Classic Audiobook Collection - The Heart of Philura by Florence Morse Kingsley ~ Full Audiobook [religion]

Episode Date: January 2, 2023

The Heart of Philura by Florence Morse Kingsley audiobook. Genre: religion Once again Mrs Kingsley does not shy away from the highs and lows of life in the quickly changing world of the 1900s…the ageing women working to support themselves or their families, in jobs that will soon disappear...the washerwoman, butter-woman and the little dressmaker….the contrast between the socialite of Boston and the drudge in the kitchen….the old farmers and the independent, college-educated young people…and, with an acceptance of the realities of life we might think of as “modern”, the impact of an illegitimate child on the lives of its mother and her whole family. In her new role as the ministers wife, Miss Philura’s independent (dare one say rebellious?) spirit continues to blossom, while deep in her heart there is a secret longing waiting to be realised….The arrival of a mysterious new family in the village will have unexpected consequences for the lives of several people in Innesfield; fortunately the heart of Philura is big enough and brave enough to embrace it all. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 1 (00:22:45) Chapter 2 (00:36:18) Chapter 3 (00:48:01) Chapter 4 (01:07:12) Chapter 5 (01:23:46) Chapter 6 (01:43:57) Chapter 7 (02:01:09) Chapter 8 (02:13:51) Chapter 9 (02:24:58) Chapter 10 (02:42:04) Chapter 11 (03:07:33) Chapter 12 (03:28:33) Chapter 13 (03:44:55) Chapter 14 (03:56:37) Chapter 15 (04:07:49) Chapter 16 (04:32:19) Chapter 17 (04:54:21) Chapter 18 (05:04:19) Chapter 19 (05:24:27) Chapter 20 (05:55:05) Chapter 21 (06:11:26) Chapter 22 (06:16:28) Chapter 23 (06:38:32) Chapter 24 (07:06:52) Chapter 25 (07:18:07) Chapter 26 (07:46:46) Chapter 27 (08:01:11) Chapter 28 (08:27:48) Chapter 29 (08:41:45) Chapter 30 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

the heart of filura by florence morse kingsley chapter one the hidden picture april came in on a monday that year and monday being as all the world knows the minister's sabbath the reverend silas pettibone decided to celebrate it by going to boston with the avowed purpose of attending a missionary convention you you will of course accompany me my dear he said to his wife in a tone of perfunctory kindness which did not for a moment deceive her. She was a small person with blue eyes under faintly marked childish brows and an indeterminate rosy mouth like that of a young girl. At the moment she was industriously employed in cleaning the collar of Mr Pettibone's best preaching coat with a bit of black cloth which she dipped now and then in a cup containing ammonia and water. It will look, she said rather proudly, almost like new. And then she shook her head.

Oh, no, I really couldn't go to Boston today. But thank you for asking me, Mr. Pettibone. You're welcome, I'm sure, Miss Falora, he replied, with a slow smile, wrinkling the corners of his kindly eyes. She looked up at him, and they both laughed sedately. Why won't you come along, he pursued, with a notable access of eagnes. I'd really like to have you with me. but she persisted in her refusal,

advancing various housewifely and therefore incontrovertible reasons. There was, she said, the study to be cleaned for one thing. He frowned slightly at the suggestion. Really, my dear Felura, as I think I have said before, I very much prefer not to have you or anyone touch that room.

Everything is quite as I like it, though i dare say it may appear very untidy to you books and papers once arranged to one's hand cannot be disturbed without serious inconvenience oh if you don't mind doing something else my dear and leave my study precisely as it is she smiled astutely i oughtn't to have mentioned it she said i know you dislike having your room cleaned anyway i have to sweep the pot parlour to-day and look after the washerwoman oh yes he murmured i'd quite forgotten the lawn-dress i suppose you couldn't leave mrs wessles in the house to wait on herself she would resent it again that demure smile flitted over mrs pettibone's lips i couldn't think of going she said gently and since the preaching-coat was by this time cleverly freshened and pressed the minister presently went away it, quite happy and satisfied, after kissing his wife goodbye at the door. She stood watching his tall spare figure as he hurried away down the street. It was a pleasant morning. The sun lay warm and yellow on the rough brown sod,

where slender young grass blades were already pricking greenly to the light. Overhead, the big maples tossed their scarlet blooms against a brilliant sky, and from somewhere a great way off came the piercing sweet cry of a meadowlark. At the precise moment when the rapidly receding figure of the minister disappeared at the far corner of the street, the gate of the parsonage yard clicked and then slammed shut behind the shawled and hooded figure of a woman. Good morning, Miss Pettibone, said a sadly resigned voice. Watching him out of sight, eh? oh didn't you know that's awful bad luck i know mrs wessel smiled the minister's wife i never heard that it was why should it be

the woman sighed despondently as she slowly mounted the steps well i suppose it come out the bible first and last most everything like that does i suppose maybe noah watch the heathen going away him standing in the door of the ark after they'd got through a laughing at him for building it. He didn't see him no more. They was all swept away. And I remember once I stood on my front stoop, just like you was doing, watching Wessels go to his work. And that very day, he fell off the roof and done something to his insides,

so he's never been no good for work sense. My, I no more expected to be going, going out washing for other folks than you do this minute but i'm sure our pastor will come home with a whole skin her rebuking glance fastened the responsibility for mr pettipone's needlessly imperiled safety where it belonged oh have you had your breakfast mrs wessles the guilty party inquired as she led the way to the kitchen well i sup to swallow a coffee when i give wessles and the children their breakfastsies but I didn't stop to eat nothing. Oh, oh, no, Mum, I don't care for codfish. If you've got a strip of bacon or a slice of cold meat, Mrs Wessels exhaled a sibilant breath,

indicative of profound exhaustion, as she surveyed Mrs Pettibone's preparations for her refreshments. As I says to Wessles this morning, I don't know, I says how much longer I'm going to be able to do other folks his dirty work. I ain't feeling so well as I did a spell ago. And he says to me, knock on wood

Louisa, he says. Well, I had to laugh. He does get things mixed up so. Well now, I'll sit down and I'll try to eat a bite and maybe I'll get up the strength to rub out a few pieces. I suppose you've put

the clothes to soak as usual. It's quite a help if it's done proper. Having set Mrs Wessels in the carefully oiled grooves of her morning activities, Mrs. Pettibone betook herself without further delay to the ministerial sanctum. The opportunity was an unusual one and must be improved to the full. Mr Pettibone was seldom absent from his study for more than an hour or two at a time. He appeared possessed of an uncanny prescience, which led him to reappear at unexpected moments in search of an address book, a pencil, or a fresh supply

of enrolment cards for his Sunday school. On at least two occasions, he had surprised his wife, arrayed in dust cap and apron, stealthily removing the accumulated debris of his ministerial labours. On the first of these occasions, which occurred soon after their marriage,

he had bestowed one of his rare caresses upon his bride, as a sort of soothing preliminary, after which, with great gentleness and firmness, he had pointed out to her the totally unnecessary character of her self-appointed task. A minister's study,

my dear filura, does not require so-called cleaning, he said. Cleaning, as you know, involves rearrangement, vicissitude, change, in a word, disturbance. However desirable

and even useful, such periodic conditions may be in other parts of our home, here they are totally unnecessary and must be interdicted, whereupon he had taken the pains to go into the subject in more detail, pointing out to his wife,

who was, as he well knew, the pink of housewifely neatness, how much more serviceable and useful were his various commentaries, concordances, and sacred histories, when scattered about the floor in piles convenient to his hand. Arranged in neat, well-ordered rows upon the shelves,

the appearance of these volumes might indeed please the eye of a person unacquainted with the labours of a literary and religious nature. Order, he pointed out, was unquestionably heaven's first law. But order on the higher plains of mental activity frequently involved

what might appear to the uninitiated as a very chaos of disorder. Whereupon, he learnedly illustrated his point by an allusion to the cosmic disintegration incident to the building of a universe, a world, or even so unimportant a sphere as a moon. Mrs Pettibone was honestly thrilled by his eloquence. She blushed and smiled,

even while she whisked the stray tears from her lashes. But the waste-basket, she hesitated, it was quite full, you know, and the papers were all about the floor. i may empty the basket mayn't i and dust just a little very little and quite carefully really the dust was stifling but the minister shook his head decidedly no he said sometimes that is to say occasionally i mislay a paper why only last week i could not for the moment lay my hand on the first sheet of my sunday of my sunday evening discourse and where do you think I found it mrs. Pettibone couldn't possibly guess on the floor my dear failure where I may casually have dropped it in a moment of abstraction now if in the meantime some

well-intentioned person yourself for example had entered my room and had as you say tidied it up i should have been obliged to entirely rewrite that page at great inconvenience to myself how long inquired mrs pettibone demurely but with growing hardyhood will you oblige to hunt for that page how long well really my dear i couldn't tell you precisely i know i went through the entire contents of my waist-basket and also examined the stray papers on the floor but i came upon my quarry at last behind the sofa where i suppose some chance draft had carried it from this you can see how essentially important how entirely necessary it is to allow me to care for my own study i may assure you that whenever this room really needs cleaning i will clean it and he made a large gesture it was more than a month thereafter before she had ventured to disobey these precise commands to one brought up in the strait a narrow way of new england thrift and order the picturesque confusion of the minister's study was almost more than one could support with outward calm but when thickly overlaid with dust and the product of an industrious spider it became positively unendurable with machiavelling cunning therefore and dire thoroughness mrs pettibone swept clean and dusted her husband's study,

sparing not a single cobweb, nor the smallest particle of dust, after which she had restored, as she thought, everything to its accustomed disorder. But the minister knew better. An experimental morning convinced him that his privacy

had again been invaded. Most certainly, he had not located Simpkins' commentary on the Pauline Epistles to the left of his chair and buried it moreover beneath a staggering load of medieval histories. Simpkins was a most useful man, always to be kept atop the pile on the armchair at his right.

Other subtle but incriminating evidence cropped up on every hand. The Reverend Silas gazed narrowly at his wife's unruffled front when he emerged at noon in response to her cheerful summons to the midday meal. Did she really suppose she had deceived him? but the dinner was very good which might be set down as an extenuating circumstance he felt his just indignation cooling as it were while he partook of a delectable pudding compounded of the humble breadcrumb to which she was serving him a second time with a shy smile of triumph my dear filura he said you are a very superior and a very dear little hypocrite i'm sorry to have to take you are a very superior and a very dear little hypocrite i'm sorry to have to tell you so but it is quite true you know why mr pettibone was all she could say yet her eyes sank guiltily under his accusing gaze i can't think what you yes you can and you do he corrected her calmly didn't i tell you that the stars in their courses must not be interfered with didn't i explain how a woman with a broom and dustcloth would

Doubtless work irremediable have it in a revolving nebula. And didn't you promise that you would never, never? Oh no, Silas, no. She shook her head. I didn't promise you I would never clean your study. How could I? Well, he conceded, it amounted to the same thing. I forbad it.

She was mute. You won't do it again? she drew a long quivering breath i'm afraid i'll have to if it gets too dirty she was in his arms the next minute but all the same once she had done crying comfortably on his shoulder he repeated his former prohibition with various impressive addender calculated to penetrate and suitably influence a mind grown mr pettibone could not help thinking somewhat inflexible and unytheon somewhat inflexible and unytheon yielding during the years of her solitary maidenhood. This was the last time the difficult subject of the study had been broached between them. The sacred precincts had remained to the abstracted gaze of the minister in precisely the state of delightful disorder,

in which from day to day and from week to week he had left them. Strangely enough, it had not required even the occasional and desultry use of the feather duster, which he kept hanging on a peg in his head. his closet a feather duster mr pettibone had discovered speedily and easily restored a fictitious appearance of cleanliness without the devastating processes known and approved by his various housekeepers but the initial experience of adam to say nothing of countless crucial instances of a later date has proved conclusively that while man may be the mate of woman he is certainly no match for her in her diligent inexorable almost unperceived control of the smaller things of life. The Jesuitical quality as somebody has observed is essentially feminine. A carefully compiled list of the books to be found in various heaps to the right and left,

also at the front and rear of her lord's writing table, a discreet as well as discriminating elimination of waste paper, and the rest was easy. Today, with Mr Pettibone innocently and safely, occupied at the missionary convention in Boston, the unprincipled Mrs. Pettibone fairly turned the study inside out. Rugs and curtains fluttered merrily in the wind of the backyard,

while learned commentators, hair-splitting theologians and sober church historians were unceremoniously shaken, flapped, clapped and rubbed free from dust. Even the sacred desk itself was dismantled down to its shabby bays cover, and the blotting-pad, originally of a fresh green colour, but long since defaced with superfluous ink of uncounted sermons,

came in for a vigorous assault, calculated to dislodge the most secretly entrenched particle of the hated dust. And just here, an unkind fate, chance, it were an obvious impiety to call it providence, maliciously or otherwise, brought Mrs. Pettibone's ardent activities to a sudden halt. For under the impact of her determined little hand, a photograph suddenly slipped from its hiding place.

It had been inserted well out of sight between two sheets of blotting paper. It was a small card portrait of a woman, dressed in a gown fashioned after the mode of a previous decade. Mrs. Pettibone picked it up and gazed at it with a mingling of emotions she made no effort to formulate or control. The youthful face which looked back at her

from the somewhat dimmed and yellow card was very sweet and mild. The eyes, large and dark, were shadowed with long lashes and the mouth set in wistful curves seemed to implore the beholder to be kind. About the long white throat, a scarf of lace was knotted loosely

and from behind one ear, the arrangement, obviously the, careful work of the photographer hung a long full curl of dark hair beneath was written in the minister's firm neat hand mary april the second eighteen ninety three like one in a hushed dream wherein a vague yet aching grief is overlaid with calm mrs pettibone swiftly and noiselessly restored the writing-table to its wonted condition with books pamphlets papers and letter-file contesting every available inch of space she allowed herself no second glance at the picture but slipped it back at once between the sheets of the blotter feeling curiously awed and yet withal sorry and ashamed like one who was unwittingly blundered into the presence of the sacred dead in the house of a stranger mr pettibone had never but once referred to his dead wife in their talks together but she knew now what before she had only timidly guessed he had not and could not forget the wife of his youth mrs wessles was more than unusually lucautious and companionable that noon while mrs pettibone was preparing the lunch of a variety and toothsomeness especially calculated to appease that lady's capricious appetite if you are fixing that potato for me she observed leave out the pepper and put in plenty of butter pepper don't never agree with my stomach and as i tell wessles if a body's stomach gives out it's all day with em

no mrs pettibone the clothes didn't dry a bit good to-day for all the wind so i ain't done a stroke of ironin i can rub up some of the plain pieces this afternoon if you um oh you're going out you say oh why you look all beat out what with your sweeping and dusting and cleaning all them dirty rugs i had an awful good mind to whirl in and help but thinks i well she'd rather i get this washing out so i stuck to my rubble be sure and have the tea hot if there's anything i hate and despise it's warm tea it kind of turns a body's stomach same as it says in revelations things that's neither hot nor cold but just luke warm makes a person feel like spitting them right out of their mouth oh let me see was it the apostle paul or the lord that felt that way i kind of forget but whichever of it was i'm built the very same way. I like my tea hot. Where'd you say he was going this afternoon? A. Lady's aid don't meet on a Monday, eh? Oh, Mr. Pettibum, where's he gone? Well, as I said this morning, I do hope and pray, don't get smashed up on the train. I run down by one of them ought on my wheels. Ain't they awful? If Wessels hadn't fell off the roof and hurted his insides the way you done, like as not he'd have been run over and killed me now then i'd have been a lone widow with four small children to look after louisa says wessels whenever i get fretful over him not working half a husband is better than no husband he says well i guess that's right of course wessels he ain't no real good settin all day in smoking his pipe with a stove but i guess i'd miss him if he wasn't there knock on wood you don't believe in it hey why miss pettibone i wouldn't no more neglect knocking on wood than anything i could name hundreds of times when if i'd forgot to knock on wood i don't know where as i'd be as i was telling you you look all beat out she approached her weather-beaten face close to mrs pettibones i'm willing to bet she added impressively you've said or done something

reckless and forgot to knock on wood. End of chapter one. Chapter 2 of the Heart of Felura by Florence Mores Kingsley. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 2, Apriling. The clerk on the church tower was striking the hour of three, when Mrs. Pettibone locked the door of the parsonage behind her, with a pleasant consciousness of the spotless order reigning within,

and of the willow basket filled. with tidy white rolls against the morrow's ironing. Mr Pettibone would not arrive from Boston before seven. She had therefore three hours of well-earned leisure before her. What used to make of her brief holiday, Mrs Pettibone had not yet decided, as she hurried down the long street under the tossing maple blossoms. Always there were parish calls to be made,

as Mrs. Buckthorn and other influential ladies of the church had kindly pointed out. we've done without a pastor's wife for seven long years mrs scrimger reminded her and i will say mr pettibone has been faithful but i guess there's some that were just as soon he'd stay it single it made it kind of interesting to widows and single ladies even if he didn't pay em no special attention i don't know as you'd noticed it but there's several i could name that hasn't darkened the doors of the church since you was married mrs pettibone passed in meditative review two or three old ladies who had to use their own forceful phrase being housed up all winter or perhaps she ought to improve the opportunity by calling on the widow grover who had not for more than a year been present at prayer-meeting where once she had been a conspicuously bright and shining light it was true that the widow grover had not during a like period called at the parsonage but no doubt it was her duty and her duty as the wife of the pastor to present as it were the blameless sacrifice of her shrinking person upon that lady's haircloth sofa she sighed as with guilty haste she passed the corner of the street weddwelled the widow grover then almost before she was aware of it the houses of the village which had appeared to level curious and observant eyes upon her melted quite away and she was in the open country with a wild wind blowing all about her and

brilliant masses of snowy cloud overhead, shining against the intense blue of the sky. There were song sparrows flittering athwart the brown pastures and the piercing sweet voices of meadowlarks, calling and answering from distant fields, where already the naked earth was upturned to the fruitful sun. The road wound steeply upward in wide curves from the lap of the valley, where lay the village of Innesfield, its rows of houses shining warmly amid the leafless trees. almost at her feet or so it seemed to the woman on the hillside the steeple of the presbyterian church pointed skyward like a thin white finger near it she could just make out the dull brown walls of the parsonage half hidden in shrubbery then quite calmly and simply she found herself thinking of the hidden picture he had not meant that she should see it but from henceforth she would be aware of it like an invisible presence in the room did he often take it from its concealment she wondered and did he still mourn in secret over the dark softly fringed eyes and the sweet pensive mouth with its wistful appeal

she sought diligently among clouded memories of the time when she herself had met and spoken with mary she dared to call her this to herself once she remembered mrs pettibone had come to church wearing a very beautiful blue silk dress and a hat with a plume of dark blue drooping almost to her shoulder. All during the sermon, she had feasted her eyes on the graceful figure. At the close of the service, she had hurried down from the choir loft, hoping for an opportunity of speaking to the minister's wife as she passed out of church. But Mrs. Pettibone was already walking away beside her husband, who bent his tall head to listen to something she was saying. Another time, she had ventured to carry a bunch of the earliest Arbutus to the parsonage.

Mrs. Pettibone was ailing. She had not been to church for a long time. The minister himself had admitted the visitor and conducted her at once to his study, where the invalid was lying on a sofa near the window. "'Just see, Mary, what little Miss Fulura has brought you,' he said. "'Ah, Butus! And only this morning you were longing for some.'

And Miss Fulura, blushing very much, and feeling herself very plain and insignificant, significant under the bright dark eyes of the minister's wife, had surrendered the fragrant bunch of pink and white blossoms into fingers almost as fragile and delicate. She remembered still the passion of delight which beamed in the thin face and the low cry of pleasure as she inhaled the exquisite wild breath of the flowers, which in truth is unlike and far sweeter than any other sweet odour under the sun.

was it the memory of this little scene out of her vanished past or did she indeed catch the subtle fragrance of the hidden flowers there were woods near tall chestnuts and hickories clothing the crest of the hill behind the old eggleston farm no one lived in the house now and there was sure to be our butus in bloom on the sun-worned slope beyond the orchard the sun was still an hour above the horizon she would have time before hurrying home to her to prepare the late supper it was delightfully still and warm under the big trees the wind had fallen to a low murmur ineffably peaceful and soothing under foot the dry leaves rustled pleasantly sending up clean penetrating odours of hidden mosses and the good black earth teeming with waking life mrs pettibone walked slowly her eyes bent upon the ground here perhaps beneath the shelter of sweeping evergreen bows or yonder where the sun filtered through tangled branches of beach and hickory drop into her knees she drew aside the warm cover lid nature had spread above her darlings and then a low cry of rapture burst from her lips all along the ground lay the arbutus in long straggling sprays the small rough leaves of dull green starred with half-open clusters white as the vanished snows rosy

pink as a baby's crumpled palm. The true lover is she who gathers arbutus frugally, severing the tough stem with due regard for the shallow, fragile roots. Mindful too, of the day when the sweetest of all wildflowers will be only a memory. It was no greedy grasping hand that gathered the arbutus on the far hillside. Mrs. Pettibone's work-worn fingers touched the delicate blossoms tenderly, detaching the fragrant sprays with a gentle firmness that destroyed no smallest rootlet then mindful of the reddening sun presaging a frosty night she drew the covering leaves over the unopened buds as she rose at last blossom laden and meditating swift flight to the kitchen of the parsonage where she feared the fire might be dying a low sound as of suppressed weeping came to her ears

for an instant her heart beat suffocatingly in her throat and all at once she saw coming towards her between the stems of the trees a girl the youth of the approaching figure was at once apparent Something in its reckless abandonment to grief, its wild hands beating the air, suggested the futile rage of an angry child, thwarted in some eager desire, or too harshly punished for a trivial fault. Disjointed words mingled with the sobbing came distinctly to the startled listener. I'll not bear it. I'll not. I'll not. I can't. I won't. I'll run away anyway. anywhere i'll kill myself before i submit mrs pettibone came forward quickly obviously this was only a child but a child in deep trouble my dear she said resolutely though her voice shook a little with the fright of that unlooked-for apparition what is the matter what has happened the girl stopped short staring with startled eyes at the small grey figure which seemed to have stepped forward from the greyer bowls of the hickories who are you she demanded angrily what are you doing how dare you come here spying and listening did you hear what i said i heard enough to know that you are in trouble of some sort can't i help you if perhaps you have lost your way or lost my way how could i lose my way i live there she pointed to the house half way down the slope oh

i thought the place was unoccupied faltered the minister's little wife it has been for so long you know i was just gathering some arbutus but i haven't taken it all won't you take this the girl refused the flowers with a reckless gesture then she turned sharply i supposed i could be alone up here she muttered as she moved away won't you tell me your name my dear urged mrs pettibone really i am very sorry but i only wish you tell me oh let me help you i know how it feels to be lonesome she added with a sudden inspiration if you are living in the old eggleston place you would be sure to find it lonely just at first but in summer it is beautiful the girl had paused half turning her head very soon now the orchards will be all in bloom went on mrs pettibone in her gentle voice and there are wild flowers quantities of them all about violets and pink azaleas and columbine and trilliums oh you will be sure to like it and if you don't mind telling me your name my dear the girl gulp down a recurrent sob i shall never like it here she muttered her red mouth drooping suddenly i hate the country but mother insisted I say she had no right to bring me here when I... But surely you'll like it better after a while,

persisted Mrs. Pettibone soothingly. It isn't far to the village where there are plenty of young people. You'll be going to school, perhaps, and then the girl short up a lip lifted and trembled as if she were on the verge of a laugh. School? she echoed scornfully. I see you think I'm a child. Well, I'm not. Mrs. Pettibone sighed vaguely and then smiled.

You didn't tell me your name, she murmured. My name is Sylvia. Sylvia Cruden. And I married. I was crying because, oh, because I felt like it. I'd stayed in that stuffy old house till I couldn't stand it another minute. Anybody would hate it. and the way mother the girl was half-way down the steep slope her angry words trailing behind her like sparks from a flying engine mrs pettibone watched her perplexedly as she plunged recklessly through the underbrush fringing the orchard fence

a moment later the wild figure had disappeared among the rambling out buildings at the rear of the farmhouse mr pettibone was very cheerful and companionable that night as the two sat over their belated tea the convention he told his wife was more than usually interesting he had thought of her while the native missionary from india was describing the marriage customs of that far country and had really wished he had insisted upon her company to boston next time he concluded beaming kindly across the space of white tablecloth i shall not take no for an answer later while she cleared away the supper things she heard him moving about his study would he notice the arbutus on the writing-table she wondered and would he remember she was setting the cups on the pantry shelf her fingers trembling with an emotion akin to fear when she heard his swift step behind her some dear little friend of mine has been apriling he cried gaily was it you my dear end of chapter two chapter three of the heart of felura by florence morse kingsley this librivox recording is in the public domain chapter three transfiguration miss philura heaven bless her murmured the minister mr pettiborne had paused in the slow meditative progress he found most conducive to logical thought to gaze smilingly out of his study window bounding the bleak parsonage yard was a picket fence innocent of paint for these many years and on his hither side the small stooping figure of mrs pettibone clad in the shabbiest of her shabby gowns appeared exceedingly busy with a garden rake several sizes too large

the minister could already see the green shoots of daffodils and tulips aspiring hopefully to the unfriendly april skies while the pile of sodden leaves at once side of the narrow border increased with every vigorous motion of the awkward tool the smile faded from mr pettibone's lips he even sighed vaguely as he resumed his steady pacing of the study floor down a badly warm breadth of carpet past his desk heaped with reference books and littered with the loose leaves of an incomplete discourse from thence avoiding the crammed waste paper basket and with a wide detour around the ugly structure of cast-iron truthfully called base burner to the equally worn breadth on the opposite side of the room here in front of the high narrow shells stained in imitation of black walnut and infallicitously decorated with scolloped strips of red leatherette affixed with rows of brass-headed nails the work of the minister himself in odd moments his abstracted gaze fell upon a sort of oasis of fresh red and black carpet the ladies aid society always written with capital letters had bought the carpet taking money from the unsaved in heathen lands to quote the fervid protest of mrs deaconess buckthorn they had sold the breads in solemn conclave after which mrs buckthorn still piously protestant had helped lector pratt to nail it firmly to the floor all this had taken place on the occasion of the pastor's marriage to filior a rice last november and now here was the red and black carpet betraying the minister's idle pedestrian habits to every keen-eyed parishioner if mr petbone wants to trump mrs scrimger had observed acidly to elect to pratt why in creation don't he tromp round the parish he's fallen off in his pastoral visit and something scandalous since he got married to filora rice whereat miss pratt had giggled disagreeably

As church members oughtn't to expect too much of Mr Pettibone, she pointed out, I guess he's kind of busy round the house most time. She nodded her befrizzled head in face of shocked incredulity. You don't mean to tell me. Mm-hmm. Ma saw him shaking the parlour rugs last Friday, and only yesterday I saw him through the window, watering her houseplants. Well, I never.

somebody ought to speak to forlora that's what i says to mar but mar says to me i'd let somebody else do it letty if i was you by now the minister in his peregrinations had again reached the study window from whence he had so whimsically apostrophies the lady with the rake miss felura indeed it wasn't even proper after a brief period of indecision the minister removed his double gown that's what he called it and it was double being composed of faded maroon-coloured flannel within, and sprawling palm leaves of diverse colours on its outer surface. Having divested himself of this priestly garment, Mr Pettibone clad his spare person in his third best preaching coat, clapped an ancient felt hat plucked from the top of the bookcase on his rumpled hair, and flung open the door which connected his sanctum with the outer world.

Well, my dear, the small person with the big garden tool paused in the, her labours, turning toward him with a smiling face, pinkened with the rude buffetings of the April wind. The daffodils are all in bud, she told him. He bent his short-sighted gaze upon the sparse border, where clustered green spears were piercing the half-frozen mould. Bud did, he repeated unbelievingly. Isn't it too early to be looking for flowers, my dear? She vouchsafed him a pitying glance. look she cried and parted the thick dark leaves with her reddened fingers do you see way down deep those little pointed buds such as passion of suppressed eagerness shook the low voice that involuntarily he turned puzzled examining eyes upon her she was still stooping over the incoate daffodils her mouth faintly red set in wistful curves mrs pettibone was not in her first youth as everyone in any

field knew being well into her thirties when she married the minister elector pratt indeed had been heard to declare that filura rice was thirty-six if she was a day but silas pettibone was not thinking of the delicate lines about his wife's down drooped eyes nor of the threads of silver in the soft waves of her brown hair he was wondering in dazed helpless man fashion if after all filiora was unhappy it had been something of an experiment this marriage of theirs. Nobody, it seemed, had approved of it. This much had become increasingly apparent since the day of their return to the parsonage of the Innesfield Presbyterian Church. Filura Rice, living quietly alone in the dilapidated little dwelling of her dead and gone forebears, had attracted neither praise nor blame from the busy maids and matrons of the parish. She was only Miss Filura, willing, even anxious, to work on committees, pass refreshments at church teas, labour uncomplainingly as teacher of badly behaved children in Sunday school. But all this had been changed and by his own deliberate act.

The minister was listening abstractedly to what his wife was saying. I couldn't help thinking, Silas, those little round buds are like tiny babies, cuddled close and wrapped warm next to their mother's heart. Yes. yes my dear he has sent it a very pretty idea and you are quite right i think we may count on an earlier spring than usual let me see this is the tenths isn't it no dear it's the twelfth she corrected him gently and then she raised herself with a sigh i must go in she said there's a meeting of the mother's club at the public school this afternoon but why a mother's club he asked a slight frown gathering between his brows i should think you had enough to do without the women asked me to join she told him and i-well really silas i like to go there are questions of interest to be discussed to mothers of school-children yes he agreed but you of course something in her look halted his words expressive as they were of simple unquestioned fact a flood of hot colour surged into her averted face oh of course ay she echoed faintly but you see dear i thought i ought to be interested since so many of the children from our parish are in the school

and on that account hum well he commented dubiously well if you like it my dear there's nothing more to be said but i cannot consent to have you running hither and yon at every Everybody's beck and call. You must remember, Miss Filura, you married me, not the parish. She smiled up at him. He was a tall man and she a little woman, the hot colour in her face slowly subsiding into the delicate wild rose flush he loved to see there. It would certainly be dreadful to marry the parish, she declared. I'd rather live and die an old maid.

The mirth suddenly dropped out of his face, and he looked down at her anxiously. if you should ever really think that he mused in a low voice if you should be sorry i've been wondering lately about me she queried you've been wondering well if you are really quite happy if after all i wasn't wholly selfish to bring you here this isn't an easy parish and collectively i believe it has an ogreish notion it has married you blood bones and body. Her blue eyes full of gentle raillery met his. You know you're talking nonsense, she accused him. I was just a lonely, unhappy old maid. When you, wonderful you, came to me, right out of the encircling good. What a surprise you were. And happy? Of course I'm happy. Living with you, seeing you every day. Oh yes. And working for me like a slave, he interrupted ruefully.

Cooking and scrubbing for me. Patching and darning and the rest. It's no sinecure. I know that much. And often you look very tired. And besides all this, the endless meetings and committees and... Oh, stop, she cried. A wonderful rose of love blooming in her face.

He had witnessed that subtle transfiguration of its gentle commonplace twice before, once when he told her he loved her, and again on the day of their marriage. Don't you know, she said, it is just that, the work, oh, being tired, yes, even the parish. For you, that makes me happy. Oh, if I could only be something greater and grander, more worthwhile for you.

A swift lightning flash from the shy virginal depths of her soul, soul to unplummitted deeps of his passed between them do you mean he asked his voice suddenly shaken and eager am i to understand my dear that you she shook her head the light and colour so suddenly kindled within her subsided as swiftly leaving her middle-aged face quiet even dull like a sober landscape from which the sun has withdrawn itself no she said without pretense of misunderstanding his agitated look and gesture. There's no hope of that, I fear. Her small, roughened fingers closed across her breast, as if she could no longer bear his gaze, bent to scrutinise its unveiled secret.

End of Chapter 3. Chapter 4 of the Heart of Filura by Florence Morse Kingsley. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 4. A spot where spirits blend. I wonder, said Mrs. Pettibone timidly, if you would tell me something, honest and truly, black and bluely, as the children say, or at least she corrected herself, as they used to say when I was a child, it was a long time ago, and perhaps, oh, come, come, Miss Fulura, protested the minister, who was in the act of struggling into his great coat,

a very shabby coat, by the way. You are not, oh, old, you never will be. And I'll tell you anything and everything you want to know, up to the limit of my knowledge, cross my heart and hope to die, as they used to say when I was a boy way back in the last century. He stooped and kissed his wife, who stood waiting for him,

clad in her waterproof and second-best hat. She coloured becomingly, as her husband surveyed her with smiling eyes. In truth, those dad are, delicate, girlish blushes, and the trick she had of lowering her lashes before his direct gaze, lent a perennially youthful look to her small face. It was Thursday evening, and as the two stepped from the shelter of their porch, large blobs of wet snow, like pallid hands reaching down out of the darkness, smote against their faces.

Two or three church bells, unattuned as the rival doctrines they strove to voice, were tolling dismally. I'm afraid we shan't have many out to meeting tonight, the minister was saying. Mrs Pettibone sighed, and faint as the sound was, he heard it. You must be tired after all that gardening, dear, he protested. Why not go back and stop by the fire? Oh, no, no, I'm not a bit tired. I was only wondering. Oh, I had forgotten.

out with it little woman she hesitated and he felt her fingers tighten upon his arm perhaps i'm dreadfully wicked to even think of such a thing but do you do you really like prayer-meeting do i really like prayer-meeting isn't that rather what one might call a leading question to put to your pastor yes it is she actually with what she felt to be almost brazen calm but you said you'd tell me mues the minister smiling to himself under cover of the darkness why so i did and the question is do i like yes do you oh i ought to heaven knows if i don't isn't it my own fault oh no she said still calm and bold beyond her won't. No, she repeated, still more firmly. It is not your fault. Now I, she paused as if to choose her dreadful words with scrupulous care.

I dislike and dread prayer meeting. There, I said it. My dear, cried the minister, honestly aghast. You don't really mean. "'Yes, I do. "'I've been thinking for a long time, "'ever since we were married. "'I didn't mind it so much before.

"'Do forgive me, I oughtn't to have said it.' "'The minister had unconsciously quickened his long stride "'so that the little woman at his side was half running to keep up. "'Please forgive me,' she entreated breathlessly. "'I'm not angry,' he assured her. "'I'm only surprised, and, ashamed. But what shall I do? We've got to have a prayer meeting, and he cleared his throat argumentatively. The upper room in Jerusalem, he went on, where the disciples were gathered with

one accord in one place, furnishes the example, my dear. The church is bound to follow it. Don't you see, Miss Fuliora? It would never do to give it up. They wanted something, murmured the lady he perceived. in miscalling. They wanted something real. Perhaps they didn't know exactly what it was, but they wanted it. Besides, they were afraid.

Of the hostile Jews, yes, he approved, and they received their reward in the shape of cloven flames of fire, the gift of tongs and all the rest. It was a magnificent demonstration and example. But we don't get anything, persisted the gentle, carping voice at his elbow. Elder Trimmer and Deacon Buckthorn and Sister Salter,

Be careful, my dear, warned the minister. Somebody might be coming behind us. They tell God things when they pray, as if he had never even heard of in his field, she pursued Soto Vosce. And when Mrs. Buckthorn prays for the pastor, I, good evening, Mr. Petty Bone, interrupted a suggestively nasal voice out of the darkness, and a large figure loomed up in the immediate foreground. I was just coming out of my house, and I thought to myself,

Seems to me I hear Filura Rice's voice. How are you this evening, Filora? Thus invoked, the minister's wife, all pink and trembling, confessed to a degree of health as if it were a crime. I really can't bring myself yet to call you Mrs. Pettibone, when I really can't bring myself yet to call you Mrs. Pettibone, when I recall many, many years, you sat under my instruction in the Sabbath school as Filura Rice. I little thought in those days that I was a chosen vessel for sowing the good seed in our pastor's second wife. No, indeed, how little do we realise our responsibilities? The first Mrs. Pettibone was living at that time, I recall.

Quite a different type of woman from yourself, Filiura. Mary Pettibone was too well. good for this wicked world, as I've often and often remarked to Mr. Buckthorn. The lady heaved a windy sigh, as she slowly descended the steps leading to the basement room where the prayer meetings were held. There was a subtle air of reproof in Mrs. Buckthorn's manner as she shook the clinging snow from her garments in the dimly lighted vestibule. Yes, my dear Felura, she went on sibilantly, with a final comprehensive clash of her jetted cape. More than once

of late, I have wrestled before the throne of grace in your behalf. It has been borne in on me that you stand in special need at this time. Mrs. Buckthorn was a tall, stout person of a cast of features the minister's

wife had more than once compared with the dreadfully fascinating portrait of the Pharaoh of the oppression as depicted in the back of her teacher's Bible. Mrs. Buckthorne's resemblance to the mummy of Ramesses II, was more strongly marked than common as she turned to the pastor, who was in the act of depositing his umbrella in a remote corner.

Grown sadly wise during the long pastorate, he had observed that parishioners, even of the most sanctified type, sometimes appropriate the ministerial umbrella. I learned today, Mr. Pettibone, that you have not yet called upon an influential family, which has recently moved into the old Eggleston place. I was sorry to hear it. Ah, said Mr Pettibona, bainly, but I was not aware. If you had asked me,

anticipated Mrs. Buckthorne, I could have told you the very day they came to town. Her large wagging forefinger, pointed, as it were, the moral. Two weeks ago, yesterday, in all that rain, you may recall the storm we had, Filura, the expressman called at our house for a peck, I make it a rule to send our outworn winter garments to the Salvation Army at this time of year.

And as I was saying, John Snyder had six trunks on the wagon. I counted them myself. Six trunks marked C. But Snyder insists the name is Hill. I do hope and trust you'll not delay to visit them, Mr. Pettibone. If the Methodists, but the minister, turning a troubled, though benevolence, smile upon the wife of his senior deacon was holding wide the door for the two ladies to precede him all in good time my dear mrs buckthorn he said and thank you for letting me know his quick eye took in at a glance the sparse sprinkling of men and women on the wooden benches he knew them well the faithful few he was accustomed to apostrophise them in his opening prayer making mention also of the familiar promise related to the faithful few he was accustomed to apostrophise them in his opening prayer making mention also of the familiar promise related to to the gathering of the two or three

and the mystic unseen presence in their midst. The cracked bell overhead ceased its complaining. The minister mechanically reached for his hymn book. Elector Pratt was already in her place before the wheezy little cabinet organ. Let us sing him five hundred and twenty-eight omitting if you please the second stanza, he heard himself saying,

in his usual forensic voice. Then, like one in a dream, where in many braided streams of thought mingle confusedly, he listened to the weak discordant singing, with his wife's thin, clear soprano striving through it. From every storm that blows, from every swelling tide of woes, there is a calm, a sure retreat, tis found beneath the mercy sea. A sudden gust of sleet patted against the tall, uncurtained windows. One of the malodorous gas jets flared up in a stealthy draft.

Deacon's scrimge arose stiffly and tiptoed across the room to turn it down. there is a spot where spirits blend where friend holds fellowship with friend mrs buckthorn was singing loudly nasally her pious glance upturned to the dingy ceiling mr pettibone sighed his troubled eyes resting for an instant on the small meek figure of his wife her face under the unfashionable hat-brim looked unnaturally pale and delicate in the flickering yellow light Resolutely he took up his Bible and turned to the passage he had selected and marked an hour ago in his study. That was before he knew Philora disliked and dreaded prayer-meeting. Then, with entire unexpectedness, a sick distaste for the ugly, ill-lighted room, for the stout, complacent matron in the front row of seats, for the hawk-nosed old man with his shifty eyes sitting behind.

her for Elector Pratt and the battered instrument at which she presided surged up within him. He read the familiar words coldly, stiffly, aware of his wife's timidly repentant gaze upon his face, and more remotely of Elector Pratt in the act of absorbing a cough-drop, while she stealthily turned the pages of the hymnal in search of a tune devoid of supernumerary flats and sharps. At his pastor's formal request, Elder Trimmer arose to lead in prayer. Mr Trimmer was the enterprising proprietor of Innesfield's largest store, the Trimmer Dry Goods Emporium, to make use of its owner's chosen designation.

In just what manner Mr Trimmer had been led to entertain the belief that the continued prosperity of the Emporium, as well as the length of his days, depended in some unexplained manner upon the regularity of his attendance at the stated meetings of the church, his pastor only vaguely understood. But this appeared to be the case. Mr Trimmer was setting forth a matter circumstantially and at great length, in phraseology borrowed indiscriminately from Milton's Paradise Lost, the Psalms, and the Pauline epistles.

He spoke of his miraculous conversion from the way of sinners, of his blessed experiences since he first met the Lord, of his godly sorrow over lost souls, passing on after a brief but pointed allusion to the heathen in foreign lands to the condition of the Presbyterian Church in Innesfield. This particular outpost of Zion, Mr. Trimmer confidentially informed deity, was in a most lamentable condition. The saints, presumably accepting the proprietor of the Emporium, were languishing,

the walls were broken down, and there appeared, with one notable exception, to be no one who felt a flaming zeal in the subject of their upbuilding. Meanwhile, the wicked flourished like a green bay tree, and the devil went about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he might devour, with no one to let or hinder. In view of this untoward condition of affairs, Mr. Trimmer, in a loud and truculent voice,

demanded that the pastor of the church might be, visited from on high, that his lips might be touched with a live coal from off the altar, and that he might be more faithful in the performance of his duty. Then evidently fearing misapprehension, either on the part of the Most High or Mr. Pettibone,

the fervid petitioner kindly enumerated these duties, as he, Mr. Trimmer, saw them. It was a masterly effort, even for Elder Trimmer. mrs buckthorn heaved a pious sigh as she murmured in the ear of the pastor's wife my what a beautiful prayer mr pettibone pilloried in the leader's seat nervously fingered his hymn-book while elector pratt suggested a number in her loud buzzing whisper bless be the tie that binds our hearts in christian love bleated the discordant chorus But the voice of all others he listened for and loved no longer pierced the weak clamour with its pure sweet note. They were walking soberly homeward in the quiet starlight, which April wise had followed rain and snow and sleet, like the sound of the still small voice.

I wish, he said almost roughly, that I had learned the art of bricklaying or house-building, or anything useful and honest. I fear I'm a complete failure as a minister of Christ's gospel. That prayer meeting now, it was no worse than common, I suppose, but somehow I never thought it could be anything else. Oh, it's all my fault, she murmured contritely. I ought not to have spoken as I did. What you said was entirely just, he told her firmly.

But the presence in the midst, how could it remain there? a single instant to-night. Oh, she breathed, with the impetuous little gesture he knew so well. It is everywhere. It is the all-en-circling good. We couldn't escape it even if we tried.

