Part 80

"Children go to sleep awful quick. It was five minutes of eight when he come."

"Were you expecting him?"

"No, I wasn't. He'd said to me once, on the way out of church after Sunday-school: 'Miss Matilda, I must be comin' over to see you some one of these pleasant evenings, with your kind permission,' Just like that, he says, 'with your kind permission,' I was so flustered I couldn't say much, but I did manage to tell him that Ma and me would be pleased to see him any time, and what do you suppose he said?"

"I don't know," answered Rosemary.

"He said: 'It's you I'm comin' to see--not your Ma,' Just like that--'It's you!'" Her voice had a new note in it--a strange thrill of tenderness.

"And so," she went on, after a pause, "he come. I was wearin' my brown alpaca that I'd just finished. I'd tried it on after supper to see if it was all right, and it was, so I kept on wearin' it, though Ma was tellin' me all the time to take it off. Her and me had just cleaned the parlour that day. It couldn't have happened better. And when the bell rang, I went to the door myself."

"Were you surprised?"

"My land, yes! I'd thought maybe he'd come, but not without tellin' me when, or askin' for permission, as he'd said. He come in and took off his hat just like he was expected, and he shook hands with Ma and me. He only said 'How do you do Mis' Starr?' to her, but to me, he says: 'I'm glad to see you, Miss Matilda. How well you're looking!' Yes--just like that.

"We went and set down in the parlour. I'd cleaned the lamp that day, too--it was the same lamp Ma's took up-stairs with her now. It was on the centre-table, by the basket of wax-flowers under the glass shade. They was almost new then and none of 'em was broken. They looked awful pretty.

"Ma came in the parlour, too, and she set down between him and me, and she says: 'I've been wantin' to ask you something ever since I heard your last sermon, three weeks ago come Sunday. I ain't been to church since and I can't feel like I ought to go.'

"'I'm sorry,' he says, just as gentle. 'If you have any doubts that I can clear up,' he says, 'about the Scripture----'

"''Tain't the Scripture I'm doubtin',' says Ma, 'it's you.'

"'That isn't as bad,' he says, smilin', but I could see he was scared. You know how Ma is--especially when you ain't used to her.

"'I'd like to ask,' says Ma, 'whether you believe that unbaptised infants is goin' to be saved.'

"'Why, yes,' he says. 'I do,'

"'I suspicioned it,' Ma says. Oh, her voice was awful! 'May I ask you just what grounds you have for believin' such a thing?'

"'I don't know as I could tell you just what grounds I have,' he says, 'but I certainly feel that the God I humbly try to serve is not only just but merciful. And if there's anything on earth purer or more like a flower than a little baby,' he says, 'I don't know what it is, whether it's been baptised or not. I don't think God cares so much about forms and ceremonies as he does about people's hearts,' Them's the very words he said.

"Well," resumed Matilda, after a pause, "Ma was bent on arguin' with him, about that, and baptisin' by sprinklin' or by immersion, and about the lost tribes of Israel, and goodness knows what else. He didn't want to argue, and was all the time tryin' to change the subject, but it was no use. I never got a chance to say a dozen words to him, and finally, when he got up to go, he says: 'I've had a very pleasant evenin', and I'd like to come again sometime soon, if I may,' he says. Just like that.

"And before I could say a word, Ma had said: 'I dunno as we feel ourselves in need of your particular brand of theology,' she says. 'It's my opinion that you ought to be up before the trustees instead of around callin' on faithful members of the church, sowin' the seeds of doubt in their minds.'"

"His face turned bright red, but he shook hands with Ma, very polite, and with me. I've always thought he squeezed my hand a little. And he says to me, very pleasant: 'Good-night, Miss Matilda,' but that was all, for Ma went to the door with him and banged it shut before he'd got down the steps.

"The day before he went away, I met him in the post-office, accidental, and he says: 'Miss Matilda, I've got somethin' for you if you'll accept it,' and he took me over to one side where there couldn't nobody see us, and he give me his tintype. And he says: 'I hope you'll always remember me, Miss Matilda. You'll promise not to forget me, won't you?'

"And I promised," she resumed, "and I ain't. I've always remembered."

There was a long silence, then Miss Matilda cleared her throat. "Light the candle, Rosemary, will you?"

When the tiny flame appeared, Rosemary saw that the older woman's face was wet with unaccustomed tears. She reached down into the bosom of her dress and drew out a small packet, which she removed carefully from its many wrappings. "See," she said.

Rosemary leaned over to look at the pictured face. The heavy beard did not wholly conceal the sensitive, boyish mouth, and even the crude art had faithfully portrayed the dreamy, boyish eyes.

"I want to ask you something," Aunt Matilda said, as she wrapped it up again. "You're going to be married yourself, now, and you'll know about such things. Do you think, if it hadn't been for Ma, it might have been--anything?"

Rosemary put out the light. "I'm sure it would," she said, kindly.

"Oh, Rosemary!" breathed the other, with a quick indrawing of the breath. "Are you truly sure?"