Mislaid Uncle

Author: Evelyn Raymond

Illustrator: Frank T. Merrill

Release date: March 23, 2021 [eBook #64911]
                Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Credits: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by the Library of Congress)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MISLAID UNCLE ***

[Illustration: THE LITTLE FACE DROPPED UPON THE OPEN PAGE.]




  THE
  MISLAID
  UNCLE

  _by_ EVELYN RAYMOND

  [Illustration]

  NEW YORK
  THOMAS Y· CROWELL & CO·
  PUBLISHERS




  Copyright, 1903,
  BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY.

  _Published September, 1903._




CONTENTS.


  CHAPTER                                      PAGE

     I. DIVERSE WAYS                              1

    II. A HUMAN EXPRESS PARCEL                   14

   III. ARRIVAL                                  34

    IV. A MULTITUDE OF JOSEPHS                   46

     V. A WILD MARCH MORNING                     63

    VI. MEMORIES AND MELODIES                    80

   VII. THE BOY FROM NEXT DOOR                   95

  VIII. AFTER THE FROLIC                        111

    IX. NEIGHBORLY AMENITIES                    123

     X. TOM, DICK, HARRY, AND THE BABY          138

    XI. THE DISPOSAL OF THE PARCEL              150




THE MISLAID UNCLE.




CHAPTER I.

DIVERSE WAYS.


Three people were together in a very pleasant little parlor, in a land
where the sun shines nearly all the time. They were Doctor Mack, whose
long, full name was Alexander MacDonald; mamma, who was Mrs. John
Smith; and Josephine, who was Mrs. Smith’s little girl with a pretty
big name of her own.

Doctor Mack called Mrs. Smith “Cousin Helen,” and was very good to her.
Indeed, ever since papa John Smith had had to go away and leave his
wife and child to house-keep by themselves the busy doctor-cousin had
done many things for them, and mamma was accustomed to go to him for
advice about all little business matters. It was because she needed
his advice once more that she had summoned him to the cottage now; even
though he was busier than ever, since he was making ready to leave San
Diego that very day for the long voyage to the Philippine Islands.

Evidently the advice that had so promptly been given was not agreeable;
for when Josephine looked up from the floor where she was dressing
Rudanthy, mamma was crying softly, and Doctor Mack was saying in his
gravest take-your-medicine-right-away kind of a voice that there was
“nothing else to do.”

“Oh, my poor darling! She is so young, so innocent. I cannot, I
cannot!” wailed the mother.

“She is the most self-reliant, independent young lady of her age that I
ever knew,” returned the doctor.

Josephine realized that they were talking about her, but didn’t see why
that should make her mother sad. It must be all the cousin-doctor’s
fault. She had never liked him since he had come a few weeks before,
and scratched her arm and made it sore. “Vaccinated” it, mamma had
said, to keep her from being ill sometime. Which had been very puzzling
to the little girl, because “sometime” might never come, while the
arm-scratching had made her miserable for the present. She now asked,
in fresh perplexity:

“Am I ‘poor,’ mamma?”

“At this moment I feel that you are very poor indeed, my baby,”
answered the lady.

Josephine glanced about the familiar room, in which nothing seemed
changed except her mother’s face. That had suddenly grown pale and sad,
and even wrinkled, for there was a deep, deep crease between its brows.

“That’s funny. Where are my rags?” asked the child.

Mamma smiled; but the doctor laughed outright, and said:

“There is more than one way of being poor, little missy. Come and show
me your arm.”

Josephine shivered as she obeyed. However, there was nothing to
fear now, for the arm was well healed, and the gentleman patted it
approvingly, adding:

“You are a good little girl, Josephine.”

“Yes, Doctor Mack, I try to be.”

“Yet you don’t love me, do you?”

“Not--not so--so very much,” answered the truthful child, painfully
conscious of her own rudeness.

“Not so well as Rudanthy,” he persisted.

“Oh, nothing like!”

“Josephine,” reproved mamma; then caught her daughter in her arms, and
began to lament over her. “My darling! my darling! How can I part from
you?”

Before any reply could be made to this strange question, the door-bell
rang, and there came in another of those blue-coated messenger boys,
who had been coming at intervals all that day and yesterday. He brought
a telegram which mamma opened with trembling fingers. When she had read
it, she passed it to Doctor Mack, who also read it; after which he
folded and returned it to the lady, saying:

“Well, Cousin Helen, you must make your decision at once. The steamer
starts this afternoon. If you sail by her there’s no time to be lost.
If you go, I will delay my own preparations to help you off.”

For one moment more Mrs. Smith stood silent, pressing her hands to her
throbbing temples, and gazing at Josephine as if she could not take her
eyes from the sweet, childish face. Then she turned toward the kind
doctor and said, quite calmly:

“Yes, Cousin Aleck, I will go.”

He went away quickly, and mamma rang the bell for big Bridget, who came
reluctantly, wiping her eyes on her apron. But her mistress was not
crying now, and announced:

“Bridget, I am starting for Chili by this afternoon’s steamer.
Josephine is going to Baltimore by the six o’clock overland. There
isn’t a moment to waste. Please bring the empty trunks from the
storeroom and pack them while I attend to other matters, though I will
help you as I can. Put my clothes into the large trunk and Josephine’s
into the small one. There, there, good soul, don’t begin to cry again.
I need all my own will to get through this awful day; and please make
haste.”

During the busy hours which followed both mamma and Bridget seemed
to have forgotten the little girl, save, now and then, to answer her
questions; and one of these was:

“What’s Chili, Bridget?”

“Sure, it’s a kind of pickle-sauce, darlin’.”

“Haven’t we got some of it in the cupboard?”

“Slathers, my colleen.”

“Chili is a country, my daughter,” corrected mamma, looking up from the
letter she was writing so hurriedly that her pen went scratch, scratch.

“Is it red, mamma?”

“Hush, little one. Don’t be botherin’ the mistress the now. Here’s
Rudanthy’s best clothes. Put ’em on, and have her ready for the start.”

“Is Rudanthy going a journey, too, Bridget?”

“‘Over the seas and far away’--or over the land; what differ?”

When the doll had been arrayed in its finery mamma had finished her
writing, and, rising from her desk, called the child to her. Then she
took her on her lap and said, very earnestly:

“Josephine, you are eight years old.”

“Yes, mamma. This very last birthday that ever was.”

“That is old enough to be brave and helpful.”

“Oh, quite, mamma. I didn’t cry when Doctor Mack vaccinated me, and I
sewed a button on my apron all myself.”

“For a time I am obliged to go away from you, my--my precious!”

Josephine put up her hand and stroked her mother’s cheek, begging:

“Don’t cry, mamma, and please, please don’t go away.”

The lady’s answer was a question:

“Do you love papa, darling?”

“Why, mamma! How funny to ask! Course I do, dearly, dearly.”

“Poor papa is ill. Very ill, I fear. He is alone in a far, strange
country. He needs me to take care of him. He has sent for me, and I am
going to him. But I cannot take you. For many reasons--the climate,
the uncertainty--I am going to send you East to your Uncle Joe’s; the
uncle for whom you were named, your father’s twin brother. Do you
understand me, dear?”

“Yes, mamma. You are going to papa, and I am going to Uncle Joe. Who is
going with me there?”

“Nobody, darling. There is nobody who can go. We have no relatives
here, except our doctor-cousin, and he is too busy. So we are going to
send you by express. It is a safe way, though a lonely one, and-- Oh,
my darling, my darling; how can I! how can I!”

Ever since papa had gone, so long ago, Josephine had had to comfort
mamma. She did so now, smoothing the tear-wet cheek with her fat little
hand, and chattering away about the things Bridget had put in her trunk.

“But she mustn’t pack Rudanthy. I can’t have her all smothered up. I
will take Rudanthy in my arms. She is so little and so sweet.”

“So little and so sweet!” echoed the mother’s heart, sadly; and it
was well for all that Doctor Mack returned just then. For he was so
brisk and business-like, he had so many directions to give, he was so
cheerful and even gay, that, despite her own forebodings, Mrs. Smith
caught something of his spirit, and completed her preparations for
departure calmly and promptly.

Toward nightfall it was all over: the parting that had been so bitter
to the mother and so little understood by the child. Mamma was standing
on the deck of the outward moving steamer, straining her eyes backward
over the blue Pacific toward the pretty harbor of San Diego, almost
believing she could still see a little scarlet-clad figure waving
a cheerful farewell from the vanishing wharf. But Josephine, duly
ticketed and labelled, was already curled up on the cushions of her
section in the sleeper, and staring out of window at the sights which
sped by.

“The same old ocean, but so big, so big! Mamma says it is peacock-blue,
like the wadded kimono she bought at the Japanese store. Isn’t it queer
that the world should fly past us like this! That’s what it means in
the jogaphy about the earth turning round, I suppose. If it doesn’t
stop pretty soon I shall get dreadful dizzy and, maybe, go to sleep.
But how could I? I’m an express parcel now. Cousin-Doctor Mack said so,
and dear mamma. Parcels don’t go to sleep ever, do they, Rudanthy?”

But Rudanthy herself, lying flat in her mistress’ lap, had closed her
own waxen lids and made no answer. The only one she could have made,
indeed, would have been “Papa,” or “Mamma,” and that wouldn’t have been
a “truly” answer, anyway.

Besides, just then a big man, shining with brass buttons and a
brass-banded cap, came along and demanded:

“Tickets, please.”

Josephine clutched Rudanthy and woke that indolent creature rather
suddenly.

“Dolly, dolly, sit up! The shiny-blue man is hollering at the people
dreadful loud. Maybe it’s wrong for dolls to go to sleep in these
railway things.”

[Illustration: “WHERE’S YOUR FOLKS?”]

The shiny-blue man stopped right at Josephine’s seat, and demanded
fiercely, or it sounded fierce to the little girl:

“Sissy, where’s your folks?”

“Please, I haven’t got any,” she answered politely.

“Who do you belong to, then?” asked he.

“I’m Mrs. John Smith’s little girl, Josephine,” she explained.

“Hmm. Well, where’s Mrs. John Smith?” he persisted.

“She’s gone away,” said she, wishing he, too, would go away.

“Indeed. Tell me where to find her. You’re small enough, but there
should be somebody else in this section.”

“I guess you can’t find her. She’s sailing and sailing on a steamer to
my papa, who’s sick and needs her more ’n I do.”

“Hello! this is odd!” said the conductor, and passed on. But not before
he added the caution:

“You stay right exactly where you are, sissy, till I come back. I’ll
find out your party and have you looked after.”

Josephine tried to obey to the very letter. She did not even lay aside
the doll she had clasped to her breast, nor turn her head to look out
of the window. The enchanting, fairy-like landscape might fly by and by
her in its bewildering way; she dared gaze upon it no more.

After a while there were lights in the coach, and these made
Josephine’s eyes blink faster and faster. They blinked so fast, in
fact, that she never knew when they ceased doing so, or anything that
went on about her, till she felt herself lifted in somebody’s arms, and
raised her heavy lids, to see the shiny-blue man’s face close above her
own, and to hear his voice saying:

“Poor little kid! Make her berth up with double blankets, Bob, and keep
an eye on it through the night. My! Think of a baby like this making a
three-thousand-mile journey alone. My own little ones--Pshaw! What made
me remember them just now?”

Then Josephine felt a scratchy mustache upon her check, and a hard
thing which might have been a brass button jam itself into her temple.
Next she was put down into the softest little bed in the world, the
wheels went to singing “Chug-chug-chug,” in the drowsiest sort of
lullaby, and that was all she knew for a long time.

But something roused her, suddenly, and she stretched out her hand to
clasp, yet failed to find, her own familiar bed-fellow. Missing this
she sat up in her berth and shrieked aloud:

“Rudanthy! Ru-dan-thy! RUDANTHY!”




CHAPTER II.

A HUMAN EXPRESS PARCEL.


“Hush, sissy! Don’t make such a noise. You’re disturbing a whole car
full of people,” said somebody near her.

Josephine suppressed her cries, but could not stifle the mighty sob
which shook her. She looked up into the face of the black porter,
Bob, studied it attentively, found it not unkind, and regained her
self-possession.

“My name is not sissy. It’s Josephine Smith. I want my dolly. I cannot
go to sleep without her. Her name is Rudanthy. Fetch me Rudanthy, boy.”

Bob was the most familiar object she had yet seen. He might have
come from the big hotel where she and mamma had taken their meals.
Her mother’s cottage had been close by, and sometimes of a morning a
waiter had brought their breakfast across to them. That waiter was a
favorite, and in this dimness she fancied he had appeared before her.

“Do you live at the ‘Florence,’ boy?” she asked.

“No, missy, but my brother does,” he answered.

“Ah! Fetch me Rudanthy, please.”

After much rummaging, and some annoyance to a lady who now occupied
the upper berth, the doll was found and restored. But by this time
Josephine was wide awake and disposed to ask questions.

“What’s all the curtains hung in a row for, Bob?”

“To hide the berths, missy. I guess you’d better not talk now.”

“No, I won’t. What you doing now, Bob?” she continued.

“Making up the section across from yours, missy. Best go to sleep,”
advised the man.

“Oh, I’m not a bit sleepy. Are you?” was her next demand.

“Umm,” came the unsatisfactory response.

“What you say? You mustn’t mumble. Mamma never allows me to mumble. I
always speak outright,” was Josephine’s next comment.

“Reckon that’s true enough,” murmured the porter, under his breath.

“What, Bob? I didn’t hear,” from the little girl.

“No matter, I’ll tell you in the morning,” he whispered.

“I’d rather know now.”

No response coming to this, she went on:

“Bob! Please to mind me, boy. I--want--to--hear--now,” very distinctly
and emphatically. Josephine had been accustomed to having her wishes
attended to immediately. That was about all mamma and big Bridget
seemed to live for.

The lady in the berth above leaned over the edge and said, in a shrill
whisper:

“Little girl, keep still.”

“Yes, lady.”

Bob finished the opposite section, and a woman in a red kimono came
from the dressing-room and slipped behind the curtain. Josephine knew
a red kimono. It belonged to Mrs. Dutton, the minister’s wife, and Mrs.
Dutton often stayed at mamma’s cottage. Could this be Mrs. Dutton?

The child was out of bed, across the narrow aisle, swaying with the
motion of the car, pulling the curtains apart, and clutching wildly at
a figure in the lower berth.

“Mrs. Dutton. Oh! Mrs. Dutton! Here’s Josephine.”

“Ugh! Ouch! Eh! What?”

“Oh! ’Xcuse me. I thought you were Mrs. Dutton.”

“Well, I’m not. Go away. Draw that curtain again. Go back to your
folks. Your mother should know better than to let you roam about the
sleeper at night.”

“My mother knows--everything!” said Josephine, loyally. “I’m dreadful
sorry you’re not Mrs. Dutton, ’cause she’d have tooken off my coat and
things. My coat is new. My mamma wouldn’t like me to sleep in it. But
the buttons stick. I can’t undo it.”

“Go to your mother, child. I don’t wish to be annoyed.”

“I can’t, ’cause she’s over seas, big Bridget says, to that red-pickle
country. I s’pose I’ll have to, then. Good-night. I hope you’ll rest
well.”

The lady in the red kimono did not feel as if she would. She was always
nervous in a sleeping-car, anyway; and what did the child mean by “over
seas in the red-pickle country”? Was it possible she was travelling
alone? Were there people in the world so foolish as to allow such a
thing?

After a few moments of much thinking, the lady rose, carefully adjusted
her kimono, and stepped to Josephine’s berth. The child lay holding
the curtains apart, much to the disgust of the person overhead, and
gazing at the lamp above. Her cheeks were wet, her free hand clutched
Rudanthy, and the expression of her face was one that no woman could
see and not pity.

“My dear little girl, don’t cry. I’ve come to take off your cloak.
Please sit up a minute.”

“Oh, that’s nice! Thank you. I--I--if mamma”--

“I’ll try to do what mamma would. There. It’s unfastened. Such a pretty
coat it is, too. Haven’t you a little gown of some sort to put on?”

“All my things are in the satchel. Big Bridget put them there. She told
me--I forget what she did tell me. Bob tucked the satchel away.”

“I’ll find it.”

By this time the upper berth lady was again looking over its edge and
airing her views on the subject:

“The idea! If I’d known I was going to be pushed off up here and that
chit of a child put in below I’d have made a row.”

“I believe you,” said Red Kimono, calmly. “Yet I suppose this lower bed
must have been taken and paid for in the little one’s name.”

“’Xcuse me, Mrs. Kimono. I’m not a little one. I’m quite, quite big.
I’m Josephine.”

“And is there nobody on this train belonging to you, Miss Josie?” asked
Mrs. Red Kimono.

“Josephine. My mamma doesn’t like nicknames. There’s nobody but the
expressman. And everybody. Doctor Mack said to my mamma that everybody
would take care of me. I heard him. It is the truth. Doctor Mack is a
grown-up gentleman. Gentlemen never tell wrong stories. Do they?” asked
the little girl.

“They ought not, surely. And we ought not to be talking now. It is in
the middle of the night, and all the tired people want to sleep. Are
you comfortable? Then curl down here with Rudanthy and shut your eyes.
If you happen to wake again, and feel lonely, just come across to my
berth and creep in with me. There’s room in it for two when one of the
two is so small. Good-night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Red Kimono ceased whispering, pressed a kiss on the round cheek, and
disappeared. She was also travelling alone, but felt not half so lonely
since she had comforted the little child, who was again asleep, but
smiling this time, and who awoke only when a lady in a plain gray
costume pulled the curtains apart and touched her lightly on the
shoulder. This was “Red Kimono” in her day attire.