So we declare in our creeds, he sighed. But I am so utterly unimaginative, so dull I fear I forget sometimes. everything we need, yes or want, is in the encircling good, she went on dreamily. You were there, and I didn't even know it. It was only when I asked and believed that you came. Silas Pettibone did not attempt to reply.

Instead, he absent-mindedly patted the hand that rested on the sleeve of his shabby greatcoat. At the moment he was very fond. far from understanding his wife's changing mood we must make a round of visit to-morrow my dear he said after a lengthening pause if a family has moved into the old eggleston place somebody must show themselves friendly and that much we can do oh there's a young woman there his wife informed him unexpectedly oh when did you oh i met her walking in the grove back of the house the house the other day. I was looking for Arbutus. She'd been crying, I think. At least her eyes, hmm, me as the minister. She was a tall, handsome girl, and she seemed angry because, well, at least I thought it was because I met her all of a sudden when she supposed herself

to be quite alone. Of course I apologise and told her I thought the house was unoccupied. It had been for so long, you know. and you made some inquiries, my dear. I hope you let her know who you were. It might serve to introduce us. I'm afraid I forgot about being the minister's wife. I'm not very used to it yet. I tried to comfort her, but she wouldn't listen.

She said she hated the place, and it is lonesome up there, you know. Then I asked her if she wouldn't tell me her name. And she said it was Sylvia, Sylvia Cruden and she was married. But I'm sure she looked more like a child in her teens. End of chapter four. Chapter 5 of the Heart of Fillura by Florence Morse Kingsley.

This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 5. The closed door. The old Eggleston place, as it had been called through three generations of that name, lay well back from the town in a lap of the hills, commanding a view of the river embowered in trees and of the more distant river glassing the sky in long lazy reaches between its low green banks miss minerva eggleston the only surviving daughter of the squire had lived in the old house for more years than any one of her neighbours cared to count cultivating its impoverished acres with the aid of a superannuated farm-hand who had worked on the place since his early youth some thirty years previous there had been a persistent rumour to the effect that nathan shared was madly in love with his employer's daughter and that miss minerva a handsome robust girl with two years a boarding-school to her credit had very properly flouted him but with unmerited scorn and contumely yet the years avenged nathan miss minerva despite her accomplishments and the undeniable comeliness of her face remained unwed

one by one her kith and kin died and were buried under the pointing shadow of the tall eglestone monument till at the last miss minerva found herself on the down hill road from her forty-ninth birthday and only the quasi possessor of the big shabby house in the midst of its heavily mortgaged acres this much is sober history what follows might well be the highly embellished tale of a coterie of country gossips but it is said that on the morning after the old squire's funeral nathan's shed walked into the kitchen where miss minerva eggleston was washing up the dishes slow tears dropping down her faded cheeks not it may be supposed out of greeks not it may be supposed out of greeks for the old squire who had died to all intents and purposes more than a year before of a stroke of paralysis but because she thus tardily realised herself alone and lonely on a long and dismal road of life there were only those two in the big farm kitchen and neither of them ever spoke of what happened so it must have been the chickadee who told she was perched on the lilac bush just outside the window her wise brown head cock to one side, her bright eyes fixed on the pear inside the kitchen. Nathan's shed stood staring at Miss Minerva without saying a word, while she polished and polished the old knives and forks.

After a while he cleared his throat. I've been thinking, he said. I've been thinking things over since yesterday. Oh, have you, Nate? said Miss Minerva, wiping her tears on the corner of her apron. Nathan's voice sounded curiously hard to Miss Minerva and she looked at him beseechingly out of the corner of her wet red and eyes he was dressed she noticed in a new suit of blue surge she'd never laid eyes on before

and his shirt and his collar and his necktie were all new he was shaved too although it was only the middle of the week but that she laid to the funeral being the day before I've been thinking, he said, still in that slow, hard voice, about you, Minerva. Well, she murmured, dull and heavy with crying. Hmm, you ain't so rich as you once was, Minerva, he went on, numbering the counts of his indictment on the fingers of his left hand, and you ain't so young as you was, by thirty years, say. I'm 49, she told him defiantly.

You ain't a answer as you used to be, not by a long chalk, he persisted, like a boy who has learned his peace and is bound to speak it. Two big tears dropped into the dishpan. No woman likes to hear the sort of thing he was saying in that hard voice of his. Your folks are all dead, he reminded her with unnecessary cruelty, and I'm going west. I thought maybe I'd better tell you. At that she burst right out, crying, and turned to run out of the room. But somehow, being all blind with tears, she ran into Nathan's arms which were outspread to catch her. They were married the next week.

Then it came out that Nathan's shed had been steadily growing richer, all the while Miss Minerva, by slow and painful degrees, was slipping into poverty. During the 30-odd years he had worked on the old Eggleston place, and during as best he might the scorn in Miss Minerva's eyes, he had thriftily saved many dollars, investing them all in Western farmlands. The Reverend Silas Pettibone and his wife, jogging along the country road behind the minister's old Sorrel horse, were talking over this sober romance. I always felt so sorry for Miss Minerva because Nathan insisted on going west. said the minister's wife sentimentally as they turned in at the big ivy-covered gate-posts she must have loved this old place i think nathan did exactly right differed the minister with some positiveness don't you see my dear if they had remained here miss minerva's pride would always have stood between them like a barrier she would have been secretly ashamed to the end of the chapter to think that after all she had married the old squire's high man out in oregon she is merely the wife of that prosperous landowner nathan shed nobody knows or cares that she was once the handsomest girl in innisfield and the daughter of a rich man

no my dear it is sometimes best to wash the slate clean and begin the problem all over again he helped his wife from the old-fashioned buggy with a careful hand having an eye to the muddy wheel and the shining folds of her best gown how nice you look miss veloura he said gently that's a black and purple stuff is quite becoming after all the little lady blushed and smiled i haven't worn it often she said shaking out the heavy brocade it is almost too rich and handsome for church socials and we have so few weddings in the parish m let me see wasn't that almost a wedding-gown he inquired with gentle jocularity mrs pettibone had turned her head and was looking at the big house half hid in overgrown shrubbery do you know she said i thought for a moment i saw a face at the window looking at us but it disappeared directly the minister was brushing a few hairs strayed from the old sorrel's back of his second best preacher coat. Well, my dear, that wouldn't be so very surprising, would it? I don't suppose many people have called on the family as yet. He walks deliberately, yet with a certain kindly authority, toward the front door, withdrawn under its deep-pillared portico with an air of dignified reserve.

It doesn't look as if anybody lived here, said his wife, glancing about half timidly. i have mrs buckthorn's testimony to the contrary to say nothing of your own my dear quoth the minister cheerfully he had already pulled the rusted bell-handle and now stood a tentative smile on his lips confidently awaiting the opening of the tall heavily-panelled door there were narrow windows of leaded glass on either side and mrs pettibone's bright eyes dwelt meditatively on the grey cobwebs swinging like tattered curtains in the air-a-and-a-and-aubbeds swinging like tattered curtains in the air-a. april air high up in the tops of the dense evergreens the lonely little wind was sighing and from a long way off the cawing of a flight of crows against the clouded blue of the sky came faintly to the ear the smile slowly faded from the minister's face he appeared to be listening with bent head to the intermittent dropping of water from a broken lead and pipe into the depths of a subterranean cistern perhaps but entered mrs pettiby under her breath. The doorbell? She stopped short, her face, assuming the discreetly cheerful look of one about to greet a stranger. Did you hear? She whispered after a lengthening pause. A step, he finished. I fancy I heard a board creek inside, but he applied his knuckles smartly

to the door. If there is anyone at home, I imagine they'll hear that, he observed. But the door remained fast. The sound from within, whatever its nature, was not repeated. A dark cloud passed overhead. Well, said the minister doubtfully, I'm afraid we're wasting valuable time. And it looks like a shower, murmured his companion. I really wish I'd worn my alpaca. But Mr. Pettibone was not attending. He stepped off the portico with an air of fresh resolve. you might wait here my dear he suggested i'll go round the house i remember in miss minerva's day we always used the side entrance left to herself mrs pettibone perched her small person gingerly on the edge of a wooden bench built into the side of the porch in more hospitable days the wind in the tree-tops had by now deepened into a soft all-pervasive roar mrs pettibone smoothed down the folds of her gown gathered providently from a too intimate contact with the brick floor there were piles of damp leaves under the opposite bench she observed and decided that for once the omniscient mrs buckthorn had been mistaken but on the other hand she had certainly met a girl walking in the woods behind the house only the week before

she recalled once more the tall hurrying figure the stormy beauty of the face under its wind-blown tresses the girl was bare-headed and mrs pettibone had noted particularly the heavy reddish hair hanging in a long untidy braid for the rest the stranger had appeared like a schoolgirl in her blue serge fro with its sailor blouse and short skirt she had been crying with home sickness no doubt mrs pettibone recalled the big dark eyes reddened and brimming with arrested tears really i don't know when i ever felt so embarrassed the miniser's wife told herself as she absent-mindedly smoothed and patted the large black leaves sprawled vaguely upon the dim purple background of the brocade across her knee how curiously everything linked itself to something else the black and a purple brocade almost before she was aware of the transition had carried her thoughts quite away from the vivid presence of the strange girl under the wind-blown trees to other and more intimate scenes of her own past. How distinctly she remembered the morning when the expressman left the flat oblong package.

It had come from Boston, from Cousin-Carroline Van Duser as she guessed at once. She had written to Cousin Caroline, informing her of her contemplated marriage to Mr. Pettibone, and here was the reply in tangible form. She knew, of course, that it was something to make over. Mrs. Van Duser, like some stately galleons sailing overlife stormy sea, trailed behind her a frothing wake of dresses, cloaks and bonnets,

all of the choicest and most expensive materials. Many women of Mrs. Van Duser's acquaintance unblushingly sold their cast-off finery, haggling viciously behind the closed doors of their boudoirs with certain shrill-voiced hook-nosed women from dubious shops in east boston others less avaricious or more indolent abandoned the flotsam and jetsam of a fashionable career to their maids but not so mrs van this estimable lady while piously recognising the decrees of a providence which saw fit to hooray her own ample person with magnificence akin to that of solomon in all his glory was disposed to regard her outworn clothing in the light of a sacred obligation to those less richly provided for. No one could realise more deeply than Mrs. Van Duser, the incalculable detriment wrought by unthinking gifts of finery to those destined by the same discrete providence to a lowly station

in life. Upon Phileora Rice, she had been in the habit of bestowing certain substantial garments, mostly of woollen materials and sober inconspicuous hues, saved, moreover, from a two recent and fashionable appearance by a ripening sojourn in Mrs. Van Duser's attic. Filiora Rice was a distant, a very distant relative of Mrs. Van Duser, and an entirely worthy person in her own plane of existence, a plain, be it understood, far removed from the orbit in which Mrs. Van Duser revolved in majestic splendour. Mrs. Van Duser had not approved of Filiora Rice's marriage to the Reverend Silas Pettibone. Filiora, she found, she found, had been guilty of climbing up some other way,

to make use of a scriptural phrase, somehow outwitting Providence, which had plainly indicated the humbler path of solitary spinsterhood. Still, since Fullura appeared bent upon rushing in where angels fear to tread, she would look over the contents of her wardrobe of the year before last, with a view to the approaching event. Mrs. Pettibone, still gently and absent-mindedly,

patting the skirt of her. her gown, as she listened to the rising wind in the treetops, recalled once more the agitated and hopeful beating of her heart, as she painstakingly unnotted the stout string which tied the package from Boston. She was hoping, foolishly, or sinfully, she told herself, that cousin Caroline had sent her a white dress, or at the least a soft grey, of the shimmering satin, coloured like the breast of a dove, which Mrs. Van Duser had elected as her favourite garb of state. The garment within, as she had already been apprised by letter, was in Mrs. Van Duser's estimation, a most suitable dress for the occasion of the marriage.

When at last the cover was off, and the string carefully rolled into a neat ball, Miss Fullura had lifted the shrouding folds of tissue paper to find this, as she could never forget the shock of surprise and disappoint. appointment, when at last she found courage to lift the stiff, heavy brocade from its wrappings. Tears there had been in those first moments, and then determined revolt. I will not be married in a black and purple dress, she had declared to the surrounding silence, which later had revealed itself as both intelligent and beneficent, though at the moment it was voiceless of inspiration or even hope. the sound of steps and the creaking of the heavy door on its hinges roused mrs pettibone from a happy vision of herself clad all in bridal white coming slowly down the aisle of a crowded church on the arm of the minister

hurriedly she rose to her feet the thrill of that realised dream flooding her face with radiance in the doorway stood the tall stout figure of a woman regarding her fixedly out of dull dark eyes end of chapter five Chapter 6 of the Heart of Fillura by Florence Morse Kingsley. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 6, the Hill family. Oh, you're Mrs. Pettibone, the woman said quickly. Won't you come in? I hope you'll pardon the condition of our doorbell. It was broken when we arrived,

and we haven't been able so far to find anyone to fix it. Rather dazardly, the minister's wife found herself being piloted, into the tall, dark parlour at the left of the hall. The woman's voice, a soft, monotonous voice, ran on. I'm afraid you have been waiting rather longer than you found pleasant on our inhospitable doorstep, but you see we weren't looking for visitors. And so she paused as she indicated a chair. The minister, who had seated himself on the opposite side of the hearth,

where a low fire was smouldering, smiled professionally. It was a pleasant smile, expressive of genuine, kindness and simplicity of heart, upon which his wide pastoral experience had superimposed sad knowledge of a sinful and dying world in all its manifold needs and complexities. You understand Mrs. Hill that we, Mrs. Pettibone and myself, endeavoured to see all the newcomers to the parish, he began rather stiffly, we hope that we may be able to be of service, either in the way of directing those who may desire a church home or his hostess was smiling too. Yet the minister felt himself vaguely uncomfortable under the scrutiny of those curiously opaque eyes beneath their drooping lids.

You are very kind, I'm sure, murmured the woman. Mrs. Pettibone, quite unnoticed in the deep chair to which she had been consigned, fell to examining the room with a child's eager curiosity. It was furnished much as it had been in Miss Minerva Eglston's day. Nathan Shed had not approved his wife's desire to transport her ancestral belongings to their new home. There's no use cart in all that old stuff out west, he had stated. We can buy a plenty more where we're going. I mean to have everything new.

Mrs. Pettibone recognised one by one, Miss Minerva's antique chairs and sofa. But there had been curiously transformed by a rich oriental covering here and a pile of embroidered cushions yonder. There was a gay little work-basket on the table by the fire and a heap of books and magazines littered the top of the big square piano, which had been dragged from its dark corner

to a position near the pendant lamp. Then her eyes wandered to the windows, hung with fresh muslin, and the pot of crocus, gay with purple, and yellow blooms, which brightened the high mantel shelf. You have one or more children, I understand, Mr Pettibone was saying, still professionally. I believe my wife met your daughter, quite by accident, not long ago.

Mrs. Hill darted a keen glance of inquiry at the minister's wife. My son and his wife are with me for the present, she said coldly. Possibly you saw Mrs. Walter Hill. Oh, murmured Mrs Pettibone in a surprise voice. Her blue eyes scanned the woman's face with undisguised interest. You're thinking perhaps that my daughter-in-law resembles me, Mrs. Hill said dryly. It is easily explained. My son and his wife are cousins.

Oh, commented Mrs. Pettibone again, this time with a falling inflection. She seemed very young. She added hurriedly. At least I have that impression. Mrs. Hill's curiously disconcerting gaze was levelled full upon her. It seemed impossible not to go on talking and explaining. I was out looking for Arbutus, the minister's little wife went on, stealing a look at her husband, who smiled back encouragement.

The Arbutus is always earliest and pinkest in Miss Minerva's woods, you know. Miss Minerva? The woman's voice expressed a polite yet chilling curiosity. Oh, well, perhaps I should have said Miss Eggleston or Mrs. Shed. This is her place, of course. You know it, or it was. Perhaps they've sold it, but I hadn't heard. It's really very pleasant here, especially in warm weather.

Mrs. Pettibone, all pink and agitated, gaze beseechingly at her hostess, but Mrs. Hill was apparently blind to her discomfort. You were speaking of my daughter-in-law, she said, getting up rather quickly for so large a person. I will see if she is at home. You met her, you say? Oh, in the woods, yes. She was walking there quite alone, and I couldn't help thinking she might be feeling a little homesick. Mrs. Pettibone was forced to tilt her chin upward in order to meet the woman's penetrating gaze.

She felt curiously shamed and confused, like a child. detected in some flagrant bit of mischief. Yet she couldn't help noticing Mrs. Hill's dress, which was of rich material, but stained and spotted down the front breadth, as if Mrs. Pettibone thought, she had washed dishes in it without an apron. We keep no servant, Mrs. Hill informed her abruptly,

and we rent the place. I shall not buy it for the present till we see if we're going to like it. She turned and walked swiftly to the door. her feet making no sound on the old velvet carpet with its large dim roses. I should like you to meet my son, she added, pausing with her hand on the knob to look steadily at the minister. If you will excuse me for a moment while I call him and Mrs. Walter Hill,

I believe I told you she is my niece. The minister and his wife sat motionless in their places, listening to the sound of the woman's receding footfalls, as she ascended the uncarpeted stare. The roar of the wind in the evergreens penetrated the stillness that followed like a solemn voice. Mrs Pettibone stole a timid glance at her husband.

He was looking fixedly out of the window, his lips firmly compressed, his dark brows drawn over thoughtful eyes. She feared he had disapproved her unthinking remark to their prospective parishioner. Perhaps I oughtn't to have spoken of, her daughter-in-law as being young or homesick she reflected but it is a lonesome sort of place for a young girl even if she is married she wondered vaguely how it would seem to have one's aunt for a mother-in-law and for no assignable reason decided it would not be at all nice then her eyes were drawn once more to the gabe a ribbon basket on the table almost within reach of her hand someone had been working there

A handsome gold thimble had rolled to the edge of the table, and a spool of fine cotton lay on the floor. There was a mass of filmy white stuff in the basket. Mrs. Pettibone could see a strip of narrow lace, partly sewed to the frill of a tiny sleeve. She leaned forward impulsively in her chair, the soft colour flooding her cheeks. Silas! she murmured.

The minister turned his abstract, to gaze upon her. Well, my dear, he replied, in the voice of one whose mind is filled with alien thoughts. Oh, do you think it's going to rain? Not immediately, he answered. He glanced frowningly at his watch. We shall have ample time to reach home, I think, if we're not detained too long. It seemed a long time to both of them before they heard the sound of steps in the passage.

I had some difficulty in find. finding my young people. Apologised Mrs. Hill. She was breathing heavily, and spots of purplish colour had flamed up under her dull skin. My son is so fond of outdoor life, she went on,

her quick, determined eyes, darting from the minister to his wife, and then to the door which she had thrown wide. And as for Sylvia, come in, my dear, never mind your ruffled hair. Mrs. Pettibone, let me present my daughter, Mrs. Walter Hill, I believe you and Sylvia have met before, in the woods, wasn't it?

But you haven't been fortunate enough to find any Arbutus, my dear Sylvia. Mr. Pettibone, my son, Walter Hill. Thus urged, the two young people who had slowly followed the older woman into the room, quite like sulky children Mrs. Pettibone was thinking, came forward. The girl, her handsome mouth set in rebellious curves, barely touched with limp cold fingers the friendly hands outstretched to greet her but the boy

he was barely twenty Mr Pettibone decided smiled pleasantly almost eagerly as he shook hands man fashioned with the minister yes I hope we're going to like it here he said in response to Mr Pettibone's stereotyped inquiry it's a great house isn't it but lonesome I um he stopped short

with a side-long glance at his mother who had stepped softly to his side. Oh, Mother here will tell you how we were always teasing to live in the country. I'm fond of shooting, you know, and all that sort of thing. And Sylvia, such children as they both are, smiled Mrs Hill, laying her plump white hand caressingly on her son's shoulder. We are both hoping the good country air will bring dear Sylvia back to health. still smiling she lowered her smooth full lids and the minister revolving various quasi-professional inquiries as to the hill's former home their recent church connection and the hoped-for opportunity of enrolling the young people in his christian endeavour society suddenly bethought himself of the fact that all in the room was standing and their hostess had not asked them to resume their chairs it was the friendly custom of the countryside to pursue one's visit

as quite to the verge of the outer world, the tide of conversation rising to its flood at the front door. Mr Pettibone was patiently accustomed to parochial confidences reserved for the shadowy regions of the passage, and persisted in while he stood hat in hand and ankle-deep in unswept snow on the doorstep. But on the present occasion, he found himself dismissed at the parlour door,

by the older Mrs. Hill, with a practised ease and a plough, which left no opportunity for valedictory marks on the part of the minister or his agitated little wife. Really? I don't know when I've ever felt so queer. Mrs. Pettibone confided to her husband. When the clumsy hoofs of the sorrel were once more spattering the mud of the highway over the shabby laprobe, her husband had carefully tucked about her. Hmm, commented the minister noncommittally. I'm not sure we were all.

altogether welcome. That young Mrs. Hill is really handsome, don't you think so, persisted his wife. But, oh, I'm sure that she isn't happy. Do you suppose that that woman could be unkind to her? I don't like her face. Unkind, echoed Mr. Petty-Bow. I suppose you refer to the older Mrs. Hill. Why should she be unkind? But personally, I don't believe in the marriage of near relatives. He shook his head as he slapped the reins provocatively over the old Sorrel's back. Mrs. Pettibone was not paying her usual meek attention. She leaned suddenly forward, her face lighted with a smile.

Then waved her small gloved hand vigorously. It's Millie! she cried. Millie, oh. the child is working among her flowers oh look silas she has a whole row of daffodils in blossom the minister's abstracted gaze followed his wife's eager gesture oh yes he murmured perhaps we might stop for just a moment and inquire for the old people orne was pretty well crippled with lumbago the last time i called the girl had dropped her trowel and hurried forward as the reluctant feet of the sorrel's scuffled to a standstill. She was a pretty girl, with quantities of yellow-brown hair wound closely about her small head. As she stood beside the mud-bespattered vehicle, her face upturned to its occupants.

Mrs. Pettibone observed with the secret pang of the envy peculiar to middle age, the unblemished pearl and rose of her softly rounded cheek, and the way the glistening hair curled about the delicate ears. The girl's eyes were as blue as cornflowers, and the softly parted lips revealed the edges of flawless teeth. Isn't she beautiful? Breathe Mrs. Pettibone with a gentle sigh of resignation, as the indignant sorrel resumed his interrupted progress.

The minister was gazing at the animal's bobbing ears with knit brows. He shook his head with a suggestion of, of sadness. The child is quite as good as she is pretty, he said slowly. But he was silent for a space, while Mrs Pettibone pensively regarded the bunch of daffodils Million had given her at the moment of parting. Oh well, he said at last, the best any of us can do is to trust the hand that spares the bruised reed. And speaking of the hills, my dear, I was about to remove. I was about to remark that in my opinion the marriage of the two cousins explains the whole matter. The aunt, who is also the mother-in-law, probably objected to the marriage,

and quite right too, and the boy is too young. Well, we must see what we can do. They want to see some company of their own age. You can't safely bottle up young life in a lonesome old place like that. It's bound to break out somewhere. "'Mrs. Pettibone looked up wistfully into the minister's strong, kindly face. "'Sometimes she almost forgot she was his wife. "'Mr Pettibone's Mary had been dead for full seven years,

"'and all that time she had been just Miss Fulura, "'a shabby, timid little spinster. "'Twice a year, in the spring and fall, "'her pastor had called upon her in the course of his regular parochial rounds, "'and she had received him in her shabby, lonely little parlour in a state of trepidation bordering on awe. He had looked so grand, so wise. She had scarcely dared utter her carefully worded little commonplaces about the weather,

the choir, or even the later social, at which she had passed cake in one of cousin Caroline Van Dusers made over dresses. But now, she drew a long breath of wonder, as she strove for the hundredth time to real how it had all come about. It had begun early in the spring two years ago when she visited Cousin Caroline, stopping a whole week in the big gloomy Beacon Street mansion. And almost the last day of her stay,

Cousin Caroline had taken her to hear a lecture at the ontological club. Suppose she had never heard that lecture. What if dear Cousin Caroline had chosen to leave her at home that day, or consented to send her under the convoy of the coachman to visit the waxworks. Mrs Pettibone remembered distinctly that she had wished very much to see the wax works, which Elector Pratt had described to her in dreadful detail.

Of course she would have declined to witness an actual murder, but a murder in wax, however realistic, was something different. Anyone might view it with pleasure. Elector had said it made icy cold shivers run up and down, her spine like anything. She had mentioned the waxworks to Cousin Caroline, with what she felt to be almost brazen temerity, and had been properly punished by that lady's cold disapproving stare centred upon her small shrinking person through the large lenses of a lawn yet. Wax works, stated Mrs. Van Duser, a vulgar, immoral and pernicious. They cater to an essentially

depraved appetite, totally demoralising to the higher faculties of the soul. I am surprised, Fulura, that you should experience any desire to so stultify yourself. And I beg that you will instead accompany me to a lecture on thought, forces, and the infinite, which will I trust lift you to a somewhat higher plane of realization than you at present appear to occupy. how could she have secretly rebelled almost to the point of disliking dear cousin caroline waxworks indeed what were waxworks and their resultant thrills however pleasurable to becoming aware of one's real powers It was actually right to want things. Nay, desire itself was infinite good knocking at the door of one's consciousness, seeking almost demanding entrance.

She had gone away from the ontological club, singularly uplifted, tremulously happy, and conscious for the first time of a vast, unexplored ocean of good, viewless, but no less real and beneficent, surging as it were all about the barren shores of her life out of it had come with inconceivable promptness a hat with plumes two becoming gowns a silk petticoat a feather-bower and her husband how had she dead was it after all merely chance did he really and truly love her she stole a second swift glance at the reverend's sirene's side as Pettybone. How beautiful was the stern, clear-cut outline of his brow, nose and chin. What wonderful eyes he had, deep and sombre, yet kind as love itself. Then, without meaning at all to do so, she recalled back Mrs. Buckthorn's words of the night before, and more reluctantly,

more timidly still, the first Mrs. Pettybone's sweet, wistful face. of a type totally different from her own end of chapter six chapter seven of the heart of philura by florence morse kingsley this librivox recording is in the public domain chapter seven malvina bennett dressmaker the dressmaking establishment of miss malvina bennett had become a sort of clearing-house for general and miscellaneous information seated in miss malvina's little parlour in close juxtaposition to the ornate base burner the votaries of fashion as represented by a pile of highly coloured magazines might learn many things concerning the world at large but more particularly of innisfield miss malvina herself would have repudiated the title of gossip with entirely just indignation if there's one thing more and another i hate and despise she was wont to declare with deep feeling it's tail-bearing and gaspipin i mind my business and i expect my customers to mind theirs the whole enduring time anybody that sows has got to watch out for their tongues as i says to mother there's something about settin and sewing i says more especially bastin that does somehow tempt a body to tittle tattle but there ain't anybody can say i was ever known to repeat what comes to my year is in the shop and i ain't saying i don't know about as well as most folks what's going on in this town.

With which tacit admission, Miss Malvina invited fresh confidences, of the sort one makes to a discreet person whose mouth is filled with pins, while with a pair of sharp scissors, she deftly clips about the circle of one's neck in dangerous nearness to the jugular vein, or with the same shining implement,

snips suddenly and with apparent recklessness under one's armpit. Miss Bennett was a wiry little person, who had never looked young, even in the days when she toddled solemnly about her grandmother's kitchen in sedate and unsuccessful pursuit of an elderly kitten. By the time she was eight, Malvina could overcast to seem as neat as a pin. At ten, she was sewing her own flannel petticoats

without manifesting a single carnal desire to run out of doors and frolic with other children. I guess the Lord created me special to be a dressmaker, was Miss Malvina's pious comment on the workings of a providence which appear to have closed every other avenue of usefulness save the one the little seamstress trod so carefully

and having never been young meaning that Miss Malvina was never in the least rosy nor pretty nor idle nor imprudent and that in consequence of all these negative virtues she never had a bow so likewise she did not grow old

the way other and more fortunate people did no one remembered just when malvina had taken to wearing glasses because the large steel-bowed spectacles bequeathed to her from her grandmother appeared so eminently fitting an addition to her somewhat nipped and wintry little nose so also the adoption of a much-befrized black hair front also an heirloom but every bit as good as new made little or no change in miss malvina's everyday aspect even when the frizzed front became in certain exigions "'pushed rakishly to one side, "'revealing sparse grey hair combed neatly back "'to join the rigid pepper and salt knob at the back of her head. "'Here's a hand-glass, Mrs Puffer,' exhorted Miss Malvina, "'pressing upon her customer a small cracked mirror.

"'I want you should look at your back. "'There! Ain't that a neat fit? "'It couldn't lay no smoother nor set, no snugger, I don't care who done it. "'Land, I do. and pray you'll get a chance to wear this dress while it's stylish. Last year, I remember, no sooner did I get that velveteen skirt fitted down to you, then you had to lay it aside. Now I suppose it's too narrow.

You seem to be somewhat stouter since the last baby was born. I think I hear him crying, interrupted Mrs Puffer resignedly. I left him outside in his go-car to sleep. "'Don't you dare stir,' warned the dressmaker with a threatening gesture. "'I just got them goods pinned on to you in a real stylish draped effect. "'You know, like the one you was admiring in the arts and moulds. "'I'll take a peek at the baby. "'Anyo, you couldn't move if you was to try.'

"'Mrs. Puffer, a stout, mate and really person, "'with a perpetual pucker of anxiety between her mild blue eyes, "'relaxed obediently in the swaddling clothes, of her inchoate gown. As long as he don't get under the strap and choke himself to death, she sent after Miss Malvina's retreating steps. Dr. Holt says it don't hurt many to cry.

And you might turn him over and give him his pacifier. It's round his neck on a pink cord. Miss Malvina returned presently. Her face wreathed in smiles. You don't need to worry a mite about the baby, she said. Who do you suppose has got him? taking care of him like she was his mother from way back.

Mrs Puffer didn't know she was sure and became restive once more under Miss Bennet's formative hand. Now you just stand still, Miss Puffer, or I can't do nothing. These earpenegrily foalses are very dickens if you don't get them right first off. I was just going to tell you if you'll quit prancing. Filiora Rice, well, I mean Mrs. Petbone, was coming along and she heard him. Sure enough, he was down in under the strap.

His face is red as a beat. My, you ought to have seen her. Whose baby is it? She says to me, oh, pink and excited. I've got Miss Puffer all pinned up in ten yards of dress goods inside, I says, and began to hunt in his blankets for his pacifier. But then, for Laura, she had him out before you could say Jack Robinson.

I'll take care of him, she says. I'd love too. Mrs Puffer sighed a transient relief. Well now, that's real kind of Miss Filora, she said, twisting her head to gaze at the reflection of her large person in the glass. But I do hope she won't drop him. Miss Bennet cackled appreciatively as she took another pin from between her closed teeth.

She won't drop him, she hazarded, but it wouldn't surprise me none if you run off with him for a spell. Philura always had a hack grin after babies. Outside in the warm April sunshine, the minister's wife was talking confidentially to the new parishioner. Upon being extricated from his perilous position, young master puffer had instantly ceased

his half-strangled cries for maternal aid and was gazing in round-eyed wonderment at the new and interesting phenomenon of a hat with nodding plumes and a pink rose in the front. The face under the hat, was almost as pink as the rose and two blue eyes gazed at him soulfully the unfamiliar voice too had a pleasing cadence and the strangers embracing arms held his small plump person as he liked to be held after a period of reflection the baby opened his rosy mouth in a puckered circle and a sound came out it wasn't just what he meant to say but it served the purpose oh you darling cried the min Mrs. Little Wife, you sweet, precious lamb. Then she buried her hungry little mouth in his warm, fat neck.

The new parishioner betrayed no resentment. He was in fact used to such demonstrations. He continued to gaze delightedly at the pink rose and the pink cheek and the blue shining eyes of his captor, waving his small dimpled hands uncertainly towards the objects of his desire. I'd like to care. carry you off were the traitorous words the lady whispered in his ear you'd like me for a mother just as well as mrs puffer wouldn't you sweetness and oh i'd love you i'd love you so at this bold speech the baby blinked dazedly then closed his eyes as if the better to consider her audacious proposal oh your sleepy precious inferred his self-appointed guardian and some somewhat awkwardly, she stowed him among his blankets and pillows.

With a sigh of content, the new parishioner tucked a small but useful thumb into his mouth and resigned himself to blissful slumber. If you were mine, murmured the unprincipled person who had thus deliberately broken the Tenth Commandment, I should never, never leave you outside to cry while I was being fitted for a stupid dress. Then she began wheeling the perambulator slowly up and down the sidewalk, though she might better have gone about her business, which chance to be a meeting of the ladies' aid and missionary society. If I should stop wheeling him for a single minute, Mrs. Pettibone excused herself mendaciously,

he would certainly wake up and cry. And if Malvina Bennett has pinned a draped skirt on Mrs. Puffer, she'll insist on basting it before she lets her go. There was a shabby, mud-bespattered motor-car standing before the next house but one. Mrs. Pettibone eyed it with passing interest. There were very few automobiles in the conservative village of Innesfield. This one, she knew, belonged to Dr. North, and its presence before a house usually betokened sickness within. She wondered vaguely if Mrs. Salter was suffering with another of her spells, and whether it was her duty, as the pastor's wife, to stop and inquire. Just then, the door flew open, as if under the urge of an impoverdard.

patient hand, and Dr. North emerged in the act of pulling on his driving gloves. He was a tall, stout man with a weather-beaten face half-hidden by a great grey beard. The doctor, complained certain of his patients, was always in a hurry. He had abandoned his overworked grey cobb in favour of an automobile, in a day when the latter means of locomotion was no less than an extravagance, and thereafter appeared always in the act of hastily entering house. from which he has abruptly emerged, the periods between being wholly negligible. To Mrs Pettibone's great astonishment,

this energetic practitioner stopped short at the sight of her, one foot already in his car. Good afternoon, Miss Valora, he hailed her in his big, hearty voice. A voice, be it said, which had more than once recalled a trembling soul, from the very brink of a new and untried existence, to the dear familiar duties of a mundane life. "'That your baby?' Mrs Pettibone blushed becomingly.

"'He's Mrs Puffer's baby,' she explained with an unconscious sigh. "'I'm just taking care of him, while his mother has a dress fitted at Melvina Bennet's.' Dr. North gazed thoughtfully at the rather shabby perambulator, exuding pink and blue woolly things, and then at the little lady who grasped its handle. There was no mistaking the look of wistful eerie, eagerness in her face. The doctor had seen it many times before in the course of a longish practice,

most of which had concerned itself with women. He is a lovely baby, murmured Mrs. Pettibone curiously embarrassed. She stopped to tuck a pink blanket under a blue one and patted the rotund little bunch underneath with a gentle hand. Of course, of course, agreed the doctor cheerfully. The puffer children are a fine. healthy lot. Pity there aren't more like them. Well, I must be off. Good day. The car leapt forward and then paused obediently under the doctor's masterful hand.

Why, say, Mrs. Fuliora, oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Pettibone. Can't seem to get used to the change. Why don't you adopt one? Adopt? Oh, you don't mean a baby? Yes, certainly, just that. you're fond of children and heaven knows there's plenty of poor little things that need a mother think it over he was gone in a spatter of liquid mud leaving the dazed and agitated recipient of his counsels to consider his surprising suggestion plenty of children without mothers and yes plenty of mothers without children that was what he meant could this in any wise satisfy the secret longing which should of late had begun to clamour more loudly than ever within her.

Mrs Pettibone recalled stealthy moments spent in the seclusion of her mother's attic, caressing a battered doll, once the joy and solace of her childhood. On her 12th birthday, the doll had been summarily relegated to the garret. Big girls in their teens, she was told rebukingly, did not play with doll babies. But the bereaved little mother bedewed her patchwork with more, than one bitter tear, before she ceased to mourn the pink and white image, which had been just the right size to hug. But there had always been something, a stray kitten, sick with hunger, a puppy with a broken leg, a forlorn chicken hatched in the middle of winter by a fatuous old

hen who refused to mother her offspring, even a rosebush rooted out from a neighbouring garden and doomed to ignominious death in the ash-barrel, because forsooth it's cheery. It's Blossoms were a common shade of red. All these bits of almost unnoticed wreckage on the tide of life had misfulura painstakingly rescued and loved back into life and beauty. The starving kitten had developed into the big Maltese cat, which now patrolled the ministerial precincts with a magnificent air of condescension. The puppy in due course recovered,

and thereafter trotted on four good legs after the butterwoman's wagon, while the lone chicken, Grown to a lordly cock, reigned paramount over a flock of silly hens with stern masterfulness. As for the disgraced rose-bush, planted in Miss Fullura's little garden, enriched and watered and guarded from encroaching insects, it had become a glory and a delight.

The common red of its despised blossoms had deepened and brightened into a crimson splendour, which drew even the eyes of the disdainful person next door. He came, he saw. He leaned across the fence with an ingratiating smile. Miss Filura, won't you tell me the name of that wonderful rose of yours, he entreated? I don't think we've got anything like it in our rose garden. And then, oh, then was the moment of rare triumph which crowned the work of many months.

I call this the ash-barrel rose, quoth Miss Filura, very bright-eyed and demure. Something of all this memory and retrospect and vague forecasting of the future flitted through Mrs. Pettibone's thoughts as she continued to wheel the Puffer baby up and down the sunshiny street. And then quite breathless and exuberantly apologetic descended Mrs Puffer. Oh, I am so sorry. What must you think of me? But really, Mrs. Pettibone, you needn't have bothered. His pacify. Oh, naughty boy, he has his thumb in his chest. mouth. I never allow him to suck his thumb. It ruins the shape of the mouth, dwarfs the thumb,

and causes adenoids. Oh, you didn't know it? Oh, of course not. Could you? I'll take him now, and I do hope you're not all tired out. How complacent and self-satisfied she looked, and with what scerifying indifference she bounced the perambulator over the curb in her haste to depart. Mrs. Pettibone stood watching the mother of many children with undefined resentment for a fleeting moment, which yet marked a momentous resolve. Then she walked sedately toward the church, where the ladies were diligently sewing calicoe blouses for the mountain whites. End of Chapter 7. Chapter 8 of the Heart of Philora by Florence Mores Kingsley.

This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 8 The Orns Sensorious persons Of whom there were a select few in the neighbourhood of Innesfield Annually criticised the Ornes' dooryard There were too many flowers, they said, Of too many varieties, growing in the rounds and squares and crescents

That Caleb Orne had pridefully laid out for his young wife Back in the 50s That sort of thing was well enough, they pointed out, When one had plenty of money, and could afford the time necessary to the cultivation of a large flower garden. But as everybody knew, the orns had little to depend upon, except the vegetables old orne raised in the half-acre plot behind the house and the milk of the two cows pastured in the dwindling orchard.

Grandma Orne, as people called the apple-cheeked old woman, owned a loom and eeked out the family livelihood by converting myriad balls of carpet rags into sober, substantial breaths of flowers. covering, justly esteemed by all thrifty housewives. Then there was Millie. It was Millie who worked among the flowers, rising often in the earliest flush of summer dawns, to weed and water and dig about the old-fashioned shrubs and perennials,

which had grown and flourished, and multiplied exceedingly since the day Grandfather Orne planted them there. Grandfather used to joke Millie about her gardening, declaring that she stole the fresh colour in her chair, cheeks from the pinks and roses long before anybody was up to catch her at it as for her eyes no flowers deluse lark spurs bachelor's buttons or johnny jump-ups could show a prettier blue he always ended did grandfather with a chastening comparison of milly's looks with the superlative charms of grandmother in her younger days there ain't no use talking you can't hold a candle to your grandma when i married her the old man would chuckle gleefully tell you what grandma me was one of the finest looking couples anywhere around won't we grandma for all i'm so bent over and wrinkled up now i was the tallest straightest best lookin chap you'd want to see ad me pick of all the girls tell you don't see no more like i was in them days ain't not so grandma clean as a whistle and strong say i'll bet i could have lifted two of them little whippersnappers that comes buzzing round millier and throw them clean over the barn yes sir your grandpa want no slouch of a man

but if the girl ventured ever so timidly to touch upon later family history with questions concerning her father and mother both of whom had died in her infancy the old man would stamp away pretending not to hear his wrinkled old face drawn into folds and puckers of wrathful grief i wouldn't pest to grandpa no more if i was you honey counselled her grandmother soothingly it makes him kind of crabtie and out of sorts to hark back to the time when you was little you see honey your mother was all the child we had so your grandpa naturally set a lot of store by her an hour milly well she died when you was a born that's why i wouldn't ask grandpa no more questions about them days if i was you was my mother pretty like me inquired little milly innocently did you ever hear the like of that commented mrs orr rebukingly who said you was pretty i'd like to know you don't want to pay no attention to grandpa when he's gassing about your looks he can't see so very well without his specs most anybody would look pretty to him pretty she is as pretty does you want to remember that but yes you do favour our milly considerable she was a mite taller and her hair was some yellower than yours he come clear down to her knees are curling all the way my i remember how i used to comb it out for her out in the sun she liked it done that way her setting on one of the kitchen chairs under the apple tree and me a coaxing that beautiful soft shining hair through a big comb that i'd bought on purpose and a fine-tooth comb such as me and grandpa always used couldn't get down to her head nohow

the old woman's faded eyes shone with sudden tears she wiped them stealthily on her gingham apron our milly was light-complected like you she added softly after a long pause and my father entreated little milly won't you tell me was he do i look like we want neither of us willing you should bear his name the old woman said stiffly me and grandpa adopted you right after our milly died you was a poor little wailing might of a thing i never expected to raise you in them days no you run along honey and mind don't worry your grandpa no more like enough he'd get right up on his year and scold real hard if you was to try it. So little Millie had weeded her flowers and wiped the dishes for Grandma and combed Grandpa's thin grey hair with the fine tooth comb on a Sunday afternoon

while he dozed peacefully in his chair. All under the luminous cloud of romantic mystery, which in truth was no mystery at all. But only one of those melancholy commonplaces people bury out of sight with their dead. The short, woeful stone, story of the first Millicenthorn was no secret to many, but few ever spoke of it, except by way of whispered comment on the fresh young beauty of the girl who was growing into blooming womanhood

under the guardianship of the two old people. They hoped she wouldn't go the way of her mother, and wondered in discreet whispers what had become of the handsome young stranger who had come to Innesfield one summer to recover the health shattered by a long illness. he had gone away in the autumn and the following spring millicent orne died that was all and even the most censorious could see no reason why little milly should know grief and shame had left their mark on the two old people but they bore the ever recurrent smart of the old wound with patience and sometimes for thus benignantly do the passing years smooth and emeliorate mortal agonies they almost forgot the green mound once a gaping grave in the exquisite renaissance of Millie. Quite simply and openly, Mrs. Orne cherished a single ambition for her granddaughter.

