Part 52

"Some kind of a doctor, I reckon,--'and will last a long time. A few simple exercises should be taken every night and morning to preserve the fig--Continued on page seventy.'"

"Preservin' figs ain't any particular exercise," Matilda observed, shaking out the mended skirt. "You can do most of it settin' down."

"'Preserve the figure,'" Grandmother continued with emphasis. "'Soap and hot water may be used on the face if a good cold cream is well rubbed into the pores immediately afterward.'"

"Vanilla or lemon?" Matilda asked.

"It doesn't say ice-cream, it just says cold cream. 'Cucumber milk is excellent for freckles or tan, and----'"

"I reckon I won't hear no more," said Matilda. Her lips were compressed into a thin tight line. "I can stand the carriages that are to be driv' standin' up, and the lovely imps and the nose pinchin' and the caps for the ears, but when it comes to goin' out every mornin' to milk the cucumbers, I don't feel called on to set and listen to it. The man what wrote that piece was as crazy as a loon, and if five million people read his paper every week, four million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand and nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em know it. I ain't sayin' who's the one that don't."

She sailed majestically out of the room with her head held high, and her frowsy grey hair bristling with indignation. Grandmother's lower jaw dropped in amazement for a moment, then she returned to the paper. "Milkin' the cucumbers don't seem quite right," she said to herself, "but there it is in print, as plain as day."

For the first time her faith in the printed word wavered. "Maybe there's some special kind of cucumber," she mused, "that gives milk. We used to hear 'em called cowcumbers. Why'd they be called that if they didn't give milk? There's only the two kinds as far as I know--the tame and wild, and the wild ones--" The light of pure intellectual joy dawned upon the puzzled old face. "Of course. Don't I remember the white sticky juice inside the wild ones? That's it! Wait till I tell Matilda!"

Triumphantly she returned to The Household Guardian, and, in her new allegiance, read every line of every advertisement before folding it carefully and putting it away with the others. "Good for freckles and tan," she said to herself, meditatively, "but it didn't say nothin' about warts. Maybe that'll be in next week's paper."

While she sat looking out of the window a woman passed, walking so slowly that Grandmother had plenty of time to observe her. As the stranger turned her head neither to the right nor the left, the old lady's intense scrutiny was attended by no embarrassment.

From the fragmentary description that had come her way, she at once recognised Mrs. Lee--the tall, straight figure in a gown of pale green linen, the dainty, regular features, and the crown of wonderful hair, radiating sunlit splendour, as she wore no hat.

A letter in her hand betrayed the object of her passing. "She's goin' to the post-office," Grandmother mused, "and if she comes back this way, I'll see her again. Matilda ain't seen her but twice and then she had a hat on."

Mrs. Lee did, indeed, come back that way, but gave no sign that she saw, or even felt, the presence of the keen observer in the window of the little brown house. Grandmother hoped that Matilda was not peering from an upper window. Perhaps she would tell her immediately, and perhaps she wouldn't. While she was considering this point, Rosemary came in, wiping her hands upon her apron, and announced that she was ready to go to the store.

Rapidly giving a list of the articles desired, Grandmother rose from her chair, lifted her skirts, and from some safe inner pocket, drew out a black bag, which was evidently fastened around her waist with a string. This bag contained another, closely wrapped. Inside was a much worn leather "wallet," from which Grandmother extracted a two-dollar bill and some pennies.

"Run along, Rosemary. I reckon that'll be enough."

Rosemary obeyed, privately wondering for the thousandth time whence came Grandmother's money. Neither she nor Matilda had ever dared to ask, but when the supply gave out, the old lady always produced a twenty-dollar gold piece from the magic bag.

When she returned from her errand, Aunt Matilda was nowhere to be seen, and Grandmother, nodding in her chair by the window, had not been awakened by the opening and closing of the door. Rosemary went up-stairs, and, from sounds that penetrated the hall through the closed door of Aunt Matilda's room, inferred that she also was taking an afternoon nap.

If she could only write to Alden, and tell him he was free! Night after night she had pondered over ways and means. It seemed odd that in a house where there was always plenty to eat and to wear, of a certain sort, stationery and stamps should be practically unknown. Grandmother had used the last sheet of paper and the last envelope when she ordered the bolt of brown alpaca, and with stern suspicion held Rosemary to account for every penny with which she was entrusted.

If she had paper and an envelope, perhaps she might ask the storekeeper to send the note up with the Marshs' groceries, or, better yet, she might go up to the house herself very early some morning or very late some night and slip it under the front door. In that way, she would be sure he received it. Rosemary brightened as she saw that a stamp would not really be necessary after all.

If only, among her mother's things in the attic, there might be an envelope! She could use brown wrapping paper to write upon, if worst came to worst--the storekeeper might even give her a small, fresh piece of the pale yellow sort. Rosemary knew every separate article in the trunk, however, even the inlaid box to which the key was missing. She had never dared to ask for the key, much less to break open the box, but to-day, the courage of desperation sustained her and she ran quickly up-stairs.

Long afternoon sunbeams, sweet with June, came into the attic, and made fairy gold of the dust as they entered the room. It had none of the charm which belongs to every well-regulated attic; it was merely a storehouse, full of cobwebs and dust. A few old trunks were stored there, all empty save the small hair-cloth trunk which held Rosemary's mother's few possessions that had outlived her.

She opened it, found the box, and discovered that she had forgotten the scissors with which she intended to break the lock. She wondered whether she might safely risk the trip down-stairs after the scissors, or whether it would be better to take the box with her and hide it in her room. Before she had made up her mind, she heard a slow, heavy tread upon the stair.

She could not go down and she did not wish to be found with the box--indeed, she dared not. She cowered back under the eaves and lay flat on the floor behind the trunk, just as Grandmother came into the attic.

For a moment the old lady paused, her keen eyes searching the room as though she felt a presence which she did not see. Rosemary lay very quietly upon the floor, though fearing that the loud beating of her heart might be heard in the stillness.

Reassured, and not in the least lame, Grandmother went to the brick chimney that came up through the attic, and mounted a decrepit chair. She scratched and pried at a certain brick with her scissors, then removed it quietly. Reaching in, she drew out a black bag, whence came a sound of tinkling metal. Rosemary, peering around the corner of the trunk, could scarcely believe the evidence of her own senses.

Grandmother took out a twenty-dollar gold piece, restored the bag to its place, put the brick back, and went down-stairs with the quiet, stealthy movement of a cat.

Presently Rosemary went down-stairs also, with the box, stopping to leave it in her own room. Cold with excitement, she trembled when she went into the kitchen and began to make preparations for supper. She heard warring voices in the sitting-room, then Grandmother came to the kitchen door.

"Oh," she said. "So you came in the back way. I didn't hear you come in. Reckon I must have been asleep."