“Time to get up, Josephine. Breakfast is ready and your section-mate
will want the place fixed up. May I take you to the dressing-room?”

“Our colleen’s one of them good-natured kind that wakes up wide to-once
and laughin’,” had been big Bridget’s boast even when her charge was
but an infant, nor had the little girl outgrown her very sensible
babyish custom. She responded to the stranger’s greeting with a merry
smile and “Good morning!” and was instantly ready for whatever was to
come.

She was full of wonder over the cramped little apartment which all the
women travellers used in succession as a lavatory, and it may be that
this wonder made her submit without hindrance to the rather clumsy
brushing of her curls which Red Kimono attempted.

“’Xcuse me, that isn’t the way mamma or big Bridget does. They put me
in the bath, first off; then my hair, and then my clothes. Haven’t you
got any little girls to your house, Red Kimono?” inquired the young
traveller.

“No, dear, I haven’t even a house;” answered the lady, rather sadly.
“But your own dear mamma would have to forego the bath on a railway
sleeper, so let’s make haste and give the other people their rightful
use of this place.”

By this time several women had collected in the narrow passage leading
to the dressing-room, and were watching through the crack of its door
till Josephine’s toilet should be completed and their own chance could
come.

“What makes all them folks out there look so cross, dear Red Kimono?”

“Selfishness, dearie. And hunger. First come best fed, on a railway
dining-car, I fancy. There. You look quite fresh and nice. Let us go at
once.”

As they passed down the aisle where Bob was swiftly and deftly making
the sections ready for the day’s occupancy, Josephine was inclined to
pause and watch him, but was hurried onward by her new friend, who
advised:

“Don’t loiter, Josephine. If we don’t get to table promptly we’ll miss
our seats. Hurry, please.”

“Are you one of the selfish-hungry ones, Mrs. Red Kimono?”

The lady flushed, and was about to make an indignant reply, but
reflected that indignation would be wasted on such a little person as
this.

“It may be that I am, child. Certainly I am hungry, and so should you
be. I don’t remember seeing you at supper last night.”

“I had my supper with Doctor Mack before we started. Oh, he was nice to
me that time. He gave me turkey and mince-pie, and--and everything that
was on the bill of fare that I wanted, so’s I wouldn’t cry. He said
I’d be sick, but he didn’t mind that so long as I didn’t cry. He hates
crying people, Doctor Mack does. He likes mamma ’cause she’s so brave.
Once my papa was a soldier, and he’s a Company F man now; but most he’s
a ’lectrickeller, and has to go away to the funny pickle place to earn
the money for mamma and me. So then she and me never cry once. We just
keep on laughing like we didn’t mind, even if we do hate to say good-by
to papa for so long a while. I said I wouldn’t cry, not on all this
car ride; never, not at all. I--maybe I forgot, though. Did I cry last
night, Mrs. Red Kimono?”

“Possibly, just a little; not worth mentioning. Here, dear, climb into
this chair,” was the lady’s hasty reply.

“What a cute table! Just like hotel ones, only littler. It’s dreadful
wobbly, though. It makes my head feel funny. I--oh! I’m--I guess--I’m
sick!”

The lady shivered quite as visibly as poor Josephine. The dining-car
was the last one of the long train, and swayed from side to side in a
very unpleasant manner. The motion did not improve anybody’s appetite,
and the grown-up traveller was now vexed with herself for befriending
the childish one.

“She was nothing to me. Why should I break over my fixed rules of
looking out for number one and minding my own business? Well, I’ll get
through this meal somehow, and then rid my hands of the matter. I’m
not the only woman in our car. Let some of the others take a chance.
The idea! sending a little thing like that to travel alone. It’s
preposterous--perfectly preposterous.”

Unconsciously she finished her thought aloud, and Josephine heard her,
and asked:

“What does it mean, that big word, Mrs. Kimono?”

“It means--my name is--isn’t--no matter. Are you better? Can you eat?
It’s small wonder you were upset after the supper that foolish doctor
gave you. What is your breakfast at home?”

“Oatmeal and fruit. Sometimes, if I’m good, some meat and potato.”

“I will order it for you.”

“Thank you, but I can order for myself. Mamma always allows me to. She
wishes me to be myself, not anybody else,” returned the child.

“Oh, indeed! Then do so.”

Josephine recognized from the lady’s tone that she had given offence,
though didn’t know why. Now, it was another of her wise mother’s rules
that her little daughter should punish herself when any punishment was
needed. Opinions didn’t always agree upon the subject, yet, as a rule,
the conscientious child could be trusted to deal with her own faults
more sternly than anybody else would do. She realized that here was
a case in point, and, though the steak and potatoes which Red Kimono
ordered for herself looked very tempting, asked only for oatmeal and
milk, “without any sugar, if you please, boy.”

The lady frowned inquiringly.

“Are you still ill, Josephine?”

“No, Mrs. Kimono.”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“Dreadful.” Indeed, the hunger was evident enough.

“Then why don’t you take some heartier food? If you’re bashful-- Yet
you’re certainly not that. If you’re hungry, child, for goodness sake
eat.”

“It’s for goodness sake I can’t. I daren’t. It wouldn’t be right. Maybe
I can eat my dinner. Maybe.”

Tears were very near the big brown eyes, but the sweet little face was
turned resolutely away from the table toward the window and the sights
outside. One spoonful of unsweetened, flavorless meal was gulped down,
and the trembling lips remarked:

“It’s all begun again, hasn’t it?”

“What’s begun, Josephine?”

“The all-out-doors to go by and by us, like it did last night.”

“It is we who are going by the ‘all-out-doors,’ dear. The train moves,
the landscape stands still. Were you never on the cars before?”
inquired the lady.

“Never, not in all my whole life.”

“Indeed! But that’s not been such a long time, after all.”

Another brave effort at the plain breakfast, and the answer came:

“It’s pretty long to me. It seems--_forever_ since yesterday!”

The lady could not endure the sight of Josephine’s evident distress and
softly slipped a morsel of juicy steak upon the oatmeal saucer. With
gaze still averted the spoon came down into the dish, picked up the
morsel, and conveyed it to the reluctant mouth. The red lips closed,
smacked, opened, and the child faced about. With her napkin to hide the
movement she carefully replaced the morsel on the empty plate beside
the saucer and said, reproachfully:

“You oughtn’t to done that, Mrs. Kimono. Don’t you s’pose it’s bad
enough to be just starved, almost, and not be tempted? That’s like big
Bridget; and my mamma has to speak right sharp to her, she has. Quite
often, too. Once it was pudding, and I--I ate it. Then I had to do
myself sorry all over again. Please ’xcuse me.”

“You strange child! Yes, I will excuse you. I’m leaving table myself.
You mustn’t attempt to go back through the train to our car alone. Eh?
What? Beg pardon?” she said, turning around.

An official in uniform was respectfully addressing the lady:

“Pardon, madam, but I think this must be my little ‘Parcel.’ I’ve been
looking for her. Did you have your breakfast, little girl?”

“Yes, thank you,” she answered.

“I hope you enjoyed it.”

“I didn’t much,” was her frank reply to this kind wish.

“Why, wasn’t it right? Here, waiter! I want you to take this young lady
under your special care. See that she has the best of everything, and
is served promptly, no matter who else waits. It’s a point of honor
with the service, madam,” he explained to the wondering lady beside
them.

“The service? Beg pardon, but I don’t understand. The child seemed to
be alone and I tried to look after her a bit.”

“Thank you for doing so, I’m sure. The Express Service, I refer to.
I’m the train agent between San Diego and Chicago; she is under my
care. There the agent of the other line takes her in charge. She’s
billed through to Baltimore and no expense is to be spared by anybody
concerned, that she makes the trip in safety and the greatest possible
comfort. We flatter ourselves, madam, that our company can fix the
thing as it should be. She’s not the first little human ‘parcel’ we’ve
handled successfully. Is there anything you’d like, Miss”--

He paused, pulled a notebook from his pocket, discovered her name, and
concluded:

“Miss Josephine Smith?”

“Smith, Josephine Smith, singular!” murmured Mrs. Kimono, under her
breath. “But not so singular after all. Smith is not an uncommon name,
nor Baltimore the only city where Smiths reside.”

Meanwhile the express agent had taken Josephine’s hand in his, and
was carefully guiding her back through the many carriages to the one
where she belonged. His statement that Doctor Mack had put her into
his care made her consider him an old friend, and loosened her tongue
accordingly.

Porter Bob received her with a smile, and asked if he had arranged her
half of the section to her pleasure; pointed out that Rudanthy’s attire
had been duly brushed, and begged her not to hesitate about ringing for
him whenever she needed him.

By this time Mrs. Upper Berth, as the child mentally called her, had
returned from her own breakfast and proved to be “not half so cross as
you sounded, are you?”

To which the lady replied with a laugh and the assurance that tired
people were apt to be a “little crisp,” then added:

“But I’ve heard all about you now, my dear; and I’m glad to have as
section-mate such a dainty little ‘parcel.’ I’m sure we’ll be the best
of friends before we reach our parting-place at Chicago.”

So they proved to be. So, indeed, did everybody in the car. “Little
Parcel” was made so much of by the grown-up travellers that she might
have been spoiled had the journey continued longer than it did. But at
Chicago a change was made. The express agent put her into a carriage,
and whisked her away to another station, another train, and a new,
strange set of people. Not a face with which she had become familiar
during the first stage of her long journey was visible. Even Bob had
disappeared, and in his stead was a gray-haired porter who grumbled at
each of the demands, such as it had become natural for her to make upon
the friendly Bob.

There was no Red Kimono in the section opposite; not even a
be-spectacled Upper Berth lady to make whimsical comments on her
neighbors; and the new agent to whom she had been transferred looked
cross, as if he were in a dreadful hurry and hated to be bothered.
Altogether things were changed for the worse, and Josephine’s heart
would perhaps have broken if it hadn’t been for the dear companionship
of Rudanthy, who smiled and slept in a placid waxen manner that was
restfully familiar.

Besides, all journeys have an end; and the six days’ trip of the little
San Diegan came to its own before the door of a stately mansion, gay
with the red brick and white marble which mark most Baltimore homes,
and the ring of an electric bell that the expressman touched:

“A ‘parcel’ for Joseph Smith. Billed from San Diego, Cal. Live here,
eh?”

It was a colored man in livery who replied:

“Yes, suh. Mister Joseph Smith, he done live here, suh.”

“Sign, please. That is, if you can write.”

“Course I can write. I allays signs parcels for Mister Smith, suh.
Where’s the parcel at, suh?” returned the liveried negro.

“Sign. I’ll fetch it,” came the prompt answer.

Old Peter signed, being the trusted and trustworthy servant of his
master, and returned the book to the agent’s hands, who himself
returned to the carriage, lifted out Josephine and Rudanthy, conveyed
them up the glistening steps, and left them to their fate.




CHAPTER III.

ARRIVAL.


Peter stared, but said nothing. Not even when the agent ran back
from the carriage with a little satchel and a strap full of shawls
and picture-books. The hack rolled away, the keen March wind chilled
the young Californian, who stood, doll in hand, respectfully waiting
admission to the warm hall beyond the door. Finally, since the servant
seemed to have been stricken speechless, she found her own voice, and
said:

“Please, boy, I’d like to see my Uncle Joe.”

“Your--Uncle--Joe, little miss?”

“That’s what I said. I must come in. I’m very cold. If this is
Baltimore, that the folks on the cars said was pretty, I guess they
didn’t know what they were talking about. I want to come in, please.”

The old man found his wits returning. This was the queerest “parcel”
for which he had ever signed a receipt in an express-book, and he knew
there was some mistake. Yet he couldn’t withstand the pleading brown
eyes under the scarlet hat, even if he hadn’t been “raised” to a habit
of hospitality.

“Suah, little lady. Come right in. ’Tis dreadful cold out to-day. I
’most froze goin’ to market, an’ I’se right down ashamed of myself
leavin’ comp’ny waitin’ this way. Step right in the drawin’-room,
little missy, and tell me who ’tis you’d like to see.”

Picking up the luggage that had been deposited on the topmost of the
gleaming marble steps, which, even in winter, unlike his neighbors,
the master of the house disdained to hide beneath a wooden casing, the
negro led the way into the luxurious parlor. To Josephine, fresh from
the chill of the cloudy, windy day without, the whole place seemed
aglow. A rosy light came through the red-curtained windows, shone from
the open grate, repeated itself in the deep crimson carpet that was so
delightfully soft and warm.

“Sit down by the fire, little lady. There. That’s nice. Put your dolly
right here. Maybe she’s cold, too. Now, then, suah you’se fixed so fine
you can tell me who ’tis you’ve come to see,” said the man.

“What is your name, boy?” inquired Josephine.

“Peter, missy. My name’s Peter.”

“Well, then, Peter, don’t be stupid. Or are you deaf, maybe?” she asked.

“Land, no, missy. I’se got my hearin’ fust class,” he replied, somewhat
indignantly.

“I have come to see my Uncle Joe. I wish to see him now. Please tell
him,” she commanded.

The negro scratched his gray wool and reflected. He had been born and
raised in the service of the family where he still “officiated,” and
knew its history thoroughly. His present master was the only son of an
only son, and there had never been a daughter. No, nor wife, at least
to this household. There were cousins in plenty, with whom Mr. Joseph
Smith was not on good terms. There were property interests dividing
them, and Mr. Joseph kept his vast wealth for his own use alone. Some
thought he should have shared it with others, but he did not so think
and lived his quiet life, with a trio of colored men-servants. His
house was one of the best appointed on the wide avenue, but, also, one
of the quietest. It was the first time that old Peter had ever heard a
child’s voice in that great room, and its clear tones seemed to confuse
him.

“I want to see my Uncle Joe. I want to see him right away. Go, boy, and
call him,” Josephine explained.

This was command, and Peter was used to obey, so he replied:

“All right, little missy, I’ll go see. Has you got your card? Who shall
I say ’tis?”

Josephine reflected. Once mamma had had some dear little visiting cards
engraved with her small daughter’s name, and the child remembered with
regret that if they had been packed with her “things” at all, it must
have been in the trunk, which the expressman said would arrive by and
by from the railway station. She could merely say:

“Uncles don’t need cards when their folks come to see them. I’ve come
from mamma. She’s gone to the pickley land to see papa. Just tell him
Josephine. What’s that stuff out there?”

She ran to the window, pulled the lace curtains apart, and peered out.
The air was now full of great white flakes that whirled and skurried
about as if in the wildest sort of play.

“What is it, Peter? Quick, what is it?” she demanded.

“Huh! Don’t you know snow when you see it, little missy? Where you
lived at all your born days?” he cried, surprised.

“Oh, just snow. Course I’ve seen it, coming here on the cars. It was on
the ground, though, not in the air and the sky. I’ve lived with mamma.
Now I’ve come to live with Uncle Joe. Why don’t you tell him? If a lady
called to see my mamma do you s’pose big Bridget wouldn’t say so?”

“I’se goin’,” he said, and went.

But he was gone so long, and the expected uncle was so slow to welcome
her, that even that beautiful room began to look dismal to the little
stranger. The violent storm which had sprung up with such suddenness,
darkened the air, and a terrible homesickness threatened to bring on
a burst of tears. Then, all at once, Josephine remembered what Doctor
Mack had said:

“Don’t be a weeper, little lady, whatever else you are. Be a smiler,
like my Cousin Helen, your mamma. You’re pretty small to tackle the
world alone, but just do it with a laugh and it will laugh back upon
you.”

Not all of which she understood, though she recalled every one of the
impressive words, but the “laughing part” was plain enough.

“Course, Rudanthy. No Uncle Joe would be glad to get a crying little
girl to his house. I’ll take off my coat and yours, darling. You are
pretty tired, I guess. I wonder where they’ll let us sleep, that black
boy and my uncle. I hope the room will have a pretty fire in it, like
this one. Don’t you?”

Rudanthy did not answer, but as Josephine laid her flat upon the
carpet, to remove her travelling cloak, she immediately closed her
waxen lids, and her little mother took this for assent.

“Oh, you sweetest thing! How I do love you!”

There followed a close hug of the faithful doll, which was witnessed
by a trio of colored men from a rear door, where they stood, open-eyed
and mouthed, wondering what in the world the master would say when he
returned and found this little trespasser upon his hearth-stone.

When Rudanthy had been embraced, to the detriment of her jute ringlets
and her mistress’ comfort, Josephine curled down on the rug before the
grate to put the doll asleep, observing:

“You’re so cold, Rudanthy. Colder than I am, even. Your precious hands
are like ice. You must lie right here close to the fire, ’tween me and
it. By-and-by Uncle Joe will come and then--My! Won’t he be surprised?
That Peter boy is so dreadful stupid, like’s not he’ll forget to say a
single word about us. Never mind. He’s my papa’s twin brother. Do you
know what twins are, Rudanthy? I do. Big Bridget’s sister’s got a pair
of them. They’re two of a kind, though sometimes one of them is the
other kind. I mean, you know, sometimes one twin isn’t a brother, it’s
a sister. That’s what big Bridget’s sister’s was. Oh, dear. I’m tired.
I’m hungry. I liked it better on that nice first railway car where
everybody took care of me and gave me sweeties. It’s terrible still
here. I--I’m afraid I’m going to sleep.”

In another moment the fear of the weary little traveller had become a
fact. Rudanthy was already slumbering; and, alas! that was to prove
the last of her many naps. But Josephine was unconscious of the grief
awaiting her own awakening; and, fortunately, too young to know what a
different welcome should have been accorded herself by the relative she
had come so far to visit.