I want Millie should get married, she would say to Grandfather, as the two watched the girl flitting about among the flowers. I want she should marry young. It'll be a heap better for her. At this straightforward avowal on the part of his wife, Grandfather Orne would scowl and scowl clear his throat querulously. Ain't no young fellow around these parts good enough for our, Millie, he would declare

obdurately. I don't see why you thought the way you do, mother. Millie's all right, just as she is, a living with us. I don't want to part with her. I ain't going to, neither. Maybe Grandpa was losing his memory, reflected Mrs. Orne, her faded eyes fixed on vacancy. She guessed it would be a blessing if he did. nonetheless she began when Millie was little more than 16

to set cunningly baited traps for the honest young farmers of the countryside spicy cakes, shining twists of molasses taffy or big fat crullers suited to lusty young appetites and flanked by pictures of raspberry shrub or new cider were always forthcoming when Millie had a bow You can't never tell grandma would murmur mysteriously as she passed her granddaughter's admirers in keen-eyed review through a crack of the door. I'm going to keep my eye on him and on her. To Millie, uneasily conscious of the old lady's espionage,

she would say, you can't be too particular, honey, when it comes to dealing with men, folks. There ain't a girl alive that rightly understands them, but I'll tell you one thing, lowering her voice and nodding her old wise head. Don't you never let one of her. of them kiss you. No, so much as lay a finger on you till you're engaged to be married and me and grandpa has given her a blessing. Now you mind what I say? Oh yes, I know there's plenty of foolish girls as I'll tell you different. And like as not, you think your grandma's too old to know what's what. But I reckon men folks about the same as it was when I was young.

Stiles ain't changed much as far as their concern since Bible days. I wouldn't want to say anything against the patriarchs, but I should think they'd really hate to have accounts as some of their doings handed down from generation to generation and nice women are reading of them in course and having to skip chapters in Sunday school and all. But I want you should get married, Millie, and have a good, honest husband to take care of you

when me and grandpa is laid away. But at this, Millie would stop the old woman's mouth with one of the kisses forbidden to men, crying out that she didn't want any husband. Why should she when she was perfectly happy as she was? A sentiment loudly applauded by grandfather, but over which Mrs. Orne shook her head dubiously. This ain't no kind of a world for a lone woman,

was her disparaging opinion. Not that I think much a men, folks. Most of them's a pretty poor lot from the patriarchs down. All but me, Grandpa would crow with a prodigious wink at Millie, a proceeding which invariably elicited a dignified reproof from Grandma to the effect that no real gentleman ever opened and shut one eye that away, and say what one would. A conceited uppity man was enough to make a body wish to die single. Millianne was 18 when the daffodils came into bloom. Grandmother couldn't bear the sight of a daffodil,

and by that token she was prettier than ever, as Mrs Pettibone had observed. Yet she was neither safely married, nor even engaged, a fact which Mrs. Orne took sadly to heart. But when the old lady cited the warning prophecy concerning woods and crooked sticks with pungent comments of her own, the girl put her pretty head on one side, her eyes scattering blue sparkles of mirth.

They're all crooked sticks, Grandma, she laughed. And when I've come quite through the wood, I'll see a fairy prince riding towards me and then, for God's so, "'Don't say that, Millie,' cried Mrs. Orange, really. All the colour dropped out of her old face, leaving it grey and twisted and gaunt, like a dead tree in the wind.

Don't say it. I guess maybe I'm feeling so well this morning. Get me a swallow of tea, honey, and don't say nothing to Grandpa. She still sat, bowed over, shivering a little and murmuring to herself, when the girl brought her the cup of hot tea she had hastened to prepare. You didn't mean it, did you, honey? she asked, raising herself to peer into the girl's face. Mean what? What did I say to worry you, Grandma? entreated Millie.

I didn't mean. Oh, about you. You ain't met no strange man lately, have you? Somebody me and Grandpa don't know. I'm kind of feared of strangers, honey. The girl soothed her with tears and laughter and denials. And presently, when the Steady, thump, thump, thump of the loom, proclaimed the old woman's restored equanimity. She stole away, on pretence of carrying flowers to the minister's wife. End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 of the Heart of Filura by Florence Morse Kingsley. This Librevox recording is in the public domain.

Chapter 9. The Door Ajar Millie Orne had known Mrs. Pettybone for as many years as she could well remember, It was Miss Filura, indeed, who had taught the girl many a floral secret when Millie was a faithfully visited member of that conscientious lady's Bible class. In her new estate, the wife of the minister appeared as if mysteriously translated to another plane of existence. Millie gazed at her with respectful admiration, as she replied with brief sentences to various gentle inquiries. Oh, yes, ma'am, thank you. Grandfather's pretty well. only is back. He won't let me dig all the garden, and the loams stiff and heavy in the spring. Grandmother is making some carpet for Mrs. Buckthorn. Yes, Mum, I've learned to weave,

but Mrs. Buckthorn's so particular, Grandma Dacent let me weave her carpet. I can't make it quite so even yet. Mrs. Pettibone, sitting opposite her young visitor in the cool light of the shaded parlour, marvelled and new at the fresh loveliness of the girl's face. but you are a great help and comfort to the old people milly she said encouragingly mr pettibone and i were speaking of it only the other day the girl leaned forward in her chair her hands gripping each other in her lap it is that i wanted to ask you about she murmured i'm afraid i'm not so very much help i wondered if you could advise me mrs pettibone's mind reverted for a swift instant to the tragedy of eighteen years back. She hoped no one had told the child. Well, you'll tell me all about it, won't you? She said, trembling a little under the weight of her responsibilities. And then, if I can't advise you, I'll ask Mr. Pettibone when he comes in.

She straightened herself rather proudly. Mr. Pettibone, she repeated, we'll be sure to know. The girl drew a deep breath. I want to work, she said abruptly. But you do? My dear, all those lovely flowers, and the girl made a disparaging gesture. I want to earn money, she said. I must. Mrs. Pettibone looked distressed. Oh, I do hope, she began.

You'll let me consult, Mr. Pettipone. The Deacons Fund. Oh, I don't mean we're cold or hungry, cried the girl, with a proud upflinging of her pretty head. We're not in need of charity yet. my dear milly protested the minister's wife very pink and agitated i didn't won't you let me tell you the girl interrupted of course it isn't the same now as when i was a little girl i didn't think very much then nor notice how different i was to other girls mrs pettibone gasped involuntarily oh i hope no one has been so thoughtless she murmured go on please Millie gazed at her in some perplexity. Well, other girls had fathers and mothers, she explained.

I had neither. And I didn't realise that grandfather and grandmother would grow old and feeble. Well, before I was, Mrs. Pettibone nodded understandingly. You were always a good girl, Millie, she said. You've been a comfort to them, my dear, indeed. You don't know how much. and everything will come right if you'll only be patient and trust. Perhaps you think I'm only saying this because I'm the minister's wife.

You do think so, don't you? Oh no, mum, I don't, the girl said politely. And I've tried. I do try. But grandfather can't work so hard much longer. Yesterday, when he was planting the garden, his hands trembled so the seeds spilled all over the ground. he didn't want me to see and I pretended not to and the roof leaks so the rain comes right down through the kitchen ceiling

Grandpa's fixed it the best he could but nearly all the shingles are rotten it'll be a lot worse next winter Mrs Pettibone was instant with breathless expressions of sympathy and hope one shouldn't ever expect misfortune she reminded herself and Millie but only the good

which was everywhere ready to become one's very own, if one would only take it. But not a roof, inquired Millie, doubtfully, and new flannels for grandmother, and everything, affirmed Mrs. Pettibone stoutly. Her blue eyes became rather wistful as she repeated. Everything. In a voice so low, Millie could scarcely hear it.

It must be nice to think so, sighed the girl unbelievingly. She had been playing with her. her handkerchief, rolling it into a tight ball at which she gazed unseeingly. I wanted to work in the mills last winter, she said at last, but they wouldn't let me. I don't wonder, Mrs Pettibone said warmly. That would never do. I don't see why I shouldn't work in the mills, persisted Millie. I ought to work to take care of them. What will become of them if I don't? She gazed at the minister's wife from under puckered brows.

Mrs Pettibone, thinking of that other Millicenthorn, was silent, striving to share the girl's perplexities from the vantage ground of her sadder knowledge. Presently Millie spoke again. I'd like to tell you something else, she said. Her lashes lowered upon pink cheeks, if you won't think me silly. No indeed, my dear, promised Mrs. Pettibone, surreptitiously whisking a tear from her lashes. grandmother Grandmother wants me to be married

Millie confessed hurriedly She talks to me about it But Miss Fuller How can I be married when I don't love Anyone? Oh you can't of course Certainly not murmured the minister's wife

Aware of Mrs Orne's ambitions For her granddaughter As well as the pitiful reason for them But perhaps Sometime One doesn't always know of all the beautiful things in store. The misused handkerchief was being swiftly rolled into a slim white rod under the girl's busy fingers.

Mrs Pettibone watched them absently. That's what I said to Grandmother this morning, said Millie. She was telling me I'd go through the woods and pick up a crooked stick at last. Mrs. Pettibone made a slight gesture of impatient descent. But I can't help it, the girl went on. I couldn't marry just to be married. and I've never seen anyone round here. Perhaps, as you say, someone will come, someday.

Somebody I haven't always known. Her eyes suddenly lifted from their trivial task, surprised a look of poignant distress on the older woman's face. Oh, you do think me silly, she cried with sudden sharp resentment. You are looking at me just as grandma does when... No, no, my dear, you are quite mistaken. Mrs Pettibone denied hurriedly. And, well, that reminds me of something I had forgotten.

I wonder if you had chanced to know anything about the family who have taken the old Eggleston place for the summer. Millie shook her head dejectedly. She was thinking she must go, and that after all her visit to the parsonage had been useless. Only this morning, Mrs. Pettibone said with some eagerness, I received a note from Mrs. Hill. I was very much surprised, but Mr. Pettibone says it was because we called on them.

We'd just come from the farm the day we stopped at your house and you gave me the daffodils. You remember? Millie was drawing on her cotton gloves. She wished she hadn't come. They seemed like nice people, the hills, I mean, but different somehow, not used perhaps to doing their own housework. Young Mrs. Hill is hardly more than a child and not. well i imagine she may find it rather lonely up there well they want someone to help in the house and mrs hill mentioned thirty dollars a month the girl drew a sudden breath do you mean that i are you thinking mrs pettibone wrinkled her forehead perplexedly

oh well it just occurred to me that possibly oh yet i'm not sure it would do oh really i ought to have consulted mr pettibone before speaking of it to you I could earn over a hundred dollars before fall, cried Millie, her face shining with joy. Oh, but you would be a servant in their house. I'm afraid they're the sort of people who would think of you in just that way. Besides, Mrs. Pettibone was vaguely uneasy, as she recalled the older Mrs. Hill's opaque eyes. I fear your grandmother would object, she finished. There'd be hard work to do, and Millie Orne lifted her. blonde head proudly. I'm not afraid of work, she said, nor of what they might think of me.

In the end, she went away carrying one of Mrs. Pettibone's small sheets of note paper folded into a neat triangle, after a fashion obtaining in Mrs. Pettibone's girlhood for correspondence of a polite but informal nature, and directed to Mrs. Hill. I'm afraid I oughtn't to have done it without consulting you, Mrs. Pettibone told the minister at supper that night. But poor Millie was so eager, and the opportunity was an unusual one. Millie is quite right in wanting to put her young shoulder to the wheel, pronounced Mr. Pettybone, whose nerves had been calmed by a long afternoon spent in the open. But we know so little about the hills, objected his wife timorously.

We know nothing amiss, he reminded her. Really, my dear, for a person who professes to believe, that good is all and all encircling i know i know she acknowledged humbly i'm always forgetting one gets so in the habit of suspecting and and being afraid and more for other people than for oneself the minister smiled understandingly nevertheless one shouldn't hang millstones of fear about other people's necks he commented end of chapter nine chapter ten of the Heart of Filura by Florence Morse Kingsley. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 10 A Night of Rain and the Morning After

As for Millie Orne, she had fairly flown homeward on the wings of hope and ambition. Already she beheld in imagination a new roof of shining yellow shingles replacing the moss green expanse so deceitfully picturesque under its sheltering apple boughs. But there was grandmother,

to be reckoned with work out cried the old woman dropping her dishcloth and staring at the girl over her spectacles that's what it amounts to in spite of all your pretty words milly no i ain't going to allow it we've got along all these years and took care of you besides and i guess we contrived to do so as long as the lord spares us please grandmother entreated the girl don't say no till we've been to see mrs hill it wouldn't be like working out in the village and i could earn i'd work my fingers to the bone the old woman declared before i'd see my milly's child are working in another woman's kitchen but when grandfather came in from the barn his weather-beaten old face was drawn into myriad folds and puckers of distress he had found the dun cow lying dead in the corner of the pasture her tongue protruding from her mouth she must a-heart something the old mansomized heavily though i don't know what in creation twas she was all right this morning far as i could see she's dead now he sat down by the stove though it was a warm evening and spread his shrivelled hands over the griddles yeah she's dead all right he repeated her mumbling monotone and she was the best milker of the two red heifer she's a getting old i don't know but

I didn't know. Mrs. Orne had wrapped her head in her chequered apron at the first word and hobbled out to the orchard, where the red cow, peacefully oblivious of the tragedy, was chewing her cud under the budding apple trees. She came in presently, her glasses pushed high above her forehead, a little angry spot of colour on either cheek. "'Twas them russet apples, Grandpa,' she said shrilly.

"'I told you not to give them to the cows. she got one stuck in her throat and choked to death, plain as a pike staff. Well, them Russas weren't no good, the old man objected feebly. I says to you, yes, I know you did, Grandpa, and I told you,

no wife, you let me speak for ones, can't ye? The old voice rose tremulous but determined. I says to you, mother, I says. Cows will relish these ear apples, I says, and they ain't no good for cooking any more, and you, I give in to you as usual, your woman said bitterly. Once you get an idea in your head,

there ain't nobody on earth. Oh, please, grandmother, interrupted Millie, winding her young arms about the old woman's neck. Don't scold, poor grandpa. He only wanted to give the cows a little treat. But I told him there was likely to choke on them apples. If he'd have took the pains to cut them in two, Well, you might have done that for me if you were so blames smart knowing, putting grandfather, bitter in his turn.

I was trying my best to get the beets and the peas into the ground before it rained. Lord, I don't know what we're going to do without that cow. She was the best milker of the two. The red effort's getting old. Getting old. That's what's the matter with all of us, I guess. Getting old and foolish. I'm not getting old.

old grandfather cried little milly her pink cheek pressed softly against his withered one and i'll not allow you to say you're foolish you're the wisest man i know oh you think so honey he shook his head despondently no i ain't i ain't never really held up my head since your mother died i ought to a suspicion that young fellow grandpa mrs orne's voice was sharp with fear oh Yes, mother, that's so, I forgot. I ain't going to say no more. He lay down presently on the old lounge, and Millie covered him warmly with the crazy quilt she had pieced the winter before. I guess he'll feel better when he wakes up, the girl said, as she tucked the gay covering tenderly about the bent shoulders.

Her lips were set in firm, sweet curves as she hurried the remaining dishes to the pantry shelf and made all tidy for the night. Mrs. Orne did not appear to notice the girl's movements. She had dropped into a chair by the window, her withered lips moving soundlessly, her faded eyes fixed on vacancy. More and more often of late Millie had come upon her thus. Tonight, something in the aspect of the dim little room, the old man already stertorously asleep,

and the grandmother's white head silhouetted against the sombre reds and purples of sunset, stirred poignant intolerable in the girl's young breast it was as though for once she saw them through other eyes other but not alien a great aching tenderness possessed her and she fell upon her knees at her grandmother's side you will let me help she cried in a passion of self-giving you must let me help the day following that night of sorrowful revelation marked the vernal moment when the chill congeal a gesture of spring gives place to the shining certainty of summer. A warm rain had fallen during the dark hours before dawn, and the first faint beams of morning shone upon a world marvelously transfigured. Naled apple boughs, where only the day before crisp pinkish buds had shone dimly among the small pale leaves, flung scented garlands of lavish bloom to the wind,

and amid the fresh green of the young grass, dark violets and purple-pink wild geraniums, unfolded myriad blossoms to the light for the first time in her young life milly orne had lain long awake in her little chamber under the roof how could she have been so blind so selfish all these years she asked herself how they'd worked and sacrificed for her grandmother toiling late into the night at her loom that milly might wear a new dress to the country dance grandfather carrying milk to his customers on cold mornings in winter and laughing at Millie's offers of help. No, no, he'd say, this ain't no kind of work for a little girl like you. You stay home with your grandma and keep warm by the stove. Once, she remembered, grandfather had been stiff with rheumatism for a week, and grandmother had insisted upon taking the milk.

Me and Grandpa don't want you should peddle milk, the old woman had protested. We ain't going to allow it, neither. You stay home. and wait on your grandpa. It had been the same with all the heavier tasks about the house and garden. Grandmother never allowed Millie to wash the clothes over Monday. She might pin them on the line if she must do something. But there ain't no sense, said Grandmother Bristley,

in your spoiling your pretty hands, when mine's all wrinkled and out of shape anyhow. Likewise, and for similar reasons, she'd been forbidden to milk, to scrub the floors, or to dig the vegetables. It was all clear to Millie now, as she lay wide-eyed in the darkness, listening to the soft patter of the rain above her head. She beheld herself, always shielded, indulged, idolised by the two old people, growing strong and beautiful, while year by year their bent shoulders stooped lower beneath the burden. Then her quickened thoughts hovered about grandfather, crouched over the fire, his distorted old, hands with their blackened and broken nails shaking a little as he described the disaster which had befallen the dun cow i ain't held up my head since your mother died he had said and i ought to have suspicion that young fellow did he mean her father

once when she was a small child grandmother had taken her to the churchyard where in a distant corner sheltered from unfriendly winds and prying eyes by a row of thrifty young pines was a solitary grave At its head a simple white stone bore the name Millie with the dates of birth and death Millie remembered how she had chased a butterfly in the sun while grandmother cleared the encroaching lichens

from the stone and made a narrow mound bright with pansies fetched from the garden at home she had captured the butterfly at last with a shout of triumph bringing it all spoiled and broken to grandmother never had she forgotten the look on the grief-stained old face that's just what happened to her grandmother said in a voice not her own then with a sudden harshness go away child you've got his look in your eyes all this while the sound of the rain on the roof deepened to a steady war then somehow the churchyard with its gleaming stones and the wind in the pines and the gravely bright faces of the pansies, set in prim rows on the narrow mound, became confused. Grandmother's voice came to her from a great way off, not harsh now, but cadenced with patient

grief. You've got his luck in your eyes, my child. His look in your eyes. It was broad daylight when Millie awoke, and already the bees were busy among the apple blossoms under her window. As the girl hurriedly made her simple toilet, she heard sounds from below, the clash of stove lids and the click of cups and saucers. I'm so ashamed, Grandma, was her greeting, as she surprised the old woman in the act of cutting thick slices from a brown loaf.

Why didn't you call me? Because I'd rather you sleep, replied Grandmother defiantly. There ain't no call for you to be up at five in the morning as I know of. She set the thick slices in order. on a blue-edged plate. They took the cow away already, she added. Grandpa, he's seen to it first thing. We'll get a good bit for the hide and taller,

and I guess there ain't no call for anybody to worry. I can stand it without so much milk to look after as far as I'm concerned. Millie said nothing. But after she'd cleared away the breakfast things and made everything tidy about the little house, she pinned a hat of blue straw over her blonde braids and crossed the room to where her grandmother already sat at the loom, busy tying on. I'm going, Grandma, she said, trying hard to keep a quiver out of her voice.

The old woman glanced up sharply from her task. Going? She echoed. Going where? This ain't no time a day to gad. It's too early for the mail. Besides, Grandpa, I'm going, said Millie firmly, to see Mrs. Hill. If she will hire me at $30 a month, I can, she had expected sharp expostulation, even denial. But to her surprise, the old woman burst into a loud cackle of laughter. Set down, she ordered, and get busy picking out all the blue in that there basket. But grandmother, expostulated the girl,

glancing at the small nickel clock, which shamed with its noisy activities, the silent, dignified old timepiece in the corner, it's late. I'm afraid she'll find somebody else. Oh, let her, quoth Mrs. Orne. You set down, dearie, and let me talk to you a spell. You got money in the bank and never known it all these years.

I've money in the bank? Millie gazed incredulously at the old face, hard-twisted, in a look of strangely blended pain and triumph. Uh-huh, the old woman nodded. It's been there since before you. was born, in your name too. Me and Grandpa never touch it, but it's yours, honey. You don't have to work in nobody's kitchen.

But how did I come to have any money? Millie was industriously sorting the blue racks from the mass of heterogeneous material in the basket. She pulled out a long strip of figured cotton stuff and began to wind it upon the ball in her lap. Oh, don't put in that striped gingham. snapped Mrs. Orne. That goes into the basket, do I see? I don't know as it makes any difference to you where the money come from, as long as it's urine.

Is there enough for Grandfather to buy another cow with and fix the roof? Mrs. Orne snapped off a bit of warp with a loud clash of her big shears. Ridiculous, she exclaimed sharply. Tain our own to use? Well, if it's mine, began Millie. It's urine, just as I said, Mrs. on pronounced in a hard voice but you can't spend it the way you said it's well for oh lord i wish you'd go out and work in your poses the flowers to loose is all in blow this morning run out and see em honey i got to get these air breaths out of the loom before they're all this afternoon go on you're injuring me

milly had put her arms about the old woman's neck from behind i won't go a step she said firmly till you tell me how much money have I got? I knew you'd pester the life out of me, scolded her grandmother. I told Grandpa so, but he was set. If she's bound on going out to work, he says. You told Grandfather?

Mrs. Orne nodded. Then she turned suddenly and faced the girl. We don't know nothing about them hill folks, she said shrilly. Why in creation should you go off and leave me and Grandpa for a fool notion? I'll give Mrs. Pettibone a piece of mind, mind next time I see her. She ain't got no call. I asked her, interrupted Millie. I must do

something to help. Can you see, Grandma? I can't live here and do nothing. You say I have money. And if you, no, cried Mrs. Orne. She threw her apron over her head with the tragic gesture of the countryside. Millie listened to her sobbing in perplexed silence. Presently, Mrs. Orrne, lowered the apron from her face, and it was seen that within its familiar sanctum she had regained something of her lost composure. Losing the cow and all kind of upset me, she muttered. And then with sudden sharpness,

We don't want you should use that money for us. We'd have given it back long ago if we'd know where it come from. But it ain't as if you didn't have nothing. And I guess when it comes to that, you've got the right. Did my father give me the money? asked milly in a clear distinct voice her blue eyes narrowed slightly gazed straight at her grandmother i think i'm old enough to know she added slowly mrs orne stared at the girl her mouth dropping open a little i never thought you favoured him she said under a breath you're like our milly but but there's times when you put me in mind she stopped suddenly i'm I'm going to tell you, she went on after a lengthing pause.

It was your father. He sent $200 to Millie with a letter. And after she died, well, of course, it was yours by rights. Me and Grandpa wouldn't have touched a penny of it, not if we were starving. And it's been in the bank ever since. Drawing interest. Millie's fair young face had grown very pale. She walked towards the door, her head, with its massive,

of blonde braids topped by the small blue hat thrown slightly back i'm going now she said gently but i'll be home before dark end of chapter ten chapter eleven of the heart of filura by florence mrs kingsley this librivox recording is in the public domain chapter eleven a little journey in the world the road leading to the eggleston farm might for the sheer wild loveliness of it have conducted one straight to paradise. But Millie, walking swiftly between myriads of fluttering leaves and blossoms, jeweled thick with the lavish splendours of rain and sun, paid scant heed to its beauty. She was painfully conscious of old Mrs. Orne, sitting alone before the loom, its steady, thump, thumping, marking the heavy rhythm of her thoughts, and the money, of which she had never been told, and which had been drawing interest all these years. Why should the mere memory of it kindle so strange a fire in those mild eyes? Athwart the crystal pool of Millie's mind, an ominous shadow had fallen. But she had not

sufficient knowledge of the world, of either books or men, to guess the truth. Something strange had befallen her father and mother. This much was clear. Had he deserted her in her hour of need, sending the money in lieu of his presence. Such cruelty was unthinkable. Yet her grandmother's words had clearly implied it. And afterward, what could have become of him? She had always supposed herself orphaned of both father and mother. And yet, now that she considered the matter,

grandmother had never said so. The thought of a father, cold and unloving, perhaps not even aware of her existence, dimmed the warm rows of her cheek, and her blue eyes, lifted suddenly at the sound of a horse's hoofs in the road behind her, were full of vague trouble. The horse, a bright bay, sidled by with a wild glance at the girl's slim blue figure in its little fluttering cape.

His rider spoke to him sharply, touching spurred heels to the animal's glossy flank. They had passed in an instant, the man hastily touching his cap. with a muttered word of apology. Millie watched the two figures, man and horse seeming like one, as they topped the rise just ahead. She did not remember to have seen either before. In the flashing moment of their encounter,

she had noticed his keen dark eyes and his riding clothes of a fashion unfamiliar to the country roads about Innesfield. The single look he had cast in her direction appeared to question her presence on the narrow road leading to the Eggleston farm. Yet such are the intricacies of the human heart. Millie Orne ceased to think further of her mysterious father,

who had somehow managed to earn grandmother's undying hatred, and of the money, which nobody wanted, drawing interest in the Innesfield Savings Bank. It should continue to draw interest for all of her thought, Millie, with a spirited toss of her pretty head. If none of it could be spent to bring comfort to the two old people, it was useless to her she was strong and could earn money which she would spend as she liked once more milly beheld in imagination the rose upon rows of yellow shingles shining in the sun and this time she added a dun cow to her picture a young and beautiful dun cow peacefully chewing the safe cut of contentment in grandfather's pasture there were fresh hoof-prints in the moist gravel of the drive winding between the stately gateposts of the old Eggleston place.

As Millie rounded a curve in the road, densely masked with flowering shrubs, she beheld the bay horse, standing meekly enough with trailing bridle before the side entrance of the house. The young man who had ridden him was talking with a woman under the shelter of the portico. Neither of them appeared to notice Millie's timid approach.

She paused and drew back a little at the sight of the man's passionate gesture of denial. He was evidently angry at something the woman was saying in an indistinguishable voice. I'll do nothing of the sort, Millie heard him say loudly. I'll be hanged if I will. You push a fellow too hard, mother. Then both turned, suddenly conscious of the girl's shrinking presence. What are you doing here? The woman said sharply. The young man had already flunk himself upon the horse and ridden violently away. Everything about him seemed violent, Millie thought.

The woman repeated her question in a more conventional tone. What do you wish? Her cold, impertable eyes were busy with the girl's face and figure. I came to see Mrs. Hill, Millie replied timidly. Mrs. Pettybone, I have a note from her. I am Mrs. Hill, the woman said, and extended her hand for the triangular message bearing her name. Have you read this? she demanded, raising her eyes from its swift perusal. Read it? echoed Millie, her colour rising. Oh, no, Mum, certainly not.

Well, it seems from this you are not an ordinary servant, commented Mrs Hill, sweeping the girl's slim figure with an appraising stare. I don't know whether you'll do. I should prefer an elderly woman with experience. Still, can you cook? i've never cooked except at home hesitated milly very pink and trembling under the scrutiny of the woman's eyes perhaps i oughtn't to say i can i know how to prepare vegetables and cook them and meat i can make pies too grandfather likes my pies better than grandmothers i am strong and i can make plain cake and molasses cake and you look healthy the woman conceded harshly she sighed heavily yet with a touch of impatience if you try me just to-day the girl went on timidly i should like to go home nights where do you live milly pointed vaguely it's not far she said down the road a piece in the village oh no mum grandfather's house is quite away this side of the village mrs hill considered the girl's reply in a silence which appeared

to connect itself with Mrs. Pettibone's modest communication. Millie watched the strong white fingers tear the paper into strips, and then twice across, in a bewilderment which presently deepened into resentment. A grandmother, she thought, wouldn't like her to stand here begging for work, when, after all, there was money which we longed to her by rights. I think I'll try you, Mrs. Hill announced, looking up suddenly from her work of demolition.

she allowed the bits of paper to escape negligently from her plump white hands you may come in i see you're dressed for work yes mum said milly orne meekly i've never been without a servant before mrs hill observed as she piloted milly into a large disorderly kitchen she turned and faced the girl before a table covered with soiled dishes perhaps mrs pettibone has already told you of us she she demanded interrogatively. Her eyes demanded instant reply. Millie shook her head. She said you were, that you'd only lived here a little while. We came here for my daughters,

for Mrs. Walty Hills' health, the woman said slowly. Now kindly pay attention to what I tell you. I shall not repeat it, nor must you. Do you understand? You are not to talk to anyone of what you see or here in my house while you were employed here?

She paused, her eyes undergathered brows, gazing apakly at the girl. Of course, I shouldn't think of, began Minnie proudly. Mrs. Hill cut her short with an impatient gesture. Not that there is anything in the least peculiar or even interesting in our living here. My daughter-in-law, soon after her marriage to my son, fell into a nervous, almost hysterical condition.

Our physician advised country air and a complete change of climate and environment, and through my agent, I learned of this place and took it for a year. There are only the three of us, my son, his wife, and myself. Now, I think you know all that is necessary to know. The flow of words spoken in a low, hurried voice, suddenly ceased. But the woman still stood, one plump hand resting on the table. Her eyes riveted upon the girl's listening face.

Perhaps, she resumed suddenly, I ought to reassure you on one point. My son's wife, while exceedingly nervous and unstrung, is perfectly rational, except on one or two points. She had a strange fancy concerning her husband, which our physician assures us will disappear in due time. Her mental condition, in short, is not wholly unnatural in view of the facts in the case. I'm telling you this, so that in case Sylvia, Mrs Hill should say anything to you if she should even attempt

to talk to you kindly report the circumstance at once to me your failure to do so might involve us all in great trouble do you understand Millie was looking down feeling very hot and uncomfortable I should not talk to anyone

she said coldly I wish to earn money that's why I came I should do my work Oh, as to wages, Mrs Hill observed after a slight pause. You'd hardly expect more than $20. Millie gazed at the woman with slightly narrowed eyes. Mrs. Pettibone told me you would pay 30, she said slowly.

I mentioned $30 in my note to Mrs. Pettibone, conceded Mrs. Hill. An experienced servant would be worth that much. You are merely an untrained girl. It's not at all likely you can cook anything we could eat, to say nothing of waiting on table or fine laundry work. I shall have to show you everything. These were incontrovertible facts. Millie turned them slowly over in her mind. Then she put forward a fact quite as incontrovertible.

There are no experienced servants in Innesfield, she asserted. You will not find any. Nearly everyone is busy at home or in the mill. She looked towards the door which stood open, revealing a stretch of unshorn grass and a weedy flowerboarder beyond. She was thinking she'd go home and beg Grandmother to let her work in the mills. Perhaps now that the cow was dead, Grandmother would give her consent. Well, I'll give you $30, Mrs. Hill said sharply.

I'm obliged to have someone at once. Take off your hat and go to work. This kitchen must be put to rights. First, we have luncheon at one, and dinner, she broke off suddenly at the sound of an opening door. Millie saw her face change queerly, and when she spoke again, her voice was soft and purring. Sylvia, my dear, this is our new maid. By the way, what is your name? Oh, Millie.

Millie Orne. That is a very pretty name. And odd for a maid. Millie, this is Mrs. Walter Hill, my name. my son's wife. I believe you saw Mr. Hill. He was talking with me when you came. Really, your sudden appearance quite startled me. I wasn't expecting such good fortune. Millie turned and saw a tall girl standing in the doorway, staring at her with a mixture of curiosity and sullen defiance in her dark face. Her eyes were slightly swollen and discoloured,

as if with recent tears, and her mouth drooped dispiritedly at the corners. Mrs. Hill walked resolutely toward the door and attempted to pass her arm around the girl's waist. "'Come, Sylvia, my dear,' she said coaxingly. "'Suppose we leave Millie to her work, "'and go for a ramble in the woods. It will do you good.' The girl's mutinous face quivered as she threw off the caressing hand. "'Don't, mother,' she exclaimed irritably, "'you know I can't bear it.' but she turned to follow with seeming docility. Millie heard the door close behind the two women

and the sound of their retreating steps in the uncarpeted passage. Left quite alone in the midst of the untidy kitchen, Millie looked around for a nail on which to hang her hat. Then she invested her slim person in the clean, chequered apron she had brought with her. The fire had gone out in the cook stove and the water in the old-fashioned reservoir was cold. There was neither wood nor kindling to be found in the box behind the stove. After a moment of indecision, Millie opened one of several doors in search of the woodshed.

There were steps descending to a brick-floored room, its one cobwebbed window opening upon the green gloom of a grassy bank overgrown with rampant lilac shoots. Hmm, the milk-room, decided Millie, looking about the rows of dusty shelves, and the pales and pans, once shining silver-bright, but now dim with the rust of long disuse. There was a sound of running water in the cold, greenish gloom,

where a sparkling spring gushed from a wooden pipe, falling with a musical drip and gurgle into a rude trough, thence disappearing through a hole in the floor. A second door, half open, disclosed to Millie's inquiring gaze, a pantry of ample proportions, well stopped, with ancient crockery and utensils. The shelf before the open window bore a heterogeneous collection of grosser supplies, a pot of butter, melting in the sun, a tumbler of jam besieged by darting flies,

a baker's loaf cut crookedly across, and sugar spilled from a broken bag, and already under convoy of a procession of industrious ants, a tin pale half filled with milk, in which divers of the besieging force had met ignom minnieus defeat. She found the woodshed at last, and the sight of its ordered rows of hickory sticks and the plentiful supply of chips, bespeaking former days of thrift and industry, somehow restored her drooping spirits. A competent fire soon crackled in the rusty stove. Then Millie attacked the piled-up dishes on the table, wondering a little how three people could possibly have employed so many plates, cups and utensils in the course of a single breakfast.

There were other things over which to wonder. A quantity of silver spoons and forks thrown negligently into an iron saucepan in which milk had been burned, a broken plate of delicate porcelain containing a fragment of yellow soap. A silent clock on the mantle, pointing to the hour of six. Millie searched for and found the key.

She didn't know the hour but guessed it to be ten. The clock struck busily, its harsh, rasping voice seeming to rebuke the desolating disorder of the old kitchen. Then Millie bethought her once more of the butter melting in the sun. Obviously the milk-room,

with its penetrating coolness, was the place for perishable foods. What might a trained servant do under existing circumstances, she wonder? One really worth the thirty dollars a month she had so boldly exacted. Still pondering this question,

she plunged the pot of butter in the cool water of the spring, undertook salvage work on the milk pail and sugar bag, and then fell to washing the dishes, tables, shelves, everything in sight. A step on the newly cleansed floor caused her to look up from rueful contemplation of a drawer in the kitchen cupboard, crammed to bursting with soiled table linen. The tall young man whom she had last seen riding violently away on his bay horse stood near the door, looking about him with an air of astonishment.

He still wore his riding clothes, spattered with the mud of fast and furious travel. He glanced at Millie with a certain lighting of his sombre young face, remotely suggesting a smile. Are you here to stay? he propounded. I don't know, Millie replied. If I suit, perhaps. Suit? You mean, I'm not an experience.

Oh, she hesitated with a slight pucker of her white forehead. I've never worked out before. You don't look in the least like a servant, he said, with a brusqueness which suggested his mother. Rummy old hole, this kitchen. I've done my best, but it's not exactly in my line. I'm not experienced either. Millie was silent.

Her eyes bent upon the mass of soiled linen she was sorting. He did not go or. away, however, but reached for a glass on the table. I came in for a drink of that bully water, he stated. Best thing about the place. He came back presently, whistling under his breath.

Clever idea of yours to put the butter and milk in the water, he commented. There seems to be no ice man about, and no refrigerator. We didn't happen to think of your little scheme. Still, Millie did not reply. Mrs. Hill, she could not help

reflecting, appeared to have bestowed scant attention upon her kitchen and everything connected with it. The singular young man stared at her with gathered brows. I suppose I ought to have tackled these dishes yesterday. Or the day before, he broke out after a lengthening pause. Mother, well, you see, she's busy most of the time. And Sylvia, well, none of us were exactly prepared for the life here. It appears to keep one comfortably busy. is he just to exist, doesn't it?

To exist and clear away the debris. Where is, mother, anyhow? I don't know, said Millie. She walked across to the stove and replenished the fire, and then she looked at the clock. If you would kindly tell me the time, I set the clock by guessing. He assisted the old clock to a more exact performance of its duties

with an almost eager air of friendliness. Couldn't we have something to eat? eat pretty soon, he asked, over his shoulder. Millie stole a bewildered glance at him. Mrs. Hill said dinner, oh, no, luncheon, she hesitated over the seldom used word, was to be at one. But she didn't tell me.

Well, he said, Luncheon hath a pleasant sound. Suppose I help you a bit. Mother ought to be doing it, but I know where some of the stuff is. What can you cook? Bake potatoes? Millie suggested doubtfully.

Big potatoes, excellent. What else? Can you toss up a good omelette? You mean eggs? Of course. I attempted it one day. It didn't sound hard in the cookbook. There's a cookbook, you know.

When it came to the tossing, did you ever try it? The girl shook her head. I don't know what you even mean, she said. But I can cook eggs different ways. Oh, good. eggs different ways it shall be there's bread if that's what you call the curious stuff the grocer brings do you eat out here asked milly timidly i might set the table oh it is the most cheerful spot in the house now you're in it he said with a short laugh but so far we've observed the rules of the game to the extent of eating in the dining-room he flung open a door and glanced in with an impatient exclamation i see mother

left it to you and you just look here milly beheld a large sparsely furnished room with open windows in the middle of the floor stood a disordered table covered with the remains of a meal eaten several hours before i didn't know she said with desperate courage mrs hill said i wasn't trained well i'm not i didn't think about a dining room mother's fault if she didn't show you was his brus comment. Never mind. Oh, you didn't tell me your name. His handsome boyish eyes looked straight into hers. Millie shook her head. I'm afraid I won't do, Mr. Hill. You're very kind, but I'm not kind. I want you to stay. Come on. I'll help you hustle these things to the kitchen. It won't take a minute. She obeyed him in perplexed silence. Where could the mistress of this disjointed household be and the husband of the handsome sullen-browed girl why should he concern himself with neglected breakfast things and the proper way to cook eggs she resented his half-defiant manner his boyish eyes and the jingling spurs on his heels nevertheless she prepared the potatoes he brought her from some unexplored corner laid the dismantled table with fresh linen and china under his direction and was in the act of setting a

a pan of hastily compounded biscuit in the oven when the door opened and mrs hill glided smoothly in did you think i had quite forgotten you was her initial question her dull eyes glanced frowningly from the girl's flushed face to that of her son who stood surveying his mother with a deepening of his defiant air hard at it as usual mother he said somebody had to help you know i think sylvia would like to see you walter she replied with a significant lifting of her brows. Mrs. Hill stood for some moments looking blankly about the kitchen. She did not appear to notice what had been accomplished. I had intended to return sooner, she said stiffly. You found what was needed?

Or did Walter, Mr. Hill? Millie opened her lips to reply, but the woman went on, a sudden, almost apologetic smile over spreading her features. Of course, you've noticed that every, everything is out of order in the house i thought at first we should be able to live quite simply without a servant but there really is so much one doesn't think of and being unaccustomed yes mum said milly with down-dropped eyes shall i scramble the eggs the eggs oh yes mrs hill is fond of omelette i think there's some in a bag or milly began breaking eggs into a bowl she set a saucepan over the fire and put a lump of butter in it.

Mrs Hill watched her movements speculatively. You appear to know what to do, she murmured, but the rasping voice of the clock told the hour of one. I'm sorry to be late, said Millie, in a small meek voice. Oh, that is no matter, but Millie tested the potatoes with a practice thumb and finger and turned the pan of biscuit. They had puffed to a fabulous lightness, and were beginning to take on attempting gold and brown.

She was thinking determinedly of the thirty dollars. It helped to steady her under the gaze of those singular eyes. She felt vaguely that Mrs Hill was displeased. The kitchen floor, she ventured timidly, will look better after another cleaning, and so will the tables. The eggs in the saucepan required instant attention. Millie began lifting spoonfuls of the creamy mixture to the table,

top. Into Mrs. Hill's opaque gaze had crept a sudden gleam of appetite. She appeared to abandon for the moment the train of thought she had been pursuing. I must have some coffee, she said abruptly. Serve luncheon at once and then make some. End of chapter 11. Chapter 12 of the heart of Felura by Florence Morse Kingsley. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 12 millstones and opportunities despite the minister's perfectly just remark concerning millstones of fear as related to the necks of other and innocent persons mrs pettibone continued to indulge small fluttering anxieties regarding milly orne whom she had undoubtedly helped to precipitate into a new and untried way of life that milly had actually gone to work for the hills she had heard from that well-nigh omniscient person mrs buckthorn mrs buckthorn as was entirely natural for a person a thirst for general information had learned of the circumstance from the grocery man in the village who had actually seen milly at work in mrs hill's kitchen mr obed salter in the act of wrapping up a quarter of a pound of mixed tea and a tin can of baking powder just purchased by the excellent matron averred that he was somewhat surprised to see the girl down on her hands and knees scrubbing up the floor he didn't suppose the orns was that bad off, though they hadn't bought no bill of groceries to speak on for a spellback.

Mr. Salter's position enabled him to keep, as it were, a sort of commercial barometer, which apprised him and other persons in his confidence, very exactly, of the varying rises and falls in the finances of his customers. If the wife of the local undertaker, for example, bought lavishly and paid promptly for provisions of the better sort kept in stock by Mr. Salter, that astute gentleman guessed there was considerable sickness and death around so likewise items occupying several debit pages of his ledger devoted to the household consumption of tiffs and the jeweller indicated the fact that folks wouldn't buy nothing they didn't have to these days yes m said mr salter addressing himself to mrs buckthorn with philosophical seriousness this ear is a queer world any way you can look at it "'Send right here in my store, "'I can tell which way the cat's going to jump nine times out of ten.'

"'But the tenth time's got me guessing.' He smiled darkly into his change drawer. Mrs. Buckthorne dropped two nickels and a penny into her purse. "'Do you go out there often?' she propounded, "'intelligently linking Mr. Salter's metaphor with an earlier statement. "'Oh, you mean the old Eggleston Place? well i get out there about three times a week regler we don't live for goods as a rule i says to mrs u and we don't run no bills as to that she says i don't mind i'll pay when you bring the stuff they got a horse and he seems to have a young fellow round there with nothin to do no they ain't doin nothin with the farm ain't even planted a garden patch

can't make em out exactly seem to have money plenty i fetch em butchers meat dais the cart ain't you but she's a hard to suit mrs ellis wants things i never heard of before anchovies and papriky and italian oils in tins an i dunno what all mrs illy says ain't no call for them goods in this air town but if you want em i says an come pay for em i guess I can get them for you. Plain honest Fittles, I says, is good enough for the run of my customers. And what they hear for, anyhow, inquired Mrs. Buckthorn, with a comprehensive sniff of disapproval,

but an eye intent on the crux of the matter. The strange articles of food particularised by Mr Salter inspired in her an active suspicion embracing the persons who exhibited such unnatural appetites and desires. Fleshly lusts, Mrs Buckthorn characterized them, rolling the poor line phrase under her tongue with pious unction. Mr Salter leaned across his counter upon confidential elbows.