Peter peeped in, from time to time, found all peaceful, and retired
in thankfulness for the temporary lull. He was trembling in his
shoes against the hour when the master should return and find him so
unfaithful to his trust as to have admitted that curly-haired intruder
upon their dignified privacy. Yet he encouraged himself with the
reflection:

“Well, no need crossin’ no bridges till you meet up with ’em, and this
bridge ain’t a crossin’ till Massa Joe’s key turns in that lock. Reckon
I was guided to pick out that fine duck for dinner this night, I do.
S’posin’, now, the market had been poor? Huh! Every trouble sets better
on a full stummick ’an a empty. Massa Joe’s powerful fond of duck,
lessen it’s spoiled in the cookin’. I’ll go warn that ’Pollo to be
mighty careful it done to a turn.”

Peter departed kitchen ward, where he tarried gossipping over the small
guest above stairs and the probable outcome of her advent.

“Nobody what’s a Christian goin’ to turn a little gell outen their
doors such an evenin’ as this,” said Apollo, deftly basting the fowl in
the pan.

[Illustration: “I’M JOSEPHINE!”]

“Mebbe not, mebbe not. But I reckon we can’t, none of us, callate
on whatever Massa Joe’s goin’ to do about anything till he does it.
He’s off to a board meeting, this evening, and I hope he sets on it
comfortable. When them boards are too hard, like, he comes home mighty
’rascible. Keep a right smart watch on that bird, ’Pollo, won’t you?
whiles I go lay the table.”

But here another question arose to puzzle the old man. Should he, or
should he not, prepare that table for the unexpected guest? There was
nobody more particular than Mr. Smith that all his orders should be
obeyed to the letter. Each evening he wished his dinner to be served
after one prescribed fashion, and any infraction of his rules brought a
reprimand to Peter.

However, in this case he determined to risk a little for hospitality’s
sake, reflecting that if the master were displeased he could whisk off
the extra plate before it was discovered.

“Massa Joe’s just as like to scold if I don’t put it on as if I do.
Never allays account for what’ll please him best. Depends on how he
takes it.”

Busy in his dining-room he did not hear the cab roll over the snowy
street and stop at the door, nor the turn of the key in the lock. Nor,
lost in his own thoughts, did the master of the house summon a servant
to help him off with his coat and overshoes. He repaired immediately
to his library, arranged a few papers, went to his dressing-room and
attired himself for dinner, with the carefulness to which he had
been trained from childhood, and afterward strolled leisurely toward
the great parlor, turned on the electric light, and paused upon its
threshold amazed, exclaiming:

“What is this? What in the world is--_this_?”

The sudden radiance which touched her eyelids, rather than his startled
exclamation, roused small Josephine from her restful nap. She sat
up, rubbed her eyes, which brightened with a radiance beyond that of
electricity, and sprang to her feet. With outstretched arms she flung
herself upon the astonished gentleman, crying:

“Oh, you beautiful, beautiful man! You darling, precious Uncle Joe! I’m
Josephine! I’ve come!”




CHAPTER IV.

A MULTITUDE OF JOSEPHS.


“So I perceive!” responded the master of the house, when he could rally
from this onslaught of affection. “I’m sure I’m very pleased to welcome
you. I--when--how did you arrive?”

“I’m a ’xpress ‘parcel,’” she answered, laughing, for she had learned
before this that she had made her long journey in rather an unusual
fashion. “Mamma had to go away on the peacock-blue ocean; and Doctor
Mack couldn’t bother with me, ’cause he’s going to the folks that eat
almonds together and give presents; and there wasn’t anybody else
’xcept big Bridget, and she’d spent all her money, and mamma said you
wouldn’t want a ‘wild Irish girl’ to plague you. Would you?”

“I’m not fond of being plagued by anybody,” said the gentleman,
rather dryly. He was puzzled as much by her odd talk as her unexpected
appearance, and wondered if children so young were ever lunatics. The
better to consider the matter he sat down in the nearest chair, and
instantly Josephine was upon his knee. The sensation this gave him was
most peculiar. He didn’t remember that he had ever taken any child on
his lap, yet permitted this one to remain there, because he didn’t know
what better to do. He had heard that one should treat a lunatic as if
all vagaries were real. Opposition only made an insane person worse.
What worse could this little crazy creature, with the lovely face and
dreadful manners, do to a finical old bachelor in evening clothes than
crush the creases out of his trouser knees?

The lap was not as comfortable as Doctor Mack’s, and far, far from as
cosey as mamma’s. Uncle Joe’s long legs had a downward slant to them
that made Josephine’s perch upon them rather uncertain. After sliding
toward the floor once or twice, and hitching up again, she slipped to
her feet and leaned affectionately against his shoulder, saying:

“That’s better. I guess you’re not used to holding little girls, are
you, Uncle Joe?”

“No, Josephine. What is your other name?” said he.

“Smith. Just like yours. You’re my papa’s dear twin, you know.”

“Oh, am I?” he asked.

“Course. Didn’t you know that? How funny. That’s because you haven’t
mamma to remind you, I s’pose. Mamma remembers everything. Mamma never
is naughty. Mamma knows everything. Mamma is dear, dear, dear. And, oh,
I want her, I want her!”

Josephine’s arms went round the gentleman’s neck, and her tears fell
freely upon his spotless shirt-front. She had been very brave, she had
done what she promised Doctor Mack, and kept a “laughing front” as long
as she could; but now here, in the home of her papa’s twin, with her
“own folks,” her self-control gave way, and she cried as she had never
cried before in all her short and happy life.

Mr. Smith was hopelessly distressed. He didn’t know what to say or do,
and this proved most fortunate for both of them. For whatever he might
have said would have puzzled his visitor as greatly as she was puzzling
him. Happily for both, the deluge of tears was soon over, and Josephine
lifted a face on which the smiles seemed all the brighter because of
the moisture that still bedewed it.

“Please ’xcuse me, Uncle Joe. I didn’t mean to cry once, but it--it’s
so lovely to have you at last. It was a long, long way on the railway,
uncle. Rudanthy got terribly tired,” explained the visitor.

“Did she? Who is Rudanthy?”

“You, my uncle, yet don’t know Rudanthy, that has been mine ever since
I was? Mamma says she has to change heads now and then, and once in
awhile she buys her a new pair of feet or hands; but it’s the same
darling dolly, whether her head’s new or old. I’ll fetch her. It’s time
she waked up, anyway.”

Josephine sped to the rug before the grate, stooped to lift her
playmate, paused, and uttered a terrified cry.

“Uncle! Uncle Joe, come here quick--quick!”

Smiling at his own acquiescence, the gentleman obeyed her demand, and
stooped over her as she also bent above the object on the rug. All
that was left of poor Rudanthy--who had travelled three thousand miles
to be melted into a shapeless mass before the first hearth-fire which
received her.

Josephine did not cry now. This was a trouble too deep for tears.

“What ails her, Uncle Joe? I never, never saw her look like that.
Her nose and her lips and her checks are all flattened out, and her
eyes--her eyes are just round glass balls. Her lovely curls”-- The
little hands flew to the top of the speaker’s own head, but found no
change there. Yet she looked up rather anxiously into the face above
her. “Do you s’pose I’d have got to look that dreadful way if I hadn’t
waked up when I did, Uncle Joe?”

“No, Josephine. No, indeed. Your unhappy Rudanthy was a waxen young
person who was indiscreet enough to lie down before an open fire. You
seem to be real flesh and blood, and might easily scorch, yet would
hardly melt. Next time you take a nap, however, I’d advise you to lie
on a lounge or a bed.”

“I will. I wouldn’t like to look like her. But what shall I do? I don’t
know a store here,” she wailed.

“I do. I might be able to find you a new doll, if you won’t cry,” came
the answer which surprised himself.

“Oh, I shan’t cry any more. Never any more--if I can help it. That’s
a promise. But I shouldn’t want a new doll. I only want a head. Poor
Rudanthy! Do you s’pose she suffered much?” was the next anxious
question.

“It’s not likely. But let Rudanthy lie yonder on the cool window sill.
I want to talk with you. I want you to answer a few questions. Sit down
by me, please. Is this comfortable?”

Josephine sank into the midst of the cushions he piled for her on the
wide sofa and sighed luxuriously, answering:

“It’s lovely. This is the nicest place I ever, ever saw.”

“Thank you. Now, child, tell me something about other places you
remember, and, also, please tell me your name.”

Josephine was surprised. What a very short memory this uncle had, to
be sure. It wouldn’t be polite to say so, though, and it was an easy
question to answer.

“My name is Josephine Smith. I’m named after you, you know, ’cause
you’re my papa’s twin. I’m sent to you because”--and she went on to
explain the reasons, so far as she understood them, of her long journey
and her presence in his house. She brought her coat and showed him,
neatly sewed inside its flap, a square of glazed holland on which was
written her name, to whom consigned, and the express company by which
she had been “specially shipped and delivered.”

It was all plain and straightforward. This was the very house
designated on the tag, and he was Joseph Smith; but it was, also, a
riddle too deep for him to guess.

“I see, I see. Well, since you are here we must make the best of it.
I think there’s a mistake, but I dare say the morning will set it all
right. Meanwhile, it’s snowing too fast to make any inquiries to-night.
It is about dinner time, for me. Have you had your dinner?” asked the
host.

“I had one on the train. That seems a great while ago,” said the guest.

“I beg pardon, but I think there is a little smut upon your pretty
nose. After a railway journey travellers usually like to wash up, and
so on. I don’t know much about little girls, yet”--he rather timidly
suggested.

“I should be so glad. Just see my hands, Uncle Joe!” and she extended a
pair of plump palms which sadly needed soap and water.

“I’m not your”--he began, meaning to set her right concerning their
relationship; then thought better of it. What would a child do who
had come to visit an unknown uncle and found herself in the home of a
stranger? Weep, most likely. He didn’t want that. He’d had enough of
tears, as witness one spoiled shirt-front. He began also to change his
mind regarding the little one’s manners. She had evidently lived with
gentlefolks and when some one came to claim her in the morning he would
wish them to understand that she had been treated courteously.

So he rang for Peter, who appeared as suddenly as if he had come from
the hall without.

“Been listening at the doorway, boy? Take care. Go up to the guest
room, turn on the heat and light, and see that there are plenty of
fresh towels. Take this young lady’s things with you. She will probably
spend the night here. I hope you have a decent dinner provided.”

“Fine, Massa Joe. Just supreme. Yes, suh. Certainly, suh,” answered the
servant.

“Uncle Joe, is there a bathroom in this house?” asked she.

“Three of them, Josephine.”

“May I use one? I haven’t had a bath since I was in San Diego, and
I’m--mamma would not allow me at table, I guess; I’m dreadful dirty.”

If Josephine had tried to find the shortest way to Mr. Smith’s heart
she could not have chosen more wisely.

“To be sure, to be sure. Peter, make a bath ready next the guest room.
Will an hour give you time enough, little lady?”

“I don’t want so long. I’m so glad I learned to dress myself, aren’t
you? ’Cause all the women to this house seem to be men, don’t they?”

“Yes, child. Poor, unfortunate house!”

“It’s a beautiful house, Uncle Joe; and you needn’t care any more. I’ve
come, now. I, Josephine. I’ll take care of you. Good-by. When you see
me again I’ll be looking lovely, ’cause I’ll put on the new white wool
dress that mamma embroidered with forget-me-nots.”

“Vanity!” thought Mr. Smith, regretfully, which shows that he didn’t
as yet understand his little visitor, whose “lovely” referred to her
clothes alone, and not at all to herself.

The dinner hour at 1000 Bismarck Avenue was precisely half-past six.
Even for the most notable of the few guests entertained by the master
of the house he rarely delayed more than five minutes, and on no
occasion had it been served a moment earlier. The old-fashioned hall
clock had ticked the hour for generations of Smiths “from Virginia,”
and was regulated nowadays by the tower timepiece at Mt. Royal station.
It was fortunate for Josephine that just as the minute hand dropped
to its place, midway between the six and seven on the dial, she came
tripping down the wide stair, radiant from her bath and the comfort of
fresh clothing, and eager to be again with the handsome Uncle Joe, who
was waiting for her at the stair’s foot with some impatience.

Her promptness pleased him, and the uncommon vision of her childish
loveliness pleased him even more. He had believed that he disliked
children, but was now inclined to change his opinion.

“I’m glad you are punctual, Miss Josephine, else I’d have had to
begin my dinner without you. I never put back meals for anybody,” he
remarked.

“Would you? Don’t you? Then I’m glad, too. Isn’t the frock pretty?
My mamma worked all these flowers with her own little white hands. I
love it. I had to kiss them before I could put it on,” she said, again
lifting her skirt and touching it with her lips.

“I suppose you love your mamma very dearly. What is she like?”

He was leading her along the hall toward the dining-room, and Peter,
standing within its entrance, congratulated himself that he had
laid the table for two. He glanced at his master’s face, found it
good-natured and interested, and took his own cue therefrom.

“She is like--she is like the most beautiful thing in the world, dear
Uncle Joe. Don’t you remember?” asked the astonished child.

“Well, no, not exactly.”

“That’s a pity, and you my papa’s twin. Papa hasn’t nice gray hair
like yours, though, and there isn’t any shiny bare place on top of
his head. I mean there wasn’t when he went away last year. His hair
was dark, like mamma’s, and his mustache was brown and curly. I think
he isn’t as big as you, Uncle Joe, and his clothes are gray, with
buttony fixings on them. He has a beautiful sash around his waist,
sometimes, and lovely shoulder trimmings. He’s an officer, my papa is,
in Company F. That’s for ’musement, mamma says. For the business, he’s
a ’lectrickeller. Is this my place? Thank you, Peter.”

Mr. Smith handed his little visitor to her chair, which the old butler
had pulled back for her, with the same courtly manner he would have
shown the pastor’s wife. Indeed, if he had been asked he would have
admitted that he found the present guest the more interesting of the
two.

Peter made ready to serve the soup, but a look from the strange child
restrained him. She added a word to the look:

“Why, boy, you forgot. Uncle Joe hasn’t said the grace yet.”

Now, Mr. Smith was a faithful and devout church member, but was in the
habit of omitting this little ceremony at his solitary meals. He was
disconcerted for the moment, but presently bowed his head and repeated
the formula to which he had been accustomed in his youth. It proved
to be the same that the little girl was used to hearing from her own
parents’ lips, and she believed it to be the ordinary habit of every
household. She did not dream that she had instituted a new order of
things, and unfolded her napkin with a smile, saying:

“Now, I’m dreadful hungry, Uncle Joe. Are you?”

“I believe I am, little one.”

Peter served with much dignity and flourish; but Josephine had dined
at hotel tables often enough to accept his attentions as a matter of
course. Her quiet behavior, her daintiness, and her chatter, amused and
delighted her host. He found himself in a much better humor than when
he returned through the storm from an unsatisfactory board meeting,
and was grateful for the mischance which had brought him such pleasant
company.

As for old Peter, his dark face glowed with enthusiasm. He was deeply
religious, and now believed that this unknown child had been sent by
heaven itself to gladden their big, empty house. He didn’t understand
how his master could be “uncle” to anybody, yet, since that master
accepted the fact so genially, he was only too glad to do likewise.

It was a fine and stately dinner, and as course after course was
served, Josephine’s wonder grew, till she had to inquire:

“Is it like this always, to your home, Uncle Joe?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Such a birthday table, and no folks, ’xcept you and me.”

“It is the same, usually, unless Peter fails to find a good market.
Have you finished? No more cream or cake?” he explained and questioned.

“No, thank you. I’m never asked to take two helpings. Only on the car
I had three, sometimes, though I didn’t eat them. Mamma wouldn’t have
liked it.”

“And do you always remember what ‘mamma’ wishes?”

“No. I’m a terrible forgetter. But I try. Somehow it’s easier now I
can’t see her,” she answered.

“Quite natural. Suppose we go into the library for a little while. I
want to consult the directory.”

She clasped his hand, looked up confidingly, but felt as if she should
fall asleep on the way thither. She wondered if it ever came bedtime in
that house, and how many hours had passed since she entered it.

“There, Miss Josephine, I think you’ll find that chair a comfortable
one,” said the host, when they had reached the library, rich with all
that is desirable in such a room. “Do you like pictures?”

“Oh, I love them!”

“That’s good. So do I. I’ll get you some.”

But Mr. Smith was not used to the “loves” of little girls, and his
selection was made rather because he wanted to see how she would
handle a book than because he thought about the subject chosen. A
volume of Dore’s grotesque drawings happened to be in most shabby
condition, and he reflected that she “couldn’t hurt that much, anyway,
for it’s to be rebound.”

Afterward he opened the directory for himself, and Josephine thought
it a dull-looking book. For some time both were interested and silent;
then Uncle Joe cried out with startling suddenness:

“Three thousand Smiths in this little city; and seventy-five of them
are Josephs! Well, my child, you’re mighty rich in ‘uncles’!”




CHAPTER V.

A WILD MARCH MORNING.


Josephine was half-asleep. A woman would have thought about her fatigue
and sent her early to bed. “Uncle Joe” thought of nothing now save the
array of common and uncommon names in the city directory. He counted
and recounted the “Smiths,” “Smyths,” and “Smythes,” and jotted down
his figures in a notebook. He copied, also, any address of any Smith
whose residence was in a locality which he considered suitable for
relatives of his small guest. He became so absorbed in this study that
an hour had passed before he remembered her, and the extraordinary
quiet of her lively tongue.

Josephine had dozed and waked, dozed and waked, and dreamed many dreams
during that hour of silence. Her tired little brain was all confused
with the weird pictures of tortured men gazing at her from the trunks
of gnarled trees, and thoughts of a myriad of uncles, each wearing
eyeglasses, and sitting with glistening bald head beneath a brilliant
light. The light dazzled her, the dreams terrified her, and the little
face that dropped at length upon the open page of the great folio was
drawn and distressed.

“For goodness sake! I suppose she’s sleepy. I believe that children
do go to bed early. At least they should. If I’m to be a correct sort
of ‘uncle,’ even for one night, I must get her there. I wonder how!”
considered the gentleman.

The first thing was to wake her, and he attempted it, saying:

“Josephine! Josephine!”

The child stirred uneasily, but slumbered on.

“Uncle Joe” laid his hand upon her shoulder rather gingerly. He was
much more afraid of her than she could ever be of him.

“Miss Josephine! If you please, wake up.”

She responded with a suddenness that startled him.

“Why--where am I? Oh! I know. Did I go to sleep, Uncle Joe?”

“I should judge that you did. Would you like to go to bed?”

“If you please, uncle.”

He smiled faintly at the odd situation in which he found himself,
playing nurse to a little girl. A boy would have been less
disconcerting, for he had been a boy himself, once, and remembered his
childhood. But he had never been a little girl, had never lived in a
house with a little girl, and didn’t know how little girls expected to
be treated. He volunteered one question:

“If somebody takes you to your room, could you--could you do the rest
for yourself, Josephine?”

“Why, course. I began when I was eight years old. That was my last
birthday that ever was. Big Bridget was not to wait on me any more
after that, mamma said. But she did. She loved it. Mamma, even, loved
it, too. And nobody need go upstairs with me. I know the way. I
remember it all. If-- May I say my prayers by you, Uncle Joe? Mamma”--

One glance about the strange room, one thought of the absent mother,
and the little girl’s lip quivered. Then came a second thought, and she
remembered her promise. She was never to cry again, if she could help
it. By winking very fast and thinking about other things than mamma and
home she would be able to help it.

Before he touched her shoulder to wake her, Mr. Smith had rung for
Peter, who now stood waiting orders in the parting of the portière,
and beheld a sight such as he had never dreamed to see in that great,
lonely house: Josephine kneeling reverently beside his master’s knee,
saying aloud the Lord’s Prayer and the familiar “Now I lay me.”

Then she rose, flung her arms about the gentleman’s neck, saw the
moisture in his eyes, and asked in surprise:

[Illustration: “NOW I LAY ME.”]

“Do you feel bad, Uncle Joe? Aren’t you happy, Uncle Joe? Can’t I
help you, you dear, dear man?”

The “dear” man’s arms went round the little figure, and he drew it
close to his lonely heart with a jealous wish that he might always
keep it there. All at once he felt that he hated that other unknown,
rightful uncle to whom this charming “parcel” belonged, and almost he
wished that no such person might ever be found. Then he unclasped her
clinging arms and--actually kissed her!

“You are helping me very greatly, Josephine. You are a dear child.
Peter will see that your room is all right for the night. Tell him
anything you need and he’ll get it for you. Good-night, little girl.”

“Good-night, Uncle Joe. Dear Uncle Joe. I think--I think you are just
too sweet for words! I hope you’ll rest well. Good-night.”

She vanished through the curtains, looking back and kissing her
finger-tips to him, and smiling trustingly upon him to the last. But
the old man sat long looking after her before he turned again to his
books, reflecting:

“Strange! Only a few hours of a child’s presence in this silent place,
yet it seems transfigured. ‘An angel’s visit,’ maybe. To show me that,
after all, I am something softer and more human than the crusty old
bachelor I thought myself. What would her mother say, that absent,
perfect ‘mamma,’ if she knew into what strange hands her darling had
fallen? Of course, my first duty to-morrow is to hunt up this mislaid
uncle of little Josephine’s and restore her to him. But--Well, it’s my
duty, and of course I shall do it.”

The great bed in the guest room was big enough, Josephine thought, to
have held mamma herself, and even big Bridget without crowding. It was
far softer than her own little white cot in the San Diegan cottage, and
plunged in its great depths the small traveller instantly fell asleep.
She did not hear Peter come in and lower the light, and knew nothing
more, indeed, till morning. Then she roused with a confused feeling,
not quite realizing where she was or what had happened to her. For a
few moments she lay still, expecting mamma’s or big Bridget’s face to
appear beneath the silken curtains which draped the bed’s head; then
she remembered everything, and that in a house without women she was
bound to do all things for herself.

“But it’s dreadful dark everywhere. I guess I don’t like such thick
curtains as Uncle Joe has. Mamma’s are thin white ones and it’s always
sunshiny at home--’xcept when it isn’t. That’s only when the rains
come, and that’s most always the nicest of all. Then we have a dear
little fire in the grate, and mamma reads to me, and big Bridget bakes
and cooks the best things. We write letters to papa, and mamma sings
and plays, and--it’s just lovely! Never mind, Josephine. You’ll be back
there soon’s papa gets well again, and Uncle Joe was sort of cryey
round his eyes last night. Mamma said I was to be like his own little
daughter to him and take care of him and never make him any trouble. So
I will.”

There was no prouder child in that city that morning than the little
stranger within its gates. She prepared her bath without aid, brushed
her hair and dressed herself entirely. It was true that her curls did
not look much as they did after mamma’s loving fingers had handled
them, and the less said about those on the back of her head the better.
Nor were the buttons in the right places to match the buttonholes, and
the result was that the little frock which had always been so tidy hung
at a curious angle from its wearer’s shoulders.

But who’d mind a trifle like that, in a beginner?

Not Uncle Joe, who saw only the fair front of his visitor, as she ran
down the hall to meet him, emerging from his own chamber. Indeed, he
was not now in a mood to observe anything save himself, though he
answered Josephine’s gay “Good morning” with another rather grimly
spoken.

The child paused, astonished. There were no longer tears in his
eyes, but he looked as if a “good cry” would be relief. His face was
distorted with pain, and every time he put one of his feet to the floor
he winced as if it hurt him. He seemed as dim and glum as the day
outside, and that was dreary beyond anything the little Californian had
ever seen. The snow had fallen steadily all the night, and the avenue
was almost impassable. A few milk-carts forced their way along, and a
man in a gray uniform, with a leather bag over his shoulder, was wading
up each flight of steps to the doorways above them and handing in the
morning mail.

“Aren’t you well, Uncle Joe? Didn’t you rest well?” she inquired
solicitously.

“No, I’ve got that wretched old gout again,” he snapped.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a horrible, useless, nerve-racking ‘misery’ in my foot. It’s
being out in that storm yesterday, and this senseless heap of snow on
the ground. March is supposed to be spring, but this beastly climate
doesn’t know what spring means. Ugh!” he groaned.

“Doesn’t it?” she asked, amazed by this statement.

“Hum, child. There’s no need of your repeating everything I say in
another question. I’m always cross when I’m gouty. Don’t heed me. Just
enjoy yourself the best you can, for I don’t see how I’m to hunt up
your uncle for you in such weather.”

Josephine thought he was talking queerly, but said nothing; only
followed him slowly to the breakfast room, which Peter had done his
best to make cheerful.

Mr. Smith sat down at table and began to open the pile of letters which
lay beside his plate. Then he unfolded his newspaper, looked at a few
items, and sipped his coffee. He had forgotten Josephine, though she
had not forgotten him, and sat waiting until such time as it should
please him to ask the blessing.

For the sake of her patient yet eager face, Peter took an unheard-of
liberty: he nudged his master’s shoulder.

“Hey? What? Peter!” angrily demanded Mr. Smith.

“Yes, suh. Certainly, suh. But I reckon little missy won’t eat
withouten it.”

It was almost as disagreeable to the gentleman to be reminded of his
duty, and that, too, by a servant, as to suffer his present physical
pangs. But he swallowed the lesson with the remainder of his coffee,
and bowed his head, resolving that never again while that brown-eyed
child sat opposite him should such a reminder be necessary.

As before, with the conclusion of the simple grace, Josephine’s tongue
and appetite were released from guard, and she commented:

“This is an awful funny Baltimore, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. Do you always state a thing and then ask it?” returned
Uncle Joe, crisply.

“I ’xpect I do ask a heap of questions. Mamma has to correct me
sometimes. But I can’t help it, can I? How shall I know things I don’t
know if I don’t ask folks that do know, you know?”

“You’ll be a very knowing young person if you keep on,” said he.

“Oh! I want to be. I want to know every single thing there is in the
whole world. Papa used to say there was a ‘why’ always, and I like to
find out the ‘whys.’”

“I believe you. Peter, another chop, please.”

“With your foot, Massa Joe?” remonstrated the butler.

“No. With my roll and fresh cup of coffee,” was the retort.

“Excuse me, Massa Joe, but you told me last time that next time I was
to remember you ’bout the doctor saying ‘no meat with the gout.’”

“Doctors know little. I’m hungry. If I’ve got to suffer I might as well
be hung for a sheep as a lamb. I’ve already eaten two chops. Another,
Peter, and a juicy one.”

The order was obeyed, though the old negro knew that soon he would be
reprimanded as much for yielding to his master’s whim as he had already
been for opposing it.

“Doctor Mack knows everything,” said Josephine.

“Huh! Everybody belonging to you is perfect, I conclude,” said the
host, with some sarcasm.

“I don’t like him, though. Not very well. He gives me medicine
sometimes, though mamma says I don’t need it. I’m glad he’s gone to
eat those philopenas. Aren’t you?”

“I don’t care a rap where he goes,” answered Uncle Joe testily.

Josephine opened her eyes to their widest. This old man in the soiled
green dressing-gown, unshaven, frowning and wincing in a horrible
manner, was like another person to the handsome gentleman with whom
she had dined overnight. He was not half so agreeable, and-- Well,
mamma often said that nobody in this world had a right to be “cross”
and make themselves unpleasant to other people. She was sorry for poor
Uncle Joe, and remembered that he had not had the advantage of mamma’s
society and wisdom.

“Uncle Joe, you look just like one of them picture-men that was shut up
in a tree trunk. You know. You showed them to me last night. I wish you
wouldn’t make up such a face,” she observed.

Mr. Smith’s mouth flew open in sheer amazement, while Peter tossed his
hands aloft and rolled his eyes till the whites alone were visible. In
all his service he had never heard anybody dare to speak so plainly to
his master, whose temper was none of the mildest. He dreaded what would
follow, and was more astonished than ever when it proved to be a quiet:

“Humph! Children and fools speak truth, ’tis said. You’re a sharp-eyed,
unflattering little lady, Miss Josephine; but I’ll try to control my
ugly visage for your benefit.”

The tone in which this was said, rather than the words themselves, was
a reproof to the child, who immediately left her place, ran to her
uncle’s side, and laid her hand pleadingly upon his arm.

“Please forgive me, poor Uncle Joe. I guess that was saucy. I--I
didn’t think. That’s a way I have. I say things first, and think them
afterward. I guess it isn’t a nice way. I’ll try to get over that. My!
won’t that be fun? You trying not to make up faces, and I trying not to
say wrong things. I’ll tell you. Have you got a little box anywhere?”

“Yes, I presume so. Go eat your breakfast, child. Why?”

“’Cause. Did you know there was heathens?” she asked gravely.

“I’ve heard so. I’ve met a few.”

“You have? How delightful!” came the swift exclamation.

“I didn’t find it so. Why, I say?” he inquired.

“Each of us that forgot and broke over must put a penny, a cent, I
mean, in the box. It must be shut tight, and the cover gum-mucilaged
down. You must make a hole in the cover with your penknife, and when
you screw up your face, just for nothing, you put a penny in. I’ll
watch and tell you. Then I’ll put one in when I say wrong things. I’ve
a lot of money in my satchel. Mamma and Doctor Mack each gave me some
to buy things on the way. But there wasn’t anything to buy, and I can
use it all, only for Rudanthy’s new head. Can we go buy that to-day,
Uncle Joe?”

“No. Nobody knows when I’ll get out again, if this weather holds. The
idea of a snowstorm like this in March. _In March!_” angrily.

“Yes, suh,” responded Peter respectfully, since some reply seemed
expected.

“Here, boy. Carry my mail to the library. Get a good heat on. Fetch
that old soft shawl I put over my foot when it’s bad, and, for goodness
sake, keep that child out of the way and contented, somehow.”

Josephine had gone to the window, pulled the draperies apart, and was
looking out on a very different world from any she had ever seen. White
was every object on which her eye rested, save the red fronts of the
houses, and even these were festooned with snowy wreaths wherever such
could find a resting place. The scene impressed and almost frightened
her; but when, presently, it stopped snowing, and a boy ran out from a
neighboring house, dragging a red sled through the drifts, her spirits
rose. It had been one long, long week since she had exchanged a single
word with any child, and this was an opportunity to be improved. She
darted from the room, sped to the hall door, which stood ajar for
Lafayette’s convenience in clearing off the steps, and dashed outward.

Her feet sank deep into the cold, soft stuff, but she didn’t even
notice that, as she cried, eagerly:

“Little boy! Oh, little boy! Come here quick! I want somebody to play
with me.”

A moment’s pause of surprise, that a child should issue from “old Mr.
Smith’s,” and the answer came cheerily back:

“Wish I could; but I’m going sledding.”

“I’ll go with you! I never went a-sledding in all my”--

The sentence was never finished, for somebody jerked her forcibly back
within doors just as a great express wagon crawled to a pause before
the entrance.




CHAPTER VI.

MEMORIES AND MELODIES.


“My trunk! my trunk! My darling little blue trunk!”

“Massa Joe says for you to go right straight back to the library,
missy. He says you done get the pneumony, cuttin’ up that way in the
snow, and you not raised in it. He says not to let that boy in here.
I--I’s sorry to disoblige any little lady what’s a-visitin’ of us,
but”--

“It’s my trunk, Peter. Don’t you hear?”

“Yes, missy. But Lafayette, that’s his business, hauling luggage. I’se
the butler, I is.”

Josephine retreated a few paces from the door. She had lived in the
open air, but had never felt it pinch her nose as this did. Her feet,
also, were cold, and growing wet from the snow which was melting on
them. But Peter was attending to that. He was wiping them carefully
with his red handkerchief, and Josephine lifted first one, then the
other, in silent obedience to his touch. But her interest was wholly
in the trunk, which had now been deposited in the vestibule, and from
which Lafayette was carefully removing all particles of snow before he
carried it up over the carpeted stair.

Mr. Smith limped to the library door and looked out. He had meant to
send word that the trunk should be retained at the railway station for
the present, or until he should find out to whom Josephine had really
been “consigned,” and asked, in vexation:

“Come already, has it? Humph! If it had been something I wanted in
a hurry, they’d have taken their own time about delivering it. Said
they couldn’t handle goods in a storm, and such nonsense. I don’t see,
Peter, as it need be taken upstairs. Have it put in the storeroom,
where it will be handier to get at when she leaves.”

Both Peter and Josephine heard him with amazement.

“What is that, Uncle Joe? That ‘when I leave.’ Have I--have I been
so--so saucy and forgetful that--that you can’t let me stay?”

“No, no, child. I merely meant-- There, don’t look so distressed. You
are here for the day, anyway, because none of us can go trudging about
in such weather. I’ll telephone for-- There. No matter. It’s right.
It’s all right. Don’t, for goodness sake, cry. Anything, anything but
that. Ugh! my foot. I must get out of this draught,” he almost yelled.

Josephine was very grave. She walked quietly to Uncle Joe’s side, and
clasped the hand which did not hold a cane with both her own.

“It’s dreadful funny, seems to me. Aren’t we going to stay in this
house all the time? I wish--I’m sorry I spoke about the box and the
heatheny money. But if you don’t mind, I must, I must, get into my
trunk. The key is in my satchel in my room. Mamma put it there with the
clean clothes I wore last night. She said they would last till the
trunk came; but that as soon as ever it did I must open it and take out
a little box was in it for you. The very, very moment. I must mind my
mamma, mustn’t I?”

“Yes, child, I suppose so,” he slowly returned.

Mr. Smith was now in his reclining chair, with his inflamed foot
stretched out in momentary comfort. He spoke gently, rather sadly, in
fact, as he added:

“My child, you may open your trunk. I will never counsel you to do
anything against your mother’s wishes. She seems to be a sensible
woman. But there has been a mistake which I cannot understand. I am
Joseph Smith. I have lived in this house for many years, and it is the
street and number which is written on the tag you showed me. Do you
understand me, so far?”

“Course. Why not?”

“Very well. I’m sorry to tell you that I have no twin brother, no
‘sister Helen,’ and no niece anywhere in this world. I have many
cousins whom I distrust, and who don’t like me because I happen to be
richer than they. That’s why I live here alone, with my colored ‘boys.’
In short, though I am Joseph Smith, of number 1000 Bismarck Avenue, I
am not this same Joseph Smith to whom your mamma sent you. To-morrow
we will try to find this other Joseph Smith, your mislaid uncle. Even
to-day I will send for somebody who will search for him in my stead.
Until he is found you will be safe with me, and I shall be very happy
to have you for my guest. Do you still understand? Can you follow what
I say?”

“Course,” she instantly responded.

But after this brief reply Josephine dropped down upon the rug and
gazed so long and so silently into the fire that her host was impelled
to put an end to her reflections by asking:

“Well, little girl, of what are you thinking?”

“How nice it would be to have two Uncle Joes.”

“Thank you. That’s quite complimentary to me. But I’m afraid that the
other one might prove much dearer than I. Then I should be jealous,”
he returned, smiling a little.

Josephine looked up brightly.