Well now, that's what I'd like to know. And I put it up to Millie Orne kind of pointedly only yesterday. What sort of folks be there he says to Millie? Now you come to know him intimate. What did Millie say? I don't know him an imit, she says. "'Hem,' commented Mrs. Buckthorn acidly, "'she must know whether or not they're Christian people.

"'Well, that's what he says to me. "'Ask the blessing regular at table,' I says. "'And what do you think she says to that?' "'Mrs. Buckthorn shook her head, "'which sustained a massive structure bristling "'with sharp-pointed feathers of excellent wearing qualities "'and fearsome aspect. "'I'm sure I can't imagine, Mr Salter,'

"'she replied, in a tone which, while anticipating the worst, was piously prepared for it. I don't eat with him, she says. So I can't tell you. That's what she says. Mr Salter's face expressed a subtle enjoyment of Mrs. Buckthorn's astonishment. Millie Orne, eating at second table? Well, I never.

Many of the time she's at at sociables in the church parlour and at Sunday school picnics right along with my own children for all what's past and gone. Millie don't eat at no second table, neither, supplemented Mr Salter still enjoyably. She was having her dinner in the kitchen when I got there. Not that I don't eat in the kitchen myself. What's the use, I tell the wife, a mussel up two rooms with victuals. Besides, griddle cakes taste better right smack off. the griddle.

You can't be eating my wife's buckwheats no matter what you do. Mrs. Butthorn turned to depart. The boasting reference to Mrs. Salter's buckwheats jarred upon her sensibilities. Everybody knew Jane Salter couldn't cook anything fit to eat. I'm afraid the hills ain't my kind of folks, she observed, moving majestic towards the door. Her brown paper bag clasped in both hands. It's a rule of my life. she stated to the pastor's wife,

when recounting the substance of her conversation with Mr. Salter, to say no more than that about anybody, folks are either my kind or they ain't. If they ain't, I can't help it. All I can do is to pray for them. That's what I tell the deacon. Mrs. Pettibone's ingenuous blue eyes expressed a resigned interest in this Buckthornean view

of one's duty to one's neighbours. So you think, Oh, she hesitated, that Millie isn't happy with the hills? Happy? Echoed Mrs. Buckthorne sonorously. Happy? Oh, no, my dear Flora. I said nothing with regard to Millie Orne's happiness.

Why should she be happy? You and I, know a girl of Millie's antecedents, ought to consider only her duty. Well, that's what she's trying to do, Mrs. Pettibone made haste to reply. She's working. to earn money for her grandparents i guess they need it conceded mrs buckthorne with severity i don't take milk of em no more in reply to mrs pettibone's surprised inquiries she stated that the a orns had lost their best cow and that for her part she would never encourage anyone to put water in their milk however needy as she added darkly that she would say no more mrs pettibone did not report the matter in detail to mr pettibone he appeared to expect an exalted philosophy of life from her which she was very far from constantly practising old habits of thought like measmatic mists were always closing blindly about her and it was often difficult if not impossible to remember that the only reality in the universe was the all encircling good as she walked quite alone in the direction of the orne cottage she was striving to bring vividly into the foreground of consciousness the wonderful truth as it had first dawned upon her bewildered mind that day in boston

it had seemed to her then so astoundingly simple so sweetly natural that a wayfaring man though a fool might not err therein well she was not a wayfaring man nor yet a fool and perhaps that was the root of the truels and perhaps that was the root of the truels trouble a fool would not be troubled with doubts perplexities and vain hopes nor even with the knowledge of a faded photograph well hidden from view between the leaves of a blotter mrs pettibone walking sedately in her second-best alpaca fought with a little pang of her husband whom she had left at his writing-table busily engaged upon his sunday evening's sermon for young people she had become increasingly scrupulous and painstaking of late whenever it became necessary to disturb the ministerial privacy with calls from the outside world pausing before the study door with a gentle cough of warning or a cautious and prolonged fumbling of the door-knob if he should chance to be looking at the picture she felt she couldn't bear it old mrs orne was a little stiff in her demeanour to her pastor's wife when she opened the door of the cottage to mrs pettibone's knock she had remarked more than once to grandfather that milly had no call to go to the parsonage for advice and counsel so long as she was above the ground and had pointedly announced her intention of giving mrs pettibone a good piece of her mind when opportunity offered. But opportunity, when it finally arrived, wore so sweet and patient to smile, was so gentle and sympathetic in manner, with eyes so blue and a childish brows and small feet

scarcely touching the floor from the height of Mrs. Orne's best rushed bottom chair, that the old woman's simmering resentment somehow vanished into thin air. I'm glad you come, Mrs. Orne said. I've been wanting to talk to you about, Millie. you know she's or maybe you put it into her head to work out i kind of got that idea well not exactly she said milly came to tell me that she was most anxious she paused to choose her words with guileless duplicity dear milly felt now she was quite grown up she wanted to help and so smiling timidly i spoke to her of mrs hill she She seemed in great need of someone to assist. And Millie is such a... Millie's a smart girl and she's a good girl,

declared Grandma Orne, nodding her head. They don't need nobody to tell me that. But what I wanted she should stay right here along a grandpa and me till she got married. Mrs. Pettibone murmured sympathy and assent. She ain't got no lack of Bose, the old woman went on boastfully. Two or three of them.

been here this week pestering me about Millie and I didn't want to tell him she was working out. It was spoiler chance with such likely young fellows as Seth Marvin and Ben Buckthorne and Mrs. Pettybone coughed deprecatingly. But if Millie isn't, well, if she doesn't, a girl like Millie can't marry without, well now, I hope you didn't go and encourage her in that, Mrs. Orne interrupted shrilly. falling in love taking a fancy land i'd rather she married some good honest fellow with a few acres of land in his own right nate scrimger wants to build her house with a porch across the front and a sink in the kitchen i heard him tell her so but milly she didn't take no fancy to-night so he's quit coming oh but you fell in love with mr onn suggested mrs pettibone pacific didn't you that ain't neither in or there said mrs oron with dignity you don't come across no young fellows like grandpa was in his young days seems twas only yesterday he come riding up in his oars to see me me wearing the new blue calico trim with ruffles because i suspicioned he was coming that day the yellow roses was all in blow i remember i picked a big posy of em and put them in winder thinks i

maybe you'll notice it he was always fond of flowers kaleb was but he didn't even look at him he jumps off his horse and comes straight to where i was sitting pretending not to know this and overhand in a seam like all possess milison he says the old voice quavered into a silence mrs pettibone did not break through the small pained window she could see grandfather orne's stooped figure in its patched blue shirt busy among the ordered row of vegetable balls perhaps he too was thinking of the day when straight and tall he had leapt off his horse and come straight to the girl shyly intent upon her sewing with the words of a masterful wooing upon his lips mrs orne sighed presently i've been up there she said fretfully to see milly i wanted to find out what kind of folks they was mrs pettibone's eyes expressed a gentle interest mingled with doubt well she murmured the old woman leaned forward her knotted hands resting on her knees i dunno she said and shook her head i dunno you mean you didn't oh i seen em all three of em the woman was out in the yard when i come she and the girl was walking round kind of aimless like and the young feller her husband ain't he mr walter hill is mrs hill son. He married his cousin, the young lady you saw, Mrs. Pettibone explained, and then she added doubtfully. He seemed a very pleasant young man. Oh, he does, agreed Mrs. Orne promptly. Mighty

pleasant and soft-spoken. The woman says to me when I ask for Millie, you'll find her in the kitchen, my good woman, she says. Go round back and tell Millie to give you a cup of tea. girl she never looked at me at all no more as if i was op toad so i walked round back like i was a beggar woman at first i told her i didn't want no tea i had tea at home and plenty of it thank god mrs pettibone stirred uneasily in her chair i'm sure mrs hill meant to be kind she said after a little silence during which the nickel clock on the shelf over her head seemed to tick angrily. Smooth words but are no parsnips, quoth the old woman oracularly. I want to care nothing about her airs, but when I come round the house, I seen him, a standing bare-headed outside the kitchen window, right in a bed of flowers de loose he was, his arms on the windowsill. I stopped right in the middle of my tracks to see what was up,

and pretty soon along comes Millie with a tumbler of water and ends it out to him. her air was all curling round her face like she'd been all let up or flustered about something and her cheeks was as pink as apple blows lord milly is such a pretty girl the minister's wife said softly pretty echoed mrs horn pretty ain't no name for it i guess i know but i wish the lord she was humbly as a hedge fence i wish she was all pitted up with small pox i seen it spoil many aunts and some face in my days. Oh, Mrs. Orne, deprecated the little lady in the rush-bottom chair. The old woman gave her a powerful look. I guess you ain't forgot already, she said. No more have I. Oh, but Mr. Hill is married and his wife. There ain't no love lost betwixt them two, else he'd have been out walking round with her instead of talking to my Millie. But you said, Missy. lily brought him a glass of water surely there was no harm in that mrs pettibone insisted and milly i trust milly to know what was right and mrs orne gave vent to a great groaning sigh which seemed to tear its way painfully from her breast

maybe i'm an old fool she muttered i guess i be after all that's come and gone but i'm awful of fear to strangers i'm awful for fear there followed a heavy silence in the room which the nickel clock on the shelf laboured to fill with its anxious ticking outside long sprays of bridle wreath just coming into snowy perfection of bloom blew against the pain beyond the good brown earth of the garden with its rows of sprouting green was the orchard dimly pink against a sky mottled with snow-white clouds a bluebird flitted past like a bluebird flitted past like a a flash of mid-heaven, his musical gurgling, streaming far behind him. Filura pettibone roused herself. There was an all-encercling good. Everything in nature proclaimed it. The certainty of it stirred once more strong and sweet within her breast.

Millie is safe, she pronounced slowly. You mustn't be afraid. She is quite, quite safe. The old woman stared with a dull air of resentment. You mean religion, I suppose, she said suddenly. I mean God, half whispered the minister's little wife. Your Millie lives and moves and has her being in God. Love.

And love will not lose her. Mrs. Orne was rocking her bent old figure from side to side. that's all very well nice religious kind of talk for them that ain't seen trouble i used to be awful religious when my milly was little every night i made a say a little prayer kneeling down by me and every night regular i said my prayers asking god to take care of my little girl but the coming night when i could have cursed him to his face he didn't take no care of my little girl girl. She was let to be crushed like one of them white flowers in the mud. Since I stood by her a coffin with Millie a little wailing might in my arms, I ain't prayed. Oh, but it's true. Only we don't understand. Mrs. Pettibone's troubled face had blanched almost the colour of the bridal flowers tapping softly on the pain. We don't know, she repeated. We can't.

aren't somehow but god understands and oh we must believe god if we don't oh mrs orne life isn't worth living if we don't believe her voice rose filling every corner of the silent old room like a clear wind sent forth to penetrate and scatter dull masses of lead and fog milly's grandmother moved a little in her chair as if the breath of that wind had reached and stirred her heavy thoughts tain't often i go on this way she apologised weakly i know tain't right to be so rebellious but milly minnie's all we got left and i am awful feared as strangers end of chapter twelve chapter thirteen of the heart of philura by florence morse kingsley this librivox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 13. Not at home to visit us.

The sun was still an hour above the horizon when Mrs. Pettibone, somewhat shaken and pale of face after her half hour alone with grief, came forth into the soft light of the afternoon. She would have time, she thought, to walk the scant mile which separated her from the scene

of Million's new activities. Mrs. Pettibone was not a very astute person, being amiably inclined to take everyone at his own valuation. In place of worldly wisdom, however, she was often aware of intuitions, familiarly known as feelings, not to be denied or otherwise put down, and these feelings, she found,

were timidly but no less stubbornly arrayed against the high addictor of an idealistic philosophy as she proceeded resolutely on her way. She decided that since she had herself assisted in bringing about the change in Millie Orne's life, she must somehow control its consequences, not knowing that consequences, like other seemingly blind forces in nature,

cannot be controlled. But her resolution, however futile, served to give poise and even a degree of boldness to her manner, as in due time she mounted the steps in front of the old Eggleston Mansion. Millie herself, prettier than ever in a fresh blue gingham and frilly white apron, opened the door. The ladies, she said, were not at home. Then she blushed very prettily. She told me to say it, she whispered. It means they don't want to see anybody. Miss Hill says it perfectly proper. But I may come in and see you, Millie. The girl hesitated, gazing at her

pastor's wife from under her long, curved lashes. I might walk with you a piece, she said doubtfully. but if you come in I should have to take you to the kitchen. You see, I'm being trained. Mrs. Pettibone frowned quite potentiously for a person with no eyebrows to speak of. I see you are, she said, while the recalcitant feelings surged up very strong indeed within her. After a moment of natural hesitation, she added, I'm coming round to the kitchen, my dear. It won't hurt me in the least, and now that I think of it,

I've often visited with Miss Minerva Eggleston in the kitchen when she happened to be busy. I know the place very well. Millie thought that was different, but she obediently closed the door while Mrs. Pettibone picked her way through the long grass to the rear entrance. Of the closeted ladies within, there was no sign. Though she fancied she detected the low murmur of voices

floating out from an open window. This is a real nice kitchen, "'Milly said, with faint embarrassment, "'as she set forth a well-scrubbed chair for her visitor. "'Oh, yes, it is,' agreed Mrs. Pettibone, "'glancing around the old room, "'the scene of Miss Minerva Eggleston's slow metamorphosis "'from defiant youth to resigned middle age.

"'You, I hope, you find it pleasant here?' "'The girl hesitated, looking down at her reddened fingers. "'There is a great deal of hard work to do,' she said. "'But I don't mind that.' I am all the time thinking, that the nice new roof we'll have next winter, and the cow, I can buy the cow for grandfather before long. And you don't mind, well, Mrs. Hill is considerate?

Millie looked up quickly, her lips parting in a doubtful smile. Well, it isn't as if I had to stay always, she said. I couldn't do that, but just this summer I don't mind very much. Mrs Pettibone reflected soberly. It would not be right, she was thinking, to instill the poison of evil suspicion into the girl's mind,

and what indeed was there to suspect? Millie was gazing at her intently. You've been to see my grandmother, haven't you? Mrs. Pettibone did not deny it. And she's worried about me, and now you're wondering whether I... But you see, Grandmother's always been worried about me.

ever since I can remember. Of course it's foolish. Millie smiled, revealing the edges of her pretty teeth. She'll be glad next winter, though, won't she? Oh, I'm sure I hope so, murmured the minister's wife mechanically. She was skirting her way about the difficult subject of which she wished to speak, timidly intent upon her duty. And you, have you become better acquainted with Mrs. Walter Hill?

she propounded after a pause. She seems very young. About your own age, I would say. Millie shook her head. She was still smiling, as if she had already guessed what her visitor was thinking and found it faintly amusing. Young Mrs. Hill doesn't notice me at all, she said frankly.

I never see her to speak to her. Mrs. Pettibone's childish eyes expressed disappointment. Oh, I'm sorry for that, she said. I thought perhaps a cheerful young, girl like yourself well my and mrs hill the mother you are naturally with her a good deal mrs hill is always with her daughter of course i see her morning sometimes out here or when she tells me things like to-day a conscious flush rose to mrs pettibone's faded cheek you must be very lonely here she concluded with what she felt to be macchavallian duplicity I should be, if it weren't for Mr Hill, said Millie. He's very kind.

Kind, echoed the minister's wife, very pink and agitated. Kind? Well, you see, Mrs. Hill seems to forget that I'm here sometimes, explained Millie. And if it weren't for Mr. Hill, I shouldn't know what to do always. Way to find things, I mean, what to have for dinner, and isn't that just a little odd, my dear? questioned the minister's wife her voice trembling hasn't mr hill anything to do any business or one might think he would be very much occupied with his wife milly again shook her head a troubled pocker appearing between her brows i don't pretend to understand anything here she said under her breath but oughtn't i to do my work as well as i can and not try to understand these people will go away in the fall and i shall never see them any more but just now I can help them,

cooking their meals and keeping everything tidy and, oh, I'm not old or wise like grandmother, but why should I be afraid of anything or anyone as long as I do the best I can to help? The girl's face, as she said this, wore a look so innocently sweet and strong that Mrs. Pettibone felt suddenly ashamed of her little hoard of worldly wisdom. She took the rough little hand in both her own.

you're a good girl milly she said warmly if you will just trust god to guide you and keep on helping the girl's expression changed subtly and mrs pettibone suddenly aware of an unfriendly presence in the room turned to face the mistress of the house mrs hill advanced a few steps her face twisted in an odd smile her plump hands moving slowly the one over the other i thought i heard voices she said bland in the country it seems one must secure one's privacy behind locked doors mrs pettibone's eyes opened very wide and blue suddenly blinked as if she had received a dash of cold water full in the face i had no thought of intruding she said with surprising dignity i came to call on you and your daughter but i meant to ask for milly indeed i came chiefly to see whether she was happy in her position here since I, in a way, I'm responsible for her presence in your house. Mrs. Hill moved her large shoulders deprecatingly. You quite misunderstand me, my dear Mrs. Pettyburn. I beg to assure you we fully appreciate your interest in our affairs.

Won't you, I think I should like to speak to you for a moment? Her gesture peremptorily remanded the small person in drab alpaca to the room from which she had so quietly emerged a moment before. mrs pettibone remained standing after two doors had closed noiselessly behind them she was swiftly reviewing the conversation she had just had with milly orne and wondering what she ought to have said in view of the facts mrs hill pointed to a chair kindly be seated she said coldly it occurs to me that since i am employing a servant in whom so many persons appear to take an interest mrs pettibone's eyes conveyed an indignant question which mrs hill proceeded at once to answer i am not referring altogether to yourself mrs pettibone your own solicitude for the girl is certainly natural i might say in a way professional but there are others the trades people and the girl's relatives really it's quite extraordinary i think you must have misunderstood what i said to you about milly began mrs pettibone she is not mrs hill waved her hand we'll not go into that she said dryly granted the girl is what persons of her class call a perfect lady she nevertheless possesses a tongue and doubtless forms opinions

she has told me nothing began mrs pettibone yet you were cross-questioning her with considerable adroitness what do you want to know the minister's wife suddenly bethought herself of the presbyterial dignities which she represented her manner as she rose to her feet conveyed a rebuke commensuous to the offence i can see very little use in talking with you she said slowly you are not you'd like to tell me i'm not a lady smiled of Mrs. Hill. Oh, no, don't go. There's something I want you to hear from me. Mrs. Pettibone had drawn her little figure to its full height, looking down at the woman who remained seated with grave dignity. We came here, Mrs. Hill went on without apparent perturbation, in order that we might be quite alone and unnoticed. One would suppose that in a remote country place like this, one might— Don't interrupt me, if you please. I acknowledge I am beaten. And so I shall tell you something of ourselves, and you will oblige me by repeating it to the persons in your parish who may be interested. I think I should prefer not to.

Mrs. Hill smiled disagreeably. Oh, but I insist. Kindly understand. I am taking you into my confidence, Mrs. Pettibone, because you are the wife of the local clergyman. And I very much prefer to have you tell people about us. quite naturally you know at an afternoon tea perhaps or the church social to having salter the grocer or the old woman who comes to see my maid retail the impressions of that worthy young woman of course i understand that personally you feel no curiosity or take no interest as you call it in us or our affairs but you do take an interest in the girl milly as you have proved this afternoon mrs pettibone took two steps toward the door an indignant exclamation escaping her lips the woman sat quite motionless watching her narrowly if i should tell you i'm in deep trouble you would listen wouldn't you i thought so

now sit down there's a good creature and let me tell you but she did not speak further for a long minute during which mrs pettibone nervously examined the tips of her shabby gloves it was her duty she thought, to hear what the woman had to say. When you met my son's wife in the woods some weeks ago, resumed Mrs. Hill with dry deliberation, did she impress you as being quite rational? Mrs. Pettibone hesitated, recalling the wild looks and gestures of the tragic young figure. She seemed to be in deep trouble of some kind, she said slowly,

like one who's kept something hidden for so long that it burst out as a kind of relief. The woman's lashes lifted with a jerk. Then she told you, what did she say? Oh, she did not know that I was anywhere about at first, and I didn't understand. It was all incoherent. You spoke to her?

I asked her to tell me what was the matter. I was very much surprised to meet anyone in those woods. We hadn't heard the place was let. "'Well?' "'You asked her, and she told you—' "'I thought at first she was a mere child. "'Her hair was hanging in a long braid. "'The woman made an impatient gesture.

"'She likes it best that way. "'She told you what?' "'Oh, she said she was married, "'and that her name was Sylvia Cruden. "'Is that all?' "'All that I can think of.' "'Mrs. Pettibone looked directly at her inquisitor. "'I can think of nothing else,' she repeated.

"'Mrs. Hill was staring at her with curious intentness. "'That is Sylvia's illusion,' she said. "'She thinks she is married to another man. "'Of course it's very painful for me to speak of this, "'very painful for my son. "'She will recover, of course, in due time. "'On that score we have no anxiety. "'No anxiety whatsoever.'

"'The woman's voice rang, flat and insincere. And why do you tell me this? asked the minister's wife. Because I want you to know it. You can explain, if anyone asks you, that we do not receive visitors and we are not in need of popular sympathy, which is merely another word for officious curiosity.

Mrs. Pettibone stood up. Her little figure still panopled in presbyterial dignity. I'm sorry for your daughter, she murmured, and for you. I am not curious, as you seem to think. I only wanted to help. Mrs. Hill's face twisted painfully, as if the words had touched a hidden spring of violent emotion,

and then her features compose themselves into their usual expressionless calm. In a case of this kind, nothing can be done by an outsider, she said in a slow, cold voice. I shall do for Sylvia what must be done. No one. can help. Mrs. Pettibone moved quietly toward the door. When she had reached it, she turned

and looked at the woman, who still sat stolidly in her chair by the window, her face in the waning afternoon light, curiously resembling a mask of old ivory, with motionless eyes of jade. "'I shall not come again,' said Mrs. Pettibone, "'unless you send for me, and I shall not speak of what you have told me. I can see no reason for doing so. As familiar, I think you can trust her. She may not be a lady after your way of thinking, but she is true and good, and she will do what she can to make things easier for you. End of chapter 13. Chapter 14 of the heart of Filura by Florence Morse Kingsley. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 14

Millie Drives the Cow The narrow country road, hardly more than a wagon track between opposing walls of greenery, was pleasantly cool and moist with a recent shower. Here and there, a sun-warmed puddle reflected the dazzling blue of the sky and furnished a playground

for innumerable butterflies, white and pale yellow, which fluttered and lifted before the sedate steps of a done cow only to settle again, their gay wings moving gently like wind-blown blossoms. Wild roses in their first frail bloom painted the wayside with splashes of pink and tall bull-thistles, beloved of flying things,

lifted their mailed heads of purple and white among the twinkling leaves. There was a warm, sweet smell of newly unfolded ferns and wild strawberries hiding in the tall grass. The done cow would have paused to munch and consider, but the girl walking behind gently urged her forward with light flicks of the leafy branch she carried. And so in due time,

the cow, thinking her bovine thoughts of grass and sweet-smelling clover in the meadows beyond, and the girl, smiling with joyous anticipation, covered the scant mile of their journey. Grandfather Orne was weeding the onions, a task requiring corn, concentrated attention, when the eyes of the worker can scarcely distinguish, it tweaks the slender onion shoots and the thrifty young weeds crowding close and greedy.

His dull ears failed to apprise him of the deliberate footfalls of the done cow, as she was skillfully induced by the combined action of the girl and the leafy bow, to pass through the deftly drawn bars. Here were shade and stretches of green grass and the sound of water running over smooth stones. The done cow gazed about her with placid eyes of contentment. The girl stood watching the cow for a gleeful moment, then gathering her skirts about her, slipped through the hedge and across the garden, her light feet making no sound on the soft earth.

Grandfather! The old man raised himself with a grunt. Hey? What? What? Oh, Millie. Where do you come from, I like to know? From the pasture, grandfather.

Ah, come cross. thoughts, eh? Well, you sure are growing. Seems me you look taller and bigger every time I see you. Senior Grandma? Not yet. The girl's demure face conveyed a subtle sense of mystery. Her blue eyes danced under the wind-blown tendrils of her blonde hair. She put up her hand to push them away. Why bet you've been up there something or other, chuckled the old man, sitting back on his haunches, peering up with an air of super, superior sagacity. I always know when you was getting ready for mischief. I used to tell you a grandma.

Keep an eye on her, I says. There's something doing when Millie gets that spark in her eye. I remember how you upset the bee-eye one day to see if there was any, honey. Oh, we didn't have to smack you for that. The bees seemed to what you was tended to, good and proper. The girl's laugh rang out. I remember, she said. it isn't bees this time.

Oh, not bees, eh? Well, I guess you better go and find your grandma. She's always talking about you from morning till night. And I guess she dreams about you most every night. I had to shake her good last night to wake her up. She was her whining and crying in her sleep. And what on earth's the matter with your mother, he says? And come to find out she'd been dreaming.

some fool thing or other about you. Millie's smile faded. I wish Grandmother wouldn't worry about me, she said soberly. Can't you make her stop, Grandfather? You see, I'm grown up now and know how to take care of myself. The old man blew a resounding blast on his red bandana handkerchief. Shook, he said defiantly. You might as well try to keep the old red cow from chewing on a

her cud. I guess your grandma enjoys worrying full as much and does it as constant. The girl laughed outright, and then she caught the old man by the sleeve. Look, she commanded, pointing to the pasture, where the Dun Cow was making leisurely survey of her new domain. Hey, what? What in creation? Where'd that critter come from? Plowl if it don't look like... Say, I know you'd been up to something. out fool your grandpa. She's part jersey, grandfather.

Oh, wait, I'll run and get Grandmother. She's all yours, yours and grandmothers. But grandmother was already pushing past the unpruned rose bushes, which stood guard over the vegetable patch, scattering showers of pale pink leaves from their lavish bloom. She took the girl in her arms with a little tender cry of joy. I dream last night you were in some sort of trouble, she quavered and thinks like i'll go up to the farm's afternoon and see milly oh but you're all right ain't you dearie oh land i'd been so worried all the morning

now you see how foolish it is chided the girl i'm as right as right can be what did i tell ye crowed the old man chewing the cut of trouble all the enduring while come on out at pasture mother and let's see what we can find you'll have to look close your eyesight ain't what it was a spellback and thus the chief conspirator and her gleeful coadjutor guilefully baited the credulous old lady the dun cow had got into the pasture some or other did grandmother think she look like one of pharmacratics heard and how was she ever to be restored to her proper I bet Millier couldn't drive a cow to save her life, piped grandfather. Anyway, not a frisky young effort like that. Say she looks like some jersey to me. Come on, Grandma, let's take a good squint at her. I got a good mind to milk her. It'd be a charity.

I awed Grandfather, chimed in Millie. I'll go and get your stool in the pail. You do not nether kind. cried the scandalised old woman she ought to be driven right off it's full early for milking yet oh i don't see how in creation that critter got into the pasture cogitated grandfather scratching his head the bars he's up they've been up all day by cracky she must a jump clean over the fence fix that stool here milly i'm going to milk as sure as you're a foot high And I'll bet I get such a pailful as you ain't seen in one good while. You got plenty of clean pans, Grandma? But here, Millie, being soft-hearted, told Grandmother between laughing and crying

how she had bought the cow the evening before and paid for her with the wages she had earned. Grandmother wiped her eyes and kissed the girl's glowing cheek. Oh dear, dear, she murmured. It's awful nice to have the cow. but honey i don't like your living up there along of them strange folks or maybe they're all right yeah i know you say they be but they're strange to me and i don't like the looks of that woman they're going away in november milly said soothingly going where demanded mrs oron suspiciously that where they came from i suppose they're only here for the summer where'd they come from i should think some of em had named the place by now but milly didn't know she thought it didn't matter anyhow tain't natural contradicted mrs orn you needn't tell me if i was to go away some place for the summer don't you suppose i'd tell folks where i come from well i guess wouldn't wait for em to ask neither milly pulled a pink rose from the bush her white forehead puckered thoughtfully oh well we're different she said slowly

we don't like hiding things or having secrets some people make a secret of most anything i guess they're that kind they don't want to be friends with the people round here jerusalem crickets cried grandfather who had just returned from a jubilant inspection of the new cow that there critters more and a half-year's ere i'm a liar we can make butter mother i bet you could beat them creamery folks or holler mrs orne smiled tolerantly her eyes on her granddaughter oh i'm going to stay to supper ain't you dearie she asked wistfully but milly shook her head she must hurry home she said to get dinner the two old folks stood watching the girl's slim figure till it was on the point of disappearing behind a clump of trees you don't want to stand and watch her out of sight warned grandmother carefully averting her eyes oh don't you s'pose i know that retorted grandfather indignantly anyhow you told me enough times blaine fool notion i say well i s'pose i'd feel some easier about milly you'd feel some easier about milly you'd say you'd say you'd bea you'd bea you'd a mann't if them folks didn't eat their dinner at night quavered grandmother plaintively it don't seem christian like dinner or supper can't see as it's gonna hurt milling on spluttered grandfather if folks want to name their meals up different what do you care and if they'd only say right out that they was from some place or other we knowed about darn it cried grandfather just as i was feeling good about the cow yes i will say it makes me feel a sight better double durn so there i guess i'd better be going in the house commented grandmother quite pink with righteous anger

she turned after a few steps her round old face aglow with the light of a fresh purpose seeing we got the new cow she said with fine forgetfulness how'd you like some nice batter cakes for supper grandpa i can afford the milk now how'd i like him pipe grandfather will you just fry up a good dish of a mother and see what'll catch em once i get through milking end of chapter fourteen chapter fifteen of the heart of philura by florence morse kingsley this librevox recording is in the public domain chapter fifteen on the old road a large round moon coloured like the pale wings of the butterflies floated in the soft rows of the eastern sky as milion walked swiftly along the road she was thinking happily of the two old people she had left behind and of the dun cow with her pretty sleek head and large mild eyes grandfather would be milking her now she wished she might have waited to see the first foaming pail carried into the kitchen but there was the dinner to finish and serve being quick-witted and moreover of an acquisitive mind milly had studiously applied herself to the study of miss minerva eggleston's old-fashioned cook-book and thereby learned many strange combinations and perjointed permutations of the familiar potatoes and meat served at Innisfield tables. Cooking, she had learned, was a science, not to be disdained or thought likely of,

and since the strangers she served appeared increasingly appreciative of the fruits of her newly acquired knowledge, Millie continued to study and experiment with ever-growing pleasure in her work. She was thinking doubtfully of a certain delicate pudding compounded for the first time, and at present awaiting its destined hour in the cool seclusion of the spring room. Had she beaten the eggs sufficiently, she wondered, was the meringue which topped the confection over brown? She stepped daintily about the edges of a puddle, her blue eyes bent upon the ground,

when as once before she heard the swift tread of hoofs behind her and looked back to meet Walter Hill's dark gaze. Mindful of her freshly starch skirts and the threatening mud puddle, milly hastily took refuge amid the leafy grove of the roadside till the rider should pass but the young man pulled his horse to a standstill and slipped from his saddle milly walked him with surprise as he walked towards her the bay horse at his heels you've been home he asked his face lighted with a boyish smile do you know i thought i might overtake you milly said nothing being vaguely troubled by his presence and the look in his eyes i happened to see you start out from craddocks he went on easily how did my lady jersey behave and what did they say to her you mean grandfather and grandmother inferred milly walking very fast her eyes on the distant glimmer of white which represented the old eglestone house they were glad of course he put out his hand as if to guide her past a particularly deep puddle but she drew back a quick flush staining her cheek you didn't seem to be looking he apologised another instant and you'd have been in over your shoe-tops you know it is rather wet along here in spots

yes she admitted coldly but i've walked in muddy roads all my life he studied her averted face with a slight clouding of his dark wood looks what have i done that you won't even look at me milly he asked after a lengthening pause this morning you were as jolly as could be only you wouldn't let me beat the eggs his tone was slightly aggrieved if you please mr hill i'd rather you wouldn't wait for me she said determinedly i'm late i know but you're not late he contradicted her and besides it's beautiful look at that moon will you it's somehow like you milly all soft rose and pale golds and the girl hurried on faster than before but his long stride kept him abreast of her oh don't be angry he begged that bit of foolishness slipped out before i thought but see here i want to tell you something she shook her head i haven't time to listen she objected there's no real reason why we shouldn't be friends you're mistaken she said proudly besides i don't wish to be friends with you it's absurd even to speak of it but why he urged is it because of sylvia can't a man have friends even if it's because of everything you oughtn't to be talking to me at all mrs hill would be displeased his face had grown suddenly dark granted that we can't be friends he said doggedly i'm going to tell you one thing i was on on the point of bolting when you came i couldn't have stood it another day oh you don't know don't judge me not knowing she was looking at him her blue eyes wide with unconcealed scorn

you're telling me you would have left your wife and your mother alone in that lonely house oh well i suppose i should have come back don't look at me that way milly i'm not as about as you think have you no pity she asked her voice breaking a little no love yes he said sullenly that's why i'm here but i didn't know what it was going to be like he shook his head his brows knit over gloomy eyes oh i swear i didn't grasp the situation how could i well you saved the day milly whether you meant to or not i didn't bolt and for your sake i won't i'll stick it out even if sylvia but i mustn't speak to you of her you wouldn't understand you couldn't she turned and faced him with sudden courage why don't you stay with her more she demanded surely you ought to be able to comfort her help her as no one else can it's entirely natural you should think so he admitted a tinge of bitterness in his tone but sylvia doesn't happen to want me my presence irritates her did you ever hear of a marriage of convenience which is no marriage at all his short laugh held no mirth i can't expect you to be sorry for me he went on in face of her troubled silence i don't ask it but some time i may be able to explain until that hour comes promise me you will at least give me the benefit of the doubt don't pass sentence in the dark

her candid eyes searched his face swiftly if she read truth there and a desperate struggle with some unknown emotion the girl made no sign she hesitated for a moment her face with its delicate pure outlines pale in the soft delighted dusk i certainly have no right to judge you or any one harshly she said at last if i seem to have done so forgive me he did not attempt to follow her as she went swiftly from him into the gathering night as she fled up the long drive she heard the thud of hooves growing fainter on the road below mrs hill's large presence confronted the girl at the door of the kitchen you are late she said with the rebuking glance at the clock. I'd begun to wonder if I must prepare the dinner myself. Oh, I am very sorry, Millie apologised, quite breathless with haste, and the shock of her late encounter. Where have you been? demanded Mrs. Hill, darting a quick look into the luminous dusk without. Millie, somewhat accustomed by now to her mistress's sharp, incisive questions, answered

without embarrassment. Did you see no one besides your grandparents? The girl hesitated for the space of a frightened heartbeat or two. I saw Mr Hill, she murmured, her eyes intent upon the potato she had hurriedly begun to peel. You saw Mr. Hill? Where? On the road as I was coming home. Do you mean he passed you? I haven't heard him come in? The girl was conscious of the woman's woman's woman's.

probing eyes upon her face i think he went by the other road she stammered the moon it's it's very light and pleasant out of doors her hands shook over their task mrs hill's mouth twisted in a wry smile so i see she said dryly she stood for a moment watching the girl's nervous fingers with cold interest you may serve dinner she ordered as soon as possible we will not wait for mr hill milly heard the retreating rustle of her gown with a sigh of relief but when she ventured to lift her abashed eyes she was startled to see the tall stout figure standing motionless by the door as if lost in deep thought you are a very pretty girl mrs hill observed harshly quite unusually so for a person of your class but let me remind you that your position in my house depends entirely upon your discretion you understand me i am sure the leaping colour in milly's face and the indignant flash of her blue eyes appeared to satisfy the woman checking with an imperious gesture the girl's half uttered exclamation she she swept from the room. Left her herself,

Millianne dropped her knife and started toward the door. I will not stay in this house, she told herself with sudden passion. I'll go home. There would be a joyful welcome awaiting her there she knew. But how explained her

unlooked for a change of mind and the leaky old roof. Only this afternoon she thought happily of the heavy rain sure to come in late autumn and of the tight new shingles which would shelter the two ailing old people slowly she walked back to the table slowly took up her knife and went on peeling the potatoes afar off echoing from some distant fold of the hills came the rhythmic beat of a galloping horse end of chapter fifteen chapter sixteen of the heart of filura by florence morse kingsley this librivox recording is in the public domain chapter sixteen malvina bennett points a moral miss malveena bennett transferred a pin from her mouth to the heart-shaped cushion on the front of her gown

with a quick darting motion of her right hand while with her left she gently propelled the lady she was fitting to a proper position before the mirror there now miss salter cried the little dressmaker how'd you like the setter that waist ain't that biased drape over the left shoulder stylish it's the very latest from paris mrs salter was a thin stooped woman with a lavender tinted complexion lightly shaded with red about the tip of her pears her hinged nose and the edges of her sparsely furnished eyelids. She sighed heavily as she surveyed the incoate garment she was wearing. Seems to me, she murmured. There's a pucker, right under the left shoulder blade. Of course there is, confirmed Miss Bennett, with professional superiority. I ain't put no pattern in there yet.

You see, you all are right in where some folks bulges out. i know i do acknowledged mrs salter with mournful pride i ain't got no long to speak of on that side ain't ad for years and years the doctor says it's a perfect miracle i've lived as long as i have tis wonderful chirped miss bennett her head with its second-best false front very much to one side anyway you lasted out lots of big strong-looking folks i could name See, I'm going to drake the skirt back and front like they make them this year. It's awful becoming to thin, folks. But land, I do, oh, regular bunched over skirts ain't coming in again. I used to pretty nigo crazy over some of the goods that come in the shop, getting them to loop just so.

Talk about looping the loop, and basks with eight seams in the back, all boned, remember how we used to make em mrs salter i just got on to a secret way of shaping the darts in the front when poof they went out a style like you'd blow out a candle just a second mrs salter till i stick a pin in under the arm and cut out the neck a mite yes low necks is going to be wore this season and elbow sleeves i'll make em that way if you say so but don't don't you think seen as you're so kind of bony anyway my bones is small said mrs salter with an acrimonious sniff that's more than some folks can say so they be awful small and delicate conceded miss bennett soothingly i hardly ever fit anybody with your waist measure there now i'll get you out of this right off mrs salter said into a chair with a dismal moan you got it off me just in time malvina she announced weekly one minute more and i'd have keeled right over no when can i expect this dress i'm in kind of a hurry because mr salter's first wife's aunt is coming to visit and of course i want to look nice for her miss bennet was setting long basting stitches her thin lips puckered over a mouthful of pins m let me see she mumbled a glint of anticipatory joy in her eyes to-morrow i'm going out to sew i hadn't any idea o doing such a thing as a rule i only take in but to accommodate

well i want to know commented mrs salter acidly me a trudging over here to be fitted with my weak heart it can be letter in the mail miss bennet went on pausing to restore the pins to her cushion in full enjoyment of the dramatic interval well you were saying it come in the mail prompted mrs salter with a hacking cough indicative of suppressed exasperation you coulda knock me down with a feather stated miss bennet searching busily among the properties on her table did you bring over any ucks and eyes mrs salter yes i did a full card they were the new kind you can't undo unless you try real hard oh yes here they be but the seems to be too gone mrs salter pinned her collar with an indignant glance at the dressmaker it was a full card she repeated right out of the store oh i remember i sewed two of em on your waist already oh no let me see i'll work on your dress to-day when i ain't busy with fittance miss rev and pettypom is coming in this afternoon afternoon she been there of course so she can tell me i always hate to sew for strangers unless i know something about good or bad mrs salter put on her hat jabbing home the large rhinestone pins with the effects of skewers who under the canopy be you talking about malvina bennet she inquired with acrimony you run on so kind of wild and rambling a body might think you was losing your mind miss bennet smiled complacently but her black eyes snapped oh i guess i got my fact is all right she said demurely but speaking a crazy folks have you heard whether the woman that lives up to the old eggleston place is in her right mind

i dunno as i'd want to go if my grief you ain't goin there just so mhm murmured miss bennett rendered once more temporarily speechless with pins mrs salter gently chafed the end of her thin nose with a highly starched and perfumed pocket-handkerchief which she slowly unfolded from a rigid blue-white square well of course mr salter's been going up there regular ever since they come so i don't suppose as anybody in town knows any more about em than i do when it comes to that oh interrogated miss bennet gazing at her customer over the top of her spectacles they buy quite a bill of groceries every week pursued mrs salter moving toward the door well i guess i'll be going now when you get my dress done don't be in such hurry miss salter i was going to tell you you'll have to come in the last of the week to try on that waist again after i put in the padding a mite too much or too little makes an awful sight of difference in the set i s'pose you've heard milly orns helping out up there at the farm vouchsafed mrs salter her hand on the door they treat her like a common-ired girl obed says she eats off the kitchen table if i was you i oh you don't have to worry none about her chirped miss bennett me and milly gets along first-rate therein a nicer girl in this town well you'll find milly orn won't have nothing to say about the folks she works for sniffed mrs salter she ain't hardly said i yes or no to mr

salter for all he goes there's constant and him's taken an interest and like that but obed he ain't no kind of hand to notice what folks were can't you tell me i says patient what mrs hill had on when she come out into the kitchen to give you the order no bed he shakes his head i think it was something kind of drab he says uncertain with white on it or black i disremember which but there was one thing he did take notice of the young lady give him a letter to mail last monday just as he was going to the gate she was standing there hid behind a big bush waiting for him to come out obed says her eyes was big and scared looking and she kept a twist in her head back toward the house as if she expected somebody might be looking did he take the letter inquired miss bennet with breathless interest yes he did but no so and he driv out the gate with the letter in his pocket then he heard somebody a hollerin after him it was mrs hill she's kind o'-bed says but for all that she run like a deer i forgot something she says panting like she'd ever stroke it was a bottle of some queer kind of sauce they certainly do eat the most outlandish fittles i don't see how milly orn can do there cookin well murmured miss bennet with a touch of impede Missis Salter sucked in her thin lips with an air of virtuous reserve. I guess I'd better say no more.