“I know what that means. I had a kitten, Spot, and a dog, Keno; and
whenever I petted Spot Keno would put his tail between his legs and go
off under the sofa and look just--mis’able. Mamma said it was jealousy
made him do it. Would you go off under a table if the other Uncle Joe
got petted? Oh! I mean--you know. Would you?”

Though this was not so very lucid, Mr. Smith appeared to comprehend her
meaning. Just then, too, a severe twinge made him contort his features
and utter a groan.

Josephine was on her feet and at his side instantly, crying out:

“Oh, does it hurt you so dreadful much? Can’t I do something for it? I
can bathe feet beautiful. Bridget sprained her ankle and mamma let me
bathe it with arnica. Big Bridget said that was what cured it so quick.
Have you got any arnica? May I bathe it?”

“Would you really handle a red, unpleasant, swollen old foot and not
dislike it?”

“I guess I shouldn’t like it much. I didn’t like big Bridget’s. I felt
queer little feelings all up my arm when I touched it. She said it hurt
me worse than it did her. But I’d do it. I’d love to do it even if I
didn’t like it,” she answered bravely.

“Peter, fetch the arnica. Then get a basin of hot water,” he ordered.

The pain was returning with redoubled force, and Mr. Smith shut his
lips grimly. He looked at Josephine’s plump little hands, and felt that
their touch might be very soothing; as, indeed, it proved. For when the
servant brought the things desired, the little girl sat down upon the
hassock beside the great chair and ministered to him, as she had done
to big Bridget. The applications were always helpful, but the tender
strokes of her small fingers were infinitely more grateful than the
similar ministrations of the faithful, yet hard-handed, Peter.

“Now I’ll put it to bed, as if it were Rudanthy. Poor Rudanthy! How
bad she must feel without any face. That’s worse than having a sore
foot, isn’t it?” as she heaped the coverings over the gouty toes.

“Far worse. Only waxen faces are not subject to pain.”

“I s’pose not. Now, Uncle Joe, would you like me to sing to you?”

“Can you sing?”

“Course. Mamma sings beautifully. She is the leader in our choir. My
papa says she makes him think of angels when she sings. I don’t sing
like her. Course not. But I can do some things, if you like me to.”

“What about the trunk, Josephine? Though I really think you would
better leave it packed pretty nearly as it is, since”--

“Uncle Joe, I’ve been thinking about that other uncle we’ve lost. If he
isn’t nice, and mamma will let me, I’ll stay with you.”

He did not dampen her spirits by suggesting that she would better wait
for him to ask her to stay, and merely answered:

“Well, time will show what’s best. Shall Peter unlock that trunk?”

Mr. Smith did not wish to break into anybody’s confidence; yet, since
she had spoken of a box destined for the mislaid “Uncle Joe,” he felt
that he would be justified in examining, at least, the outside of it.

Josephine went away with the old colored man, but did not tarry long.
The tin box was very near the top of the trunk, and she was in haste to
give it to her patient, to whom she explained:

“I know what’s in it. Nothing but some California flowers. Mamma said
that you would like them, even if they faded a little. But she hoped
they wouldn’t fade. The box is tight, like the big one she and papa
take when they go botanizing. Mamma is making a collection of all the
flowers she can and putting them in a big, big book. She knows their
names and all about them. Mamma knows--everything.”

“I begin to think so, too, little girl. I never before heard of so
much virtue and wisdom shut up in one woman. Yes, I see. The box is
addressed exactly like the tag. Still, I do not feel I have a right to
open it, for it is sealed, you see.”

“That’s only paper. It is to keep out the air. The air is what spoils
things like violets. Please do open it, or let me. Mamma would be so
dreadfully disappointed if you didn’t. Why, think! We were in that
terrible hurry, yet she took time to fix it. She hadn’t seen you in so
many years, she said, and so she _must_ send it. Please.”

“But I am not the ‘you’ she meant, you know, Josephine.”

“Well, you’re somebody, aren’t you? You’re my Uncle Joe, anyway,
whether you’re the regular one or not. Shall I?” and she held the box
edgewise, ready to tear the strip of paper which fastened its edges.

“Y-es, I suppose so. It may lead to the explanation of this riddle,” he
assented.

As the little girl had said, there was nothing whatever in the tin box
except a quantity of violets, with some of the wild blossoms that
brighten the mesas in spring-time, and one tiny scrap of paper, on
which was written, in evident haste

  “DEAR BROTHER JOE: Let these violets tell you all that I would say;
  and, as you are good to our little one, may God be good to you.

                                                             “HELEN.”

“Well, there’s no great injury done anybody by that deed, I think.
We’ll put the note back in the box and the flowers in water. When the
mislaid Joseph arrives we’ll restore him his property in the best shape
we can,” said Mr. Smith.

Peter listened, surprised. His master was almost mirthful, and that,
too, even during an attack of his dreaded malady. If this were the
effect of Josephine’s presence, he hoped that she would remain; though
he was shrewd enough to comprehend, from Mr. Smith’s words, that this
was doubtful.

“The worst I hopes about it is that that other out-of-the-way Joe
Smith turns out a wuthless creetur’ that Massa Joe won’t be trustin’
little missy with. I ain’t a-wishin’ nobody no harm, I ain’t, but I’se
powerful willin’ the mislaid uncle stays lost forever. Yes, suh,” he
assured his fellow-servants.

The violets were in a cut-glass bowl which Peter received no reprimand
for bringing, though it was the choicest piece in his master’s
possession, but, as the old man reasoned: “The fittenest one for
posies what had travelled in a little gell’s trunk, all the way from
Californy.” The gouty foot had ceased to torment its owner; the street
without was utterly quiet; the fire glowed in the grate, and its glow
was reflected in a lonely old man’s heart as on the happy face of a
little girl who nestled beside him. He remembered her statement that
she could sing, but he had been musical in his own day and shrank from
discord. Could a child so young make real melody? He doubted it, yet
it was now his intention to make her as happy as it lay in his power
to do, for the brief while that he might keep her; and he recalled her
mother’s written words:

“As you are good to our little one, may God be good to you.”

So he forced himself to say:

“If you want to sing now, Josephine, I will listen.”

It wasn’t a very gracious request, but the other did not notice that.
The sight of the home flowers had brought back a crowd of happy
memories, and without delay she began:

  “Maxwelton braes are bonny,
  Where early fa’s the dew,”

and had not proceeded thus far before the old Virginian had raised
himself upright in his chair and was listening with all his
keenly-critical ears to the sweetest music he had ever heard.

Josephine sang for love of singing. She could no more help it than a
bird could, for song came to her as naturally as to it. Her voice was
birdlike, too, in its clearness and compass, and true in every note.

“Do you like that song, Uncle Joe?” she asked.

“Like it? It’s wonderful. Child, who trained you?”

“I--why, I’ve just sung with mamma; though papa says that when I am
older, if he is able, I shall have other teachers. I don’t think
anybody can be better than mamma, though,” she answered.

“Something else, little girl,” came the prompt request.

It was as pure enjoyment to her as to him. She sang whatever came to
her mind, and many old ballads suggested by himself. With each one he
grew more enthusiastic, and finally called Peter to bring him his flute.

By this time that bewildered creature was prepared for anything.
When he and Massa Joe had been young, music and the flute had been
their mutual delight. But it was years and years since that ancient
instrument had been breathed upon, though it always lay, wrapped in its
swaddling clothes, convenient to its owner’s desk. Alas, when it was
brought, it uttered but the ghosts of former melodies, yet nobody in
that small company was the sadder for that. The unusual sounds stole
through the house, bewitched Lafayette from his cleaning and Apollo
from his range. Open-eyed, they stood without the library door and
wasted their time, with none to reprove; because, for once, the sharp
eyes of the major-domo, Peter, were bent upon a more delectable sight.

Into the midst of this happy scene came the discordant ring of the
electric bell, and instantly all other sounds ceased.

“Who in the world would trespass upon us, on such a day as this!” cried
Mr. Smith, at last arousing from the unusual mood into which he had
been betrayed by Josephine’s sweet voice.

“Maybe it’s company, Uncle Joe.”

“No company comes here without invitation, child.”

“I came, didn’t I? But we didn’t know that, then.”

“Business, I suppose. Always business; and to-day I’m unfitted for all
business.”

Business, indeed. For there was ushered into the room, by the frowning
Peter, the man whom of all others his master now least wished to see.




CHAPTER VII.

THE BOY FROM NEXT DOOR.


The unwelcome visitor was a Mr. Wakeman, confidential clerk and
business manager, under Mr. Smith, of that gentleman’s many vast
enterprises. He was an alert young man, rather jaunty of dress and
manner, and almost too eager to please his employer.

“Good morning, Mr. Smith.”

“Morning. Terrible prompt, aren’t you!”

“I’m always prompt, sir, if you remember.”

The stranger had brought an air of haste and unrest into the quiet
library, and its owner’s comfort was at an end. He moved suddenly and
his foot began to ache afresh. Even Josephine sat up erect and smoothed
the folds of her red frock, while she gazed upon Mr. Wakeman’s face
with the critical keenness of childhood. On his part, he bestowed upon
her a smile intended to be sweet, yet that succeeded in being merely
patronizing.

“Good morning, sissy. Didn’t know you had any grandchildren, Mr.
Smith,” he remarked.

“Haven’t. Of course,” was the retort.

“Beg pardon. I’d forgotten, for the moment, that you were a bachelor. I
got your telephone message,” said the clerk.

“Naturally.”

“Thought I’d best see you personally before conducting the inquiries,”
went on the young man.

“Unnecessary. Repeat the message you received.”

Mr. Wakeman fidgetted. He realized that he had been over-zealous, but
proved his reliability by saying: “‘Find out if there’s another Joseph
Smith in town whose residence number resembles mine.’”

“Hmm. Exactly. Have you done so?” demanded the employer.

“Not yet. As I was explaining”--

“Explanations are rarely useful. Implicit obedience is what I require.
When you have followed my instructions bring me the results. I--I am
in no especial haste. You needn’t come again to-day. To-morrow morning
will answer. Peter, show the gentleman out.”

But for once Peter was not on hand when wanted. Commonly, during
an attack of gout, he kept as close to his master as that exacting
person’s “own shadow.” The old man now looked around in surprise, for
not only had Peter, but Josephine, disappeared. There were also voices
in the hall, and one of these was unfamiliar.

“Peter! Peter!” he called, and loudly.

“Yes, Massa Joe. Here am I,” answered the butler, reappearing.

“Who’s out yonder?”

“A--er--ahem!--the little boy from next door, suh.”

“That rough fellow? What’s he want?”

“He, I reckon, he’s just come to call on our Miss Josephine, suh.”

Mr. Smith leaned back in his chair, overcome by astonishment, and Mr.
Wakeman quietly slipped away.

“Send her back in here,” ordered the master of the house.

The little girl came, attended by a red-headed lad, somewhat taller
than herself, with whom she had already established a delightful
intimacy; for she held fast to his hand and beamed upon him with the
tenderest of smiles as she cried:

“Oh, Uncle Joe! Here’s Michael!”

“Huh! Well, Michael, what’s wanted?”

“Josephine, Mr. Smith,” returned the lad.

“Michael, Josephine! How long have you two been acquainted?”

“About five minutes, I guess,” answered the manly little chap, pulling
a battered silver watch from his jacket pocket. The watch was minus a
crystal and he calmly adjusted the hands with one red little finger
as he announced the hour. “It was just eleven o’clock when I rang the
bell, and it’s six minutes past now, Mr. Smith.” Then he shook up his
timepiece, generously held it toward Josephine and informed her: “It
goes best when it’s hung up sidewise. I’ve had it ever so long. ’Most
six months, I reckon.”

“And I’ve had my watch sixteen years,” remarked Mr. Smith, displaying
his own costly chronometer, with its double dials and elegant case.
“But I should never think of using it as you do yours. Well, what’s
wanted with Josephine?” he asked, with an abrupt change.

“I’d like to take her sledding,” explained the visitor.

“Well, you can’t. She doesn’t belong to me, and I never lend borrowed
articles.”

The countenances of both children fell.

“What put it into your head to come here, anyway?” demanded Mr. Smith.

“She did,” answered Michael.

“Josephine? How could she?”

“She saw me when I started out, before the sidewalks were shovelled,
and hollered after me. I couldn’t stop then, ’cause I was going to meet
another fellow. When I went in to get a cracker I told my grandmother
that there was a little girl in here and she wouldn’t believe it. She
said”--

Michael paused with so much confusion that his questioner was
determined to hear just what the lady had remarked, and ordered:

“Well, go on. Never stop in the middle of a sentence, boy.”

“Not even if the sentence isn’t--isn’t a very polite one?”

“What did she say?” repeated Mr. Smith.

“She said you were too selfish and fussy to allow a child within your
doors,” said the boy, reluctantly.

“You see she was mistaken, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mr. Smith. I explained it to her. I said she must be a visitor,
and grandma thought in that case she’d be very lonely. She sent me in
to ask permission to take her a ride around the park on my sled. We
don’t often have such nice sledding in Baltimore, you know, Mr. Smith.”

“And, Uncle Joe, I was never on a sled in all my whole life!” entreated
Josephine, folding her hands imploringly.

“No, sir, that’s what she says. She’s a Californian, from away the
other side the map. Where the oranges come from. Say, Josephine, did
you bring any oranges with you?” inquired Michael.

“Not one,” said the little girl, regretfully. “I guess there wasn’t
time. Mamma and big Bridget had so much packing to do, and Doctor Mack
prob’ly didn’t think. I wish I had. I do wish I had.”

“There are plenty of oranges in this city, child. I presume Peter has
some now in his pantry. You may ask him, if you like,” said Mr. Smith.

Peter didn’t wait for the asking, but disappeared for a few moments,
then to return with a dish of them and place them on the table. The
eyes of both children sparkled, for it was the finest of fruit, yet
they waited until the butler had brought them plates and napkins before
beginning their feast. This little action pleased the fastidious old
gentleman, and made him realize that small people are less often
ill-bred than he had hitherto imagined them to be. He had based his
opinion upon the behavior of some other little folks whom it had been
his misfortune to meet upon cars or steamboats, who seemed to be always
munching, and utterly careless where their crumbs or nutshells fell.
This pair was different.

Indeed, had the host known it, Michael had been reared as daintily
as Josephine had been. “Company manners” were every-day manners with
him, and it was one of Mr. Smith’s beliefs that “breeding shows more
plainly at table than anywhere else.” He watched the boy with keenness,
and it was due to his present conduct, of which the lad himself was
unconscious, that final consent was given to Josephine’s outing.

Selecting an orange the boy asked:

“Shall I fix it for you?”

“If you please,” answered the little girl.

Michael cut the fruit in halves, placed it on a plate, laid a spoon
beside it, and offered it to Josephine, who received it with a quiet
“Thank you,” and began at once to take the juice in her spoon. When
each had finished an orange they were pressed to have a second, and
the boy frankly accepted, though the girl found more interest in this
young companion than in eating.

“It makes a fellow terribly hungry to be out in the snow all morning,
Mr. Smith. Seems as if I was always hungry, anyway. Grandma says I am,
but I reckon she doesn’t mind. Oh! I forgot. Why, she sent you a note.
I never do remember things, somehow.”

“Neither do I,” said Josephine, with ready sympathy.

“You ought to, then. Girls ought to be a great deal better than boys,”
answered Michael.

“Why?”

“Oh, because. ’Cause they’re girls, you know.”

Uncle Joe looked up from reading the brief, courteous note and felt
that that, added to the boy’s own manner, made it safe for him to
entrust his guest to Michael’s care for a short time.

“Very well, Josephine. Mrs. Merriman, my neighbor, whom I know but
slightly, yet is kind to you, requests that I allow you to play with
her grandson for an hour. You may do so. But put on your cloak and hat
and overshoes, if you have them.”

“I haven’t, Uncle Joe. But I don’t need them. My shoes are as thick
as thick. See? Oh, I’m so glad. I never rode on a red sled in all
my life, and now I’m going to. Once my papa rode on sleds. He and
you--I mean that other uncle, away up in New York somewhere. He’s seen
snow as high as my head, my papa has. I never. I never saw only the
teeniest-teeniest bit before. It’s lovely, just lovely. If it wasn’t
quite so cold. To ride on a sled, a sled, like papa!”

Josephine was anything but quiet now. She danced around and around the
room, pausing once and again to hug her uncle, who submitted to the
outbursts of affection with wonderful patience, “considerin’,” as Peter
reflected.

“What did you ride on, the other side the map?” asked Michael, laying
his hand on her arm to stop her movements.

“Why--nothing, ’xcept burros.”

“Huh! Them! Huh! I ride a regular horse in the summer-time, I do. Go
get ready, if you’re going. I can’t stand here all day. The fellows are
outside now, whistling. Don’t you hear them?”

“But I said she might go with you, because you are--well, your
grandmother’s grandson. I didn’t say she might hob-nob with Tom, Dick
and Harry.”

Michael fidgetted. The whistling of his comrades had already put
another aspect on the matter. So long as there were no boys in sight to
play with, he felt that it would be some fun to play with even a girl;
especially one who was so frank and ready as she whom he had seen in
Mr. Smith’s doorway. But now the boys were back. They’d likely laugh
and call him “sissy” if he bothered with Josephine, and what fellow
likes to be “sissied,” I’d wish to know!