Ain't none of our business, as Hobed says, if she did want to get the letter back. But I can't nobody help taking an interest, broke in the little dressmaker eagerly. There's one thing about me. I don't never gossip. As I tell Mother, I won't have no gossiping in my shop. but there's a big difference between gossiping malicious and taking a deep interest in folks a body might as well be a buried corpse and have done with it if we didn't open our mouths to say a word that's the way i feel approved the grocer's wife well what she'd really come after was that letter she smiled pleasant and told obed it wasn't directed right so she'd take it up to the house and fix it he couldn't do nothing but give it to her of course who was it directed to breathe the little dressmaker hum wish i could tell you said mrs salter resentfully if it had been me i'd a seen to that before i put the letter in my pocket

but obed he said he was figuring on looking at it careful after he got out the side of the house ain't that just like a man exactly agreed miss bennet warmly well if she was asked me to mail a letter i pretend i lost it for i'd give it up i don't know why but i always feel like taking the part of young folks maybe it's because i feel young inside for all i lost my teeth and most o me you might mention casual you'd pass the post office on the way home suggested mrs salter but don't for mercy's sake let on i told you she might lay it to me and stop ordering a fobed you don't have to worry nan i guess i'd aught to know how to manage all kinds o folks be now it seems as men and women ain't no different from hooks and eyes often an often i thought about it settin here alone in a shop you've got to know how to match em up right for one thing and it does seem as though the lord made mistakes that away putting two hooks opposite that won't jib no matter what you do or else sewing on an eye to-o'n't soin't a-yib no matter what you do or else sewing on an eye to two sizes too big for the hook, or Mrs. Salter tossed her head with matronly arrogance. I suppose an unmarried female does get queer notions a living alone so constant, she said as she opened the door. But they can't nobody understand men, folks, unless they's married to one

of them. Oh, I thank the Lord I ain't. Every night of my life on bended knee, retaliated the little dressmaker with spirit. When I look around this ear, town and see the poor spiritless critters some of them actually drove to drink by the wives and others of em not are in the victuals they put in their mouths but mrs salter was already half-way to the gate her rasped nose uplifted to an outraged heaven miss bennet stood on the doorstep with a pleasing sense of victory her faded eyes roving up and down the quiet street it was pleasant out of doors for an instant she considered the project of bringing her sewing down to the front stoop for the afternoon only to abandon it with a sigh there was her neuralgia for one thing so inalienable a possession that miss bennet was wont to speak of it with pride as if she'd bought and paid for it she did things on account of her neuralgia and omitted others for the same cogent reason the warm breeze which shook faint fragrance from the old-fashioned white roses in miss bennet's front yard lifted wisps of the second-best false front from off her wrinkled forehead with terrifying boldness oh if i was to set in this breeze she cogitated my neuralgia would get right up on its ear and i wouldn't sleep a wink with it to know the closer i keep it the better it is as she reached this sacrificial conclusion her eyes lighted upon her erstwhile neighbour filura pettibone walking swiftly down the street

miss bennet remarked the set of her blue foolard with professional interest i never done a better job she told herself but it's oh a style something scandalous the minister's wife unlatched the gate smiling a greeting over its top at the dressmaker her cheeks were pinker than the faded rose in her hat and her blue eyes had a sort of glorified shine i'm late i know she said as she mounted the steps but mrs puffer and mrs beals came to see me this afternoon and brought all the children for a land's sake oh not the puffer twins and all i should hope was it Mrs. Undertaker Beals are her as to as Jane Baskam. Both of them's got plenty of children. It was Jane Baskam, said Mrs. Pettibone. Oh, Mount Vina, have you seen her littlest baby? Me? No, I ain't, sniffed Miss Bennett.

Jane bought her last dress ready-made. She had the nerve to stop me right in the street, and are wearing the dress, and tell me she didn't have no time for getting a dress made. she said some beald bought it for her in the city before she was up and around it looks like it i says just like that i says casting my eye down the anger the skirt well if you're satisfied i said the baby's a girl murmured mrs pettibone softly hume commented miss bennet so's all her others ain't they how many she got now five and they're all pretty children you remember how pretty children you remember how pretty jane used to be malvina but the littlest baby she let me hold it miss bennet surveyed her pastor's wife with puzzled interest i didn't know you were so fond of children filura she said wonderingly oh there i went and forgot again now that you're mrs rev pettibone i a art remember to call you by that name there ain't no telling how long you'll have it mrs pettibone looked startled and the

pink faded a little in her thin cheeks why what do you mean malvina miss bennet turned and began the ascent of the narrow stair i can't stand here no longer in this wind with muni ralja she said over her shoulder come righten up your waist saw based and ready to try on mrs pettibone did not repeat her question but her face still wore a troubled look as she obediently surveyed her small figure in Miss Bennet's mirror. No, don't you go to worrying about what I said, advised Miss Bennett as she pinned in a sleeve. I don't know what possessed me. But you kind of put me in mind of your husband's first wife just for a minute. I put you in mind.

Oh, you don't look none like the first Mrs. Pettibone. No more than I do. And I guess I oughtn't to name her to you, Annie, anyhow. Why not? As the second Mrs. Pettibone in a small weak voice. Why shouldn't you speak of her to me? Oh, I don't know. Some folks don't like to think there was anybody before them,

like an ostrich sticking their head in the sand, I say. I remember Miss Gus Bogart, she as twas emmeline post. Emmeline was his third. When she was first married, she went round the house, sly, hunting up all the photos of the other two. And fast as she found them, she burnt them up in the kitchen stove.

Well, Gus, he'd had a big crayon portrait of his first wife made and hung up in the parlour. And the second Mrs. Bogart, she as to as Minnie Fisher, or she left it hanging right over the sofa all during her time.

But Emmeline took it down when Gus was off on one of his trips. She didn't dare spurn it, but she put it up. in the attic way in under the eaves and hung up in place of it a real nice premium picture she'd got for soap wrappers it was of a lady i remember dressed in red low neck and short sleeves looking roguish to one side of a big black fan twas real handsome and a sight cheerfuler than the crayon picture of the first miss boggart well pretty soon back comes gus from his trip and marches into the parlour with that Emmeline tagging behind so nervous she didn't know one front other. Gus looks around casual and takes out his pipe and fills it.

Emmeline watching him like a catwood a mouse. Seem good to get home, Gus, says she, innocent. Oh, you bet, says he, and sets down in the patent rocker and begins smoking his pipe. By me, he says soft, like he was speaking to himself. I never knowed what I lost when I've been. buried the first miss boagot and he sighs heavy looking up at the picture of the lady in the red dress she certainly was the handsomest of the three he says thoughtful and there wasn't a selfish hair in her head now miss betty bone if you'll take this waist off and put a shawl around you just for a minute i stitch up the seams and give it another try on and then you won't have to come again well emmeline she stood it just for three days. Every time

Gus come in the house, he'd go and stand mournful in front of the picture of the lady in the red low neck and short-sleeved dress. She had beautiful neck and arms, white and round, and a little more showing than ought to be by rights. While

Emmeline was dark-complected and had all her dress waist padded out to make them look anyhow. Oh, good land, you know, I stick you with a pin. I ought to be more careful. No, you set right. down, Philora, and look at the fashions. I won't be a minute.

The sound of the sewing machine, driven at furious speed, filled the silence, while Mrs. Pettibone gazed unseeingly at the picture of a very tall, pink and white lady in a low-necked gown. She was seeing, instead, an old-fashioned photograph of a woman

with sweet, wistful eyes, and a full curl of dark hair lying softly across her round white neck. There, said Miss Bennett, snipping off the threads. No, I'll slip this on and see how it is. You don't seem again much flesh,

Mrs. Petleybone, and if you don't mind, I'm going to slip in just a mite of cotton under the lining. You'd rather not? Oh, well, right. Oh, I can loosen up the goods and put a draped fish shoe across the front. They're wearing them this season,

and they're a real godsend to thin folks like you and Emmeline Bogart. Oh, that's right. That puts me in mind. I didn't tell you what Emmeline done about the picture, did I? Well, as I was safe, she stood it for three long days. Then one morning, when Gus was to the store, she took down the picture of the beautiful lady with the black fan,

she'd come to eight it, you know, and took it up to the attic and shoved it way back in under the eaves. But the crayon portrait of the first Mrs. Boggart, she carried downstairs, and washed its glass careful and hung it up over the sophy she told me afterwards when i was there making up her morning for gus it looked real good to see it there says she ernest i never knowed the first mrs bogot but i felt she was like a sister and come to look the picture wasn't that different from emmeline herself being dark-complected and flat chested and like that with her air done up on top and air-pin friselled emmeline never took it down no more except at house clean in time and at gus's funeral some of us noticed she'd put a wreath of white everlastings on the frame the minister's wife had already reached the gate when she paused aware of the patter of miss bennett's slippered feet in swift pursuit

land if i didn't forget to ask you about them folks up to the eggleston place said the little grassmaker and i had it in mine special but speaking of the third mrs boggart sort of shoved it back like you willa paper pattern when you're looking for something else in the bureau drawer but mrs pettibone appeared unable to add to miss bennett's meagre store of information do you mean a tell me for you're a rice you don't know at all what kind of folks they be cross-questioned miss bennet sternly and you were going there twice already you musta know if something well if they're real dressy folks them that has silk line-ins to their everyday clothes and like that or if they're the sort that wears ready-maids for best mrs pettibone considered gravely her hand on the gate mrs hill impressed me as being a person of means and yes education she said with dignified reserve. Well, prompted Miss Bennett, casting her apron over her head in tardy recognition of her neuralgia. Shall I wear my best hairfront

and my black Henrietta for them or put on my old brown? They're not very social people, I should say, hesitated Mrs. Pettibone at a loss to interpret Miss Bennet's question. Hmm, stuck up and proud, inferred the dressmaker. well just the same i shall wear my sunday-goatler meetings let em know first off i'm full as good as they be if i do so for a livin i can protect my henrietta with an apron and i don't care if it takes a week to pick the threads off

and with that she turned and marched into the house end of chapter sixteen chapter seventeen of the heart of filura by florence moors kingsley This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 17. Where is Sylvia? Millie Orne opened the front door of the old Eggleston house to Miss Bennet's ring early the next morning. The girl looked very fresh and rosy as she smiled a discreet welcome. You ought to come right upstairs, she said, interrupting Miss Bennett's confident progress towards the living room. Everything's ready for you up there.

Miss Bennett bristles slightly. I always used to sew for Miss Minerva in the setting room, she observed as she followed Millie up the stair. The sewing machine was there and everything handy. I remember I made her a wedding dress. What's the matter? She interrupted herself in a loud buzzing whisper. Is anybody sick? Millie shook her head.

They don't like any noise about the house, she explained, as she ushered the dressmaker into a small room at the back of the house. noise repeated miss bennet adjusting her church twilight with little pools and pats noise well i declare i didn't realise that i was say noisy where is mrs ill milly explained that mrs hill had not yet breakfasted and would miss bennet have some coffee before beginning work might be as good a way as any to get acquainted you was a little dressmaker i can't so ask as well for strangers as for folks I know, so I don't mind if I do." A bright pink overspread Millie's young face. She laid a coaxing hand on Miss Bennet's arm. "'I'll bring it to you up here,' she said.

"'On a tray. That would be pleasanter, wouldn't it?' "'Well, I want to know,' piped Miss Bennett. "'That stylish idea never came out of your head, Million. "'And that's the kind, Mrs. Hill. is eh oh well i don't know as i care forewarns for armed and i can be full as sarcastic and like that as the next one but i don't want no coffee you can tell mrs hill when you go downstairs tell her i ate my breakfast to home same as usual and you can say miss malvina bennett's perfectly able to walk downstairs soon as it comes dinner time when mrs hill find appeared at the door of the back bedroom which she had ordered milly to make ready for the sewing it was to find miss malvina bennet rocking her best frizzed front and her black henrietta back and forth in front of the window with well simulated ease you're the seamstress inferred mrs hill briskly miss sir bennet our grocer told me of you you can make a plain morning gown i suppose

miss bennet gazed searchingly at the strange woman's tall stout figure over the top of her spectacles she saw at a glance that she was wearing a real linen hand-embroidered dress made up from an imported robe pattern she told herself cost fifteen ninety eight i shouldn't wonder aloud she said dryly i guess i could make out if i was to try i sold for the best people since i was fifteen miss deigness butthorn mrs rev pettibone and i have a pattern interrupted mrs hill which may serve to guide you miss bennett negligently indicated a pile of cordially illustrated fashion books he brought em along thinking likely you wouldn't have seen em she said loftily they're the latest from new york and paris all you got to do is pick and choose a picture you like to look on i don't need no panns i got my own system the dress is for my son's wife mrs walter hill you um i suppose mrs pettibone has spoken to you of mrs hill miss bennet shook her head her lips compressed to a thin line i don't never gossip she said decidedly in the shop or when i go out which ain't often and only to accommodate special like of course to you i ain't no news-gatherer anybody at knows me will tell you that mrs hill turned abruptly from the bureau drawl whose contents she was laying out upon a small table that is a very good rule for a seamstress to make for herself she said coldly tain't a bad one for other folks when it comes to that cackled miss bennet but i ain't what you call a seamstress i'm a regular dressmaker

Now, if you'll just bring the young lady here till I can get her measures, I can be drafted a patent. I don't like to let my time go to waste. Miss Bennet's head was tilted slightly to one side. She gazed aggressively at the woman in the hand-embroidered linen gown. For two cents, she told herself, I walked down them stairs and out the front door. She don't like my looks and she hates like poison to fetch the young woman where I can talk to her. Like enough, she's got something id, and she's trying desperate ard to pretend she ain't. She's a hard, selfish woman or I lose my guess. Oh, but maybe I've been sent.

Who knows? Allowed, she said briskly, can't do nothing till I take their measures. Mrs. Hill moved toward the door. I'll call my daughter, she said, her full dark eyes sweeping the little dressmaker with cold distaste. Left her herself, Miss Bennet took a leisurely survey of the materials laid out upon the bed and bureau, and her spirits rose. Anyhow, she ain't no way stingy, she said aloud, as she measured off breaths of thin blue stuff, lengths of embroidery, and noted approvingly the number of spools of silk, bolts of ribbon, and cards of buttons.

that goods'll make up real pretty and dressy once i get my shears into it ten minutes more passed happily in a search through the fashion-books in pursuit of what miss bennet called negligees these were numerous and attractive but the study of them polled after a while my stars alive exclaimed the little dressmaker indignantly that woman must think i'm working by the piece well she'll find she's good and mistaken when i go out special to accommodate it's by the day whether i set sewing or idle she tiptoed cautiously to the door and applied her ear to the keyhole no sound came from the passage without then she boldly opened the door i didn't make no contract to stay in this one room constant that i know of she muttered as she stepped out land I guess they clean for God I was here. Open doors to the right and left revealed bedrooms, into which breeze and sun streamed cheerfully. Miss Bennet's bird-like glance took swift note of snowy bed-linen

and the glistened of silver and ivory toilet articles as she stole hesitatingly toward the stair. She was thinking she'd find Millie. Millie would know. When suddenly, a voice from the hall belied, broke the silence. It was low and tense. Walter, Walter, what are you doing? What am I doing? What do you suppose? Reading a dreary novel as usual, came the reply in a man's drawling voice. Where is Sylvia? I left her here with you. I can't find her anywhere. You left her?

poor old girl. Isn't she to stroll in the garden even if she feels like? it? No. Not alone? You know, I never. Yes, I know. And see here, Mother, let me tell you, you're making a big mistake. You say she went out? When? Not ten minutes ago. Good Lord, Mother. One would think, go look for her. Quick, I say, take your horse. Miss Bennett beat a noiseless retreat at the sound of a hurried foot on the stare. She sat turning over the leaves of a fashion book by the window when Mrs. Hill appeared. The woman's large face wore a determined smile. "'Has you seen anything of young Mrs. Hill?' she asked.

Her eyes searching the room. "'I thought perhaps—' "'Oh, no, no, she ain't been here,' replied Miss Bennet. "'Maybe she's gone to a walk. "'I seen somebody in a pink dress a spell ago, cutting across the back, lot. It's nice and cool under the trees on a day like this. Mrs. Hill's plump hand sought her heart with an uncertain gesture. She sank down in a chair while a flood of dull purple swept over her pallid face.

It's very warm, she stammered thickly. I feel the heat. I guess you've been dashing round considerable looking for young Miss Hill, as it did Miss Bennett kindly. Why not let me and Millie go look for her? We're both of us light on our feet. Fleshy folks that wears their clothes too tight. The woman was staring at her dolly. Yes. Go quickly. You saw her. She had on a pink dress. I can't. Millie Orne dropped the spoon with which she was stirring some fragrant compound at Miss Bennet's first explanatory word. the dressmaker stood staring in amazement at the girl's swift flight in the direction she had indicated.

I want to know, cogitated Miss Bennett as she followed at a more leisurely pace, what in under the canopy can be the matter with that young Mrs. Hill to set everybody by the ears like that? She must be crazy or something. With due regards the black Henrietta cloth in which she was attired, Miss Malvina avoided. the fence at the rear of the old pasture.

There was a gate she knew farther on, and beyond the gate, a path leading through a daisied meadow. Well, I declare, she murmured. If I was free and idle to walk right out in the flowers like this, seems as all I'd be happy. I don't know when I'd been out in the real country like this, a walken. There were wild strawberries ripening in the meadow.

Miss Malvina could smell them. as she hurried along the path her black skirts swishing the tall grass on either side what i give to have on an old calico dress and weighed right into the grass a strawberry in she said to herself i ain't had a chance to do nothin like that since i ain't ha'n't a chance to do nothin like that since i can remember oh and wild strawberry shortcake with cream oh there was a glint of pink showing beside a big grey rock a dozen rods ahead miss malvina strained her faded eyes hopefully but it was only a wild rose in a glory of evernessent bloom around the shoulder of the hill was the placid pool known as eggleston's pond i wonder if she could have gone there pondered miss malvina and all unconsciously quickened her steps the water-lilies had been blow maybe maybe and now miss malvina caught the glint of blue water amid the soft green of willows crowding like eager children to the water's edge among the sturdy trunks of oaks and beeches and yes she saw a motionless blur of warm rose on the brink of the pond there was a big rock there shouldering boldly out into the pool and beneath its shadow the water lay deep and dark the little dressmaker stooped to gather a spray of wild roses her heart beating in her throat

i gotta be kind of careless as if i was out for pleasure and just running across her casual she told herself right no telling what's in that poor young creature's mind a settin there lonesome on the edge of that water but from what i see in a nerd already i should say she didn't have it none too pleasant to home what were the husband like that walter and a mar-in-law at miss bennet's approach the girl lifted dull abstracted eyes from her fixed contemplation of the pool but she did not speak oh good land cried miss malvina briskly you certainly have found a nice cool place to set down and rest ain't you it's real warm in the sun i s'pose you're young mrs hill my name is bennet miss malvina bennet and i come up from the village this morning a purpose to make a dress for you but come to take your measures we couldn't find you nowhere and your ma she says the girl hunched a sullen shoulder toward the loquacious little dressmaker her dark eyes again seeking the silent mysterious depths on whose brink she was crouching oh you won't mind if i sit down a minute to get cooled off will you continued miss melvina rather breathlessly i says to your mar-in-law i'll step out and cast my eye around i says she was all let up and excited i s'pose she kind of hated to see me a sitin there idle be the day at that but course i couldn't put my shears to the goods without i took your measures thinks i i bet that young lady's gone afterwards for lilies. Oh, wait, they handsome, though. Makes me think of a night-blooming cactus at Mrs.

Deaconess Scrimgear had one time. You ever see one? They call it serious, because it don't never open sect at night. But I think I like the day blooming flowers best. They're cheerful. There's a regular little sunburst in every one of them, lilies. Do you ever take notice? Oh, land. I wish I had a scow. We'd get some of them to take home. There used to be a fishing boat tied to the willows and t'other side, but I see it sunk to the bottom. The girl sighed uncertainly. It was a piteous sound, suggesting a spent sob. Miss Malvina put out her worn little hand and touched the girl gently. Now, you come on home with me, Miss is all, she said.

coaxingly and we'll make up their mans and goods into the prettiest dress we can find in the pictures there's a lady in colours on the outside cover it looks a lot like you i don't want any dress said the girl in a low smothered voice go away please and don't tell mother where i am miss malvina pushed back her best frizzed front from her forehead on which beads of perspiration were beginning to glisten it well if i do she said desperately like as not you'd get dizzy and fall in that there water it's awful deep right by that stone i know cause a boy got drownded there when i was a girl lad if i was filura rice oh eras twas twas she's mrs reverend pettibone now she'd know what to say she'd tell you cheerful about the all encircling good with everything you want in it ready to your hand if it's folks you want special or clothes and like that philura found her husband that way he was right there all the time being the pastor but he'd no more a thought of marrying filura rice and i'll stick to that to my dying day but believing the way she'd done sort of drawed him right to her he couldn't no more a help being drawed than a tat can help stick into one of these here magnums oh you know they're shaped like a horseshoe and painted red i got one to my house with nails hangin to it like they was glued the girl had turned and was staring wide-eyed you say she found her husband was he lost when where was he

miss malvina drew a deep breath we can be talking why we walk along she suggested cheerfully maybe somebody or other will come on a sudden if we set here any longer the girl rose obediently she seemed to have forgotten the dark lure of the water you'll have to go and see mrs petley bone for yourself went on melvina bennet ask her to tell you i don't rightly understand all there is to it but i nigh as i could make out the Reverend Pettybone he was in the encircling good everybody's in it you and me and your husband even your mar-in-law and though like enough she don't sense it most folks don't he was in it and for Laura being so to say alone in the world and kind of lonesome just drawed him to her by her thoughts it's enough to scare a body to think what they can do be just think and careless i says de flora i wouldn't dare to advertise for no man that way says i for fear he'd show up and i wouldn't like him when he come oh look there if that ain't your mar-in-law she sees us now you want to chirp right up don't go off no more by yourself when you get that new dress all made up stylish come down to the village and see mrs redden pettibone she's an awful interesting woman and she'll tell you out to get anything out of the atmosphere you want oh and say i passed the post-office on my way home i thought i'd mention it in case she was writing to any of your friends the older mrs hill was close upon them sylvia she cried her breath coming in great gasps sylvia the girl looked at her from under mutinous brows oh good-lid but

and mrs hill wasn't no need of your getting all that up ex postulated miss bennet i ain't going to charge your cent for the time i spent walking out me and young mrs ell enjoyed every minute of it didn't we mrs ill looking at the water-lies and all it was dusk with a glimmer of fireflies in the dark trees when miss malvina carrying a flat paper parcel hurried along the narrow road leading to the village she had done a good day's work she knew and in the pocket of her dress reposed a letter slipped unseen into her hand as she draped the runaway of the morning with becoming foals of the dark blue stuff i can finish this ear-dress to home in my shop she had explained to her new patron and i d'a-sight rather do it not relishin my vittlesette solitary off a tray like i was sick abad which thank the lord i'm well and expect to be d v as miss dekness buckthorne always says pious like i s'pose it stands for don't ventilate and i will say too many drafts ain't good for my new arrived at last under the glaring arc light which the enterprising citizens of innisfield had placed directly in front of the post-office miss malvina slowly drew the letter from her pocket if i was to give one look at the wrighton she reflected i couldn't no more elp's speaking of it than a sparack and elk chirpin so i guess i'll just shut my eyes whilst i a depressing sense of the irreparable swept over miss malvina as she slowly turned away after hearing the letter flopped smartly against the bottom of the official box

tain't human not to wonder who it's too she breathed i don't s'pose she'd ha cared a mite neither me'd takein an interest and like that anyway that mar-in-law of her and i'll never get her hands on to it's u s mail from now on and i done my best end of chapter seventeen chapter eighteen of the heart of filura by florence morse kingsley this librivox recording is in the public domain chapter eighteen wings of the morning there are nights in summer which are not meant to be wasted in sleep for a magical veil woven from moonlight and dew and the fragrance of a million flowers transfigures the prosaic world of late labour and sorrow into a place of wondrous delight. On nights like this, one who foregoes his sleep to wander forth into the enchanted land of fairy may see and hear much that is hid from the wise and prudent who tarry bedfast till daybreak. Under the roof of the old Eggleston house, Millian lay wide-eyed in her narrow bed. Outside her window in the topmost branches of a blossoming catalpa, a bird-scented.

sang drowsily sweet snatches of matins's song a pair of cat-birds were nesting there and the little brown father of the fledglings safely folded under the mother's breast waked and slept on his swinging bow and waked again in the broad light of the moon to ease his heart of its dream of love it must be near morning thought milly who had also slept fitfully being dimly aware of the moonlight flooding her dingy little room and and of the birdsong and fragrance beneath her window. She arose after a little, and bound her long hair about her head. If at nightfall she had felt weariness and the leaden desire to sleep, both had vanished, leaving her wondrous strong and light of heart. She thought with sudden longing of the garden Grandfather Orne had pridefully laid out for Grandmother back in the 50s.

It had been sadly neglected in Millie's absence, lusty weeds flaunting their coarse leaves in the queer old-fashioned rounds and squares sacred to the delicate blossoms of bluebells lilies and sweet williams it would soon be daylight thought milly but surely the night was her own to do with as she willed and so almost before she was aware of her resolution she had passed softly through the sleeping-house and out into the magical night high in the bridle white of his chamber the bird trilled softly while half hid in the unshorn grass dew drenched sprays of honeysuckle and roses yielded their perfume as the girl's light garments brushed past them like a spirit she flitted down the long avenue of trees unaware of following eyes as wakeful as her own the two old people lay heavily asleep in their bedroom next to the kitchen milly paused under their window propped open a hand's breath and listened smiling to the raucous concert of their breathing the old dog had roused from his mat on the doorstep with a smothered bark only to whine and fondle the hand held out to him perhaps he was well used to seeing a sweet young ghost flitting among the flowers of a moonlight night for he retreated to his place and lay down his wise old head on his paws his eyes which saw things not to be uttered or understood following the movements of the girl it was no easy task to distinguish between the coarse textured leaves of encroaching weeds and the rightful denizens of the garden beds

the moon swinging half-way between zenith and horizon shed only a mystic half-light over the sleeping garden to her vexation milly perceived that she had rooted up more than one of the thrifty four o'clock fox and petunias their velvet cups close shut against the dew after all toil belonged to the day and in this old garden asleep and breathing perfume there were no weeds the magic of the moonlight had touched them all with beauty so milly trod the worn paths her feet making no sound on the soft earth her hands caressing the nodding blossoms and her fresh lips brushing the dew from their petals while the moon swung lower in the west, and along the eastern horizon, a faint glow dim and mystical as the heart of a sleeping rose betrayed the dawn. Then all at once the birds awoke, with soft twitters and half-uttered trills, nestlings began to cry weakly for food, thrusting callow heads against the shielding breasts that brooded them. The old dog rose from his mat, yawned, turned thrice around, and lay down again, his wise head on his paws, his yellow eyes following the girl's light figure,

or was it merely the familiar ghost which always vanished at daybreak? Millie had gained the road, her hands filled to overflowing with flowers, her thoughts as wild and free as the birds flitting overhead in the blended light of dawn and dying moon. She felt no fear, and but little wonder, when at the turn of the road, she met him what a night he sighed and you you're not a mortal woman i swear but a spirit i think i'm afraid milly looked at him gravely what is a mortal she asked and what is a spirit and why should one be afraid as you say of either hard questions those he made answer yet it comes to me that i am also a spirit and meeting thus neither of us should be afraid of the other and whether it was the magic of the hour or the pleading in his dark eyes seeking hers milly felt neither fear of him nor shame which is more cruel than fear

if in truth he went on you and i were not mortals but spirits i might say many things to you and you would listen i will listen said milly eager as a moth at the lip of a flower well then i have been unhappy being bound with a hateful chain which after all is not a chain but a silken web spun in secret out of fear and pride i was asleep when the chain was laid on me but now i am awake and i see that i must break it for your sake and my own the girl turned her glorified face toward him the rose of dawn upon it if i should pretend that i do not understand you she said slowly it wouldn't be the truth milly he cried you know that i love you yes she breathed i know and i love you but when being mortal and a man he would have clasped and kissed her she drew away regarding him over the mass of flowers she held against her breast her face in the light of the living dawn gravely sweet as that of an angel there is the chain she said it lies between us have i not said it is not a chain he cried but a web of lies it shall not separate us i am not but she halted the words on his lips with a look there are others to be thought of she reminded him and he groaned aloud but not for always he said not for ever milly milly and now the moon had altogether vanished from behind them and its magic light lost in the flood of honest day which streamed full in their young faces the girl looked at him steadfastly we've both forgotten many things she said sadly

it's not possible to unsay words once they're spoken i would to god it were it is not possible he echoed and thank god it's not possible and with that name upon his lips took her hand in both his own and stooping kissed it with all reverence milly he said whether you believe me or not i have done you no wrong to me she breathed you've done no wrong but to another and to another i have done no wrong i swear it i will tell you everything and you shall judge but at that she cried out tell me nothing she entreated just let me go she was only a woman trembling and terror smitten now that the hour of her exultation was past. Let me go, she wailed. Why did you come out to meet me? As before, he did not attempt to follow, but stood watching her with troubled eyes

till the last light flutter of her garments vanished on the green hillside. I'm a fool, he said aloud, and smote his clenched fist in his palm. For a long time thereafter, he lay prone upon his face among the fern, thinking the long, long thoughts of youth, which in truth take wings of the morning from deeps of black despair

to heights dreamed of but never quite attained. And yet, it is good to fly. End of chapter 18. Chapter 19 of the heart of Philora by Florence Morse Kingsley. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 19. Grandma Orne speaks her mind. Grandma Orne sat under the shelter of her small porch, looking out with patient, faded eyes over the old garden,

where long spikes of hollyhock and foxglove swayed gently in the light breeze. It was nearing the hour of sunset, and a warm yellow light brooded the garden and touched the tops of the apple trees with gold. outside the palings lost in vines and luxuriant garlands of honeysuckle the road thick with dust wound away towards the hills the old woman had been sewing carpet rags and a big basket filled with the party-coloured balls stood at her side in the rocking-chair beside her grandfather had fallen asleep his head thinly covered with wisps of white hair bent sideways from his half-closed lips the breath escaped in little puffs varied by an occasional snorting whistle grandmother glanced at him indulgently almost condescendingly she never slept in the daytime presently she got up from her chair and walked slowly to the gate her lips moving soundlessly she was thinking of milly and of the fact that for more than a week the girl had not visited the cottage i'd like you know what she's a-doing she said to herself if she don't come up to-night i guess i'll have to go up there and see her thoughts reverted to the hills evening dinners with rising indignation it's all them outy fiddles to get ready she muttered meat and potatoes and such at night ain't good for nobody make some fractious like too much oats wood a horse if she's

She'd have said in the beginning she wasn't used to know such nonsense. I guess that woman would a give in. The lad's love, petunias and Mignonette growing luxuriantly in their humble beds, gave out sweet odours as the old woman's skirt brushed past. She came to the gate presently, and leaning upon it, hooked up and down the dusty road, with a submissive eyes of age, no longer eagerly expectant of anything. The sun was about to disappear behind a bank of purple cloud,

massed solidly upon the horizon, like distant mountains. Mrs. Orne gazed at it with silent disapproval. Then her eyes travelled slowly to the roof of the old house. Part of the blackened shingles had already been replaced with new, but there was a large patch where the stripped rafters lay open to the sky. Didn't I warn, grandpa, over and over, not to let us. them boys rip off one more shingle than they was ready to lay she muttered wrathfully and grandpa he says to me you go in and tend to your knitting mother he says let some of them men folk come round the place and it's wonderful how smart knowing grandpa does get all of a sudden seems like they kind o encourage each other in foolishness well if it sets in for a good steady rain come to-morrow maybe grandpa will wish he'd

Listen to me. She turned her back on the threatening sunset to gaze once more toward the bend in the road, where her granddaughter's slim figure had so often appeared on its way to the cottage. There were two figures there now, vaguely outlined against the parched growths of midsummer. The old woman strained her dim eyes upon them. Looks like Millie. There's somebody else. Might be Will Craddock.

He gets down this way, sometimes. sometimes oh no tain't will he ain't so tall no who can it be she's talking to him turning her face up to him like a flower she's got that same pretty way of looking out her eyes as our milly had awful sweet and innocent oh she don't know no more on her baby i never told her maybe i ought to a told her no that ain't anybody i ever see before unless my grief it's that feller has rides past here on a brown horse him that lives there but he's married the two were close at hand now walking slowly mrs orne her small bent figure half concealed in the shadow of a lilac bush peered out at them fearfully she saw that milly was looking down her face pale in the yellow lights that flared up from behind the sullen cloud bank in the west, and that the man's tall head was bent. He was talking to her in low, urgent tones.

You believe me, don't you, Millie? The old woman heard him say. The girl, looking up suddenly, caught sight of the pale, watchful face behind the gate. She waved her hand in greeting. "'It's grandmother,' she said hurriedly. "'No, don't wait, please!' But Mrs. Orne had stepped. outside her old eyes flaming you seem to got pretty well acquainted with my granddaughter she said staring fixedly at the tall young man he stopped short hat in hand how could i help it he said smiling you don't mind i hope mrs orme

yes i do mind you got the same nice way with you i seen that before now but being a married man i didn't think to warn me against you. Grandmother, protested the girl. The old woman turned fiercely upon her. Go in those, she commanded. I got a word to say to him. I know his nice, smooth-spoken kind.

Go in, I say. The girl cast a proud glance at the man as she passed in at the gate, and he smiled reassuringly at her. Mrs. Orne watched her granddaughter her as she trod lightly between the borders of sweet-smelling flowers. Then she faced the young man, who stood regarding her perplexedly. You was trying to make her believe something, she said sharply.

What was it? Why, really, Mrs. Orne, he protested. Have you been making love to Millie? Answer me straight. He stared at her. His dark brows gathered over his troubled eyes. I haven't said anything. I'm not willing to stand by, he broke out after a prolonged pause.

I'll tell you that much. Oh, I ought to be obliged to you for your kindness, I suppose, sneered the old woman. Maybe your wife could tell me what sort of a man you are. He moved away a few steps. Permit me to say good-night, he murmured. Come back here, cried Mrs. Orne, stamping her foot. her usually mild good-tempered face was distorted with fury and she seized him by the wrist i'm a going to tell you something about milly she hissed in his ear and she don't know it no more'n a baby i never meant she should she's grown up here along all of us just like one of them poses sweet and innocent and good and i wanted she should stay so i wanted she'd marry

a good honest man take care of her when we was dead and gone lord tears rushed into the fierce old eyes and she raised her apron to wipe them away mrs orne he began slowly i wish you would believe me when i say believe you she cried shrilly believe you i won't believe a fellow like you with your hand on the bible her mother was fooled into believing a nice good-looking smooth-spotten chap like you and what she get for it her heart broke in too shame and black looks and a grave i can show it to ye over there in the cemetery that's what she got for believing and you suppose i'm going to let little milly all we got left in the world do you think for a minute i'm going to let little milly all we got left in the world do you think for a minute i'm going to say stand back polite and fearful of my betters the way you expect an old woman like me to leave you to tromp her down in the mud you gotta go past me first he drew a hard breath and squared his young shoulders look here he said under his breath you've had your say and now i'll have mine this is a devilish world i'm beginning to think but i he stopped short, his teeth set hard on his nether lip. I'm waiting to hear, scoffed the old woman.

I wish you'd take a good look at me, he broke out desperately. You'd taken a lot for granted that isn't true. You aren't fair. Something in his boyish voice touched her. She took him by both arms and turned him towards the waning sunset light. Maybe I've said too much, she mumbled. Maybe she peered up at him straining to her tiptoes, her withered hands gripping the lapels of his coat. He submitted to her inspection, his angry, honest eyes staring down at her.

Don't tell her what you told me, he begged. Oh God, it's too brutal. His voice broke and the old woman suddenly released him. Maybe I said too much, she repeated humbly. I'm awful feared of strangers. I'm awful feared. You needn't be afraid of me, he said roughly. But you won't tell her.

She shook her head, mumbling wordlessly to herself. What hurt her you think? Yes, you're right. She's like one of them tall poses in the garden. Say, you wouldn't tromp a white flower in the mud, would you? she heard his sharp drawn breath saw the blood leave his dark face you wouldn't she begged all the fury gone out of her tremulous old voice me and grandpa set an awful storeby milly she's all we got left and you wouldn't do nothing to hurt her don't he groaned for god's sake don't he turned and strode away his feet making no sound in the thick dust of the road from behind the solid rampart of cloud the last gleam of yellow light shot upward flickered and faded milly bent a troubled questioning gaze on her grandmother as the old woman hobbled slowly into view around the corner of the house

mrs orne made a pretence of gathering some fallen bits of cloth from the floor of the porch ah is it's going to rain grandpa she said raising her voice i told you twad this morning and all them shingles ripped off rain scoffed grandpa tain't goin to rain just to spite me the lord don't care of cutting out what you told me this morning grandpa on you better be careful the way you talk we ain't no more an chaff in the mill race ready to be swept away lord lord her voice rang out in a shrill crescendo oh don't holler so ma protested the old man me a milly ain't Diff, be we, Millie. The girl was looking up anxiously at the sky and the dismantled roof. I'm afraid it is going to rain, she said. And the roof? Oh, it's open right over your bedroom.

You'll have to move to the other side. I'll help you, Grandma. And then I must get back before it's dark. I ain't going to let you go back no more, Millie. You've been gone long enough. Me and Grandpa needs you. the girl had risen from her seat on the doorstep we'll move the bed into the kitchen she said then i must go her face with its clear pure outlines shone like a pearl in the dusk of the little bedroom as she began to strip off quilts and pillows did you hear what i said to you asked mrs orne almost timidly or was you thinking about about something else i heard you grandmother

but i can't leave them now without warning it wouldn't be right both women were silent taking refuge from each other's questioning eyes in the task of taking down the old bedstead and carrying it to the kitchen if only grandpa ha'n't been so brash uttered mrs orne i warned him not to let the boys rip off the shingles reckless the way they done but he's so set in his ways grandpies poor is. Millie smiled absent-mindedly as she spread the coarse sheets over the straw mattress. Poor grandfather, she murmured. Poor grandfather! echoed Mrs. Orne sharply. Whatever makes you say that? The body would think I was crazy. I guess I got some sense. I can see through a millstone with hole in it as good as an X one. I don't want you should go back there. You've been there too long or

ready. Millie's lids drooped. Why, why did you speak to Mr. Hill the way you did? She asked rather breathlessly. Why should he be talking to you? That's what I want to know. Why should he be a walking alongside of you bending his head down like he was, you was, and him a married man? The girl stooped and laid her cool, fresh cheek against the withered one. There was mute appeal, mute confession.

in a fleeting caress. But the old woman, all her fears, once more aroused and clamoring, perceived nothing. Well, you got me awful careful, a strange man, honey,

she stammered. He looks nice, I know, but you don't want to believe nothing he says to you. I never liked to tell you how dreadful wicked some folk is.

Seems too bad to spoil all your pretty white thoughts. oh but honey sometimes nice smooth spoken folks will tell the blackest lies may god reward em according to their works but grandmother oh yes honey yes you're going to tell me you know i eat better and i do young folks all just think that an old woman like grandma what can she know that's what comes into your mind you can't help it it's nature i guess to believe the world's made over new for every generation but it ain't oh lord no things goes on about the same you won't believe nothing he tells you will you milly the girl made no answer through the open window came the distant mutter of thunder and grandfather's grumbling monotone as he gathered up his garden tools dra the rain as are comin sure and me a thinkin by the feeling in my bones twas set fair for another two weeks looks like grandma had scared it up just to spite me milly dropped a light kiss on top of the old woman's cap don't worry about me grandma she murmured i'm not so foolish and ignorant as you seem to think i'll be careful

she was gone the next instant mrs orne heard the gate slam shut behind her and her husband's voice upraised in shrill warning of the approaching storm oh lord she quavered i can't see an inch in front of my face maybe you know about that fellow i don't it does look like there want no use of praying you know you didn't live a finger to save our Millie, unless letting her die was saving her. We don't know nothing about what comes after. And even if it's all pearls and gold up there and folks flying round with wings and wearing crowns and a playing on arps, it don't seem to do us much good.

If you don't take care of little Millie, I don't care for no harp nor no wings. They wouldn't comfort me none. Don't lay up again her low. that i ain't prayed for so long maybe you wouldn't blame me none if you was to realise what i'd been through oh lord lord a broad flash of lightning illumined the darkened the darkened room and the bent old figure rocking back and forth distractedly on the edge of the bed why in creation don't you light the lamp ma' demanded grandfather's wrathful voice from the door here i be an knocking my shins up against them plagued chairs and i tipped something over out there i dunno what it was but i kind of sense things are rolling off on to the ground my balls a carpet rags exclaimed grandmother brought suddenly back to earth oh land if i ever did see such a man in the dim light of the kerosene lamp the two old people

gazed anxiously at each other. Some folks are going to get catched in this year's shower, quothed grandfather. I hope it won't be Millie. Oh, she can run like a streak. She'll get there before a crash of thunder

drowned the words. And then followed rain, rain beating upon the new shingles overhead, and dripping through the stark rafters above the empty bedroom. Mrs. Orne moved slowly across, the floor. It won't hurt her nun to get wet, she said, musingly. Tain't that that's a worry in me. The lightning's enough to frighten anybody, quavered

grandfather. I'm afraid the little girl gets scared of the thunder. Hmm. Well, it's good for girls to get scared once in a while, muttered grandmother darkly. If that's all I was afraid of, oh lord lord end of chapter nineteen chapter twenty of the heart of filura by florence moors kingsley this librivox recording is in the public domain chapter twenty at the parsonage the solemn rush of the wind in the evergreens came soothingly through the open windows of the minister's study where mrs pettibone arrayed in dust-cap and apron was once more guiltily busy in a surreptitious but no less searching and drastic eradication of dust and debris mr pettibone had denied himself excursions to boston of late that he might cultivate the parsonage vegetable garden and in his visitations to the sick and sinful of his parish he had quite properly insisted upon his wife's company you're looking tired my dear he said kindly you need the fresh air and quiet of these country drives but on this particular saturday morning when he had been unexpectedly called to leave his unfinished sermon for a funeral some miles distant, she had declined to accompany him. Mrs Wessels, she explained, had asked leave to wash of a Saturday this week.

The minister frowned. That woman is always in the way, he said, with entire injustice. Why not let her wash if she wants to and you come with me? It's a lovely day. We'll take our lunch, eat it on the way, and be home in time for supper. She shook her head. with the gentle stubbornness he was beginning to know the prospect of a combined picnic and funeral unique though it was and did not blind her to the advantage of a long day in which to work her will upon the parsonage unhampered by his presence he kissed her good-bye hastily at last then spoke words of strong encouragement and exhortation to the protesting old horse who was it appeared perfectly aware of the day of the week and the elie

legal nature of a proceeding which had removed him from a leisurely rumination of hay and equine thoughts during a morning sacred to leisure at the moment of his departure the gate clicked to admit the figure of mrs wessels unnaturally bulky in her wash-day attire concealed from the public eye by a voluminous skirt of rusty black mrs wessels was found to be overflowing with explanations and apologies as she removed the outer layers of her costume. As I says to Wessels, Miss Pettibone won't mind, I says. It's all one to her whether I come a Saturday or a Monday. There's always dirty clothes in the parsonage to be washed, I says.

Oh, not that your wash is any dirtier than other folks, but go where you will in this year world. You're sure to find dirt to be swept and clothes to be washed. Now, ain't that so? And the method is picnic comes a Tuesday this year. so I promised the children I'd wash their clothes on a Monday so as they can go. Oh yes, Mrs. Petbone, the children go to your Sunday school mornings at 9.30 and the Methodist Sunday school at 12 o'clock,

and when I can get them started, to the Baptist Sunday school at 4 p.m. Oh, yes, hmm, I want them to be able to judge fair and square as to which religion's best. Georgie, he likes the Methodist. There's something kind of hearty and free and easy to the Methodist, his church, Georgie says, and Marie is Bell, likes your church best, so I guess Marie will be a Presbyterian, all right. She says she ain't got no special reason, and I guess it would be hard to find one as I tell her par. But he says, let her be ma'er, we won't stand in her way, he says. Wessles is real interested in religion, for all he ain't darkened the doors of a church

in 15 years. Wessels favours the Baptists. He says it stands to reason a body that had lived wicked ought to be put right in under the water when it comes to baptising em but the children's all been sprinkled already that ought to do some good i says special when they're little and ain't got much hair but brandy she took a notion all by herself when she was about twelve to be episcopal i thought i should die brandy wessles i says there ain't none of our folks nor your pars either ever been piscapulls and what in under the canopy you want off them i says or the piscapables is stylish ma she says and they pronounce their words sir nice and the prayers is all wrote out she says so you know before and just how long they're going to be so mirandy she's a pisgapal i don't know there's anything really wrong in it but i'm going to do up her white dress so she can go to the methodist picnic a tuesday on with the under children georgie he says he's lutton to save mirandy yet like a brand pluck from the burning he learned that to the methodist sunday school oh and the way he gets it off with mirandy turning up her nose at him makes me think he ought to be a preacher be rights wesels he says georgie can be a local just as well as not and if he starts in when he's ten he can be a prodigy he's eight now my george is and if he ain't cut out to be a prodigy i don't know who is well i guess i'd better knock on one or longer that it's a lot safer when you've gone and bragged that away about your children it might save em from goodness knows what it was when mrs pettibone had succeeded at length in stemming the tide of this jordan that she found the rush of the wind in the evergreens so excurs

exquisitely soothing. Other sounds reached her from afar, an intermittent rattle and creak of wagon wheels, the shouts of children at play, a soulless performance on the patent piano player across the street, the discordant quarrelling of sparrows about the eaves, and from the kitchen, happily distant, the voice of Mrs Wessels, upraised in tuneful exhortation, timed to a deliberate rubbing of the minister's wristbands on the corrugated surface of the wall. washboard. Pull for the shore, sailor, pull for the shore. Philora Pettibone endeavored conscientiously to keep her thoughts from hovering about the photograph, hidden from view between the leaves of the inky blotter on her husband's writing table. But as she dusted the minister's commentaries and

theologies in due sequence of their picturesque but no less disturbing disorder, her blue eyes wandered thither at lessening intervals. She wondered vaguely why he had not chosen to protect it by a frame, and set it atop his table in plain view. She would have liked, she hoped, to see it there. She might even have ventured to speak of it to him, but its concealment suggested a secret, unassuaged grief, not to be shared with another, not even, nay rather more particularly not, with herself. She pictured his face as it must have looked when he placed the photograph in its secure, as he no doubt supposed, hiding-place. For another to have seen it, even by accident, was like pushing aside, without sanctifying unction of sacred oil, the shielding veil from

before the Holy of Holies. After a little, she ventured to dust the blotter, her fingers light and hesitating, as one might touch the dead. His half-written, sermon lay open to her view she stooped and read then too the memory of those who have outstripped us in the race passing into the life more abundant cheers us in our unending struggle after goodness and purity and truth we could not indeed bear to think often of those lost angel faces were we not faithful to the vision which is vouchsafed to us at intervals like spaces of sunlit blue glimpsed through riven cloud she thought he must have looked at the picture before writing those words perhaps his lips which had kissed hers so carelessly at the moment of parting had pressed that exquisite pictured mouth with its half-smiling wholly wistful curve the minister had shut himself into his study for more than an hour that morning before starting for his distant appointment she fancied him pale and graver than his wont when he finally emerged in answer to her summons then a sudden distressful wonder fell upon her was the picture still there or had he taken it away with him folded close against his heart in the breast-pocket of his best preaching coat her fingers trembled in their swift search she drew a deep breath of relief the picture was in its place she wished passionately that he would have it copied large and hung upon the wall like the crayon portrait of the first mrs gust bogus but how could she bear the searching gaze of those dark eyes more particularly when engaged as at present in an overt act of disobedience she felt sure that the first mrs pettibone would never sweep and dust the study in defiance of his wishes nor indeed any room in the parsonage

mary pettibone was not she reminded herself that kind of a woman somebody she thought it was mrs deacon scrimger had once said in her hearing that the minister's wife was a slack housekeeper. There had been a hired girl in the parsonage in those days, who even, it was whispered, made the bed the minister's wife slept in till ten o'clock of a morning. She took the picture from its hiding place and stared at it hungrily. Then, quite deliberately, as one who has cast silly scruples to the wind, she crossed the room to the little mirror with its cheap mockery of scones and candles. the mirror was a wedding gift from her sunday school class she had put it there herself so that the minister might set his necktie straight and push back the unruly lock from his forehead the last thing of a sunday morning the mirror told no comforting lies it gave back to the second mrs pettibone a small pale face its forehead faintly lined beneath silvered waves of abundant hair blue eyes under vaguely marked brows and a mouth was a mrs pettibone a small pale face its forehead faintly lined beneath silvered waves of abundant hair blue eyes under vaguely marked brows and a mouth was a mouth was a

little beauty of curve or sensuous colour. Feature by feature, she compared it with the faded loveliness of the photograph. You've no right to expect much, she told herself relentlessly. You are only to peace out with. Didn't you know that? Yes, you did know it. You ought to be thankful for the chance to work for him. To cook his food and mend his clothes. Yes, and clean his study so that he won't know it has been cleaned so absorbed was the second mrs pettibone in these bittersweet reflections that she did not hear mrs wessel's trampling footsteps in the passage but she started violently at the sound of that philosophical lady's voice at the door well i declare you must be getting diff i heard the doorbell ring a couple of times and thinks i whatever can mrs pettibone be doing not to hear that bell and at last I come myself. It's a lady to see you mum. I put her in the parlour. My, ain't this room a sight, with the books and all. I'll whirl in and finish putting it to rights if you say so.

You don't want, I should. All right. But there ain't anybody knows how to do for him better than I do, having worked here Constance since his first wife died. Yes, I put the company in the parlour. mrs wessels came quite inside and closed the door behind her it's a young lady from the old eggleston place she said confidentially i washed up there a couple of times before milly orn come to work for em lond you ain't never seen such clothes all lace and embroidery fussed up to beat the band my yes i knowed her the minute i opened the door She's in the parlour, a setting in the plush chair by the window. Mrs Pettibone slipped the photograph inside her blouse as she crossed the hall. Mrs Wessel still lingered, her lean head craned forward on its long neck, with the obvious intent of witnessing the meeting between the two women.

The girl was sitting very straight and still on the edge of her chair. Mrs. Pettibone, in the act of closing the door, quietly but firmly, behind her was startled by the look at once eager and despairing on her young face perhaps you don't remember me the girl said as she rose i am or you saw me oh yes i remember you very well the minister's wife hastened to reassure her visitor you're mrs walter hill from the farm i'm very glad you're mistaken i am not mrs walter hill the girl said in a low hard voice she had thrown back her head with its heavy braids and her eyes were defiant you're not faltered mrs pettibone overcome by a sudden recollection of the older woman's words she has a delusion she thinks another man is her husband oh i see what you're thinking i suppose mother told you i was insane she treated me as if she thought i was all along

i don't see why i'm not won't you sit down mrs pettibone suggested nervously we can talk better that way already she'd forgotten the picture hidden in her blouse you will let me talk to you the sewing woman i don't know her name said you would she said you could help me oh murmured the minister's wife moving her fingers uncertainly you must mean malina bennett she told me she was going to work for you i meant to drown myself that day the girl said quite simply and with as little concern as though she had mentioned a trip to the city she did not appear to notice the other woman's start of fear and amazement i'd been to the edge of that pool often and often and tried she went on but somehow i couldn't i suppose i kept hoping something would happen but that morning i just knew nothing would life would go on getting more and more unbearable until so i ran all the way meaning to jump in and have it over with before mother found out i was gone she'd watch me for months night and day but walter didn't notice i don't suppose he cared i shouldn't in his place i shouldn't in his place But my dear, your husband. I told you, Walter isn't my husband.

He's my brother. She drew a deep, half-suffocated breath, like that of an exhausted swimmer. There, she sighed, I've told. You wouldn't have guessed, would you? Mother said no one would guess if Walter and I played our parts. But we couldn't play our parts so very well. But mother, you see, she didn't believe me when I told her I was married.

And so, my dear, interrupted Mrs. Pettibone, trembling violently against the back of the haircloth sofa. Do you think you ought to tell me all this? Wouldn't your mother? She felt suddenly weak and ill, and her voice trailed off faintly into silence under the girl's black gaze. then it isn't true the girl broke out sharply that woman told me a lie because she was afraid everybody's told me lies the inarticulate despair in her young voice struck hard against the older woman's pitiful cowardice well what did malvina bennet tell you about me faltered mrs pettibone she said you knew how to find people who were lost she said you found your husband that way in the all encircling good but it was a lie and i told you for nothing well she looked down quietly at the floor thinking perhaps of the dark piece of the pool by the rock philura pettibone felt the sharp corner of the photograph prick her thin breast it seemed to rouse her to a faint realisation of the tragedy under that still face

it was not a lie she said weakly it is true but one forget sometimes i did only this morning after a little while she added with an effort i will do all i can to help you the girl looked at her searchingly do you mean that it's true about the all encircling good i don't know what that means but i've said it over and over to myself and somehow it made me feel i wanted to see you her voice was choked none of us can know what the all encircling good really is mrs pettibone said in a low hesitating voice it means god everywhere present knowing all things i'm not religious the girl said coldly i never liked church she arose and drew her scarf about her shoulders i might have known it was only that or i wish i hadn't oh put it down to my insanity and she laughed aloud as she walked towards the door mrs pettibone stared at the girl aghast her back rigid against the haircloth sofa her hands seeking her heart instinctively again she felt the slight prick of the hidden picture the girl still smiling drearily to herself was about to pass out mrs pettibone watched her fingers close upon the door-nob like one in a painful dream and then all at once she sprang up alert alive you are not going she cried until i've told you what is it you want the girl turned with a queer jerky movement of her head

what do i want she repeated what do i want why should i tell you mrs pettibone took the girl's limp hand and held it tightly as if she feared to let go you must come back and sit by me on the sofa i shall not let you go away without telling me the girl sat down with a sullen acquiescence of a child accustomed to yield to a superior will you will tell me urged mrs pettibone the girl made no answer her eyes were set drearily upon the opposite wall where hung a cheap copy of the huguenot lovers if you want anything anything the gentle voice went on it is yours already it will come to you whatever it is because well you wouldn't want it you couldn't if god didn't want you to have it god is good he loves you he knows everything she felt the girl's hand tremble violently within her own i want stephen she whispered i want him and she burst into heart and she burst into heart wracking sobs. Stephen, Stephen, she moaned. You didn't mean to leave me without a word.

You couldn't. All at once she dried her eyes and sat up. I'm going to tell you everything, she said. I must. You will believe me. But she lapsed into silence, staring before her at the picture of the tall lover and the girl within his clasp.

Stephen looks something. like that man in the picture, she said after a long minute. He was that much taller than me. Her lips fell apart like a child. He did look something like that, she repeated wonderingly. And after a pause, she added, I had a photograph of him, but Mother found it and took it away. She said I ought to be ashamed. She said he was poor and common-looking, and that I might have known. Mrs Pettibone sat very still. Within her blouse she was conscious of the picture. She felt very much ashamed of herself

and the realisation forced hot blood upward into her face. The girl glanced at her uncertainly. We were married, she said, by a regular minister, but I didn't know the minister's name and he didn't give me any paper. He said he would send it to Stephen afterward. but he went away and so mrs pettibone sighed she didn't know how to ask questions skilfully but she felt that the girl needed help in telling her story you mean the minister went away she suggested timidly and without giving you a certificate that was very careless of him but there should have been other papers the licence and the bureau of vital statistics surely oh no the girl shook her head the minister didn't go away not that i know of i meant stephen he went west two weeks after we were married he had an opening and as soon as he made good that's what he called it he was going to send for me

but he didn't i never heard from him i'm afraid something was something happened two big tears escaped from her eyes and rolled swiftly down her haggard young face sometimes i wish i was sure he is dead oh my dear protested mrs pettibone all the alertness and aliveness of which she had been so vividly conscious but a moment before seemed to have deserted her i'm sure i hope not she added gazing at the girl in a flutter of sympathy and alarm if he was dead the girl went on gloomily i shouldn't be afraid of that other of what mother thinks that's too horrible her voice had sunken almost to a whisper what what does mrs hill mrs pettibone attempted to ask the words seemed caught in her throat the girl laughed harshly that's part of the play she said ah no name isn't Hill, but it makes no difference. I'm afraid I don't understand, murmured the minister's wife, and she was not indeed an astute woman. Perhaps the girl was insane. A little fear crept into her mind as she reflected that she was alone with this big, strong young woman. The girl stared at

her from undergathered brows. Her eyes were hard once more. If he's dead, i shall never hear from him perhaps mother is right after all i oughtn't to have told he isn't dead said mrs pettibone without premeditation she could have given no reason for the sudden strong conviction which surged up within her he isn't dead she repeated the girl drew a deep breath then why why doesn't he write to me why didn't he at first you can see how terrible it was for me when i found well i didn't know when he went away he didn't know but when mother oh it was awful she said i must take her to the minister's house but i couldn't find it we went one night to be married quite suddenly it was somewhere a good ways from our house and i didn't notice then mother said i'd been deceived she said stephen was a bad man there are bad men like that she said she wondered why he left me at home i told her it was only till he made good and then she laughed she laughed have you written to him as the minister's wife only twice mother watched me watched the males she said she would save me in spite of myself she means to take me to europe afterwards she thinks no one will know and that i'll forget she says i shall have my coming out party just the same

the girl sprang to her feet as if the small low-ceilinged room stifled her i must go she said if he is alive you think pray for him to come back to you whispered mrs pettibone her small childish face upturned to the girl's stately young height pray and believe that he will come believe it will bring him back to you from the uttermost the uttermost parts of the earth he went west the girl said vaguely she was looking at the picture of the huguenot lovers he couldn't be bad and look like that she said in a low meditative form voice. He was good. I know he was good. I couldn't have loved him. Could I, if he was what mother said? She walked slowly to the door. Walter brought me, she said. I asked mother if I might go out to drive with Walter and she was pleased. She wanted me to go before, but I wouldn't. She thought people ought to see us together, but we both hated it. Now, well, Walter is kinder than at first. He said I might come in and talk to you. Tell you if it would

make me feel any better. She opened the door. I'm going to try, she said, looking back over her shoulder with a faint smile. I think I shall pray every minute. And believe, added Mrs. Pettibone. You must expect him soon. Is that what you did? The girl asked. piteously mrs pettibone nodded and seemed unable to speak i shall try the girl repeated humbly pray and believe pray and believe oh i did believe but it's hard now mrs pettibone watched her as she went slowly away in front of the house was a low carriage she saw the young man she had known as walter hill step out and help the girl to a seat within then the carriage rolled away down the street when she turned to go in she found mrs wessel standing behind her in the hall her thin red arms akimbo her eyes fixed upon the rapidly receding vehicle well now i never murmured that astute lady he handed her in real nice didn't he for all i mistrusted he wasn't no great shakes of her husband when i was there to wash he was out a carenen around a-and-a-rean-rein-a-house and he was out a carean around on that horse is most all the day and she are walking out in the yard all by her lonesome and mine law watching her out the window like a cat with a mouse but i seed men that away before

there's queer critters the best on em now ain't that so i suppose you ain't realised it past one o'clock mrs pettibone when the whistles blowed for the third time i come in the orle but you was both busy with your talk so i just helped myself to whatever i could find being kind of worn out with a rubbin the teapots on the stove and I left a piece of pie for you but mrs. Pettibone did not at once avail herself of Mrs. Wessel's kindness instead she went back into the minister's study and closed the door behind her I ought to be ashamed of myself she said aloud to the silence which seemed all at once tolerant of her weakness and kind to the point of forbearance I am ashamed. Having made her small confession thus,

she took the picture from her blouse and slipped it back between the leaves of the blotter. If you're alive, she whispered, and can see, perhaps you will understand. End of Chapter 20. Chapter 21 of the Heart of Filura by Florence Morse Kingsley. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 21 The Confession

The Minister came home from the funeral that afternoon rather earlier than he expected. Rufus, he stated, referring to the Sorrel Horse, had travelled well on the way home. Mrs Pettibone recalled that it was the habit of Rufus to travel well when headed toward his manger. I hope, said the Minister, looking narrowly at her, you haven't been working too hard during my absence. "'Oh, no,' denied Mrs. Pettibone, casting down her eyes. "'There wasn't much to do.' From his ignorant, masculine viewpoint,

there was never much to do in the parsonage. How could there be, with only the two of them? Nevertheless, he continued to gaze at her, a puzzled look in his kindly eyes. "'Has anyone been here?' he asked. Mrs. Pettibone appeared to reflect. her eyes still avoiding his yes she said with visible reluctance that young woman from the eggleston house indeed cried the minister that is encouraging i was hoping we might get some hold upon them they seem rather unusual people yes murmured mrs pettibone they are she moved away from him her thoughts centred

determinedly upon the kitchen. You must be hungry, she said. I'll have supper early. Thank you, my dear. I believe I am now that you speak of it. He turned abruptly toward his study. I shall work on my sermon until you're ready. And he rumpled up his hair in the way she knew so well.

She perceived that already he had forgotten the half-formed questions in his mind, but seated at their modest supper table, he again referred to the matter. Did you have a pleasant visit with that young person, Mrs Hill? He inquired, as he sprinkled his second baked potato with salt and inserted a small, a very small lump of butter in its steaming interior. His wife did not answer, and after a pause he spoke again. I recall the fact that we found the younger Mrs. Hill's personality rather uninteresting.

didn't we she seemed very young and well rather sullen that at least is the impression she made upon me he glanced inquiringly across the table at mrs pettibone who was nervously crumbling a slice of bread beside her plate she was not the sort of woman to crumble bread in so aimless and wasteful a manner he continued to eye her with growing astonishment did the young woman ask for me he inquired i am apt to be at home of a saturday but i don't recall mentioning the fact of the hills ought i to tell you the spot of colour in her cheek had deepened to scarlet ought you to tell me you're referring to am i to understand that something of an unusual nature took place during my absence i can think of no reason why you should not tell me everything i've been wondering she said humbly whether i said the right thing i didn't know at first and one who has thought small mean thoughts for so many years i did you know i used to think god was a large severe person sitting up in the clouds somewhere and watching me always displeased with what i did and yes trying to think of some new way to make me unhappy of course i knew i deserved it you didn't tell her all that my dear demanded the minister who had forgotten to eat his potato oh surely you didn't oh no oh no indeed i said she must pray and believe and that everything would come right i said he was in the all encircling good i felt sure he was alive i don't know why but i did and i took it

her so but afterwards well it came over me all of a sudden if he should be dead or if he was bad as mrs hill seemed to suppose and one can't help thinking really my dear interrupted the minister i shall have to ask you to explain i can make neither head nor tale of what you're telling me unless you explicitly promise the young person to say nothing to me i conceive that i should be told at once of all that took place thus encouraged she told him the substance of what had passed between her and the young woman from the old eggleston farm he listened in silence his forehead knit in troubled thought if i told her what wasn't true she said how terrible it would be perhaps i ought he looked across at her a smile dawning in his eyes my dear he said in a slow deep voice could any facts however disastrous alter the nature of god she drew a half sobbing breath oh i suppose not she murmured but i told her i led her to expect for thou wilt light my candle he quoted the lord my god will enlighten my darkness we must believe that my dear if we let everything else go by the board oh you mean she looked at him humbly if our own candle is a light and another comes to us in the dark her face became suddenly illumined i see she said it is like lighting a candle blown out in the wind and one ought obviously he said one can't one can't

do no less he lingered his hands thrust deep in his pockets musing look upon his face while she began removing the remnants of their meal well that explains something he said after a brief silence something which disturbed me unreasonably i had not intended speaking of it to you she looked at him inquiringly i drove home to-night by way of the old eggleston road and as i rounded the corner by the big oak tree you know the place i came upon young hill and milly they were talking earnestly and as i passed i couldn't help noticing their faces she uttered a slight exclamation of dismay the young fellow was flushed and eager he's a handsome chap by the way and milly milly had been crying i think oh i hope not heart breathed mrs pettibone her face had once more taken on a look of poignant distress oh tut tut said the minister smiling down at her how about the all encircling good doesn't it embrace those two you didn't think so till you knew she retaliated he sighed true he acknowledged oh the body of this death and its cowardly carnal mind well my

dear i'm not fit to write sermons but it appears to be my job if it wasn't for you and your occasional clear-seeing you see i'm not making you too perfect but if it wasn't for you miss fullura i'm afraid i should often amiss the truth of things altogether unwisely perhaps she turned to face him a one little smile curving her tremulous lips you oughtn't to say that she murmured her voice shaken with the hard beating of her heart you wouldn't if you knew everything about me she tried to meet his gaze unflinchingly but alas miss feliora had never quite mastered the gentle art of dissembling her voice broke piteously over the last word he gazed at her in silence while she made blind pretence of brushing imaginary crumbs from a spotless tablecloth i'm afraid you've been working too hard to-day he said gently drawing her toward him come into the study dear and give an account of yourself but at the threshold she drew back oh not there she begged rather wildly ah i oh silas i've been deceiving you all these months his face whitened slowly well he had been afraid of it had all along been conscious of something not well hidden in the that transparent breast of hers. He led her, all shaken with sobs, to the shabby old sofa, and sat down at her side,

but not touching her. God helping him, he would play the man. Now, he said, masterfully, you'll tell me what this means. Don't be afraid, dear, he added with a gentleness, in which there was no touch of compulsion, but only a great weariness. I shall understand. already he had passed in swift review the months of their brief engagement of their marriage too long she had lived the life of a cloistered nun he was thinking to bear his rude transplanting he should have been satisfied with her friendship which she would have poured out for him drop by drop with delicate frugality but now

i i cleaned your study she began her head hanging all the colour gone out of her face you cleaned your study yes oh you asked me not to you forbad me but i did i've done it ever so many times and always when you were away and i pretended i was careful to arrange every so you wouldn't know he glanced about him with slow bewilderment nothing had been changed the simpkins's commentary on the pauline epistles lay just where he'd left it the day before on the writing-table were the loose sheets of his unfinished sermon and on the floor you cleaned he repeated dazedly oh hang the study i don't care if you turn it inside out every day from now on what i want to know is why did you cry when i said i couldn't write sermons without you there was another matter as he soon found out mrs pettibone it is true wiped her eyes and tried to smile her appreciation of the splendid generosity of his surrender on the question of the study she assured him with touching earnestness that she wouldn't turn the room inside out every day but only at stated intervals and with the same care and attention with which she had guiltily deceived him in the past but you haven't answered my question he persisted turning her small face up to his and looking deep into her eyes there's something else you must tell me what it is she was mute under his inquisitorial gaze trembling a little but not attempting to look away tell me he begged as you hope for our happiness and thus adjured she began in a small faint voice well one day a long time ago i took everything off your writing-table yes he said a smile creeping about the corners of his lips you have already confessed to that enormity i dusted your blotting-pad well he encouraged her she drew a quick breath gazing at him incredulously you didn't mean that i should see i had no right to dust my blotting pad well possibly not but i hereby grant you the inclusive and exclusive right to

the look in her eyes stopped him what what he began she arose and walked steadily to the writing-table and she arose and walked steadily to the writing-table He followed her in perplexed silence. You didn't mean that I should see this, she said, and gave him the picture. A slight exclamation escaped him at sight of it, and then he stood quite still, looking at the pictured face. She was seeing it too, the wistful mouth with its half-smiling, half-sad look of expectancy, the loose, dark curl lying softly upon the whiteness of the graceful neck. the deep questioning eyes presently he sighed you found this he said looking up at last it fell out when i i put it back i knew i had no right her voice trailed off in a minor key infinitely touching in its hopeless appeal and her shamed eyes begged his forgiveness no right he repeated

gently he put out his hand and led her back to the sofa my dear he said after a silence which somehow soothed and comforted her i loved mary she was beautiful as you know and i was hardly more than a boy when we were married we were happy he sighed his eyes not now on the picture but as it seemed to her breathing stilly at his side a far off intent upon some distant scene of a poignantly regretted past he roused himself after a little and looked down at her questioningly did you suppose i had hidden it he asked with entire unexpectedness and that all this time i'd been brooding over it quite in secret no dear i shall have to confess i didn't know it was there somebody she's wessles no doubt must have slipped it under the blotter long ago a quaint almost humorous smile touched his grave lips at sight of her awakening face she stood her wettie's wettie wett's stirred ever so little the colour stealing back to cheeks and lips if you had she murmured i should not have wondered nor blamed you she was so beautiful and i he took her in his arms you are very dear he whispered and i i love you quite unnoticed the photograph slipped to the floor and lay there its dimmed loveliness face down upon the carpet end of chapter twenty one chapter twenty two of the heart of filura by florence morse kingsley this librivox recording is in the public domain chapter twenty two a rainy dawn you must keep this door shut milly looked up inquiringly and then she lowered her eyes glancing sideways at the small motionless bundle on

the cot if the child cries mrs hill went on in a slow harsh voice the mother must not hear it she's too ill at present the two women were standing in a small room off the kitchen the light of a rainy dawn upon their faces shall i you like me to go for a doctor stammered the girl she stood twisting her fingers nervously trembling a after hours of dumb terror passed alone in the big kitchen i should have told you in the beginning that i was able to care for the case mrs hill said coldly if you were frightened i am sorry the child is healthy it will sleep milly stole a swift glance at her mistress years appeared to have passed over her head during the night the full pale cheeks had fallen into longitudinal folds and wrinkles There were purple pouches under the bloodshot eyes and streaks of white in the smoothly brushed hair. There was no time to call a physician. Mrs. Hill went on slowly.

You know that. Her eyes cajoled, then threatened. The event was unexpected, but fortunately I have had experience. My daughter is perfectly safe and she will recover. You need feel no alarm. The girl's troubled glance again sought the cot, in the midst of which, with a singular effort of lonely isolation, lay the motionless little mound of blankets. Well, would you like to see the child? asked Mrs. Hill, her mouth twisting in a difficult smile. Millie's breast heaved.

If you please, she said huskily. Mrs. Hill moved toward the cot and stood for an instant. gazing somberly down at it. A lump in her broad barethroat seemed to move a little. She bent down, drawing the blankets aside. It's a fine, healthy child, she said dryly. A boy. The girl gazed at the little head covered with dark down,

at the tiny pink face with its closed lids, at the minute fists upheaved on either side. Something within her tremor. and the breath came from her parted lips in light quick gasps mrs hill replaced the blankets her large hands moving swiftly i'm going upstairs she said i shall come down presently for the gruel don't burn it milly moved obediently toward the stove still dazed and trembling before the unveiled mystery you must keep this door shut the woman repeated sharply and all the doors between Keep them closed. Do you hear? Millie raised her eyes from a blind contemplation of the bubbling stuff in the saucepan. Well, if the baby cries, she murmured.

Shall I? It will not cry. I shall attend to its wants myself. Do not come upstairs and do not permit anyone to enter. Do not speak to anyone. The house must be kept quiet. Millie's lips parted and she, seemed about to ask another question.

Mrs. Hill darted a quick impatient glance at her. Why am I forced to explain to you, it seemed to say. My son left early this morning, the toneless voice went on. He will not return. We shall join him as soon as Mrs. Hill is able to travel.

The door closed, and Millie, left to herself, stood for a long minute quite motionless in the middle of the large, kitchen a heavy silence seemed to have settled upon the house outside in the wet grass a cricket chirped disconsolately a stealthy little wind crept about the eaves whined eerily in the chimney and then passed with a deep murmuring rustle into the dripping hemlocks which fringed the ruined garden the girl pressed the back of both hands against her eyes like a child in pain End of Chapter 22. Chapter 23 of the Heart of Fillura by Florence Morse Kingsley.

This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 23. Playing Mother Philora Pettibone walks slowly between Sean Meadows, where red clover was beginning to bloom as in early summer. She carried a basket on her arm, filled with fresh eggs. The basket and the eggs furnishing a legitimate excuse for thus walking. idly along the country road where there had been no dust these many days. Heavy rains had washed the landscape clean,

and it now presented a shining morning face to the sky, where capricious winds drove the clouds in opposite directions. In the rare upper air, small, round white fleeces, like a flock of lambs, moved slowly westward, while beneath them detached masses of denser vapor sailed majestically out to sea, their shadows, flitting over meadow and hill like the drag ropes of gigantic balloons. Mrs. Pettibone's face, under the brim of her shady hat, shone like the newly washed earth. She was as happy as a woman maybe who feels herself beloved, and this, be it said,

she needs must know of fresh, today as well as yesterday, and likewise tomorrow, till winter comes and with it night. But winter and night seemed very far away on this day when summer forgot that it was August. The woman whose hair was already a little grey sang under her breath as she walked along, a little chirping song about a robin in a tree, and then all at once she saw the children. There were ten of them perhaps, or even fifteen. They were so small and merry in their pink and blue frocks, and they ran about so fast, she found them hard to count as butterflies about a puddle. The largest child, a girl, spied the woman. The world, woman looking at them across the fence, her face rosy and wistful under the shady hat.

We can play in this meadow now, the girl said confidentially. The hay is being cut and there are no cows here and today there's no school because our teacher has gone to a funeral. The girl's face shone with pure joy. She gazed at Mrs. Pettibone, her eyes sparkling under windblown hair. That's very nice, the minister's wife assented, understandingly. It was her grandmother, piped another child as she danced up to the fence. She was old, but now she's gone to heaven and we can play all day. I'm glad, aren't you?

Mrs. Pettibone nodded, her eyes very blue and bright, her cheeks pink with sudden longing. If I might come in for a little while, she murmured. The biggest girl regarded her doubtfully. You're a grown-up, she objected. But I can play. The girl glanced over her shoulder at the pink and blue frocks tumbling over one another in the grass.

Can you play mother? she asked. Mrs Pettibone blushed up to the margin of her silvered curls. Oh yes, she said eagerly. If you'll let me. You'll have to climb over. We climbed over. We were going home and our teacher said we must go home. But it's a pleasant day

and our mothers don't expect us for a long time yet and the hay is all cut. Mrs Pettibone climbed over. It wasn't a difficult feat, but first she pushed her basket through the rails. What's in your basket? Oh, eggs, but they're not cooked. The big girl turned her head.

A number of the children had scampered to the fence and were staring at the intruder with sudden gravity, almost displeasure in their round faces. She has eggs in her basket, but they're not cooked, explained the girl I said she might climb over she can play mother the big girl spoke with a kindly but coercive authority I should be one mother you will be the other mother my ten name is Mrs Alfonso Smith Alfonso is a beautiful name don't you think so no what will your name be mrs Silas Pettybone submitted the woman in the blue gown she was no taller than the big girl. Do you think that's a good name for a mother?

Oh, it'll do, pronounce the girl, but Silas isn't as beautiful as Alphom so. No, I shall have six children and you can have five. I think I'd better have the largest family because I'm more experienced. I spank my children when they're naughty, do you? Mrs. Pettibone considered and then she shook her head. no um no i could never do that i sing to my children and hold them in my lap the girl cast a look of smiling scorn at her if that's the kind of mother you're going to be i'll give you the littlest ones i'll take the big ones my mother says all children need spanking once in a while we spank our dolls and our kitten regularly don't me myra

hmm i sent it a small girl in a pink frock but i guess i'd rather be her little girl i like to sit in laps and be sing too oh all right now i'll divide the children your name is my rep oh what you're saying your name was going to be pettibone supplied the minister's wife your name is myra pettibone and your name is hattie smith and yours is jenny pettibone and yours come here joe Georgie. Do you want to be her little boy? You don't? Well, then, yours is Georgie Smith. I guess you'll have to have all the girls, Mrs. Pettybone. Don't care? Mrs. Pettybone shook her head. I don't care, she said, surveying her rapidly growing family with entire satisfaction. The two little girls had huddled close against her skirts and were staring truculently at the Smith family. Ma! "'Ah,' whined the newly christened Myra,

"'who was evidently acquainted with the rules of the game. "'Georgie Smith is putting his tongue out to me.' "'The big girl gazed sternly at the accused. "'Georgey Smith,' she exclaimed, "'do that again and see what you'll get. "'I'll tell your par, so when he comes home tonight, "'and that's what I'll do. "'Now, Marie, you're Mrs. Pettibone's next to the youngest.

"'She's a nice child, Mrs. Pettibone, "'and I'm going to give you baby.' i'd like you have baby myself she's so cunning she doesn't go out to school all the time but her mother was canning raspberries to-day so i brought her her real name is louise gwendolen everybody calls a baby mrs pettibone held out her arms with a smile and mrs alfonso smith gently propelled a chubby child of three into them now let me see you've got myra and jenny and marie and baby and baby be you want another mrs pettibone thought four would do she was gazing rapturously at louise gwendoline who had tucked her thumb into her rosy mouth with an air of drowsy content well if it ain't you can have another just as well as not promised mrs alfonso smith generously that makes me seven she gazed with severe benevolence at the newly christened smiths who were cavorting joyously amid the clover i shall cut me a good strong switch first thing I do, murmured Mrs Smith darkly. Seven's a big family for a little woman like me, Mrs. Pettibone.

More special when their power has gone to Boston for all day. No, you must tell what your husband's doing. My husband, well, I think he's writing a sermon, submitted Mrs. Pettibone, realistically cuddling her youngest. A sermon? Is he a preacher man? mrs pettibone nodded and mrs alfonso smith looked out for that's really and truly ain't it we're hard shell baptist that's the best kind my father says she tossed her head carelessly i don't know as i care you can be a pretend presbyterian if you want to no your house is under that tree and your yard comes to here she marked off an imaginary line with her

My house is under this big tree and my yard is all that place over there. I ain't going to take my children home and put them straight to bed and you'd better too. And then tomorrow morning, we don't have night last long because they won't lie still. We'll give them breakfast. You can have three lunch baskets. I'll send one of my children over with them. You can pretend he's a grocery man if you want to. You pick the money off the bushes, nice green leaves and roll them up.

So it looks exactly like money. We can have all we want. It takes a lot of money, Mrs. Pettybone, to bring up seven hearty children. Mrs. Alfonso Smith achieved a grown-up sigh. I tell my husband, every day of my life, I don't see how I can make out. The children do wear their shoes out. So, no, you go in your house. and tomorrow first thing I'll come and call and bring my two youngest children and then in the afternoon,

Georgie Smith, come here this minute, I'll see I'll have to spank you good before your par comes home. Then what do you think he'll say? Georgie Smith hung his head before the terrific possibilities he had doubtless realised in the not-distant past. Experience taught him to say, I wasn't doing nothing, ma. Marjorie, she peop. Pinch me. Marjorie Smith. Did you pinch your little brother? You can come in the house and go straight to bed.

You'll get no cake nor pie for your supper, miss. Amid realistic howls of grief, she turned to the less experienced matron. Hmm. You better take your children right home, Mrs. Pettibone. Perhaps you didn't know it, but there's a-uping cough round this neighbourhood. I thought I ought to tell you. My children have all had it, but yours haven't. mrs pettibone hastily withdrew with her flock to the spot kindly pointed out by mrs alfonso smith up in a tree rub in i see pecking them one by one she crooned

baby was really and truly sleepy she crept into her pretend mother's lap and pillowed her curly head comfortably upon her breast her little body was soft and warm one could hear her sucking her thumb gentle thrills of rapture crept over the pretend mother cherries are right cherries are right oh give the baby one she sang and myra and jenny and marie resting their heads upon her skirt shut their eyes squeezing them tight against the bright sun-rays that darted through the clustered oak leaves it's night whispered myra and we're in our cribs covered up snug and warm i said my prayers did you marie but you have to say your prayers to your mother retorted marie indignantly not when you're pretending you can pretend you said to your mother let's hurry and go to sleep so it'll be morning quicker we haven't had any supper i want my supper for i go to sleep mother i'm hungry i want my supper hush my babe lie still and slumber sang the pretend mother tenderly holy angels got thy bed you lie still marie petty bone counselled myra energetically don't you see she's playing we've had our supper anyway the grocery man didn't come yet maybe george he's got into the baskets he'd really and truly eat up all the cake if he did at this awful suggestion the three little girls sat up straight winking the sun from their eyes it's morning mother it's morning don't you see how bright the sun shines and we're hungry can we have our breakfast oh you'll have to go to the grocery children mrs pettibone smiled over the top of baby's curly head here's the money

buy anything you want. Just see all the money our mother's got. I'm the oldest. I shall carry the money and buy the things. You're not the oldest. I shall buy the breakfast. I was seven last May. And I was seven just last week.

I am so the oldest, so dare. The sound of a slap vigorously dealt, followed by really and truly crying, brought Mrs. Alfonso Smith to the scene. She separated the competence with a practiced hand. That's what you get from being too good to your children, she explains the perturbed, Mrs. Pettibone. You want to take them right in the beginning and give them something to cry for.

What are you quarrelling about children? If your own mother can't manage you, the neighbours will have to come in and help. You're both seven? Of course you are. You're twins. Didn't you know that? I forgot to tell you. But you are.

you can both carry the money and you can both bring home the groceries if i hear you cry again jenny and myra unless it's pretend crying you'll find your name changed a smith all of a sudden i got a good switch to my house and seven or nine makes no difference to me i'll take em any time you say mrs pettibone and trade you hattie for them she's a good girl and mine's her mother the hastily matched twins amicably holding hands trotted away under convoy of mrs alfonso smith the third child with a shrewd glance at the absorbed face of the pretend mother followed she don't care as long as she's got baby she told the biggest girl she's a hugging and kissing baby soft like she was her really truly mother oh well assented the resourceful mrs alfonso smith you can be my next to the youngest little girl if you'd rather and i'll take the twins too she can pretend she's got an only child i just as soon have ten the pretend mother under the oak tree was revelling in her dream the delicious feel of the round soft limbs the silken mass of curls against her cheek the warm breath coming and going between parted lips which resembled the half-closed bud of a pink rose filled her with rapture my little baby she whispered mother's own precious little baby the starved breast under the baby's warm cheek throbbed with the passionate beating of the heart beneath there was no other woman near to regard her with half-contemptuous eyes of wonder and pity they were alone these two in the wide sweet-smelling world with bees in the red clover and the voices of meadowlarks calling and answering under the drifting clover

clouds. How long she sat thus, folded in the warm happiness of that dream of motherhood, Filura Pettibone never knew. She was roused at last by a man's voice. I beg you pardon, Mom, I asked the children playing in the road, and they couldn't tell me. She looked up, her eyes from which the vision had not yet fled, as blue as cornflowers under the brim of her shady hat. Oh, I'm afraid I've waked you a baby, he apologised. with a smile he seemed of a commanding height viewed from her lowly seat under the tree and now that the smile had faded from his young face she saw that it was pale and anxious can you tell me where a family called hill i believe they're strangers in the neighbourhood a living the child slipped from her arms

and looking around the empty field with wide startled eyes began to cry piteously oh i am sorry he repeated I seem to have frightened your baby, but you can tell her I will go at once. His face was oddly familiar, now that she looked at it more narrowly. Where had she seen those strongly marked brows and the stern curve of the young lips? He went away, when at length she had satisfied him,

with minute directions of a turn to the right, two to the left, a bridge to be crossed, and stone gateposts opposite a red barn. Her puzzled eyes followed him as he strode to the fence. He was in haste, whatever his name or his business. She walked home under the noonday sun, with a guilty sense of furniture undusted, a pudding which was to be and was not,

and of a basket filled with mending, which ought on this particular day of the week to be empty. At the door she was met by her husband, his hair rumpled picturesquely upon his forehead, in a way which signify, that work in the study had gone smoothly that morning how very nice you look dear he said tilting her face all luminous with afterglow up to his and he stooped to kiss her though such was not his sober habit oh silas she murmured blushing i should have been home long ago but i came upon some children in a meadow some children in a meadow he repeated when she showed no inclination to explain further that sounds pleasant and you i climbed over the fence and played with them she confessed her eyes downcast before the quizzical smile in his

that afternoon as with furtive dustcloth she was hurriedly attempting to make good the omissions of the morning she beheld the majestic figure of mrs buckthorn moving up the walk i just stopped in on my way to see poor mrs pratt's began that late lady with a searching glance about the room oh what oh you haven't heard she's had another of her spells but yes i know she was about as usual yesterday but in the afternoon oh my yes i thought of course you'd heard and missed pettibone they didn't send for him oh i suppose they were too busy doing for her but they'll expect him to call it's a part as duty and privilege, and he ought to know without being sent for where he's wanted. Mrs. Butthorn drew a sibilant breath from the interior of her being, accompanied by a solemn creaking of her stays. I don't know, as you realise, Fulura, that if you ain't careful and prayerful, you might actually hinder the work that's being carried on in our midst, instead of helping it, as you'd ought to do. did you ever think of that mrs pettibone stole a guilty look at the spot where she'd concealed the dustcloth behind a sofa pillow mrs buckthorn found her murmured reply far from satisfying i see you ain't she observed in hollow tones i was afraid of it i says to the deacon this morning it's borne in on me i says that however painful i ought to have a heart's heart talk with

Filura Pettybone, no, I says, don't try to hold me back. Filura was a scholar in my Sunday school class for many, many years, I says, and little I thought in them days, when his first wife was living, that I should ever see her in the parsonage. Mrs. Pettybone's eyes, uplifted from a depressed contemplation of the dusty round of a chair, fell upon the picture of the Huguenot lovers on the opposite wall. a wandering sun-ray piercing the leafy mazes of a lilac bush just outside the window flickered tremulously over the two young faces forever wrapped in the sweet pain of that tragic parting oh she murmured indistinctly her thoughts bearing her far from mrs buckthorn's massive presence and the droning sound of her intolerant voice

had the stranger of the morning's encounter found the eggleston farm she wondered and could it be faithful are the wounds of a friend her visitor was reminding her acidly i suppose likely you'd rather not think much about her more especially since you can't hold a candle to her in looks that's perfectly natural i'm sure we can't all be handsome filura but we can all strive to do our duty end of chapter twenty three chapter twenty four of the heart of filura by florence morse kingsley this librivox recording is in the public domain chapter twenty four sylvia's child morning of the next day marked by no evasion of housewifely duty found mrs pettibone busy in the compounding of a certain cake which her lord had once approved and which called for the frugal outlay of but a single egg and a solitary spoonful of butter as the egg whisk struck the bottom of the bowl in a brisk patter of sound she became aware of a shuffling step outside and glancing up beheld grandfather on apologetically wiping his feet on the door-mat don't know as i'm to say muddy nor yet dusty he began but grandma she got me trained so i don't wadders wot in on no flow without wiping i wonder if there's doormats in heaven he says but grandma she says no them golden streets is kept clean enough to eat off she says yes mamma i'll sit down a minute if you don't mind the old man disposed himself in the wooden chair the minister's wife set for him, with considerable ceremony and a vast deal of clearing his throat.