Josephine felt the change in his manner, and realized that there was
need for haste, yet, fortunately, nothing deeper than that. It never
occurred to her that she could be in anybody’s way, and she returned to
the library very promptly, her red hat thrust coquettishly on one side
of her head, and her coat flying apart as she ran. She was so pretty
and so eager that the red-headed boy began to feel ashamed of himself,
and remembered what his grandmother often told him: that it was the
mark of a gentleman to be courteous to women. He was a gentleman, of
course. All his forefathers had been, down in their ancient home in
Virginia, which seemed to be considered a little finer portion of the
United States than could be found elsewhere. Let the boys jeer, if they
wanted to. He was in for it and couldn’t back out. So he walked up to
Josephine who was giving Uncle Joe a parting kiss, and remarked:

“I’ll button your coat. But put your hat on straight. It won’t stay a
minute that way, and when I’m drawing you, I can’t stop all the time to
be picking it up. Where’s your gloves? Forgot ’em? Never mind. Here’s
my mittens. Ready? Come on, then. Good morning, Mr. Smith. I’ll take
good care of her and fetch her back all right.”

He seized Josephine’s hand, lifted his cap, dropped it over his red
hair, and darted from the house.

A group of lads, his mates, had congregated before the house,
recognizing his sled upon the steps, and wondering what could have sent
him into that forbidding mansion. They were ready with questions and
demands the instant he should appear, but paused, open-mouthed, when he
did actually step out on the marble, leading Josephine. He was not “a
Virginian and a gentleman” for nothing. Instinct guided his first words:

“Hello, boys! This is Josephine Smith, from San Diego, California.
She’s never seen snow before, worth mentioning, and I’m going to give
her a sleighride. Her first one. S’pose we make it a four-in-hand, and
something worth while? What say?”

“Will she be afraid?” asked one of them.

“Are you a ’fraid-cat, Josephine?” demanded Michael, sternly, in
a don’t-you-dare-to-say-you-are kind of voice, and the little
Californian rose to the occasion gallantly.

“No, I am not. I’m not afraid of anything or anybody--here.”

“Come on, then.”

Ropes were unhitched from another sled and tied to lengthen that on
Michael’s, while he and another carefully placed the little passenger
upon the “Firefly,” bade her “Hold on tight!” and shouted: “Off we are!
Let her go, boys, let her go!”

Then began not one hour, but two, of the wildest sport the old square
had ever witnessed. The walks traversing it had already been cleared of
the snow, but for once there was no restricting “Keep off the grass”
visible.

The park was like a great, snowy meadow, across which the four
lads darted and pranced, at the risk of many upsets, their own
and Josephine’s, who accepted the plunges into the banks of snow
heaped beside the paths with the same delight she brought to the
smoother passages, where the sled fairly flew behind its hilarious
“four-in-hands.”

Pedestrians crossing the square were gayly informed that this was “a
girl who’d never seen snow before, and we’re giving her enough of it
to remember!” Michael was leader, as always, and he led them a merry
round, shouting his orders till he was hoarse, losing his cap and
forgetting to pick it up, his red head always to the fore, and his own
enjoyment intense.

As for Josephine--words fail to express what those two hours were to
her. The excitement of her new friends was mild compared to her own.
The snow sparkling in the sunlight, the keen frosty air, the utter
enchanting newness of the scene, convinced her that she had entered
fairyland. Her hat slipped back and hung behind her head, her curls
streamed on the wind, her eyes gleamed, her cheeks grew rosy, and her
breath came faster and faster, till at last it seemed that she could
only gasp.

Just then appeared old Peter, holding up a warning hand, since a
warning voice would not be heard. The four human ponies came to a
reluctant pause, stamping their feet and jerking their heads after the
approved manner of high-bred horses, impatient of the bit.

“For the land sakes, honey! You done get your death! You’se been out
here a right smart longer’n Massa Joe told you might. You come right
home with me, little missy, now, if you please,” said the butler.

“We’ll draw her there, Peter. Why, I didn’t know we’d been so long,”
apologized Michael.

“Thought you was a young gentleman what carried a watch!”

“So I am, old Peter,” then producing that valuable timepiece he turned
it on its side, studied its face, and informed his mates: “Half-past
one, fellows, and my grandmother has lunch at one! Whew! Home’s the
word!”




CHAPTER VIII.

AFTER THE FROLIC.


Reaction followed excitement. Josephine had never been so tired, no,
not even during her long railway journey. She had laughed and shouted
till her throat ached; her eyes were still dazzled by the gleam of
sunlight upon snow; and her clothing was wet through. She stepped from
the “Firefly” and climbed the cold marble stoop, holding on to Peter’s
hand as if without its aid she could not have mounted it at all. She
allowed him to take off her hat and cloak, without protesting that she
liked to do things for herself, and sat down by the register with a
shiver of content.

“Tired, little missy?”

“Terrible tired, Peter, thank you.”

“Massa Joe’s takin’ his luncheon, Miss Josephine.”

“Is he?” she asked indifferently.

“Reckon you better come get yours. Massa Joe don’t wait for nobody,
he don’t. Less’n ever when he’s got the gout on. Better hurry, maybe,
honey,” urged the butler.

Josephine rose, observed that she must go wash her hands and fix her
hair before she could go to table, and wearily ascended the stairs to
her own grand room. Once there the bed looked so inviting, despite its
great size, that she climbed upon it and dropped her hot face on the
cool pillow. She forgot to remove her wet shoes, nor thought how her
dampened clothing might stain the delicate lace spread. She meant to
stay there for a moment only, “Just till my eyes get right,” but she
fell asleep almost instantly.

She did not notice that the window was open, nor that the heat had been
turned off, the better to warm the library below. She noticed nothing,
in fact, till some time later when old Peter shook her sharply,
exclaiming still more indignantly:

“For land, honey, don’t you know no better’n go sleepin’ with your
window open right here in March? ’Tisn’t your fault, missy, if
you don’t done ketch the pneumony. Massa Joe says for you to come
downstairs. Little gells what live to his house must learn not to keep
table waitin’, less’n they can’t stay. Better get up, Miss Josephine.”

She obeyed him, but shivered afresh as she did so. The next moment she
was so warm she ran to the window and thrust her head out of it. Peter
drew her back and closed the sash with a bang. Then he led her to the
washstand and made a futile attempt to brush her tangled curls.

“Never mind, good Peter. I can do it. I’m sorry I went to sleep. Has
Uncle Joe wanted me?” she interrupted.

“Reckon he has, honey. He done suffer terrible. He like to hear you
sing them songs again, likely.”

“Well, I will, if I’m not too tired,” she answered.

The butler looked at her anxiously. Was she going to be sick? If she
were, whatever could he do with her? A sick man--that was one thing;
but a sick little girl, that was quite another matter. She would have
to go, he feared, and to lose her now would seem very hard.

After all, she did not appear ill. She laughed and apologized so
sweetly to her would-be-angry host that he forgot his indignation and
forgave her on the spot. Only warned her gravely that he was a man
who meant exactly what he said, and intended anybody belonging to him
should do the same. One hour was never two; and, in case they never
came across that missing uncle of hers, he supposed she would have to
stay where she was until such time as her own parents could claim her;
ending his lecture with the question:

“Would she remember?”

She’d promise to try and remember; and would he like to hear all about
what a lovely, lovely time she had had? Did he know what snow felt
like? Had he ever ridden and ridden till he couldn’t see, and been
dumped into high banks and buried underneath the soft, cold stuff,
till he was nearly smothered, and got his stockings all wet, and
shouted till he couldn’t shout another shout? Had he? she cried.

“I suppose I have. Many, many years ago. But wet stockings? Have you
got such on your little feet?” he anxiously asked.

Then, though he shrank from contact with anything damp or cold, fearing
fresh pangs to himself, he drew off her shoe and felt the moist but now
hot, little foot within.

“Child, you’re crazy. Never go round like that. Run up to your bathroom
and take a hot bath. Then put on everything clean and dry. Don’t you
know better than to behave as you have done? Didn’t your mother have
sense”--

There he paused, arrested by the piteous look which came over his
guest’s bonny face.

“Never mind. Don’t cry. I couldn’t stand that. It’s bad enough to have
the gout, and a little girl in the house who doesn’t--won’t--hasn’t
changed her stocking--Oh! Ouch! Clear out, can’t you? My foot, my
foot!” he shouted.

Josephine might have echoed, “My throat! my throat!” but she disdained
any such outcry. Her lip curled in a fine scorn, and at sight of the
grimace he made she laughed outright. Laughed foolishly, convulsively,
began to cry, and with a little wail of “Mamma! Mamma!” ran out of the
room.

Old Peter followed, saw that her room was made warm, prepared her bath,
helped her to lay out clean, dry clothing, and left her, with the
consoling remark:

“Don’t you never mind Massa Joe when he’s gouty. Men-folks ain’t done
got the gumption little gells has to keep their mouth shut and not
groan. Groanin’ lets a powerful lot of bad temper outen gouty people,
missy, and don’t you mind, honey. Just you call on me for what you’se
needin’ and everything will all come right. Now fix yourself up pretty
and come laughin’ down the stairs, like you done last night, and see
what’ll happen.”

Josephine was comforted. The hot bath did make her feel all right,
and the pretty frock she had selected reminded her quite happily of
mamma and the days when she had sat sewing upon it. The very tucks in
its skirt seemed to bring that dear presence nearer, and she reflected
that they were absent from each other only till such time as poor papa
should get quite well. She appeared below, saying:

“Now I’m good, Uncle Joe. Forgive me for being bad. I’ll sing again if
you want me.”

“Of course I want you. Maybe I was a bit stern, too, little lady. I
hope this wretched pain will leave me by to-morrow, then I’ll be able
to think of something else besides that hateful foot.”

“Poor foot!” she exclaimed.

“Now sing, if you will.”

Josephine tried, but it was altogether another sort of voice which
essayed “Old Lang Syne” from that which had warbled it so sweetly
earlier in the day; so that she was promptly bidden to give over the
attempt, Mr. Smith adding:

“You’re as hoarse as a raven. A few more such rough plays with a parcel
of boys and your voice would be ruined. Then your mother would never
forgive me. I know enough about music to realize what your singing is
to her. Here. Take a book and read. By-and-by it will be dinner time.
Maybe the hot soup will soothe your throat.”

He directed her to a bookcase and a vellum-bound copy of “The Pilgrim’s
Progress;” observing with fresh pleasure that it was her habit, not an
accident of the previous evening, that she handled all books daintily
and with respect for them. Then he forgot her in his own Review, and
his foot grew easier as the afternoon wore on.

Josephine sat patiently poring over the familiar story, which she could
easily read in her own copy at home, but that seemed different in this
grand volume; and after a time the words began to mix themselves up in
a curious sort of jumble. She closed her eyes the better to clear her
vision, didn’t think to open them again, and her head sank down upon
the pictured page.

“Huh!” said Mr. Smith, at last laying aside his own magazine, and
regarding the sleeper across the table with some amusement. “Old
Bunyan’s a trifle heavy for that pretty head. I must hunt up some
lighter stuff. Grimm or Andersen, if I’ve such books in the library. If
not, I’ll send out after them. How lovely and innocent she looks, and
how red her cheeks are. Her whole face is red, even, and-- Peter!”

“Yes, Massa Joe. Yes, suh,” answered the butler.

“Doesn’t that child seem a bit feverish? Do you know anything about
children, Peter?” asked “Uncle Joe.”

“Mighty little, I’se afraid, suh.”

“Well, sleep can’t hurt anybody. Carry her upstairs and lay her on her
bed. Cover her warm, and probably she’ll be all right afterward. She
mustn’t get sick. She must not _dare_ to get sick on my hands, Peter!”

“No, Massa Joe. No, suh. She dastn’t,” said the negro, quickly.

Peter lifted the little girl as tenderly as a woman, and carried her
off to rest. She did not rouse at all, but her head dropped heavily
on the pillow as if her neck were too slender to support it, and her
breath came with a strange whistling sound.

The old negro laid his hand upon her temples and found them hot. Though
he knew little about children, he did know that cold water was good
in such a case, so dipped a towel and folded it across her head. The
application seemed to soothe her, for her features became more natural,
and, after a time, as she appeared to be resting well enough, he stole
cautiously from the room and went about his business. Though his
interest was now wholly with Josephine, he dared not neglect his duties
below stairs, and knew that, as usual when he was ill, Mr. Smith would
expect the best of dinners that evening. It had been so stormy early
in the day that he had not attended to his marketing, and must now
make haste to repair the delay. Apollo was apt to lay the blame on the
butler, if things failed to turn out as desired, and there was need for
haste if the roast beef were to be secured of the cut preferred.

“I’ll just fetch a posy for the little lady, I will. If market’s over
they’s plenty them flower-stores, and maybe it’ll make her forget all
her lonesomeness. Poor little missy! What the Lord done sent to bless
this great, empty house. Nothing mustn’t happen to hurt her, nothing
mustn’t. No, suh,” reflected the good old man.

When Peter returned from his marketing Josephine was still asleep.
He did not disturb her, though he listened anxiously to her hoarse
breathing and carefully replaced the damp towel which her restlessness
had tossed aside. He also laid the bunch of carnations on the coverlet
beside her and cautiously retreated to the hall, where he kept as close
a watch upon her as he could find time to give.

“Dinner is served, Massa Joe,” he announced, when its hour arrived.

“Is Miss Josephine ready?” asked the host.

“She done sleepin’ mighty comf’table, suh,” protested Peter.

“Seems to me I’ve read somewhere that children should sleep half the
time. Is that so, Peter?”

“Certainly, suh, I reckon likely ’tis,” replied the other, willing to
agree.

“Then don’t wake her. You--you may have a little dinner put back for
her,” said “Uncle Joe,” with some hesitation.

The butler stared at this unheard-of condescension, but answered after
his common formula. Yet the plate of food he so carefully prepared and
set in the hot-water dish to keep warm for her was destined never to be
eaten.




CHAPTER IX.

NEIGHBORLY AMENITIES.


Mrs. Merriman’s bell rang violently once, twice, and the lady laid
aside her book, exclaiming:

“Who can that be, so late as this? Half-past nine, and almost bedtime.
Run, Michael. Though I thought you’d gone upstairs before now. It takes
the maid so long to answer. There it is again. Hurry. Dear, dear! I
_hope_ it isn’t a telegram.”

“I’m going, Mary,” called the lad to the maid, as he rushed to the door.

Peter stood outside, bareheaded and looking almost white in his terror.

“For mercy’s sake, Massa Michael, is there a woman in this house?”

“Of course. Lots of them. Grandmother, Mary, waitress, Samanda--Why?”

“Our little Miss Josephine. I reckon she’ll die.”

“Die, Peter? That little girl? What’s the matter?” cried Michael.

“Goodness knows, I don’t. She can’t hardly breathe, she can’t. Massa
Joe’s sent for his doctor and his doctor he’s out, and we don’t have no
faith in them others round the square, and--_Will_ some of your women
please just step in and take a look at our poor little missy?”

Michael darted back into the sitting-room, exclaiming:

“Grandma, that little girl next door is awful sick. Peter’s frightened
most to death himself. He wants some of our women to go in there and
help them.”

“Our women! Of what use would they be, either of them? I’ll go myself.
Ring for Mary, please,” said the old lady, rising.

The maid appeared, and was directed to bring:

“My shawl and scarf, Mary. I’m going in next door to see a sick child.
You stay right here in the hall and keep the latch up, so that
there’ll be no delay if I send in for you or anything needed. Yes,
Michael, you may go with me to help me up and down the steps, though
you ought to be in bed. Yet come. It must be something serious for Mr.
Smith to thus far forego his reserve.”

Uncle Joe was waiting at the head of the stairs as Mrs. Merriman
ascended them, with that activity upon which she prided herself, and
asked:

“Are you in trouble, neighbor? What is it?”

“The little girl. I don’t know whose even. Came to me, an express
‘parcel,’ and I haven’t traced the blunder, found the right--no matter.
This way, please. I’ll explain later.”

There was no trace of the gout left in the gentleman’s movements as he
preceded his neighbor to Josephine’s room, where the child lay gasping,
feverish, and clutching at her own throat in an agony of terror.

One glance, and Mrs. Merriman’s shawl was tossed aside, and she had
lifted the little sufferer in her arms, observing:

“Not even undressed! How long has she been like this?”

“For several hours, Peter says, but growing steadily worse. I’ve sent
for the doctor, but he hasn’t come. He”--

She interrupted him with:

“Send for another. The nearest possible. It’s croup. Short and quick,
usually. Michael, run in for Mary. Now, Peter, heat some blankets. Find
me her night-clothes. Warm that bed. A foot-tub of hot water. Any oil
in the house? Epicac? Any other household remedies?”

“There’s the medicine for the gout, madam,” suggested Mr. Smith.

“Oh, bother the gout. That’s nothing. _This_ is--serious. There, Mary,
lend a hand. Michael, run for Doctor Wilson. Hurry. If you can’t find
him, then the next one. There are seven of them around this square,
perched like vultures, seeking whom they may devour. As a rule, I
ignore the whole crowd, but I’m thinking of this little one’s mother
now. Hurry, lad,” directed Mrs. Merriman.

Mr. Smith stood silent, helpless, and admiring. This was a gentlewoman
of the old school, such as he remembered his own mother to have been,
who was not afraid to use her own hands in ministering to the suffering
and who wasted no time in questions. Every movement of her wrinkled
but still firm fingers meant some solace to the little child, whose
brown eyes roamed from one to another with a silent, pitiful appeal.
In a twinkling, it seemed, Josephine was undressed, reclothed in soft,
warm garments, her chest anointed with the relaxing oil, and a swallow
of hot milk forced between her lips. Then Michael was dispatched to
the nearest drug store and brought back a dose of the old-fashioned
remedy Mrs. Merriman had used for her own little children. But she had
hardly time to administer it before one of the physicians summoned
had appeared, and to him she promptly resigned the direction of
affairs. His first order was that Mr. Smith should go below to his own
comfortable library and remain quiet, adding:

“I’ll report as soon as your child is better, sir.”

“She isn’t my child, doctor, but do you care for her as if she were.
Spare no expense. She must not, she must not die upon my hands. I’d no
right to retain her as long as I have, but--but-- Don’t let her die,
doctor, and you’ll save me from everlasting remorse.”

“Go below, Mr. Smith. Peter, attend your master. There are enough of
us here, and this little lady will soon be all right. It’s croup only,
and-- What has she been eating lately?”

“What has she not? How can I tell? But one thing I know, she ate no
dinner to-night,” answered the host.

“So much the better. Now, Mr. Smith”--a wave of the hand in the
direction of the doorway suggested that the master of the house was
banished from the sickroom.

Daylight was breaking when at last the doctor led Mrs. Merriman down
the stairs and to her own home, leaving Mary and Peter on watch, and
promising a speedy return, with the assurance that all danger was now
past. At the door of the library the old lady paused and looked in. Mr.
Smith still sat erect in his chair, and seemed as wide awake as she was
drowsy, and she advised him:

“Go to bed, neighbor. The little one is all right again. We’ve had a
tussle for it, but she’s pulled through. Go to bed and get some rest.
I’m really sorry for you that this uninvited trouble has come upon you,
and will help you share it, so far as I may. But, doubtless, we’ll all
see why it was allowed, before we’ve done with it.”

He returned, gallantly enough:

“For one reason, it may be, madam, to render me more just and tolerant
to my neighbors. You have laid me under great”--

But she checked him, saying:

“Beg pardon, under nothing at all. It was the little child for whom
I came, and if I have served you, too, why so much the better. Good
morning.”

She went at once, leaving him to reflect:

“To go to bed at daylight! When ever did I such a thing? But I will.
Though I wonder if I am quite right in my mind. The idea of one small
child upsetting two such households, all for the sake of a sled-ride!
Hmm. Hmm. Peter! Here, Peter. I’m for bed at breakfast time! After an
hour or two of rest I’ll set about finding that mislaid Joseph Smith
and hand over to him this little-too-absorbing responsibility. Thank
God, boy, that she did not die.”

“Aye, Massa Joe. I’se been a-thinkin’ of him the whole endurin’ night.
Powerful queer, ain’t it? Just such a little speck of while, and now
seems if that little missy worth more to old Peter than the whole
universe. Yes, suh, the whole universe!”

“Much you know about the universe, boy. There, there! Take care that
foot. If you set it aching again--Ouch!”

It was not one but many hours that Mr. Smith slept, worn out by his
late physical suffering and his anxiety of the last night. When he woke
his first inquiry was for Josephine.

“Laws, Massa Joe, it’s just wonderful. That child seems if nothing ever
ailed her. The doctor done been here again and told what to give her
for breakfast. She eat it like she was ’most starved, the little lamb.
Now she’s sleepin’ again, the beautifullest ever was. I ’xpect ’twas
that sleddin’ round the square done fetched it on. Next time”--

“Hush, boy. Don’t count on any ‘next time’ for her here. I must hunt up
that other Joseph Smith and hand her over to him forthwith,” said the
master.

Peter’s heart sank. How could they ever endure that great house now
with this little child gone out of it? Well, there was one thing which
nobody could prevent--his wishing that the “other Joseph” might never
be found!

After Mr. Smith had eaten he paid a flying visit to the little one’s
room, gazed at her now peaceful, if pale face, and stole downstairs
again with softened tread. He limped but slightly, and made a critical
survey of himself before he issued from the great hall into the street.

“If you’s going down town, Massa Joe, like enough you better have a
cab. ’Counten your foot,” suggested Peter.

“You may ’phone for one, boy. No. Stay. I’ll not baby myself thus far.
The air is warm as summer, almost, and the streets cleared. I’ll take a
car; but--Shut that door, Peter. I don’t need you further. If anything
happens to Miss Josephine, or any news comes concerning her, send me
word at once. Shut that door, can’t you?” he finished testily.

“Certainly, suh;” yet good Peter left it a crack ajar, the better to
watch his master, whose actions somehow suggested a different order of
things from usual. He saw Mr. Smith descend his own and ascend Mrs.
Merriman’s stoop, and threw up his hands in dismay, exclaiming:

“For goodness! I do hope Massa Joe ain’t done gone rake up all that old
line-fence trouble, just after her bein’ so good to our little missy.
What if ’tis five inches on our ground, and she claimin’ it’s just so
far ’tother way, and the lawyers argifying the money outen both their
pockets, this ain’t no time for to go hatchin’ fresh miseries. And I
never, not once, all these dozen years seen Massa Joe go a callin’ and
a visitin’ nobody, not for just pure visit. Whenever he has, ’twas
’cause there was some sort of business tacked on to the end of it
somehow. Huh! I never done looked for this, I didn’t.”

Neither had the lady expected the call which was made upon her. But she
greeted her guest with a friendly courtesy that made him all the more
remorseful for the legal difficulties he had placed in her way in the
past, and quite ready to offer his apologies for the same at a fitting
opportunity. At present his visit was to express his gratitude for her
services to Josephine, and to ask her advice.

“My advice, Mr. Smith? I am the last person in the world to advise so
capable a person as yourself. My opinion you’re most welcome to, if you
explain what I should express it about,” she returned.

“The little girl, Josephine;” and he told all he knew and had
thought concerning her; finishing with the words, “I have so little
information to go upon.”

She promptly inquired:

“Beg pardon, but have you gone upon what little you do possess?”

“Madam?” he asked.

“I mean, have you really set about finding this mislaid uncle as if
your heart was in it?” she explained.

“I haven’t hurried. I deputized my business man to look the thing up,
but--I don’t deny that I wish the other rightful Joseph Smith might be
found to have left the country,” he answered.

“Even despite the anxiety Josephine has caused you?”

“Yes, madam. I mean to be honest. I hate to set detectives on the task,
yet I will. But meanwhile, until the child’s relatives are found, what
shall I do with her? Can you direct me to a capable woman who will
engage to look after her welfare for the few days I may need her?”

Mrs. Merriman looked at him critically, with a twinkle gleaming in her
eye. An audacious thought had come to her, yet a thought so full of
possibilities for good--and, maybe, ill--that she decided to act upon
it, and quietly replied:

“Yes, Mr. Smith, I think I do know just the right woman. She has lately
returned from a winter in California, where she has been nursing an
invalid back to health. She is a trained nurse and was with me last
year, during my long illness. I received her card recently saying
that she would be in this city about now. Indeed, she must have left
Southern California at about the same time as your little ward, though
she was to delay a day or so at Chicago. I will send to inquire if she
is at home, at her boarding-house, if you desire.”

He assented, adding:

“I should be very grateful. I trust I may be able to prove later on
that I am not unappreciative of all your goodness.”

“Don’t mention it. Good morning. I will write the note immediately, and
until some person is regularly established in your house to look after
little Josephine, I will step in there now and then, myself, to see
that all is right.”

They parted most amicably, and the first action of Mr. Smith, upon
reaching his office, was to send for his lawyer and tell him that he
had abandoned the question of line-fences entirely; that Mrs. Merriman
should be notified that all claim to the “insignificant strip of land
midway their respective side-yards was hereby and forever relinquished,
with no costs to herself.”

Her own proceeding was the writing of a note to her friend, the nurse,
and so imperative was the summons it contained that the lady answered
in person, although not yet sufficiently rested from the fatigue of a
long journey and her previous engagement to desire another so promptly.

As for Josephine, after a morning of dreamless, health-restoring sleep,
she woke to find a familiar figure sitting by her bedside, smiling
affectionately upon her. A brief, puzzled glance, a rubbing of the
brown eyes to make sure they saw aright, and the child sprang out of
bed, into the woman’s arms crying:

“Oh, Red Kimono! You dear, kind, Mrs. Red Kimono, where did you come
from?”




CHAPTER X.

TOM, DICK, HARRY, AND THE BABY.


For the next week Mr. Smith was untiring in his efforts to find the
missing Joseph Smith, his namesake. Telegrams sped back and forth
between Baltimore and San Diego, with the result that the only
information gained was: on the very day, or the next following that,
on which Mrs. John Smith sailed from San Diego for Santiago de Chile,
Doctor Alexander MacDonald, otherwise known as “Doctor Mack,” had
departed for the Philippines. No person at their recent home knew
anything further concerning these two persons, and owing to their long
journeys all communication with them was for the present impossible.

The seventy-five Joseph Smiths residing in or around Baltimore had all
been unearthed, so to speak, without finding one who in any particular
beyond the name resembled the desired one. Not one was anybody’s twin,
not one happened to have had any relative in either San Diego or
Santiago, and not one welcomed the thought of receiving a strange child
into his household.

One Joseph Smith had, indeed, been found to have lately resided at
1000 Bismarck Street and this confusion of street and avenue explained
to Uncle Joe’s mind the whole curious, yet simple blunder. This
Bismarck-Street Joseph Smith was, doubtless, the right one; but, also,
he was the only one of the seventy-five who could not now be located!
He had disappeared as completely as if the earth had swallowed him,
and Josephine’s present guardian rested his efforts; merely causing an
advertisement to be inserted in each of the daily papers to the effect
that the person answering it might hear of something to his advantage
by calling at the newspaper office and leaving his address for the
advertiser, “S.”

Nobody called. Matters dropped into a comfortable routine. Uncle Joe
was disturbed at finding the name of the trained nurse was also Smith,
and to prevent unpleasant complications, requested that he might call
her as the little girl did, “Mrs. Red Kimono,” or, more briefly, “Miss
Kimono,” she having set him right as to her maidenly condition.

She readily and smilingly agreed to this, and, reporting the matter
to Mrs. Merriman, laughed so heartily over it, that that lady
remonstrated, saying:

“Dear Miss Desire, it’s outrageous. Under the circumstances I would
never permit it. The idea! He excludes you from table with himself and
the little girl, does he not? For so Michael tells me.”

“Yes. Not, I fancy, from arrogance, but merely from force of habit.
He dislikes women, utterly and sincerely. Or he thinks he does. But
Josephine has won his whole heart for childhood, and he likes her to
be with him as constantly as possible. From what the servants tell me,
she has wrought a complete transformation in the household. And she
is so lovely, so winning, that eventually she’ll bring everything
right. I don’t mind the table business; the main thing is that I am
in his house, tolerated there, and determined, if the time is not too
short, to prove to him that blood is thicker than water, and that, just
though he thinks himself, he has been wholly unjust in his treatment of
others. Oh, I don’t object to the situation. I get lots of quiet fun
out of it, and haven’t felt so happy in a long time. I’ve even lost
all bitterness against him, poor, solitary, prejudice-bound old man,”
returned the nurse.

“Well, may I be there to see when the revelation is at last made!
Though I prophesy that his behavior in the matter will be as
straightforward as it was about the line-fence. Think! We squabbled
over it like a couple of silly children, for years and years. I can’t
understand now how I could ever have been so absurd. Must you go? Well,
then, since your employer wishes you to take little Josephine down
town to get that Rudanthy a head, suppose you both go with me in my
carriage? I will call for you at three o’clock.”

Miss Kimono thanked her friend and departed; and that same afternoon
the unhappy doll’s ruined countenance was replaced by one so beautiful
that it almost consoled Josephine for the loss of the more familiar
face.

That very day, too, away out in a suburban village, where rents were
cheap and needs few, three little lads sat on a bare floor, surrounding
a baby, who rejoiced in the high-sounding name of Penelope, but
rejoiced in very little else. Even now she was crying for her dinner,
and each of the “triplets,” as they were called by the neighbors,
was doing his utmost to console her. In reality they were not
triplets, though the eldest were twins, and their names were those so
objectionable in Uncle Joe’s ears, Tom, Dick, and Harry.

“Here, Penel! You may play with my pin-wheel!” cried the latter.

“No, Harry, she must not. She’ll swallow it. The pin’ll scratch her
insides. She swallows everything, Penelope does. And you mustn’t say
just ‘Penel.’ Mother doesn’t like that. She says it’s a beautiful name
and mustn’t be spoiled.”

“Oh, Tom, you’re always a c’recting a fellow. Well, if she can’t have
my pin-wheel, what shall I give her to make her shut up?”

“Maybe I can find something in mother’s cupboard, maybe,” answered
Harry.

The tone was doubtful, but the suggestion cheering, and with one accord
the triplets left the baby to its fate and betook themselves to the
rear room where they ransacked a small pantry, only to find their
search rewarded by nothing more palatable than a stale loaf of bread
and a few raw potatoes.

“She can’t eat taters, and she can’t eat this bread, ’ithout it’s
softened. And there isn’t any milk,” said Dick, despondingly. “I don’t
see why we don’t have things like we used to have. I don’t know what
made my folks move ’way out here to nowhere, anyway. I was just going
to get a new ’rithmetic to my school, and now, I--I hate this.”

“No, you don’t hate it, Dicky. Not always. You’re hungry, that’s all,”
said the more thoughtful Tom.

“Well, so are you!” retorted Dick, resenting the statement as if it
were an implication of guilt.

“If you can’t get milk, water must do,” answered Tom, taking the loaf
from his brother’s hand and carefully breaking off a portion of it, to
moisten it under the spigot.

The others watched him with keen interest, and Harry inquired:

“Do you s’pose I could have just a little bit, Tom?”

“No, I don’t s’pose anything like it. You aren’t a baby, are you? Only
babies eat when ’tisn’t dinner time, now.”

“Once I used to eat when ’twasn’t dinner. Once I did,” answered the
little boy, with something like a quiver of the lip.

“Does our father or our mother eat ’tween meals, Harry Smith?” demanded
Tom, indignantly.

“No. Come on. If we can’t have bread let’s play hop-toad.”

“All right. After I’ve set Penelope up against the wall so’s we shan’t
knock her over,” answered the brother.

The little maid was soon propped securely across an angle of the
whitewashed wall, with a chair before her to keep her from creeping
forward into danger, and the small triplets were soon leaping over
one another’s backs, around and around the room. Fortunately, there
was little furniture to obstruct their movements and therefore little
danger of hurting themselves; and though the exercise tended to
increase their always-present hunger, that was nothing new.

“A fellow can have a good time even if he doesn’t have a good dinner,”
was their father’s assertion; and to them father was an oracle.

While the fun was at its height there came a knock on the little street
door. The house was but the tiniest of cottages, and its floor raised
but slightly above the street. Its door hung loosely from its upper
hinge and dragged so heavily in closing that it was commonly left ajar.
No landlord cared to fix it up for such poor tenants as now occupied
the property, and they had not done it for him. So that when his knock
was unanswered, because unheard, the visitor calmly entered, followed
the noise, and presented himself before the gaze of the astonished,
suddenly quieted lads.

“Hello, youngsters, hard at it?” demanded the stranger, playfully.

“Hop-toad, leap-frog; having frolics,” answered Harry, boldly, while
his brothers, the twins, clung together and looked anxiously at the man.

“Nice game. Used to play it myself, when I was a little shaver. Don’t
know but I might be persuaded to try it again, if I was invited,” said
the unknown visitor.

None of the trio responded to this suggestion, nor was the game
resumed. The three children stood utterly silent, regarding the
gentleman with the intensely critical gaze of childhood which pretence
finds so disconcerting. The stranger felt as if six gimlets were boring
their way through his outward amiability to the vexation beneath; a
vexation that he had allowed himself to come so far out of his way
to find a man who could not possibly reside in such a hovel. None
the less, since here he was he would ask a question or two for the
satisfaction of it, and put the first one, thus:

“Say, youngsters, what’s your name?”

“Tom, Dick, and Harry. That’s me,” answered the latter, placing his
arms akimbo, the better to stare at the questioner, it seemed.

“The mischief! Saucy, aren’t you!” rejoined the newcomer.

“And the baby. That’s Penelope,” added Tom, with his usual precise
gravity.

“Tom, Dick, and Harry, and the baby; a hopeful lot of you. All right.
So much for first names, though I don’t believe they’re genuine. Give
us the last name and be quick about it,” ordered this odd man.

“Our name is Smith. That’s our father’s name and our mother’s. Why? _Do
they owe you something?_ ’Cause if they do, I wish, I wish you’d please
go away, quick as a wink, and not let them know you’ve been here. My
father can’t help it. He--something got wrong with the business, and
I’ve heard them talk lots of times. They”--explained Tom.

Just there it occurred to the little fellow that he was discussing
family affairs too freely with a stranger, and instinct made him pause.

“Well, ‘they’ what? Is his name Joseph? Joseph Smith? Has he a brother
who is a twin?” asked the stranger.

Tom considered, there seemed no harm in answering these questions.

“Yes, his name is Joseph. He has a brother who is a twin, same as me
and Dick.”

Then there ensued the following dialogue, begun by the visitor with the
next question:

“Where does this uncle of yours live?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know? Haven’t you ever seen him?”

“No. Never.”

“Where’s your father?”

“Out looking for work. Maybe he’ll get it to-day, maybe.”

The wistfulness of the childish voice told its own story, and even Mr.
Wakeman’s heart was touched by it. He was compelled to say:

“Likely he will, chappie. Likely enough he will. And your mother? I
suppose you have a mother?”

“Course. The nicest mother there is.”

“Does she happen to be at home?”

Tom’s gaze flew past the questioner toward a little woman who had
entered unperceived, and who was closely followed by a handsome man
with a mien as bright and undaunted as if he were not evidently
half-starved and poor in the extreme. With the gentlest of movements
he placed himself between the lady and the stranger, as if to ward off
from her any fresh misfortune.