He'd come to tell her something she knew, but familiar with the ways of the countryside, she went on compounding the cake, her rapid spoon beating its staccato rhythm against the sides and bottom of the bowl. "'Milly come down front farm this morning,' chirped grandfather, clutching his old straw hat with both heavy hands, as if he feared it would escape him. did she oh yes mamma she'd come down bare edd and all out of breath the old man stared unwinkingly at the cake tin into which the minister's wife was carefully pouring the yellow mixture her grandma was some surprise to see her she must have been seems the young ladies lit out unexpected mrs petting bone hastily set down her bowl.

The young lady? Do you mean? Her that was young Mrs. Hill. Millie come down to ask us, did we see her going by? I guess there's been some curious doings up at the farm. The young man, he went off a week ago. And Millie's been there all alone with them. We thought maybe you didn't know.

Somebody ought to go up there. Grandma, she says to me. go down and tell the minister's wife, Grandpa, she says. So I dropped me oh and come, just as I was. It's all how anybody could get right up out of bed and clear out so nobody could trace them. Out of bed? Repeated the minister's wife, dazedly. She walked across the floor, and quite without knowledge of what she did open the oven door and set her cake inside.

Well, maybe she was setting up. Millie, she wasn't allowed to do nothing outside the kitchen, so she could say to what was going on upstairs. But the old lady, she was down in the back room for quite a spell this morning, doing for the baby, and it must have been while she was gone, that the young lady... What? Did you say there was a baby? inquired Mrs. Pettybone.

The face she turned upon the old man was pink with excitement. Her hands gripped her apron. oh why yes mum when she was washing and addressing it maybe milly says it's an awful cute baby it's about a week old i should say you hadn't heard of it ma'am well i guess nobody had twas kept kinda quiet even grandma she didn't know till she went up to see what had become a milly grandma she's a great hand to fret and worry and then folks up there grandfather on moore uneasily in his chair I heard Millie you telling her grandma the baby had never been took upstairs he shuffled to his feet and gazed frowningly into the crown of his hat if I was you ma'am I'd know but what I'd go up there and kind of look the situation over being as you're the minister's wife

Millie she don't seem to feel real easy in her mind and her grandma well mum you know what kind of a critter grandma is always a worri'n and champin on a bit and tis queer for a sick lady to-but the mistress of the kitchen had disappeared he heard the quick tread of her feet in the room beyond a door opening and shutting and the sound of voices seems kind of excited mused mr orne well let a man say the word baby the moment any woman and she'll fly round like a turkey on a hot rock he moved slowly toward the door his mouth twisted in a dubious smile curious critters women folks he muttered the older i get the more they seem that away to me unreasonable as a rule and brash and with this his errand having been accomplished grandfather orne returned to the cultivation of his late vegetables which had been so suddenly interrupted by the unlooked-for apparition of his granddaughter. Late vegetables, such as cabbages and beets, set in solid respectable phalanxes,

soothed his aged nerves. One could depend on them in a world of chance and change, wherein women-folk abounded, and where unexpected and, for the most part, disagreeable things were always happening. A cabbage, he reflected vaguely, was always a cabbage. round, green or purple, as a case might be, unperturbable.

One might say anything to a cabbage, and one frequently did, without a resultant tremor of a cool, crisp leaf. The Reverend Silas Pettibone, haven't listened attentively to his wife's agitated interpretation of Grandfather Orne's message, laid down his pen without a protest, but he was far from following the rapid flight of her imagination.

You tell me, a man asked you yesterday to direct him to the old Eggleston place. Has it occurred to you that he might have been a sewing machine agent and therefore not at all connected with the disappearance of... Oh, Silas, protested his wife, a sewing machine agent. He was young, tall and very good-looking. The minister smiled and rumpled his hair controversially. I will harness the horse, he said. but i cannot forbear reminding you my dear that sewing-machine agents are quite as likely to be young tall and good-looking as other men more so in fact the occupation it would seem appeals to youth and youth but she had already hurried away to put on her hat

as he urged the indignant sorrel horse along the road as rapidly as the animal's outraged feelings would permit mr pettibone was inwardly perturbed by the look on his wife's face. He had seen it there before, but being, despite his calling, imperfectly acquainted with the heart of woman, he did not recognise it for what it was. You shouldn't worry too much about the young woman, he offered. She might, you know, have wandered out into the woods for an airing and, oh, turned up long ago, quite safe and none the worse. She shot him a pitying look. I'm not thinking about her, she said. Oh, what then? Mrs. Pettibone's hands in their much-mended lyle-thread gloves

closed tightly upon each other. If there is a baby, she murmured tremulously. That appears to be an incontrovertible premise, he admitted. And if she didn't know, my dear forlura, he smiled, what an extraordinary imagination you are developing of late. He patted the tense little hand nearest him, very kindly but firmly, as if in his judgment the process of which he had spoken would better cease. If she's gone, without knowing, persisted Mrs. Pettibone,

not appearing to notice the veiled protest. He spoke sharply to the horse, who had taken advantage of the conversation, to relax into a shambling gate, expresses of his sentiments toward his master and the world at large, which he appeared to view with equine displeasure. Do you want me to go in? he asked, as he presently assisted her to alight before the old Eggleston house. Or do you prefer?

She was silent for a moment, looking timidly up at the shuttered windows. I don't know, she said at last. Oh, perhaps she... Well, perhaps I... Precisely, assented the... the minister with an air of relief, go in at once.

Millie will admit you. I've got a book with me. If you should want me, she took two steps toward the somber old house and then suddenly turned her face luminous but strangely pale.

Please kiss me, she said. My dear, he protested, if anyone should be looking. But he stooped and his lips touched hers. There's nothing to be afraid. of he said with a touch of masculine impatience i will go in if you prefer but already she had moved away from him a little sob in her throat overhead the wind passed through the evergreens with a solemn murmur no one answered her light wrap at the side entrance and after a moment of indecision the minister's wife passed around to the kitchen the door stood open but milly was not there

on the shelf over the well-polished cooking range the loud-voiced clock buzzingly told the hour of four there were flowers in a glass on the table and a small rocking-chair stood near the window something white hung over the back of the chair her eyes fastened upon it then she stepped inside her feet making no sound on the painted floor where the sun lay in warm pools of yellow light slowly she moved across the space which separated her from the chair to the left of the stove a second door stood partway open she reached out a timid hand to touch the little garment on the back of the chair it was made of flannel and there was lace about the scalloped hem it was very quiet in the kitchen the loud ticking of the clock beat hard against the silence somewhere a great way off a cock grew thrice and the distant hoot of a locomotive whistle echoed lonesomely among the hills mrs pettibone held the little garment in both hands pressing it against her cheek the sun had rested upon it and it was warm and soft. The faint, sweet smell of the wool was in her nostrils. Then all at once a sound broke the clock-ridden silence.

Some young creature was awake and stirring in the next room. Fulura Pettibone boldly pushed the door open and looked in. It was a small room, used perhaps as a servant's bedroom, in the days when the Egglestons were a large and prosperous family. The walls hung with defaced and dingy peasant, of a greenish hue showed great splotches where the damp and a mould had crept through the plaster. There was a single window, covered with a flimsy shade. In one corner stood a chest of drawers topped by a cracked mirror, and against the further wall a cot, its cheap blue and white striped

mattress imperfectly concealed by a folded blanket. In the midst of the blanket, a little mound of something white, stirred feebly, with a half-smothered cry. It was perhaps half an hour later, a filiora petivone never knew, since happiness takes no note of time. She was sitting in the rocking chair, swaying gently back and forth, her arms closed about the baby.

Her down-dropped eyes intent upon the downy head against her breast. The woman who had noiselessly opened a door from behind stood motionless, staring at her, templatively from undergathered brows. Then, as if resolved upon a course of action, she came briskly forward, a determined smile upon her lips. Mrs. Pettibone, she said, I didn't know you were here.

The minister's wife looked up. Oh, perhaps, she said doubtfully, I oughtn't to have taken it up. The bleak smile on the other woman's lips faded. It doesn't matter, she said, looking at the child with the child, the strange intent expression. It doesn't matter, she repeated, with a touch of impatience.

She sat down her back to the window. I'm glad on the whole that you came, she said after a heavy pause. I had made up my mind to send for you. I am obliged at last to ask counsel of someone. You or your husband will do as well as another. Mr. Pettipone is outside, "'Recollected Mrs. Pettibone. "'Oh, shall I? Would you prefer?

"'No, no. Sit still.' "'She moistened her lips furtively. "'I sent Millie to the village with a telegram. "'It seemed necessary to recall my son, "'much as I dislike doing so.' "'The child in Mrs. Pettibone's arms stirred "'and began sucking its fist with little whimpering cries. "'Do you think it's hungry?'

She asked timidly. Of course, I know very little about babies, but the child is a boy, Mrs Hill said harshly. He's not hungry. Give him to me. I'll put him back on the cot. If he cries, it won't harm him. She took the baby and walked quickly to the ugly little room.

Mrs. Pettibone stood gazing at her broad, stooped back and the jerky movement of her elbows as she rearranged the blankets on the cot. the baby continued to cry feebly. Mrs. Hill, turning suddenly, surprised a look of poignant distress, almost of anger on the watchful face. She shut the door firmly behind her. I think we will go into the other room, she said. We shall not be disturbed there.

She held the door to the dining room wide, motioning the other woman to pass in before her. But Mrs. Pettibone drew back protestingly. He might. cry, she murmured, and we couldn't hear him. Mrs. Hill's lips curled impatiently. Please go in, she said peremptorily. I have several things to tell you, and you must pay attention or you'll be of no use to me.

It will do the child no harm to cry for a while. She closed the second door with decision and motioned her visitor to a chair. My daughter, her face, quivered for an instant and then settled into iron composure. The child was born ten days ago. My daughter made a good recovery. Yesterday she was fully dressed for the first time. We expected to leave this place next week.

But the minister's wife appeared to be listening, as if intent upon a distant sound. She spoke without premeditation. Don't you think she may have gone with her husband? She asked. Mrs Hill started violently. With her husband, she repeated sharply. Why should she go with her husband without my knowledge?

We expected, haven't I already told you that my son? She paused to look piercingly at Mrs. Pettibone. What have you heard? she asked sharply. She came to see me. Well, she told me about her marriage. She was very unhappy. I don't understand how your son brought her to the parsonage, said Mrs. Pettibone, speaking slowly and distinctly.

They came in a carriage, about two weeks ago. You didn't know it? The woman's dry lips formed the word no. After a moment she shrugged her shoulders, her dull eyes moving slowly upward to the ceiling, where they appeared to fasten upon the movements of a fly, crawling slowly about some ornate excrescence of discoloured plaster. There was no use. I might have known.

She was always stubborn and disobedient. I tried to save her. God knows I tried. I think you were trying to save yourself, said the minister's wife, with one of those sudden flashes of insight which occasionally visit the least discerning of women. Mrs. Hill looked at her visitor, a dull flush rising in her sallow cheeks. You think, what do you know about me, about any of us? How dare you say such a thing?

Because you are hard and cruel. You didn't believe anything she said. You thought your own child lied to you. You believe she was wicked. When she was only, Mrs. Hill flung up her hand in a sudden reckless gesture. Stop! She ordered. You heard Sylvia's version of the matter. Now, listen to mine. But she was silent for a long minute, during which Mrs. Pettibone appeared to listen intently for some distant sound. Her hands gripped in her lap. I don't know why I should tell you anything, Mrs. Hill resumed in a bitter tone. You appear to have mixed yourself up in our affairs from the beginning.

Doubtless you assume that your position as the wife of a clergyman entitles you to meddle. Mrs Pettibone rose trembling to her feet. The baby is crying, she said. I cannot listen to you while the poor little thing is left alone in that room. It is cruel, abominable. Her voice shook. There was in her face at that moment all the blind, unreasoning,

fury of thwarted motherhood. Mrs. Hill watched her visitor without apparent emotion as she hurried from the room. When presently she returned, the small flannel bundle hugged awkwardly to her breast, a faint flicker of amusement passed over her rigid face. You seem fond of infants, she commented coldly. Yes, said Mrs. Pettibone,

gazing defiantly at her from behind the rampart of flannel. I am. I love them. She patted the baby's back as women will, crooning over the downy little head. Fond, pronounced Mrs. Hill curtly, in the silly, ignorant way common to animals and some women. Sit down, if you will, and listen to what I have to say to you. Mrs. Pettibone obeyed. The child had ceased its feeble wailing and lay quiet in her arms.

I can look back from this point and see, that I ruined Sylvia's disposition with over-indulgence, pursued Mrs. Hill with iron composure. All this, she appeared to include the shabby room, Mrs. Pettibone, and the child, in a gesture of disparagement,

is doubtless the result of my own mistaken kindness to a child of a singularly passionate and uncontrolled nature. I should have been more severe. I should have insisted upon more implicit obedience, "'realising this, I have tried.'

Her voice, cold and monotonous, suddenly choked. Mrs. Pettibone looked up from her rapt contemplation of the baby's unconscious face. "'You tried?' she repeated wonderingly. Mrs. Hill's solid, erect figure, appeared to grow larger, more substantial still. She shot a glance of impatient contempt at the minister's wife. My husband died when both of my children were young, she resumed, leaving me with a considerable fortune. Our position in the world was unquestioned. Our social prominence. But why speak of this to you? It's impossible for a woman like you to understand in any degree the problem that faced me when Sylvia...

Oh my God, what a frightful discovery! The woman's large hands of a yellowish white colour gripped the arms of her chair. She told you she was married, faltered Mrs Pettybone. Married? She had no proof, not even a ring, and the wretch had disappeared. Did you you knew him? Mrs. Hill was staring at the child, who had again commenced its feeble wailing. "'Silvia was a mere child, a schoolgirl,' she said harshly. "'I employed a governess to instruct her in French and music.

"'The woman connived at the acquaintance, kept it a secret from me. "'The man was a poor clerk or something of the sort. "'I knew nothing of him. "'Never saw him. He was not of our world. "'I was, of course, much occupied with social and charitable work. "'It never occurred to me that Sylvie. I had intended taking her to Europe this summer. We were only waiting for my son's graduation when I learned the facts.

Mrs Pettibone shifted the child's position in her arms with anxious tenderness. But when you, when she told you, why didn't you try? Not being totally devoid of common sense, as you appear to think. I did all that could be done without making an open scandal. I had my son to think of, the honour of the family name. There was no existing proof of the marriage. Sylvia's account of it was utterly unbelievable. What could I do?

What would you have done? Her tone was bitterly sarcastic. I should have loved her all the time, breathed the minister's wife. You might have done that. You might. I am not, Mrs. Hill said, coldly, a sentimentalist. I have always detested

that sort of thing. Yet you have children. The eyes of the two women met, like the blades of unsheathed rapiers, and for an instant neither spoke. You ought, said Flora Pettibone slowly,

you ought to have loved your daughter, before she was born, and afterwards, every minute. Mrs. Hill's, large shoulders moves slightly. Really, she said, I think we have quite lost sight of the matter in hand.

I had no intention of asking your opinion of my character or conduct. I wished merely to inquire if you can give me the name and address of a trustworthy woman to care for the child. My daughter has left me of her own free will. I shall not trouble myself further concerning her future. How could she leave her baby? maybe murmured mrs pettibone it's that i don't understand the woman's face changed subtly she supposed it was dead you told her so i allowed her to think so it seemed best

mrs pettibone looked at the large pale face in which the events of the summer had graven in irradicable lines and a great pity took possession of her Oh, forgive me, she stammered. I didn't understand. You didn't understand, repeated Mrs. Hill-Dully. No. She stared at the wall, as if she saw written there words of judgment and of doom. If I, the minister's wife, half-whispered the words, If you could trust me!

The opaque eyes came slowly back, with a look of weary incredulity. You want the child? Impossible. Why, why impossible? I would take good care of him, and I would love him. But your husband's position, he would not consent. I should not were I in his place.

Think of the scandal. No, I'll take the child away with me. It has been ailing, and will perhaps not survive. better so a low cry of protest broke from philora pettibone's lips she spoke wildly eagerly scarce knowing what she said mrs hill listened her fingers picking at the folds of her dress in painful bewilderment you tell me a man came to take sylvia away oh stop i do not follow you what's this about a picture and someone who spoke to you of us it was her husband i'm sure of it he looked like the picture she wrote to him and he must have come and if she thought her baby was dead there was nothing forgive me for saying it but can't you see she must have feared and dreaded you after all that had happened mrs hill drew a deep breath and a faint colour stole into her face if as you say her The father of her child found out where she was, and...

But why did he not come to me if he could show me proof of the marriage? No, I cannot believe it. She may be dead. Gassly fear peered for an instant out of her distended eyes. After I missed her, I went to the little pool in the woods. I thought that she wasn't strong enough to walk so far. The man, said Mrs Pettibone positively, was driving a fast horse. I noticed it particularly.

It was at this moment that both women became conscious of a discreet knock on the outside door. End of Chapter 24. Chapter 25 of the heart of Fulura by Florence Morse Kingsley. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 25. Unto us a son is born. The minister glanced doubtfully from one to the other of the two women, whose faces had instantly resumed the masks habitually worn before men.

Mrs Pettibone smiled faintly at her husband. I was holding the baby, she explained. I didn't realize how late it was. Your wife, Mrs. Hill said dryly, appears fond of children. Hmm, that murmured Mr Pettity. Pettibone, passing his hand over his chin. For a moment, all three were silent. The infant struggled feebly in its wrappings with half-strangled cries.

You had better give it to me, Mrs. Hill said impassively. She rose from her chair and crossed the room. Mrs. Pettibone gazed at her imploringly, sheltering the baby with her arms. The minister, who had been consulting his watch, snapped its old-fashioned hunting case shut with some. suggestive emphasis. Come, my dear, he said, with attempted jocularity.

You mustn't try to keep a baby from its grandmother, you know. Mrs. Hill straightened herself with a jerk, her angry eyes denying his words. Silas! He turned at the sound of his wife's voice, doubtfully interpreting its passion

of entreaty. We really oughtn't to stay longer, he said. Mrs. Hill is, perhaps. Come and look. Look at the baby, she urged. He obeyed, gazing down at the small pink, twisting face with a quasi-professional air of interest. Ah, he murmured.

A fine child. A boy or girl? He's a boy, Silas. Mrs. Pettibone replied, looking up at him piteously. Will you let me? Silas, Mrs. Hill is obliged to go away at once to search for her daughter. She wants to leave the baby, and I... Oh, Silas, impossible, broke in Mrs. Hill's harsh monotone.

I've changed my mind. I shall take the child with me. You don't want it. You don't love it. You are wishing it would die. Villura Pettibone's voice rang out in a shrill shrew crescendo. She stared accusingly at the other woman. you would soon kill it with hatred and neglect my dear flora expostulated the minister shocked and incredulous surely you do not mean he gazed attentively at his wife the tardy realization that he had never known her slowly taking possession of him mrs hill laughed mirthlessly you make me little better than a murderer she exclaimed contemptuously i assure

you i couldn't have taken better care of the child if it had been she bit her lip sharply oh you will let me have the baby beg the minister's wife suddenly abandoning her threatening tone i must have it i must you know it'll only be a hindrance to you how can you travel and your son you must think of him you know mrs hill glanced stealthily at the minister who had moved toward the door, his grave face perplexed and frowning. How do you like the idea of adding a misbegotten child to your family? She asked jeeringly. Clergy men are always preaching charity and goodwill, but I've never known one who practiced it.

It is true. I do not want the child. God knows I have small cause for loving it, but I should not kill it with either kindness or neglect. Then I shall have him. Filura Pettibone rose from her chair, her face pale and luminous, like that of a woman newly emerged

from the valley of the shadow into which every mother must needs descend. Without further word, she slowly passed out of the room, bearing the child in her arms. The two who were left behind heard the light sound of her feet upon the gravel, and the cries of the child,

growing fainter with distance. I will pay liberally for its keep, of course, should you consent to the arrangement, Mrs. Hill said haughtily. I must explain further that I requested your wife to recommend to me some honest farmer's wife. I did intend to leave the child. It is nothing to me. Mr. Pettibone gazed at her with stern rebuke. You are a sinful woman, he pronounced slowly. Without love, a child is also without hope in the world. We will take him, and endeavour to bring him up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. Oh, but I must insist upon paying you. I am rich. The minister repelled her with a gesture of

dignified authority. Your money perish with you, he exclaimed, with a severity before which the woman shrank as from the sharp cut of a whip. Million, returning from the village with anxious haste, met the minister's carriage at the bend of the road at the sight of its occupants she stopped short her eyes fastened upon the baby in mrs pettibone's arms oh she cried sharply you've been there you the minister pulled up the impatient horse yes he began doubtfully perhaps we've acted unwisely but he glanced his wife's pale face i've taken him for for my own, she said simply, and her smile was sublime. Millie shook her head compassionately. He has cried almost constantly for several days, she said. I'm afraid, and you were there?

Murmured Mrs. Pettibone accusingly. She locked the door, returned Millie, her blue eyes filling with tears. I, indeed I could do nothing, but I am glad you're taking him away. left to herself the girl's feet moved more and more slowly along the road she appeared to be debating some doubtful question with herself arrived at length before the stately gate-post which marked a former pride of ownership she paused to look half fearfully at the clustered chimneys of the old house gravely withdrawn behind its ancient trees the woman whom she had grown to fear and distrust almost to hate in these the last days of her service was there alone she knew already she had decided that she could not pass another night under that roof but there was something she must say to mrs hill before they parted as mistress and maid she found the woman in the little room off the kitchen engaged in packing the small belongings of the baby in a flat parcel she glanced up sharply at the sound of milly's step Did you send the message? she asked.

Millie nodded, her eyes following the swift movements of the large pale hands. I'm packing these things, explained Mrs. Hill. Tomorrow you ought to take them to the village. I've arranged with the clergyman's wife to care for the child. She's one of those silly creatures who pretend to adore children. The girl stood silent, her hands hanging at her side. Mrs. Hill noted her attitude with one of her dying. glances.

Why do you stand there like that? She demanded, take off your hat, get me some tea at once. It's late. Millie lifted her eyes to the clock, which was now on the stroke of six. I am going now, she said in a low, half-frightened voice. You will not need me.

Going, echoed Mrs. Hill sharply. Indeed, you are not. I shall need you for several days yet. Do you think I shall have nothing to do? There's the packing. I'm going now, repeated Millie doggedly. I shall not stay here any longer. The woman stared at her angrily.

Take off your hat at once, she ordered, stamping her foot. There's something I must tell you before I go. You may like to hear it, Millie said in her determined voice. she paused, perhaps to choose her words with care, but when she finally spoke, it was as though she had loaded a gun with hard, merciless phrases and fired them at a target with swift precision. I know what became of your daughter?

She went away with a man. I saw him. You saw? What do you mean? Mrs. Hill sank limply into a chair, as if the words had actually penetrated her large, breast, inflicting mortal injury. She stared up at the girl with something like entreaty in her dull eyes.

I was at the front of the house, sweeping the passage, really went on. You were dressing the baby, and all the doors were shut between as you told me. Yes, yes, go on. A man, driving a light buggy, came up the road. He spoke to me, asked me if a family named Hill lived in the house. i told him yes and asked if i should call you when just then a shutter in the room up above was thrown open and the man looked up and knew a daughter was leaning across the sill she didn't speak at first just looked he held out his arms to her i found you at last he said well commented the woman hoarsely what then i suppose she must have gone away with him milly said lowering her eyes.

You suppose? Don't you know? I came in directly. I didn't like to look after that. Why didn't you tell me? Millie looked at her mistress defiantly. She did not answer. If you had told me, perhaps.

Millie moved toward the back door. On the threshold, she paused to glance back. The woman was sitting motionless, A small folded garment in her lap, her eyes staring straight before her into vacancy. End of Chapter 25. Chapter 26 of the Heart of Filura by Florence Morse Kingsley. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 26, The parish hears the news.

In the damp basement room of the Presbyterian Church, used indifferently for Sunday school, prayer meetings, and the more secular activities of the Ladies' Aid Missionary Society, Mrs. Buckthorn, as president of the latter organisation, was assisting Miss Elector Pratt, chairman of the sewing committee, to lay out the work for the afternoon. We really ought to get that home missionary barrel

ready to go to the mountain whites this week, said Mrs. Buckthorn with a deep sigh, expressive of the burden which rested upon her ample shoulders. I hope we'll have a good attendance today. Miss Pratt sniffed as she held up to view a limp and faded muslin dress of a fashion long since decadent. The buttons is tore right out of this waist, she observed with the malicious smile. Do you think it would pay to fix? And just look at the hem.

Must have been awful muddy and never got washed clean. Mrs Buckthorn compressed her lips. I donated that dress, my son. "'Self,' she said, "'after careful and prayerful consideration. "'Some mountain-white mother will be glad and thankful "'for the opportunity of making over that dress for her child. "'No, Elector, we will not take the lady's time to repair it.

"'Let them go on with the rompers for the missionary's twins. "'Then there's the ribbons to cut and sew "'for the mile of pennies we're beginning "'for repairs on the church edifice. "'How much did you have to pay? a yard for that ribbon elector ten cents replied miss pratt and it ain't all silk she rolled her greenish eyes toward the door oh there comes mrs puffer oh and do look if she ain't bringing her two youngest much work will get accomplished to-day i suppose she remembered it was tea and cake day good afternoon mrs puffer oh dear little tots so glad you brought em right along i had too replied the matron plaintively or stay at home the baby's teething and kind of frettie and the twins can't do nothing with georgie he's so ambitious and high-spirited he takes after his par georgie does mrs buckthorne gazed over the top of her spectacles

at the little boy, who stood with his hands judiciously folded behind his fat person, staring imperturbably about the sacred precinct. Little boy, she said in a deep hollow tone, Do you love Jesus? Young Master Puffer appeared to be considering the question with some doubt when his mother hastily interposed in his behalf. Of course he does, Miss Buckthorn. He says his prayers just as cunning every night.

and he'd have been in sunday school all summer if he hadn't had whooping cough this spring and gone from that right into the measles and from that into chicken-pox there's some children that seem elected to be saved from their earliest infancy stated mrs buckthorn sonorously my oldest girl martha ellen was that kind she died when she was six water on the brain she could repeat correctly twenty-one and a hundred and eight verses from the bible i've often wondered what she'd have grown up to be had she been spared but there's others that seem born for perdition they don't appear to have no real comprehension of spiritual things as i tell the deacon her spectacled glance dwelt darkly on the two small puffers who had taken refuge in their mother's skirts i'd rather my children would live and be out "'Mermoured Mrs. Puffer rebelliously. "'I'd be scared stiff if they were too religious and like that.' "'A number of ladies had strayed in by twos and threes, "'and Mrs. Buckthorn's attention,

"'happily diverted from the subjects of infant salvation "'to the more urgent demands of her official position, "'pass them in review one by one.' "'I don't see our pastor's wife in the room,' she observed. "'Has anyone seen Mrs. Petty-Bur? I requested her to lead the devotional exercises this afternoon, and we're already five minutes past the hour. No one replied at first,

and then a thin voice uprose from the back of the room. I don't think she's come in. You don't think, Mrs. Salter, did I understand you to say that our pastor's wife wasn't coming? The lady addressed, and now the target for every eye, moved her angular shoulders slightly. It was evident that she was labouring under strong, though suppressed excitement.

I suppose you'd heard, Miss Buckthorn, she said. But if you ain't, heard? Heard what? Why, that the minister's wife's got a baby? A gasp of incredulity exhaled sharply from every matron's breast. Miss Elector Pratt achieved a virginal blush, which, unluckily, centred upon the end of her nose. You must be mistaken, said Mrs. Puffer authoritatively. I'm sure I ought to know.

Sarah Jane Assulter, you are mistaken, declared Mrs. Buckthorn. Do you suppose for a moment that I, it's adopted, conceded Mrs. Salter negligently. i thought i said so adopted the word uprose in vehement chorus after which every lady looks searchingly at every other lady and finally at mrs buckthorn that lady had taken up her bible with an air of rigid self-control the kind and variety of that sterling quality which appears to put off for future consideration a subject too large for unpremeditated speech. We will read together the 28th Psalm, she said in her deepest prayer-meeting voice, and afterward be led in prayer by Miss Deaconess Scrimge. These pious preliminaries having been duly carried out, needles, thread, and a number of inchoate garments were distributed by Miss Elector Pratt, who stated confidentially to Mrs. Puffer that she'd had such a shock, a person could knock her down with a feather.

other ladies confessed to a trembly feeling induced it may be believed by the dramatic suddenness of mrs salter's communication that lady raised to a sudden eminence of social importance was the object of a brisk fire of questions but it was soon learned that she knew very little of the actual circumstances no she said i ain't been to the parsonage myself i had one of my spells last night and I could scarcely crawl over here to the meeting but I felt as though it was my duty to come all I know is they come home from somewhere yesterday afternoon with a baby Obed he telephoned to me about five o'clock that Reverend Pettibone was to the store asking for a nursing bottle of course Obed he don't keep him in stock so he told him to go to the drugstore I heard they called in the doctor this morning. It's a very serious thing to adopt a baby, stated Mrs. Buckthorn strongly, and it was felt that she had voiced the sentiment of the meeting.

Of course, if you have children of your own, that's one thing. She went on didactically. The Lord sends them, and you've got to do the best you can with what comes. But to take somebody else's child to raise is a terrible responsibility. I don't think Filora Rice ought to attempt it, more as special as she has assumed other duties and responsibilities as the wife of our pastor. If she had seen fit to consult me before taking such a step, I should have advised her different.

What I want to know is, where did she get it? Put in Miss Pratt, and then she giggled in her usual high-pitched girlish manner. To think of Felora with a baby. she cried the idea obed asked mr pettibone where they got it said mrs salter and he saw her umd and a-a-a-a-a-a-a-and-a-and says he i haven't consulted with mrs pettibone as to whether it will be altogether best to divulge the child's parentage he says did you ever murmured mrs scrimgeer seems as though we'd got a right to know i agree with you, said Mrs. Buckthorn sonorously. She folded the red and white gingham legs upon which she had been at work, with deliberate motions of her large, fat hands. I'm obliged to leave early today, she told her satellites,

but I do hope you'll all remain while the light is good, because the barrel for the mountain whites really must be got off in time to put in our report for the annual church meeting. A resentful silence, broken only by the voices of the infant puffers upraised in united protest, settled upon the gathering. Oh, the children, observed Mrs. Puffer mildly, seemed to be getting frettie. I think I'd better take them home. Aren't you going to wait for the tea and cake? asked Mrs. Scrimge. But Mrs. Puffer had already gathered her belongings and was moving toward the door.

the baby's fat face bobbing over her shoulder and master georgie trailing a long strip of red and white checked gingham which somebody had tied to an empty spool it's so kind of damp in this room i feel it all through my bones complained mrs salter the doctor told me only yesterday i was to avoid dampness and obed says to me at dinner to-day when i told him i meant to make an effort and get over to the meeting don't you stay long he said Mr. Sop was awful particular about my health. Mind what I tell you, he says, or I'll have you down again on the flat of your back. So I guess her tall angular figure disappeared through the door to the gentle patter of her speech. Well, it's funny, but I can't stay either, simpered Miss Pratt. I'd come early a purpose so I could be excused it for. I have an important engagement.

with which Miss Pratt also departed. The ladies who were left cast furtive glances at one another, while they set dutiful stitches in the red and white gingham rompers destined for the home missionary's twins. It seems to be clouding up, sighed one. No, but we don't get the light we ought to for sewing, appined another. If you ladies don't object, said Mrs. Scrimge, who was chairman of the refreshment committee.

me and Mrs. Bassettl served tea kind of early. I got to go home to see for something for the Deacon. The Entertainment Committee withdrew to the adjoining kitchen whence a subdued clatter of cups and plates presently issued. A lady distinguished by a deep mourning costume arose. I don't care for tea, she said gently. It upsets my nerves. And she went away.

I don't wonder Mrs. Bartlett can't. drink the tea Mrs. Dickiness Scrimge a bruise, murmured a pallid person from the twilight shadow of the Sunday school bookshelf. It's strong enough to bear up an egg. She whispered something to Mrs. Elder Trimmer, who sat next to her, and then glided away with a self-righteous air of superiority. I'm sure I don't want any strong tea, and social tea crackers are all we'll get for cake, said the woman nearest the door, and she folded up her red and white. gingham legs, meaning of course the home missionary legs, and silently stole away. When Mrs. Scrimgear and Mrs. Bassett re-entered the room, each bearing a tray with cups

and other tea paraphernalia, it was to find a room enlivened by neatly folded piles of sanguinary-hued immaterial, but otherwise empty of occupants. Well, gasped Mrs. Bassett, who was short and stout, and correspondingly lacking in breath at critical junctures. Did you ever? Mrs. Deaconess Scrimge never did in all her life and she said so with great variety

and freedom of speech. Will you have a cup of tea? She asked Mrs. Bassett. It's hot and strong. But Mrs. Bassett appeared never drank tea of an afternoon. Nor did she at the moment feel appetite for the very dry and pale cakes

reposing in Serried Rose in two church-place of green sprig china. Mrs. Bassett thought she must go home at once if Mrs. Scrimger didn't mind and as there were no cups to wash. Mrs. Scrimge, left her herself, drank two cups of tea,

rather than waste it all, after which she providently restored the pale cakes to their pasteboard box. They'd do nicely, she thought, for the next tea and cake meeting. It should be acknowledged at once that Mrs. Pettibone had, for the first time in year,

years forgotten the meeting of the ladies aid and missionary society, the completeness of her lapse of memory being further evidenced by a slip of paper tucked the week before into the frame of her mirror and bearing the words devotional exercises LAMS August 22nd. Mrs Pettibone had actually removed this paper, inscribed upon it words of far different purport and given it to Mr Pettibone on the morning of that very day as he stepped forward. from the parsonage the baby said mrs pettibone needs these things at once and she appeared so very pink and excited and her hair was rumpled into such careless curls that the minister after glancing at her in his usual professional way looked a second time and then deliberately re-entered the house closed the street door and took her in his arms why silas murmured Mrs Pettibone in unaffected surprise. Well, you look so sweet, he excused himself and kissed her twice. This episode, having been concluded to the satisfaction of both, he again went forth from the ministerial domicile and walked away very fast. He felt like whistling a secular tune, but refrained.

It had not been Mr Pettibone's custom to whistle tunes of any sort on the streets of Innesfield. Then he glanced at the memorandum his wife had given him. Devotional exercises at L.A.M.S. August 22nd, he read. It puzzled him. Why should the baby require? Oh, hold on. Quite as she meant him to do, he turned the paper over and perceived other words. Two cakes, the best castile soap, white,

three cards of safety pins, small, medium and large. two yards of fine white flannel and quarter pound of lactose the minister had not slept as well as common the night before there had been various noises of an unfamiliar nature and the ever-recurrent vision of a small figure panoplined in white passing to and fro but the sight of his wife's face across the breakfast-table had caused him to forget it all he had not known she could look like that the thought of it followed him as he entered the emporium of elder george trimmer where safety pins of assorted sizes could doubtless be found safety pins said brother trimmer oh yes we have them he looked inquiringly across the counter at his pastor he had heard of men whose wives were so negligent in the matter of buttons that they were compelled to make use of the invention which he now displayed in nickel-plated profusion upon his counter Mr Pettibone painstakingly selected three cards

small, medium and large as per memorandum and fine white flannel he added you have fine white flannel I suppose and castile soap up the best. He glanced stealthily at the scrap of paper concealed in the palm of his hand. Oh, white, the soap must be white. Well, well, said Mr Trimmer with a slightly jocular air.

Hmm, yes. Mr Trimmer was a family man and proud of the fact. Only two yards of this flannel, he inquired. Only two? Now I should say you'd require wood. at least eight yes eight wouldn't be any too lavish a pattern i should say some ladies by ten or even twelve a square yard of this flannel worked around the edge yes worked scolloped as ladies will makes a tip-top infant's blanket i think said mr pettibone rubbing his chin dubiously that it already has a blanket or perhaps two i noticed mrs pettiebone rubbing his chin dubiously that it already has a blanket or perhaps two i noticed mrs pettiebone bone yes yes murmured mr trimmer fossily i may say i am surprised i had no idea oh nor had i till yesterday said his pastor it would never have occurred to me i own but my wife yes you may cut off two yards of that flannel if more's required mrs pettibone will come in later i think the child requires it to-day as far as

as I know its wardrobe is somewhat limited. Mr. Trimmer's shears, which had shiningly snipped their way well into the blue-white flannel, came to a sudden halt. "'Limited?' he exclaimed, honestly aghast. "'And you didn't know until yesterday?' "'In the course of our parochial rounds,' said Mr. Pettibone calmly. "'We chanced yesterday to meet, amid somewhat distressing circumstances, a young infant.

My wife, Mrs. Pettibone, is a very warm-hearted person, and being touched by the infant's evident need of maternal care, she offered, indeed, I may say, insisted upon, you adopted it? You took a child to bring up? Oh, precisely. We brought it with us to the parsonage last night. It's a boy, and appears,

Mr Trimmer shook his head. I'm sorry you didn't consult me, he said, before taking such a step. Why, propounded Mr. Pettibone, don't you think me capable of bringing up a son? Mr. Trimmer smacked his tongue smartly against the roof of his mouth. I wouldn't advise anybody to adopt a child, he said. It's too great a responsibility.

It would have involved a great, a responsibility to leave the child where it was said mr pettibone and why should i not assume a responsibility i am i believe a responsible person mr trimmer looked pityingly at him have you any idea what sort of man that infant will grow into he demanded well no replied the minister can anyone predict what their children will grow into can you for example example oh yes sir said mr trimmer i can if my boys don't behave i'll make em behave and they know it george trimmer junior will be a man like me and ennery is like his ma well correlated the minister tentatively the breeds more than the pasture quoted mr trimmer smartly whose child is it where do you get him tell me that and I'll tell you, impossible, said Mr. Pettibone, we've decided to keep all that to ourselves. But let me remind you, Brother Trimmer, that an immortal soul has other attributes than those merely physical. All are children of God and inherit eternal life, eternal possibilities of glory.

In Adams Four, we sinned all, snapped Mr. Trimmer. You can't get back of that. He finished snipping off the flannel And banged his scissors Smartly on the counter As if they had been the shears of fate I hope you won't be sorry Ten years from now

He added In a tone signifying the exact opposite of his words No'er in twenty I ain't got no use for other folks' children In that respect Said his pastor keenly You differ from Jesus of Nazareth with which trenchant saying he departed leaving the two yards of blue-white flannel upon the counter mr trimmer gazed at the small parcel with a singular expression on his rather dry and wizened countenance

in that respect i differ eh he muttered thoughtfully now what do you mean by that well perhaps i did put it a little bit strong and he forgot his flannel and the safety pins maybe i'd better send them up to the house she might want them for the baby here you george get up to the parsonage with this bundle they're in ary for it mr trimmer walked to his desk in the rear of the store and opened his daybook with the intent of entering the items the minister had forgotten to pay for adopted he repeated adopted it will cost him a good bit to bring up a boy so it will well guess i won't charge it. He laid down his pen with a pleasant glow about his heart. That same afternoon, when Mrs. Pettibone had fed the baby, she sat gazing at him with loving intentness. She supposed she ought to put him down in the little bed she had improvised

out of two chairs and a pillow, but she excused herself on the ground that she'd not yet had a chance to take a good look at the child. He'd cried a good deal in the night and refused the bottle she had so urgently pressed into the small, widely opened mouth. In the morning, she sent for Dr. North, and he had come at once in response to her summons. "'Well, Miss Fullora, what's the matter with you?' he began, as he hurriedly wriggled out of his raincoat, or is it the domine? Don't know when I've been in this house before. Mrs. Pettibone had always stood very much in awe of the excellent doctor. His large presence and loud, authoritative voice affected many women that way, but all of them trusted him.

You told me, advised me, to adopt a baby, she said, trembling visibly, and I, he's here, and I don't know what to feed him or anything. Dr. North stared at Mrs. Pettibone, his grizzled eyebrows drawn over his bright eyes in an intimidating frown. I told you? I advised you, he blurted out. When did I say anything like that to you? I've no recollection. A long time ago, she reminded him, you were just coming out of Mrs. Salters.

She'd been having a spell. Don't you remember? Bless my soul, if I should tax my memory with everything I said coming out of Mrs. Salters. But you say you've actually got a baby on the premises? and I didn't even know it. I'll have to look into this. I will indeed.

Can't have that sort of thing going on. And he rubbed his big hands together and laughed his big laugh, as he followed the small fluttering person of Mrs. Pettibone into the sitting-room, where two chairs and a pillow were placed in close juxtaposition to the stove, in which a fire was burning. I thought I ought to keep him warm, she murmured, as the doctor flung up a window with a muttered exclamation. yes but not cook him miss folura now let's look into this he pulled the flannel from the small pink face why bless my soul he exploded this child can't be much more than a week old where on earth where's the mother

he's ten days this morning said mrs pettibone proudly i'm his mother the doctor stared at her frowningly you his I said only too plainly, of all persons. She clasped her hands appealingly. Oh, don't you think I can? She murmured. I've wanted one so long. When I love him so. I'll do everything you tell me.

I'll, well, I guess you'll have to, seen as you've got him, by hook or crook. A boy, eh? Harder to raise than a girl. It's well to begin on a girl. Well, we'll see. we'll see and he had seen thoroughly and in detail when he finally left the parsonage after a visit of unparalleled length mrs pettibone felt that she had never appreciated sufficiently the vast and profound knowledge locked up in mrs puffer's matumly breast no wonder mothers had that patronising air she had formerly resented they had a right to be haughty and superior they had a right too to pity ignorant persons who knew nothing of babies. Mrs. Pettibone pensively regarded the baby's bottle, in which remained a

small portion of properly modified milk. She'd come a long way since yesterday and learn many things of which she had no previous knowledge. And the doctor had said he would come again. He would come often and she was not to worry about the charge because an adopted baby was different. everybody had to take hold with an adopted baby it was no more than right the doorbell rang it was mrs buckthorn and she'd come directly from the forgotten meeting of the ladies aid and a missionary society end of chapter twenty six chapter twenty seven of the heart of felora by florence morse kingsley this librivox recording is in the public domain chapter twenty seven the lady's aid my dear filura mrs buckthorne began at once i was never more surprised in all the course of my life her large face wore a chastened expression of grief and she stepped softly as she entered the hall "'I suppose I may see it,' she murmured, "'in precisely the same tone she would have used in a house of morning.'