“Your errand, Mr.”--

“Wakeman. My name is Wakeman. Since you didn’t answer our advertisement
I looked you up, myself. I represent Joseph Smith, of the Stock
Exchange.”

“Ah!” The ejaculation spoke volumes.




CHAPTER XI.

THE DISPOSAL OF THE PARCEL.


In that little word “Ah!” were expressed hope, relief, eagerness, and
gratitude. The name was that of a well-known financier; one who had the
power of dispensing good or ill to hundreds of other men. It could not
forebode ill to the master of this insignificant home, since he was no
debtor to it; therefore it must denote some blessing. A situation, the
chance to earn a living for these precious ones whom his failure and
his honesty had impoverished. For the first time, at the relief of this
fancy, tears leaped to the bright, clear eyes of this new Joseph Smith,
and unconsciously, it seemed, he clasped his wife’s thin waist with his
strong arm.

“Cheer for us, Kitty, girl. Doubtless this other Joseph Smith needs
an accountant and has heard of my skill that way. I was an expert,
sir, before I went into business for myself and failed, attempting a
commercial line I did not understand,” explained the man, yet losing
his own courage as the explanation went on. He had boasted thus of his
reputation the better to comfort his wife, but he read no encouragement
in the countenance of Mr. Wakeman, which grew more forbidding each
instant.

“Do not mistake, Mr. Smith. My errand is not of the sort which you
appear to expect. My employer--I am myself an expert accountant, and
the only one necessary to our business--my employer does not know of my
present visit. Some days ago he entrusted a private bit of detective
work to me, and I have now, I think, brought it to a finish. Why,
however, may I ask, did you not reply to our advertisement?”

“I have seen none. This,” waving his hand around the bare apartment,
“is hardly the place where the luxury of newspapers may be looked for.
What was the advertisement, if you please?”

Mr. Wakeman explained. Explained, added, itemized, and diffused himself
all over the argument, so to speak, while the faces of his audience
grew more and more tense and disturbed. At length he finished:

“That is the way it stands, sir, you see. Your brother John consigned
this child to my employer, through a mistake in the address. Simply
that. Now an old gentleman and--feeble, I may say”-- Oh! if Uncle Joe
could have heard him! “A feeble old man is not the one to be burdened
with other folks’ relations. When I go back to town, now, I’ll be able
to report that the missing uncle of this waif has been found at last,
and that--Shall I say when you will call to reclaim her?”

Father and mother looked into each other’s eyes, one questioning the
other, and reading in each but the same answer. Then said Joseph Smith,
rightful uncle of our Josephine:

“Spare yourself the trouble, Mr. Wakeman. My brother’s child is our
child, as dear and near. Alas, that I can offer her no better shelter!
but it is a safe one and will be more comfortable. I shall soon get a
situation; I _must_ soon get one. It is impossible that skill shall go
forever unrecognized. In any case the little Josephine must come home
to us. Eh, Kitty, girl?”

She answered him valiantly, seeing through his unusual boastfulness,
who was commonly so modest of his own attainments, and smiling back
upon him with the same undaunted courage he brought to their changed
life. It was taking bread from her own children’s mouths to do what now
she did, yet her step never faltered as she walked across to the little
cupboard and took from some hidden nook, known only to herself, their
last quarter dollar. This she gave to her husband, saying cheerily:

“If you go at once, Joe, you may be home again in time for dinner.
I’d like to be prompt with it for I’ve secured a dress to make for a
woman in the neighborhood and can begin it to-night. Besides, I’m all
impatience to see this little Josephine. Think of it, dear, the child
who was named for you. How little we dreamed she was right here in our
own Baltimore all this time. Go, dear, at once.”

With something like a groan the man caught the brave little creature in
his arms, and was not ashamed to kiss her then and there before this
staring stranger who had brought them this news. Ill or good, which
would it prove? Then he put on his hat and went directly away.

Mr. Wakeman followed more slowly. He did not feel as much elated over
his success as an amateur detective as he fancied he should feel. He
was thinking of many things. Suppose this fellow, who was so down on
his luck, this other unknown, insignificant Joseph Smith, should happen
to take the fancy of the great Joseph Smith, of whom the world of
business stood in such awe, and that magnate should happen to employ
him on certain little matters of his own? Suppose those inquiries were
directed toward his, Mr. Wakeman’s, own accounts, what would follow?
Who could tell? Hmm! Yes, indeed. To prevent any such “happenings”
that might prove unpleasant, it would be as well to make a little
detour around by the office, even though it was after office hours and
business all done for that day. In any case the new-found Uncle Joe,
the real article, was now _en route_ for 1000 Bismarck Avenue, and it
wouldn’t take two to tell the same story. Mr. Wakeman hoped the story
would be told, and that child which had caused him so much trouble well
out of the way before he again met his master. Then would be quite time
enough to look for a reward, such as was due from a multi-millionaire
to his trusted and effective man of affairs.

Pondering thus, Mr. Wakeman rode back to town in a livery hack, while
the impecunious uncle of the little Californian rode thither in a
democratic street car. The faster the car sped the more impatient the
improvident young man became. He wondered if his twin’s little daughter
could be half as pretty and interesting as his own small people. He
was glad he had never once written John or Helen anything about his
business troubles. They supposed him to be doing uncommonly well and
living in comfort, if not in luxury. Well, if this young Josephine
were of the same good stock as her father a little poverty and
privation in her youth wouldn’t hurt her; and where, search the wide
world over, could any child find a sweeter, better foster-mother than
his own Kitty?

When he arrived at Bismarck Avenue, things were already happening there
which were out of the ordinary, to say the least. Among the day’s
mail had come several letters to one Miss Desire Parkinson Smith,
care of Mr. Joseph Smith. These letters had been handed to the master
along with his own, and had caused him surprise amounting almost to
consternation.

“Desire Parkinson! Desire Parkinson! And Smith! The combination is
remarkable, if nothing more, Peter,” he exclaimed.

“Yes, suh, Massa Joe. Yes, suh,” returned the also startled negro.

“Do you see these letters?” asked the master.

“Yes, sir,” said the butler.

“Notice the superscription. Ever been any others with the same?”

“Yes, suh, heaps. Most all of them comes to Miss Kimono. Though some is
just plain Miss Smith.”

“Hmm! Hmm! This is--this is--disturbing,” admitted Mr. Smith.

Uncle Joe dropped into deep thought and sat so long in profound quiet
that Josephine, playing on the carpet near by, folded her hands and
watched him anxiously. She had grown to love his stern old face, that
was never stern to her, with all the fervor of her affectionate heart;
and presently she could not refrain from tiptoeing to him and laying
her soft fingers tentatively upon his arm. He looked up at her, smiled,
and murmured, more to himself than to her:

“Strange, strange. I’ve noticed something, a familiar trick of manner,
something unforgotten from boyhood, Aunt Sophronia-- Little Josephine,
where is your--your nurse?”

“In the sitting-room with Mrs. Merriman, Uncle Joe. Shall I call her?”
she answered.

“If you will, dear. I’d like to speak with her a moment,” said he.

The ladies were deep in the intricacies of a new lace pattern, and
though Miss Kimono rose obediently to the summons Josephine delivered,
Mrs. Merriman for once forgot the requirements of etiquette and
followed without invitation. But Mr. Smith was now too excited to
notice this, and so it happened that one of the old gentlewoman’s
wishes was gratified without anybody’s connivance. “May I be there to
see,” she had said, and here she was.

“Miss Smith, what is your Christian name?” demanded the master of the
house.

“Desire Parkinson, Mr. Smith,” glancing toward the letters lying on his
table, replied the nurse. They flung their brief remarks at each other,
as though they were tossing balls, thus:

HE: “That is an uncommon name, Miss--Smith.”

SHE: “As uncommon, I suppose, as our mutual surname is common.”

HE: “Were you named for anybody in especial?”

SHE: “For a very dear lady in especial. For my mother’s twin sister.”

HE: “She was a Parkinson?”

SHE: “She was a Parkinson.”

HE: “She married a Smith?”

SHE: “She married a Smith, of Virginia. So did my mother another Smith,
of another State. The world is full of them, Mr. Smith. We shall never
be lonely because of a dearth of our patronymic.” The lady was smiling
in great amusement, and, it is possible, the amusement was tinctured by
a spice of malice.

HE: “What was your mother’s Christian name, if I may ask?”

SHE: “Surely you may ask, and I will answer to the best of my ability.
Her name was Sophronia.”

HE: “Then you and I are--are”--

SHE: “Bear up, Mr. Smith, we are first cousins.”

HE: “You--you knew this before?”

SHE: “I’ve known it ever since our branch of the family began fighting
you to recover their portion of the old family estates in--Virginia!”

The excitement of the moment, so long anticipated by her and undreamed
of by him, was tinging her cheeks with a little color which made her,
for the time being, nearly as handsome as he was and that brought
out with distinctness a strong family likeness. This resemblance
was swiftly detected by little Josephine, who caught a hand of each
exclaiming:

“Why, you’re just the same as one another, my darling Kimono and my
precious Uncle Joe! We’re all folks together? We’re all the same Smith
folks together!”

Upon this tableau the portières parted, and the dignified voice of
Peter obtruded the announcement:

“Mr. Joseph Smith.”

Utter silence for an instant, then Josephine dropped the hands she was
clasping and bounded toward the newcomer, almost screaming her delight:

“Papa! Papa! Papa!”

“My little Joe! John’s one baby daughter! My precious little namesake!”

The mislaid uncle had been found! That truth was evident in the
spontaneous recognition of him, by his likeness so strong to his twin,
that even the daughter had confounded the pair. A moment later, though,
the child had perceived her own mistake and was regarding him more
shyly, from the safe refuge of the old Uncle Joe’s knee, which had long
since learned to adjust itself to the convenience of small maidens.

Something prompted Mrs. Merriman and Miss Kimono to withdraw from
a scene they dreaded might be painful, and they thoughtfully
took Josephine away with them. They knew, far better than she,
how wonderfully she had grown into the lonely heart of the aged
millionaire, whose money was so powerless to buy for him what this
other, younger Joseph was so rich in. It were kinder and wiser to leave
the two uncles alone, and face to face to adjust their complicated
affairs as best they might.

Nobody need have feared, though. When folk are honest-minded, and love
a common object, such as little Josephine, matters are soon arranged.
In half an hour the conference was over, and the child ran back into
the library to find the two Uncle Joes standing before its window and
looking across the pretty square--where the crocuses were peeping
through the tender grass and no sign of snow remained--toward a small
house on its sunny northeastern corner.

The child slipped in between the two and caught a hand of both, while
for an instant each diverted his gaze to her sweet face and smiled upon
her. Then began again the deep, well-beloved tones of the old Uncle Joe:

“There, Joseph, that’s the house. It’s empty. I bought it on a
speculation, and fitted it up well. It’s completely furnished, and so
nicely I wouldn’t let it to every tenant who’s applied. That will go
with the position, in addition to the salary. I’ve been dissatisfied
with Mr. Wakeman this long time. He’s too officious, too grasping, too
eager. I’m thankful he found you, and will pay him well for it. But
that ends his service to me. I’ll give him an advance of wages and
shake him. You can enter upon your duties--to-morrow, if you like. I’ll
send out a van or two to move in your effects.”

The new Uncle Joe held up his hand.

“Unnecessary, dear Mr. Smith. Our effects could easily be brought in on
a pushcart;” yet saying this the man’s smile was neither less bright
nor more ashamed. Why should he be ashamed? He had gone down in one
battle with the world, but he was up again and ready for another.

The answer, somehow, pleased the elder man. He liked simplicity, and
he liked frankness. Josephine’s new uncle possessed both these, with
an added cheerfulness which communicated itself to all who met him.
He was, or had been, as ready to take his brother’s charge upon his
hands in his penury as he now seemed to be in his suddenly acquired
prosperity.

Looking across the square at the home offered him, his eye kindled and
his cheek glowed. His figure that had stooped somewhat from the wasted
strength due insufficient food became erect, and his whole bearing
assumed a military poise that was so fondly familiar to the little
Californian.

“Oh, my, Uncle Joe! My dear, sweet, new Uncle Joe! You’re more and
more like my papa all the time. If you had on his gray, bright-buttony
soldier clothes, and his lovely red sash, you would be a regular
Company F--er! wouldn’t you? I wish mamma was here, and papa and Doctor
Mack and funny big Bridget!”

“So they all shall be some day, Josephine. But first you’ll have to get
acquainted with Tom, Dick, Harry, and Penelope, and the sweetest Aunt
Kitty that ever the sun shone on,” he answered heartily.

Josephine’s brown eyes opened in astonishment, and she said, with a
deprecating look at the old Uncle Joe:

“I’d like to, if you’d like me to, but he--this one--_he_’d not like
me to. He said, he told Michael, that lovely red-headed Michael, that
I couldn’t hob-nob--whatever that is--with any Tom, Dick, or Harry who
was in the square. Didn’t you, Uncle Joe?”

It pleased the old gentleman that she still retained her familiar name
for him, and he lifted her tenderly to his breast, replying:

“Yes, little lassie, I did; but that was before I knew these were real
children who were coming to live in my house yonder. Such boys as are
brought up by this gentleman, and your own cousins--why, of course,
it’s different.”

From her safe place within the first uncle’s arms, she questioned the
younger man:

“Have you got all those to your house, Uncle Joe?”

“Yes, little girl. Will you come and live with them when we all move to
that pretty house on the corner?” he responded.

Her arm went around her first friend’s neck, and he now didn’t fret in
the least because it rumpled his fresh linen, as she cuddled her cheek
against his, and asked:

“Who’ll live here with you in this big house, first Uncle Joe?”

“Oh, I suppose my colored ‘boys’ only; as before you came,” was his
low-toned answer.

“Nobody else?” she continued, in tones equally low.

He sighed: “Who else could, lassie?”

“Why, me! He’s got so many, and it’s only across the square. And Red
Kimono, who’s your own cousin, you know. Shall we?”

“If you will, darling,” answered the old man, with moistened eyes.

“Then when papa and mamma come back from that far off red-pickley
country maybe they’d be glad to stay, too. Can’t ’lectrickellers find
places to earn money in this Baltimore, Uncle Joe?”

“Be sure that your Uncle Joe and I will find your electrician a fine
place, little one; and we’ll call Red Kimono by her real name, Cousin
Desire, because she was my mother’s twin sister’s child; and we’ll
send for big Bridget to wait upon this real Tom, Dick, and Harry
combination of youngsters; and--anything you like!” he answered, so
gleefully that even Peter scarcely recognized him.

“Will you? Will you? Oh, I love you--I love you! I love you both, both.
But isn’t it the twiniest kind of world ever was! Papa and Uncle Joe
are twins; and your mamma and Red Kimono’s mamma were twins; and Tom
and Dick are twins; and big Bridget’s folks are twins; and--Oh, oh,
there’s my darling, red-headed Michael going by! I must call him in, I
truly must! Won’t he be the gladdest boy ever lived, to know all about
my new cousins that I never saw coming to live and play with us in the
square? He hasn’t any child to his house and you haven’t any child but
me to yours, Uncle Joe; and the line-fence is down; so nothing’s to
hinder Michael and me making another pair of twins, is there?”

Nobody prevented the child’s movement to bring in her first
child-friend in that strange city to which she had come, and presently
entered the jolly lad, flushed and breathless and a trifle unkempt,
as was his habit, but with such a manly bearing and such a world of
good-fellowship beaming from his freckled face, that the new Uncle Joe
instantly rejoiced in the prospect of such a comrade for his own small
lads.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Smith and--Mr. Smith; and is it all just as she
says?” demanded the small gentleman from Virginia. “Has the little
‘Express Parcel’ really found her right uncle at last? ’Cause it’s just
like a ’Rabian Night’s story, seems to me, and girls--well, girls, you
know, they--they’re sometimes silly, ’cept Josephine, maybe.” Then, as
if a sudden fear attacked him he turned upon her, firmly admonishing
her to remember: “If I’m to be your twin, as you say, you’ve got to
have no nonsense in it. If I say ‘go in’ when there’s a lot of boys out
in the square you’ll have to mind, ’cause they don’t always act polite,
you see. Oh, bother! It’s all boys, anyway, isn’t it! I wish there was
another girl, to even up”--

“Why, Michael Merriman!” cried Josephine, interrupting her playmate’s
long speech. “There is another girl! You forget--how _could_ you
forget--_Penelope!_”

At which the new Uncle Joe threw back his handsome head and laughed
as he had not laughed in many a day; for in fancy he could see Miss
Penelope, aged seven months, helping “Cousin Josephine” to maintain
the dignity of their mutual girlhood, as against a square full of
rollicking lads.

Presently everybody was laughing, for happiness is delightfully
infectious, and always even more “catching” than the measles. Grandma
Merriman and Cousin Desire, who had come quietly into the room; the
three black “boys” in the hall outside; the two Uncle Joes and Michael;
and most heartily, most musically of all, the little San Diegan, who
for very joy could not keep still, but went skipping and flying about
the room, like a bewilderingly lovely butterfly, demanding between
whiles of the person nearest:

“Oh, isn’t it beautiful, beautiful? Aren’t you glad I was a wrong
‘parcel,’ and came to this wrong, splendid, old Uncle Joe?”

“I am,” answered that gentleman, with sweet solemnity; “since your
coming has showed me how to deal justly, and love mercy, and find
happiness in my barren wealth. God bless you, little ‘Parcel’!”

“Amen, and amen!” echoed the other Uncle Joe, as he went softly and
swiftly out, to carry the good news to those whom he loved.


THE END.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Alternate or archaic spelling has been retained from the original.



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