"'Yes,' responded Mrs. Pettibone also in hushed accents. "'He's asleep now.' "'Dear, dear,' sighed Mrs. Buckthorn as she stooped over the unconscious infant. "'My, my!' "'and she clicked her tongue rapidly against the roof of her mouth, "'as the proper preliminary for a repetition of her initial remark. varied only by a change of emphasis my dear filura i was never more surprised in the course of all my life isn't he a dear propounded mrs pettibone boldly she added with noticeable pride almost arrogance dr north says he's an unusually fine child he weighs nine pounds and of course he'll gain on proper food mrs

Buckthorne clicked rapidly, as if words were inadequate to express her emotions, and then she shook her head. "'You shouldn't have done it, Filura,' she said solemnly. "'Why not?' asked Mrs. Pettibone, but it was evident that she did not ask for information. Her question, on the contrary, expressed unqualified defiance, and so indeed Mrs. Buckthorne interpreted its meaning. "'You should have consulted me before taking me, before taking you, "'and so, indeed, Mrs. Buckthorne interpreted it's meaning. such a serious step she said you don't know what it is to bring up a baby mrs pettibone fortified by her recent conference with dr north elevated her chin slightly nobody does till they try she said i suppose i can learn just as you did mrs buckthorn transfixed her with an awful look motherhood she stated sonorously prepares a woman for the arduous duties which await her.

You have had no such preparation, Filura, and therefore, what about trained nurses? They're not even married, and they learn. Mrs. Pettibone's tone, and indeed her manner, was almost flippant. She added, Dr. North says I shall get along splendidly. He says, what are you feeding the baby? interrupted Mrs. Buckthorne,

gazing suspiciously at the child's sleeping face over the top of her spectacles. Modified milk, replied Mrs. Pettibone glibly. Top milk, boiled water, and lactose in proper, oh my, broke in the older matron. That will never do. I don't believe in these newfangled... But Dr. North says,

I have no confidence. in doctors when it comes to babies. But what should a big, rough man know about a tender, delicate infant? Demanded Mrs. Buckthorn excitedly. What you want to feed that baby is the doorbell rang. It was Mrs. Puffer, and she carried an amateurish-looking parcel done up in newspaper and tied with a strip of red and white-checked gingham. I just ran in for a minute.

to bring these little slips, she said breathlessly, and to see the baby. Oh, isn't he? It is a boy. Oh, I thought so the minute I looked at him. And what are you feeding him? Oh, yes, I think that's good. Only I had barley water instead of plain water.

And if his pressured little tummy gets upset, leave off the milk entirely. How can you tell? Oh, by the doorbell rang. It was Miss Elector Pratt. She came in her befrizzled head very much on one side, her angular chin seeking to hide itself coily amid the ruffles at her throat. Oh, I feel so funny, she giggled.

I don't know what to say. Fillura with a baby. Oh, dear, dear, I couldn't have been more surprised if you'd really, oh, don't you know? Isn't it tiny? How do you dare to touch him? I shouldn't, I know. And what does Mr Pettibone say?

He isn't in? That's too bad. I wanted to ask him. Oh, and Flora, if you haven't got a crib for the baby, Ma says there's one in our attic you can have just as well as the doorbell rang. It was Mrs. Salter, carrying a small square box of an ancient and fly-spect appearance. Well, as seems as though ours. so in society she murmured i just ran over to bring you a sample of dr pilwick's patent purified baby food an agent left it at the store last winter

obed doesn't carry it in stock but he says he can get it for you if it agrees with the baby oh there it is what i care i wonder you dare attempt it as i was saying to obed if the lord had seen fit the doorbell rang. Mrs. Bartlett, like a shadow of woe in her sombre garments, glided in. She was a pretty woman with eyes perpetually reddened by weeping. Everybody in Innesfield knew that she had lost four children, one after the other, and the four little mounds in the cemetery never lacked fresh blossoms, summer or winter. She kissed Mrs. Pettibone silently, and then moved toward the two chairs and the pillow on which repose the sleeping infant, oblivious to the storm of excitement his small presence in the

parsonage had evoked. She gazed at the child long and earnestly. He looks, she murmured in the ear of her pastor's wife, like my little Jamie. The other women in the room were silent. Even Mrs. Buckthorne blew her nose loudly and sympathetically. Mrs. Pettibone squeezed the bereaved mother's hand. She knew now, she was telling herself, how poor Mrs Bartlett felt. Before she'd not been able to guess. I've brought over a few things, murmured the lady in black. I'd like you to have them for this dear little baby.

Mrs. Pettibone murmured her thanks. The expressman will leave a wicker crib and a perambulator. I suppose you haven't had time. No, I don't care to keep them any longer. My babies don't need them. And this dear little soul, how strong and well he looks. The doorbell rang. Mrs. Trimmer and Mrs. Bassett arrived together.

Both ladies carried parcels. So this is what became of our lady's aid, crowed Mrs. Bassett all smiles. You ought to have seen Mrs. Deacon's Scrimgear and me with the cups and a pot of boiling tea and the cake and all. oh here's the baby you certainly did give us the surprise of our young lives mrs pettibone no wonder you forgot the devotional exercises most anybody would mrs trimmer had already pressed her parcel upon mrs pettibone's acceptance a few binders she murmured just tore off of silk and wool flannel some folks catch stitch em but i never did their little stubborn are too tender oh isn't he where did he come from you'll tell us i know seven pairs of earnest determined eyes fastened upon mrs pettibone's flushed and conscious face i was just going to ask filura that very same question intoned mrs buckthorne is he an orphan twittered mrs puffer patting the blankets anxiously i suppose he come from somewhere's round here inferred miss pratt astutely i heard you brought him in the buggy well we've decided not to tell a slight murmur of surprise arose from seven protesting mouths

don't be hasty filura warned mrs buckthorn a secret about a baby is bound to come out well mr pettibone and i both think that on account of the parents, Oh, they are married, stated Mrs. Pettibone doggedly. But we don't know. We don't even know their name. Well, that is, I do know their first names. And I've named the baby. You named the baby already, cried Mrs. Puffer in obvious disappointment.

I was just going to suggest, and I suppose, of course, Mr. Pettibone, being the adopted father. His name, said Mrs. Pettibone positively, is Stephen. When just before tea-time, the minister returned from a round of parish visiting, he found his wife alone with her new treasure in a room abounding in new and unfamiliar objects. Why? What's happened? He inquired, gazing short-sightedly, at several elaborate creations of wicker work, a number of patent nursing bottles, a bathtub, and a profusion of small garments spread out on the chairs and tables. Oh, Silas, cried his wife. Everybody is so interested. You can't think. The doorbell rang. It was Miss Malvina Bennett. She wore her sewing by the daydress

and carried a large roll of fashion books under her arm. Mm-hmm, murmured Miss Maldina, after she had inspected the baby, who was at that moment engaged in absorbing his allotted portion of top milk? So that's the way it turned out. Well, well, she nodded her head understandingly. I ain't going to ask you where it come from, but I could make a pretty good guess if I was to try. we're not going to tell anyone malvina miss bennet cackled at dryly i met emma coming away she said oh land they was canvas in the subject

electa pratt she's a sharp one they brought it home in the buggy she says positive so it musta come from around here i didn't let on but i says to myself unless them folks has gone i says and even then there's millyorn knows all about it. Millie won't tell, murmured Mrs. Pettibone, is just on account of Miss Malthina nodded. Just as well to keep it close, if you can,

she agreed. But what's become of her? Don't she want the baby? Oh, she thinks, she believes it died. She went away, believing. Miss Bennett gave vent to a snort of disgust. if that ain't like that stuck-up old woman she'd a drove the girl to her death be drowning if it ain't been for me i told her point-blank about the encircling good or not that i know much about it myself

but it seemed to take a hold on that poor young critter it did for a fact she approached her kind wrinkled face close to mrs pettibones i mailed a letter for her she whispered i kind of thought yes said mrs pettibone he must have received it oh do you mean he took her away well i want to know miss bennet poked the small flannel bundle in mrs pettiebone's lap with an experimental forefinger i'd admire to make some clothes for it she said i could do em evenings it's child's plate to sew them little things and i'd love to i declare I would. It would be a change from grown-up, Soan. Her faded eyes met those of her pastor's wife with an imploring look.

You wouldn't mind, Philora? Of course I wouldn't, Mrs. Pettibone returned promptly. I can't sew nearly as beautifully as you do. Her thin arms closed jealously about the tiny form. I'm not going to be selfish with him, as she breathed.

You can come in and hold him whenever you want to melvina and you can pretend he's part yours oh can i cried miss bennet joyously oh say i'll be his auntie malvina that's what i'll be it's kind of suitable too when you think of it me are making her address and mailing a letter to his par and keeping her out of the pond and like that don't you think so end of chapter twenty seven chapter twenty eight of the heart of filura by florence morse kingsley this librivox recording is in the public domain chapter twenty eight miss philura's baby when the reverend silas pettibone had yielded to his wife's determined wish in the matter of the baby he had been very far indeed from realising the full significance of his act he would have been ashamed to put his thoughts into words would very likely have denied that they existed but his hospitality had appeared in the light of his imperfect masculine understanding to be not unlike that extended to a homeless little animal some people he knew strenuous objected to sheltering a forlorn half-starred kitten, driving it from their doors with harsh cries of scorn and contumly. As for a dog, strayed or stolen, they resolutely turned their

backs on his pleading eyes and the voiceless eloquence of his persuasive tale. Silas Pettibone was not that sort of man. Solidarity was not merely a word to him. He felt to his innermost fibre the mysterious oneness of life. So this little unwelcome, unloved scrap of humanity should find shelter under his roof, permanent or temporary, as the case might be. But it was precisely this latter aspect of their quasi-parenthood which continually harassed his wife. If they should come to take him away, she was always saying her eyes shadowed with fear. We should certainly have to give him up, was the minister's unbiased opinion. We have, you know, no legal right to the child.

But she gave him to me, argued his wife. Mr. Pettibone shook his head. I was present, he would remind her. You walked calmly away with the child in your arms. She merely allowed you to take him. But she didn't want him. That is true. but it was this but rooted in unknown conditions which haunted mrs pettibone and would not down

the day after she had triumphantly carried her point with mrs hill milly orne appeared at the parsonage she was the bearer of a parcel of baby clothes and an envelope which was found to contain bank-notes amounting to a hundred dollars in response to mrs pettibone's eager questions milly said she had left mrs pettibone's his hill the night before. The parcel had been delivered at the Orns by the expressman, who had been employed to fetch a wagonload of trunks from the old Egleston house to the railway station. Millie supposed the woman had left in his field. Grandfather had seen her driving past in a carriage. Her blue eyes persistently avoided Mrs. Pettibones. What became of the young man? asked the minister's wife. A resentful blush sprang into the girl's averted face and mounted swiftly to the roots of her bright hair. How should I know? she murmured.

Oh! The exclamation was involuntary, but Mrs. Pettibone instantly regretted that she had allowed it to escape her lips. Millie Orne was looking at her defiantly. I hope, she said coldly, I shall never see any of them again. Then unexpectedly, she was compelled to deal with several large teeth. tears which forced themselves into view on her lashes i'm sure you'll think oh i know i'm very foolish stammered milly whisking the tears away with a touch of anger but i wish i hadn't gone there at all mrs pettibone forbore questions but she could not help remembering with an uncomfortable sense of guilt that it was at her suggestion milly had gone to the eggleston farm anyway you've heard the new roof she reminded the girl after an awkward silence during which milly dried her eyes and successfully subdued her emotion oh and the cow that's surely something to be thankful for the girl smiled forlornly i did what i started out to do she assented staring out of the window and presently she added you will keep the baby oh i certainly shall

said Mrs. Pettibone, "'unless—' "'It has been pointed out to us "'that the obvious uncertainty of everything "'in this our earthly experience "'magnifies our joys, "'and puts, as it were, "'a cutting edge upon our powers of appreciation.

"'If one could be absolutely assured, "'argue these wise philosophers, "'that one's friends would never die, "'one's house would never burn down, "'and one's investments never fail, "'life would become of a sudden utterly flat, and unprofitable. It is the keen sparkle of the unexpected, the undreamed of, even the apprehended, which makes the draft in any way palatable. Friura Pettibone watched the gradual unfolding of

her rose of life with a tremor back of the joy. But it was no less a joy for all that, and after months of peaceful and undisputed possession of the child, she almost forgot the tragic face of his young mother. Almost, but not quite. There was the picture of the Huguenot lovers still hanging on the parlour wall. She had named the baby Stephen, after his unknown father, in a sudden passion of sentiment, and afterwards she regretted her haste. There were so many splendid names for men, and Stephen did so put one in mind of the

first martyr. She preferred not to think of martyrs when she looked at the baby, and he was a baby, as Bishop Brooks used to say to the delighted mothers of his congregation. Not even the latest puffer could show such sparkling blue eyes. She was glad his eyes were blue, and not big and dark and passionate like his poor mothers. And his hair curled, really curled, you know, not merely stood on end under diligent applications of a wet hairbrush.

He was pink, as pink as a healthy baby ought to be, and of exactly the right fatness. in a word little stephen pettibone as he was actually christened by the minister in church of a sunday morning was a baby any woman might be proud to mother it was wonderful too what an all-round difference the baby in the parsonage made female parishioners of a critical even censorious turn of mind who had heretofore merely scarified the minister's sermon now stopped him in the street to ask after the baby the fame of the baby went abroad as it were in all the land hard-fisted old farmers driving loads of produce to town broke into broad smiles at the sight of mrs pettibone weeding the perambulator people came to call at the parsonage who had never before darkened the door of the ministerial domicile the baby in short was like a cheerful little fire newly kindled on a cold hearth people stretched their hand towards him with smiles tardily realising how cold and frost-bitten they had been and the baby basking in the universal approbation thrived and grew like a lusty little tree in the sunshine every single day mrs pettibone confided to the minister he is sweeter and lovelier than he was yesterday the minister formed the habit of sauntering about till after the baby had had his bath he found to his surprise that he could write better and more easily than ever before

his association with the baby appeared to have opened up entirely new regions of biblical truth it was surprising how many trenchant sayings relating to children there were in the bible mr pettibone had not noticed them before being occupied with such themes as total depravity the state of the unsaved soul after death and kindred subjects suited to the joyless adult idea of christianity love had already done much for the rev silas pettibone but there had remained an unsunned a side of his nature of which he himself was only dimly conscious so the moon may be cognizant of the cold sterility of its darkened hemisphere mrs pettibone had loyally believed her husband to be quite perfect as he was but she was not blind to the change in him she spent hours in secret teaching the baby to say a single word then one morning wonderful to relate her pupil prefacing his initial effort at speech with a ravishing smile said papa it was a proud moment for both of them and it was on that very morning that for the first time mr peypey pettibone put into words his own secret misgivings if we'd never had him he observed thoughtfully we shouldn't have known what we were missing i should have known said mrs pettibone with a wise smile she could say it now without painful blushes he looked at her intently observing with secret wonder the changes wrought by her quasi motherhood she had certainly grown plumber her eyes and cheeks and lips had taken on a look of youth the lines of her arms and shoulders had changed subtly as arms and shoulders will under a burden daily growing heavier yet always more beloved but if they should come now to take him he went on i am afraid

mrs pettibone was putting on the baby's cloak preparatory to taking him out for an airing she successfully extracted one pink fist from the sleeve she had first made into a nest and then proceeded to rumple up the other in a way mrs puffer had taught her why do you say that she asked reproachfully just as i was beginning to forget about it she kissed the baby passionately in the nape of his neck where fuzzy yellow curls were beginning to take her take advantage of his improved habits in the way of sitting up. Do you know, he's nine months old, Silas. He'll soon be a year, and we haven't heard a word from any of them. Oh, never mind, precious, he didn't like to have his bonnet tied. Indeed he didn't. Now he's going day, day.

There, she achieved a smart bow under the protesting chin. Take him a minute, dear, while I put on my hat and wheel the carriage out. He's sleepy. he'll be sound the minute i take him out she was tucking the baby snugly in his perambulator for although it was april and the big maples were already brave with scarlet blossoms the wind still flourished a keen edge which put one in mind of blue-white snows and unmelted ice to the northward mrs wessels her head draped in a plaid tea-towl stood looking on that worthy woman was armed with a broom and dust-pan and her face was drawn into myriad puckers and foes of deliberate thought my my she exclaimed i would have thought one short year ago i'd be standing here on the parsonage stoop watching mrs pellybone all took up with a baby as i was saying to wessell's only yesterday she couldn't be no more took up i says if it was her own child and wessels he says it's wonderful how he thinks things out sitting there by the stove she mightn't be so took up half as much he says positive if it was her baby baby i guess that's so come to think of it you'd feel easier and more different like in your mind if i don't see why you should think so interrupted mrs pettibone grasping the handle of the perambulator firmly she appeared slightly defiant as if mrs wessles had unwittingly touched upon a subject already uppermost in her mind the baby is mine she added positively just as much mine as if but you ain't adopted it legal have you

inquired Mrs Wessels more for the sake of sustaining her pose of easeful contemplation than for any information she hoped to elicit. When you sweep the parlour to-day, Mrs. Wessels, I'd like you to wipe off the windows, said Mrs. Pettibon, pointedly ignoring the question. She added that the windows in question were very dusty. Yes, I know they be, agreed Mrs. Wessels with a mournful sigh. I noticed they look something terrible. when I come along this morning and I says to myself, Louisa Wessels, I says, if you have the time and strength today,

you must get round to wash off them windows for Mrs. Pettibone. They're a disgrace to the parsonage, I says, all streaked and gormed up, but I don't know. I got an awful gone feeling to the pit of my stomach today. I says to Wessles this morning, if it was anybody but Mrs. Pettibone I was going to work for, I believe I'd stayed home and took care of me,

myself but i know you wasn't one to take advantage of nobody so i come i'll do my best if i can get round to them winders i will if i can't just you take a little kerosene on a rag and do em yourself twill take you no time but i wouldn't leave em that way another week if i was you looks real slack where do you say i'd find the tea oh guess i'll make me a cup before i do another liquor work if you don't want i should drop right down in my tracks and when i think o wessles and all them children hanging on to miss skirts and me doing a day's work for the victuals they put in their mouths it does seem like i ought to take care of myself now don't it mrs pettibone had moved slowly toward the gate during this exordium pushing the perambulator before her she was embarked upon the smooth expanse of sidewalk beyond when she again heard the pursuing voice of mrs wessels and glancing back, behold that lady leaning reposefully

upon the fence the chequered towel about her head fluttering gaily in the wind. Oh, and say, Mrs. Petbone, she called out. You go into the meat market?

I thought maybe you was. I didn't see nothing but scraps of bacon in the ice chest. I just wanted to tell you if you was planning for my dinner, let it be pork chops. Ain't nothing more

tasty nor strengthening. What, ma'am, you don't think so? And you say, Minister don't like them to work on? Why, I learned? There ain't any wittles I know of. It stands by.

You like fresh pork. And if it ain't too much trouble, seen as you got the baby carriage and can bring it just as well as not, can you fetch me ten cents worth a cat meat? Yes, Mum, cat meets what I said. It makes lovely soup. You didn't know that. Being the minister's wife, you'll likely get a good bag full.

You don't need to. on it's for me tell kelly your cat eats real hearty he does for i've seen him at the baby's milk yesterday oh you didn't know well i tipped it over getting some for me tea and the cat licked it up oh yes save me the trouble of getting down a man's and knees a cat's useful that way i'm going in now if the doorbell rings do you want i should call the minister if it's a pedlar i won't no mum, but I tell Wessels. Mrs. Pettibone had already passed out of hearing, trundling the carriage with its hud snugly drawn against the assaults of the wind. She stopped at the post office, and the postmaster handed her two religious papers,

an advertisement of a church organ, and a letter directed in a firm masculine hand to Mr. Pettibone. She tucked the mail under the baby's blanket for safekeeping, and proceeded on her way. Miss Elector Pratt, arrayed bleakly in a new spring suit of black and white check and a hat bristling with ribbon bows and impossible flowers, was just issuing from the portals of the trimmer emporium. Good morning, Flora, she said, and how is the baby?

Dear me, I can't get used to seeing you out with it. I should think you'd feel kind of queer. Queer, echoed Mrs. Petty Bar. She took advantage of the pause in her. her progress to peep under the hood the baby was sleeping soundly his long dark lashes resting lightly on the warm rose of his cheek miss pratt peeped too isn't he an awful care she asked i notice you don't get time for ladies aid any more and you're hardly ever at church once in a while millyorn takes care of him for me mrs pettibone said i wouldn't trust him with anyone else Miss Pratt's greenish eyes glittered unpleasantly. Well, I found out where you got him, she said.

You might as well have told in the first place. You found out, echoed Mrs. Pettibone, and instinctively she braced herself for what might be coming. Miss Pratt giggled. Taint so hard to see through a millstone with a hole in it, once you take notice of the hole, she remarked, assidly. He's the child of that young woman who was a little. up to the Eggleston farm last summer.

She ran away and left it, and the other woman gave it to you. There was feline enjoyment in the eyes she fixed upon Philora Pettibone's agitated face. Oh, that don't surprise you, none, of course, but maybe this will. Their name wasn't Hill at all, but Cruden. The day Al Fisher took the trunks down from the farm, I happened to be at the station inquiring for a package, so I took a-to-lawful. a good look at them. There was all marked C. And one of them had a card tacked onto it as they'd been scratched off with a pencil.

As luck would have it, I had an eraser in my bag, so I rubbed it off and copied what I could see. It was, Lecter, exclaimed Mrs. Pettibone Weekly. Oh, you don't think it was real nice for me to find out something about your baby? Well, I thought it was my Christian duty. You want I should tell you what I've seen on that card? Mrs Pettibone drew a tremulous breath. I don't know, she murmured. I guess you do, said Miss Pratt.

Anyway, I was coming to tell the minister this morning. I just got the letter. The flowers in the new spring hat rustled like dried cats' tails in the cold wind. I don't believe I... Oh, please don't, Elector. I'd listen if I was you. you, advised Miss Pratt strongly. You'll have to know, first or last.

The name on that card was Mrs. Alexander Cruden, Chilworth Gardens, Chicago. They came far enough away from home, anybody'd suppose. But as it happens, Ma has a cousin living out in Chicago, so I wrote to her and asked a few questions. She didn't answer for a long while, and I'd about give up.

But yesterday, "'Though the baby,' said Mrs Pettibone in a small weak voice, "'he's waking up. I must be going home. "'I'll walk along with you, Mifilura, volunteered Miss Pratt amiably. "'I'd like to show Mr Pettibone the letter I got from my cousin, Matilda Slicer. "'She's an own cousin of Mars on the Smith side. "'You don't want I should?' "'Well, I must say you're grateful.

"'But you can't prevent me from telling Mr. Pettibone, "'even if you did manage to marry him with your wonderful new thought, thought, oh, I know how you worked it, Filura, and there's others. But Filiora Pettibone had fled hastily down a side street, and Miss Pratt forbore to follow. She was anxious to stop at her friend Mrs. Buckthorns, who would she was confident, appreciate the full, the news of which she was at present sole proprietor and purveyor. Mr Pettibone, as was his invariable custom, permitted his morning mail to lie unopened on the hall table. this method of procedure tending to a more complete concentration of mind on topics of an other-worldly nature there was not infrequently food for disturbing thought in the parti-coloured envelopes bearing tradesmen's names in the upper left-hand corner

it was true that his church after strenuous and concerted effort had at the time of his marriage paid all arrears of his salary in full but since that date the brethren had lapsed into an easeful complaint in view of the well-known frugality of the second Mrs. Pettibone. Everybody in Innesfield knew that Filura Rice had been as poor as the proverbial church mouse. Ego, she was well accustomed to strenuous economy, and it would be a pity indeed to encourage this sinful extravagance which would undoubtedly obtain in the ministerial domicile under the urge of temptation in the subtle guise of a promptly paid salary. The minister's digestion being slightly impaired, the letters were frequently allowed a still longer period of neglect while he played with the baby.

The baby, newly awakened from his nap, was in capital form for a frolic, and Mr Pettibone had acquired the useful and pleasant habit of devoting himself to the small, bright-eyed tyrant while his wife washed the dinner dishes. Mrs Pettibone had not yet spoken to her husband of Elector Pratt's officious Detective Wynetton. work. He would be indignant she was sure, and after all, Elector had discovered nothing of any real importance. She recollected, as she polished the glasses, that the young woman had said her name was Sylvia Cruden on the occasion of their first meeting in the Eglestone Woods. Of course, Elector's discoveries would soon become common property with such ingenious addender as Miss Slicer, the Western cousin, chose to write and elect her to invent.

It was all very disagreeable, but it could not affect her secure possession of the baby. She could hear his chuckles of infantile glee and the forensic voice of Mr. Pettibone as he recited Mother Goose rhymes for the baby's delectation. She smiled happily to herself. Elector Pratt might talk all she liked. So might Mrs. Buckthorne. So might the parish. at large. She hoped they would

enjoy it. Mrs. Wessels had finished the sweeping in her own peculiar way, a way Philora Pettibone would not have put up with a few short months ago. But when one had a baby to care for, other things must stand aside. Mrs. Wessels had not,

it was plain, sufficient strength to wash the windows in the parlour. It was early. Only half-past one, indeed, when Mrs. Pettibone set the last clean dish upon the shelf. She decided that she would wash the windows herself. The baby would be good. He was always good. She would arrange his toys on a thick comfort on the parlour floor and circumscribe his activities with the indispensable yard. She would then be free to remove the indubitable traces of small moist fingers from the window panes. Mrs. Wessels had referred to them as a disgrace to the

parsonage. Mrs. Pettibone reflected that she would have unqualifiedly agreed with Mrs. Wessels at an earlier state of her career. She recalled her unspoken, but no less harsh, criticisms of Mrs. Puffer's window glass. Now she thought she rather liked it. It looked as if there were children in the house. She said it plainly in the privacy of her own thoughts, and the words brought a delicate kindling of hope to her cheeks and eyes. She was still looking very pink and pretty when she authoritatively interrupted the frolic in the study. The baby, she explained, must have his dinner at once

and she hoped Mr Pettibone had not forgotten the meeting of the CE Convention Committee in the prayer meeting room at three. In reply to a half-hearted inquiry, she stated that in her opinion his second best preaching suit would be plenty good enough for the occasion. It was at this moment that Mr Pettibone's divided attention became centred upon his mail,

which Mrs Pettibone kindly deposited upon his writing table. Then she held out her arms for the baby. There was a moment of delicious triumph for the minister when the small despot turned from the cajoling smile of the lady to hide his curly head against his breast. He likes me! cried Mr Pettibone with fervid conviction, tempered only by an amazed incredulity.

Of course he does, chimed in Mrs. Pettibone, as she captured the baby and bore him away in triumph. He loves his daddy, bless him. He heard her cooing on the other side of the door. The religious newspapers received a passing glance, promising an hour of future enjoyment. The alluring advertisement of church organs, a renunciatory sigh, as it found lodgment in an overcrowded wastebasket.

But upon the letter, addressed to himself in an unknown hand, and postmarked with the name of a distant city, he spent a motionless, abstracted half hour. End of Chapter 28. Chapter 29 of the heart of Philura by Florence Mawkes-Kingsley. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 29 the lord gave it lacked a quarter of three by the gloomy black marble clock presented by an admiring parish on the occasion of his first marriage when mr pettibone his hair very much rumpled and a worried almost distracted expression on his kind grave face stepped across to the parlour

my dear philura he began and then stopped to rumple his hair afresh with a distraught gesture why silas she cried turning from a comprehensive polishing of the lower left-hand pane of the front window which being of a cheap greenish glass but ill rewarded her labours you're not even dressed and that meeting she paused to remove the handle of the baby's rattle-box from a too close proximity to his windpipe that's the third time she announced he seems possessed to ram that's celluloid thing down his blessed little throat. She surveyed the article in question with severely critical eyes. I should think anybody would know better than to make a toy like that for a baby, she said. I shan't give it to him any more, Silas, even if Mrs. Buckthorn did give it to him. She says all her children cut their teeth on it.

But I don't care if they did. That doesn't make it any better. Mr. Pettibone glanced distractedly about. about the room i uh um oh don't you think my dear you'd better leave the windows in this room till another day he inquired rather wildly oh it seems to me silas you'll certainly be late at that committee meeting declared mrs pettibone looking up from a rapturous cuddle of the baby isn't he the sweetest thing she added irrelevantly oh lord lord groaned mr pettibone he dropped into a chair as if spent with emotion what's the matter silas demanded mrs pettibone tardily aware of his perturbation and she gazed searchingly at him is it your stomach i knew i ought not to have those pork chops for dinner tell me silas i can't muttered the minister i might have known it's my fault if I'd only she was standing in the middle of the floor the baby pressed against her breast I know she said quietly you've heard something

her steadfast eyes wavered for an instant as her lips sought the crown of the curly little head tell me she begged he drew a deep breath they uh they just found out he began avoiding her eyes the letter was from yes she breathed and they're coming to-day he said you must they may be here at any moment they shan't have him silas she cried in a breaking voice i can't give him up i can't i love him so my dear he said gravely my dear their eyes met in a long look she held out the child to him with a renunciatory gesture take him please i must put this room to rights before it was all over before the black marble clock on the mantel told the hour of four like other dreaded crises in life it arrived quietly enough this time in the shabby guise of a depot hack drawn up before the parsonage gate. Mrs. Pettibone stood in the window, the child in her arms, and watched the two young figures emerge from its stuffy interior and hurry up the walk.

The girl had been crying, she noticed. She was dressed somberly in black. The man at her side bent his tall head, as if to encourage her with murmured words, and they pause for an instant in the sparse shadow of a budding lilac. The girl looked up at him, a lovely smile breaking over her face. Then the bell jangled noisily. As had been agreed on beforehand, Mr Pettibone opened the door.

She heard a brief question, a briefer answer, and then the parlour door closed quietly. It seemed a long time that she stood there, gazing out of the window, the child held close against her breast. The baby whimpered a little and twisted his rosy face towards her. He wants to go out in his carriage, she thought, with an uncontrollable throb of pain. Then at last the door opened, and the minister, very pale and grave, stood gazing at her compassionately from the threshold. After a moment of indecision he came in, closing the door behind him.

the young woman's mother is dead he uttered the words tentatively almost humbly and she offered no comment it seems mrs maitland knew nothing of the child's existence he went on hurriedly until her mother sent for her the day before her death up to that time mrs cruden had refused to communicate with her daughter i should explain perhaps that hill was a family name assumed merely for convenience The child's impatient whimper changed to a fretful cry. He wants me to take him out, she said in a clear, colourless voice. He's used to going out at this time. Mr. Pettibone took two steps towards her, his face twitching strangely. Oh, my dear, he murmured. You will be brave.

You won't. He stopped abruptly and turned again toward the door. Their name, he said slowly, is Maitland. You will come now and speak to them. She walks steadily across the hall, hushing the child in her arms mechanically. He shall go out pretty soon, she was murmuring. So he shall. Mother will put his coat on and his little bonnet.

The young woman was standing by the window. Her handkerchief crumpled into a moist little ball clutched in one hand. She turned swiftly, her eyes fastening upon the child in Mrs. Pettibone's arms. Is that my baby? she asked. She didn't look at Mrs. Pettibone. My wife, said the young man rather stiffly, has been very much upset by the suddenness of her mother's death. Perhaps you will understand.

I understand, said Mrs. Pettibone. The baby had turned from the stranger in the large, black hat and was hiding his face in her neck with little whimpering cries. He's afraid, Mrs. Pettibone explained. He doesn't like Black. Oh, but he mustn't be afraid of me. He's my baby. Oh, come to Mother, darling.

Oh, Stephen, isn't he a dear? And he looks like you. His eyes. The baby's name, said Mrs. Pettibone steadily, is Stephen. How nice. you oh but i could have changed it you know if you'd called him anything else of course he had to be named after his father her large dark eyes sought her husband's inquiringly he'd taken his watch from his pocket we haven't much time he told her mrs mayclan glanced doubtfully at the minister's wife i'll get his things ready mrs pettibone offered quietly you'll want everything of course the young mother her head. I don't think we've got time, she objected. We can buy everything, you know,

and we must get the express from Boston tonight. Oh, too, let me take him. He'll have to get used to his mother, the darling. I'm afraid I don't know much about babies, but we'll hire a nurse for him right away. The child's desolate little cry pursued her as she hurried from the room. She could hear, too, the futile attempts of the young parents to quiet him. his pitiful complainings rang in her ears while she hastily rolled some little garments into an awkward bundle they could buy everything and they'd hire a nurse for him at the supreme moment of parting young mrs mayclan appeared to be visited by a transient gleam of comprehension i suppose you'll really miss him she said brightly and i haven't even thanked you dear mrs pettibone what must you think of me but i do appreciate everything more than i can say if mother had only told me about baby poor mother she meant to be kind you will let us pay you for taking care of him all these months he must have cost a lot and we are rich you know now that poor mother

but at this mrs pettibone who had preserved her usual tranquil even smiling demeanour to the uneasy wonderment of her husband drew back pay me she breathed pay me for taking care of my baby the minister listened to her movements in the room over his study for quite half an hour after the depot hack had rolled away it was very quiet in the house save for those hushed footfalls on the floor above she'd chosen it for the baby's nursery because of the morning sun which streamed in through its three windows mr pettibone sat very still huddled together in his study-chair a desolate sense of bereavement deepening within him. Many times he had stood calmly above a little casket, voicing those words of the universal heartbreak. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

He tried to repeat them now, but the words died upon his lips. The sounds in the room above had ceased, and the silence beat heavily upon his ears. He compelled himself to get to his feet, to ascend the stair. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away. He must somehow manage to convey comfort to that sorely stricken heart.

She sat quite still in the gathering dusk, over against the window looking toward the east. There were small finger-marks upon the pain. He remembered. that only that morning she had sat there the baby on her knee looking out at him as he raked the sodden leaves and the child had beat upon the glass with its rosy palms he crossed the room on tiptoe and knelt down at her side and putting his arms about her pressed his wet cheek to hers why silas she said stirring a little why my dear she had not been weeping then He experienced a vague sense of bewilderment, not unmixed with fear.

Then all at once, he perceived that she was smiling, her face dimly luminous in the dusk of the April evening. I was thinking, she said slowly, about him. Yes, dear, he murmured, his spent breath sounding very like a sob. From the very first day, you remember Silas, and ever since her empty hands suddenly tightened in her lap i hope she said that his nurse will love him she said she would hire a nurse rich women do that she said they were rich silas you heard her my dear filura he reminded her with a touch of his old authority she is his mother we must not forget that i know No, she submitted. He rose to his feet presently and looked about him,

at the white crib in the corner, with its tiny pillow still bearing the imprint of the baby's head, at the cheap little toys neatly arranged in a basket, that the small toilet appurances set forth upon the bureau. We must give these things away, he said, almost harshly. Put them out of sight. I cannot allow you, but she lifted her hand with a pleading gesture.

No, Silas? No, she said softly. Let them stay. End of chapter 29. Chapter 30 of the heart of Philura by Florence Mores Kingsley. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 30, Millie. Daffodils and crocus spread vivid patches of colour

against the stiff brown mould of the Orne garden, and languid bees plunged deep in their faintly odorous cups smeared their brown bodies in the plentiful pollen with soft humming of content. Over against the leafless hedge, sprays of yellow bush and flowering almond were beginning to show a delicate tracery of gold and rose. Grandma Orne, standing in the door,

her gingham apron over her head, looked forth over the garden to the orchard beyond. it does be all she murmured how everything comes round just the same year after year things that don't make no difference like yellow bush and crocus blows they don't look no older than i was young me and grandpa standing here both of us straight and strong and full agumption a body would think a bush was more a counten folks if they didn't know no better What you muttering about, Grandma? Propounded a feeble voice from the bedroom. Seems as though you're a tongue as always a wagon. Mrs. Orne poured the contents of a saucepan into a cup.

Her lips firmly compressed. You've been asleep, Grandpa. Nigh on at two hours, she told him. Here's your broth, all nice and hot, and I'll put an extra pilly under your head so as you can drink it. The old man groaned, protestingingly, as he yielded to her administrations. I ain't been asleep, he contradicted.

Not for a minute. Don't you suppose I know? I heard you were snoring, said Grandma convincingly. You certainly had a real nice nap. She held the steaming cup to his puckered lips. I want you should swallow this right down, she exhorted him anxiously. So to get up your strength. The spring's coming up.

aren't real nice why there's crocus and yellow bush and butter and eggs all in blow just where you planted em out when we was first married you remember don't you grandpa he stared at her uncomprehendingly over the brim of the cup his eyes under their sparse lashes resembling dull blue glass where's milly he demanded fretfully i ain't seen her all day she don't seem to care if her old grandpa. No, don't you talk that way? Interrupted Mrs. Orne with a brisk show of authority. Millie coming to see your first thing this morning. And she was up in the night a couple of times, too, to fix the fire. I guess you forgot.

She bent over the bed and spoke loudly in the old man's ear. Millie's a-working to Malvina Bennett's shop. She's a-learning the dress-making tray, Grandpa. Well, you don't have to holler at me like that, he rebuked her. I ain't no dee for the newbie. What Millie want to do that for, I'd like to know. I want her at home.

She could make out to plant the lettuces and radishes, I guess. And you, you want to get them tomato starched in them tin cans I saved. It seems like I put a right tomato on a board to dry for seed. well i don't know uh or i don't know his wrinkled lids fell suddenly over the dull blue of his tired old eyes he was asleep mrs orne softly withdrew the extra pillow from beneath her husband's head then she stood looking down at him her head slightly tremulous with age bent to one side her hands touching the bedclothes with little caressing pats well i guess grandpa is better she murmured he looked real bright when he was setting up and he contradicted me just as pert and sassy oh he'll be round grandpa will oh land i must get them to marseed started i'd clean forgotten milly came home early that night she was afraid grandpa wasn't quite so well when she'd left him in the morning she explained

the old lady reassured her with little cackling reminiscences of grandpa's smart sayings during the day and you ought to have heard him a finding fault she finished triumphantly oh he's a picking up grandpa's it won't be no time before he's out to put her in round the garden but i'm afraid you'll be hopin mad when he finds we're clean forgot a tomatoes they ought to be an inch i be now he wants you should plant the reddish is milly and i guess you better do it right off so as i can tell him tomorrow maybe it'll kind of pacify him the sun was sinking in a soft glow of burning rose as the girl thrust her spade deep in the yielding loam she had changed her neat gown to one of faded gingham and over it wore an old coat of grandfathers a concession to grandmother's anxious fears unless she should take cold on her feet were broken shoes plenty good enough for the garden the old lady had declared providently milly had yielded without protest but once out of sight of the window where her grandmother was washing the tea things, she flung aside the hat pressed down over her bright

hair. The walls of Miss Malvina's sewing room had seemed to stifle the girl that day. She welcomed the cool wind which had sprung up at sunset with a sigh of relief. High up in the big chestnut trees across the road, Robins were singing, and from the reedy margin of the brook uprose the plaintive piping of frogs. A far off on a neighbouring farm, a cow blatantly announced her annual bereavement. The hollow, melancholy note floated lonesomely on the wind, seemed indeed to be a part of it, as it swept the budding trees on its way down the valley. The light was fading as she scattered the seed in the shallow drills she'd prepared for it. The cow had ceased her complaining by now, but the plaintive frogs piped louder than ever from

their reedy marsh. Millie was thinking vaguely of the gentle patter of Miss Malvina's conversation that day, the little dressmaker had indulged in various reminiscences of her own youth as the two women set neat finishing stitches on a gown intended for a village bride real pretty ain't it said miss malvina surveying her handiwork with honest pride land i remember when i first begun so in steady i used to feel kind of nervous like whenever i had to make a wedding dress or a shroud seems as though the goods felt kind of different to the hand i suppose a kind of a nervous like whenever i had to make a wedding dress or a shroud seems as though the goods felt kind of different to the hand i suppose I hadn't really given up being married myself. And I had a kind of notion in them days that I die young if I wasn't. It seemed like an awful while to forty even. I think I can't never stand it that long. But then, I guess there's some folks just born to help other folks live and die.

I know why he was. For here I be, 51 my last birthday and still chipper, and making up wedding dresses and shrouds or, anything it comes to hand and i've give up dying definite till my time comes milly smoothed the earth carefully above the radish-seed and pressed it down with a board as grandfather had taught her wondering if after all it would seem so terribly long to thirty and if arrived at that distant born she could at last forget youth and the poignant ache of loneliness at her heart she arose from her knees presently and brushed the loose earth from her gown grandmother had lighted the lamp and set it on a table near the window its long ray of pale light extended into the gathering dusk like an unyielding finger pointing down a grey vista of years to be travelled humbly and meekly then all at once she perceived that she was not alone absorbed in her thoughts she had not heard the click of the gate nor his step on the soft earth he stood a little way off gazing at her doubtfully i wasn't sure at first it was really you he said she glanced awkwardly at her faded gingham and ragged coat her heart beating suffocatingly in her throat

already she'd seen that he was older graver and that his dress was of a sober elegance aren't you going to speak to me milly his voice seemed to come to her from a great way off oh you-you surprise me She stammered. Her hands, she was thinking, was stained with earth. Her feet in their broken shoes moved a little. And then all at once she felt his arms close about her. Millie, Millie, he was murmuring, his lips against her cold cheek. She struggled to free herself. No, no, she cried out. You must let me go. Why, don't you love me? Have you forgotten already? He drew away from her, his face pale in the fading light. But perhaps you're thinking, I finished thinking long ago, she said. Her delicate head thrown back, her eyes gazing straight into his. All these months when I heard nothing from you. Oh, you don't know, he interrupted eagerly.

My mother, you will let me explain. It isn't necessary, she said sadly. You're not in my world, Walter Hill. you had nothing else to do nothing even to amuse yourself with so you amused yourself with me your mother permitted it because she needed a servant that's what i'm fit for a servant i understand i know you needn't explain milly he said gravely my mother is dead his voice broke a little over the hard word all that she did strange even cruel as it may seem to you must be forgiven now do you think you can forgive her and me she gazed at him without speech her eyes under the fallen masses of her hair wet with sudden tears oh but i'm oh you don't know everything she murmured i'm not even you are the woman i love he made swift answer and in his voice and eyes was all the boy's passion deepened and made sacred by the sorrowful real of the man who has looked upon death and from it learned something of the meaning of life. End of chapter 30. End of the heart of Philura by Florence Mores Kingsley.